The Regime: Evil Advances (24 page)

Nicolae stood in his office, watching the coverage on his wall-mounted TV screen. He thrust his fists before him and shouted, “Yes!” quivering with the thrill of it.

The phones began ringing, so he ran for the shower, then changed into his most sedate, most expensive suit. Within half an hour the press filled his driveway, and he instructed Leon Fortunato to inform them that he would have a statement in ten minutes but would take no questions.

Exactly ten minutes later he emerged alone and strode to a makeshift dais containing nearly a dozen microphones. He looked out into a sea of cameras. With a somber expression and tone, his throat sounding constricted with grief, he leaned toward the microphones.

“I have a message for the people of Romania and

specifically the citizens of Bucharest. Our nation has suffered a great loss today, and I have lost a dear friend. Naturally I call upon our government and every appropriate agency to mount a thorough investigation and to bring to justice the cowards who perpetrated this heinous act.

“This has been a most difficult campaign, because though Emil and I—” here Carpathia paused and bit his lip, seemingly struggling to go on—”disagreed over the most trivial political matters, we were like brothers. Many do not know that each had pledged to the other his full support, regardless of who won, and we would have been laboring together for the good of the citizenry—the winner in the House of Parliament, the loser behind the scenes.

“While recent polls showed I was favored, I was quite sincere in my pledge to support my most esteemed opponent” --there it was for the astute--“should he ever run for the presidency.

“And now, while I am in no official capacity with the power to effect this, I am calling upon the government of Romania to postpone this election, to give another representative of Emil’s views the time to mount a campaign. Should this prove impossible, I pledge here and now, in honor of my dear friend, to withdraw from the race and allow the people to select their own representative.

“In my abject grief, I have lost the impetus to remain in the race. So if the election cannot be postponed, I hereby withdraw and urge the populace to write in their own candidates. I promise to support the will of the people.

“I have respectfully requested no questions at this time

and ask that the press and the public honor a brief season of solitude and contemplation as I mourn my own loss. Thank you.”

Irene was irate and determined not to let it show, but she was not succeeding. She wanted to scream, to throw things, to demand that Rayford change his mind. “That is the first time you’ve had that many days off in two years, and you were going to take us to Disney World.”

“I know, Irene. But when your country asks you to do something, don’t you think it’s your duty—?”

“Your duty is here, with these kids. We need you, Rafe. We need time with you. Don’t you see the family drifting apart the way you and I have? I need this too. Surely there are other people qualified for this task.”

“There may be, but they chose me, and I’m honored.”

“I’m honored for you, Rayford, but if they really think you’re indispensable to this task, let them work with Pan-Con on giving you the time to do this. You shouldn’t have to use your own vacation days.”

“I told them I’d go, and I told them when.”

Leon was waiting in Nicolae’s office when Nicolae returned. Carpathia was still wearing his mask of grief until he shut the door behind him. Then the two embraced, slapped hands, and giggled.

“That!” Leon said, shaking his head. “That was genius.”

“Did they buy it?”

“Did they? / almost bought it!” And they dissolved into laughter again. “Let’s watch the coverage,” Leon added.

On every channel pundits talked about the tragedy and the poignant response on the part of the favorite in the election. Already veteran newspeople were editorializing that the election should not be postponed, that Carpathia should not withdraw, that the country needed him now as never before.

“Get out a press release immediately, Leon,” Nicolae said. “Reaffirm that I am resolute in my decision to withdraw. Not shirking, just mourning and committed to the will of the people.”

Nicolae sat on the floor, flipping channels, drinking in the accolades while Leon sat at Nicolae’s desk, crafting and transmitting the release to the media. Nicolae was amused when Fortunato finished and came to join him on the floor, his thick body straining to get comfortable in his suit.

They sat watching until interrupted by urgent knocking. “Nicolae?” Viv called through the door. “I must speak with you.”

Nicolae nodded to Leon, who struggled to his feet and opened the door.

Viv looked past him to Nicolae. “Luciana Tismaneanu is on her way over here, insisting on speaking with you.”

“Fine,” Nicolae said. “Leon, this will be the true test.

Be sure she is alone, and walk her through the metal detectors hidden in the pillars of the south portico. If she brings her fiancé, make him wait for her. Tell him I am not up to seeing anyone else, especially someone I have not met. Oh, Leon, if I can win her over …”

“Have you been looking forward to our vacation, kids?” Rayford said at dinner.

‘“Course,” Chloe said. “I haven’t been to Disney World since I was Raymie’s age.”

“Disney!” Raymie shouted. “Mickey!”

When Rayford hit them with the news that they weren’t going, it was clear Raymie didn’t understand. Irene jumped in with an alternative, promising she would take him to the local Kiddieland Park, where he loved to ride the train and the merry-go-round. He was soon crowing about that while Rayford studied Chloe for her true reaction.

She shrugged. “I wanted to go, but this is pretty neat. The government wants you to do this?”

He nodded. “Problem is, it’s classified. So no one can know.”

“I can’t tell my friends? What am I supposed to say about not going to Disney?”

“Blame it on me,” Rayford said. “Just don’t be specific. My schedule changed, I got pressed into duty, it couldn’t be helped.”

Nicolae Carpathia, in the same natty suit he had worn before the cameras, sat at his desk with his face in his hands. His suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his tie was loose, and his top shirt button was open.

As Luciana Tismaneanu was ushered in, he stood quickly, brushing tears from his face and wiping his hands on his trousers. He staggered toward the young woman. “Oh, Miss Tismaneanu! I am so, so sorry for your loss. You have my deepest—”

Luciana rebuffed his embrace and stiffened. “You can stop with the
piesa
de teatru,” she said.

“Oh, miss!” Nicolae said, fresh tears streaming. “This is no act. These are not histrionics. I am devastated, and I can only imagine your pain. Such a great man and, I assume, a great father.”

“My parents were not perfect, Mr. Carpathia. But they were my parents, and we loved each other.”

“Please, sit. Please.”

“My fiancé is waiting. I will not take much of your time.”

“Take all you need, dear. I have no higher priority.”

She sat. “Tell me it isn’t true, sir. Tell me you didn’t use me, photograph me, just to get at my father.”

“What?” Nicolae sounded as genuinely at a loss as was possible.

“My father’s people say you lured me here under the pretense of planning my father’s surprise party, only to be able to show him a picture of me visiting you late at night. The implications are abominable, and—”

“Never! Never, never, never. The sad fact is, Miss Tismaneanu—and had you not raised this horrific charge I would never have shared this with you—but it was your father who showed me your picture. The photograph was shot by his people. They were trying to dig dirt on me, claiming that I had lady friends visiting me every night. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course, but the night they chose to try to document this, they did not realize I had a legitimate visitor and that it was you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Luciana, listen to me. Why would I need to photograph you? My security cameras run twenty-four hours a day. Plus, by the time your father recognized you in the photo, he knew why you had been here. Whoever is planting these suspicions in your mind is not a friend. Why can they not simply let you grieve without making you angry and spurring you to put some blame where it does not belong?

“If I had done this, if I had been behind any of these tragic events, why would I be withdrawing from the race? What is in it for me? I am deeply wounded, first by the loss of my friend, your father, and second that someone has misled you so.”

THIRTY-TWO

Rayford was close to the seniority needed to fly international hold patterns for Pan-Con, so he enjoyed being jetted to Jordan aboard a supersonic transport by the U.S. Air Force. Rocketing across the Atlantic in the middle of the night, he imagined maintaining a 747 from continent to continent.

He found it propitious that Abdullah “Smitty” Ababneh was away on assignment when he arrived, as Rayford was able to sleep off the jet lag at the beautiful Four Seasons (compliments of the U.S. government) and get acquainted with Amman by walking around. He visited the Roman Amphitheater and The Citadel but passed on the Eagle Distillery. That would only make him thirsty for things he shouldn’t imbibe. Rayford had found himself less and less careful with his drinking when off duty, so he inwardly pronounced this entire trip on duty.

He had little doubt he was being closely watched, if not followed. The feds had to have been fairly impressed with his resume and record to entrust him with a diplomatic effort like this, but they would also likely want to make sure he kept his nose clean and didn’t embarrass them.

Rayford felt that, short of being awarded those international routes, he had pretty much reached the pinnacle of his profession. To have caught the attention of the government and to be on at least the long list for piloting the president or vice president—all that was gratifying. He needed new goals and dreams, and he wasn’t about to scotch them all with, well, scotch.

Rayford was scheduled to meet Abdullah and his superiors for lunch at the Al Matar Air Base in Amman-Marka. He was transported there from his hotel via a Royal Jordanian Air Force jeep with a driver who understood very little English. Rayford couldn’t make that compute, sending a monolingual man for an American. He was evaluating everything, trying to gauge whether his hosts were excited to have him here or were trying to tell him—in passive-aggressive ways like this—either that he was unwelcome or they were suspicious. The worst-case scenario, in his mind, would be the Jordanians feeling in any way pressured to host him.

Those fears were immediately dispelled, however, when Rayford was ushered to a small private eating area within the commons at the air base. There five men immediately stood, smiling and seemingly eager to meet him. He recognized Abdullah from his photo, and as the men were introduced in order of rank, Ababneh was last.

It was plain, though, that Abdullah was a favorite among these men. Whenever he had the floor or anyone said anything about him, the others looked at him and beamed. It was as if he was the life of the party, and Rayford had to wonder if it could be real—his reputation for shyness and being a man of few words.

He was quiet with Rayford there; that was for sure. The men, all of whom spoke passable English, had many questions for Rayford, many of them personal. The commanding officer remarked on the similarities between Rayford and Smitty. “I assume you understand why we call him Mr. Smith?”

“I’ve heard.”

They all laughed, and Abdullah, if Rayford could read a change in his dark face, appeared to redden.

“It is because he is so much a fan of the United States that he wants to be an American. Some of us believe he really is and is here in disguise.”

“Your own Yankee spy, eh?” Rayford said, and the men laughed.

“Yes, and like you he married a woman too good for him. And they have both a son and a daughter.”

The commander asked Rayford to sit next to Abdullah. “He will be your guide and interpreter,” he said.

“But you all speak English so well,” Rayford said.

“My apologies. I meant he will interpret our customs and practices. I was under the impression that this is your first visit to Jordan.”

“True.”

“Then Abdullah is well equipped to inform you of what is going on. We customarily have our main meal at midday, which I understand is not true where you are from.”

“Right. Our main meal is usually in the evening.”

“We have prepared for you a feast. In fact, we have brought in many helpers to cook and to help serve.”

“I’m honored,” Rayford said.

“It is our pleasure.”

Abdullah’s eyes lit up, and finally he spoke. “It is my assignment to take you up for some loops and rolls in the F-16 immediately after you have eaten.”

“I sat with her fiancé until she returned,” Leon said. “She appeared less agitated than when she arrived. Did you win her over?”

“I do not know,” Nicolae said. “And frankly, I do not care. I mean, I would like to assume she will think twice before talking poorly about me behind my back, but she is no threat. She has no platform. She will be seen as the wounded daughter, the grieving offspring, the betrothed who must naturally put off her wedding until an appropriate time after the funeral. I should attend both, should I not?”

“The funeral and the wedding? The first, of course. For the wedding you would need an invitation, and unless you charmed her, I do not foresee that.”

“You see, Leon, you are shortsighted.”

“What? Why? You think she will invite you?”

“No! I would be shocked. But what will she or her people do if I show up? Ban me? Usher me out? It would be a scandal. I will bring a nice gift, enjoy the revelry, toast the bride and groom.”

Fortunato gazed at him with seeming admiration.

“I do not know where you come up with these plans,” he said. “But you are unique.”

“We will enjoy the
mansaf
,” Abdullah said. “It is not only my favorite; it is nearly everyone’s favorite. It proves I really am Jordanian by blood. But please, call me Smitty.”