do wait till morning, I'm afraid the press might get wind that the Secretary of State was caught with his pants down on a very important matter."
The one sure way of getting past Mrs. Dennison, Innes had learned, was to imply that public embarrassment would come to her husband if he were not told immediately of a late-breaking development. He stifled a smirk at the thought that Secretary Dennison indeed may literally have his pants down.
Innes gave the Secretary a concise readout on the murder.
"This is tragic. Just tragic…" Secretary Dennison said in his patrician New England voice, barely thickened by the vestiges of sleep. "Was anyone with the ambassador?" he added quickly.
"Apparently
not."
"What about his security detail? Where were they?"
Innes hesitated. "It seems that the ambassador gave them the slip."
"Gave them the slip?!"
"Er, yes. He had a habit of doing so."
18 JAMES
BRUNO
Innes heard an extended sigh from the other end of the line. He pictured Dennison sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his brow in despair.
"All right. I'll want a full briefing first thing in the morning. Tell whoever is running things over there at this hour that I will personally handle this with the White House. Got me?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary."
"One other thing."
Innes readied pen and paper as he cradled the receiver on his shoulder.
"I want the full police report, autopsy report -- both translated into English -- with photos, and a detailed listing of every item on his person at the time his body was discovered. I want it delivered to my house along with the classified traffic."
Innes winced. Why the Secretary of State would want all the gory details struck him as strange, but his was not to reason why.
"Yes,
sir."
Innes knew that hell would be paid by those responsible for embassy protection, from the embassy security officer right on up to the chief of diplomatic security at the State Department -- who was number two on his list of officials to be notified this early morning.
"Mr. Innes?" Damn. It was her again.
"Yes, Mrs. Dennison?"
"Now, we don't want to receive any more calls from you tonight, you hear? I don't know what it is, but it can wait five more hours, y'understand now?" she drawled in her unapologetic Alabama delivery.
"I'll try not to, ma'am." Click. "Dumb cracker!" he cursed after hanging up.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
19
Upon being told the news, the only thing that Ralph Torres, the Department's head of diplomatic security, could bring himself to utter was an uninterrupted string of emphatic "Goddamn"-s.
Innes could hear Torres struggling to control his breathing. "How in hell could Kobalski let that…that neophyte out of his sight?" he seethed. Leonard Kobalski was Embassy Rome’s RSO – Regional Security Officer.
"This has gotta be an al-Qaida hit all right. Those friggin'
Italians are worthless against terrorism!"
Innes could see where this was leading to. It was called
"CYA" in bureaucratic parlance: Cover Your Ass. The buck was already passing at lightning speed. Lesson number one in government: Career comes first. And accept accountability only when glory is at stake.
It was this kind of behavior in the senior ranks that caused Innes to be increasingly disillusioned with his career. At 34 and with eleven years in the Foreign Service, Innes had advanced fairly rapidly until he hit a dead stall in the upper end of the middle grades. With a wife and two small kids and no marketable skills for the private sector, Innes had pretty much come to the conclusion that he was a government lifer. On the bureaucratic treadmill, drawing a decent wage and benefits, but going no place fast. At least the Foreign Service, one of the few remaining bastions for the generalist, offered a unique line of rarely boring work, lots of world travel and still a modicum of prestige.
Innes's shift in the Ops Center ended at 8:00 am.
Slouched at his work station, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. Innes
The one sure way of getting past Mrs. Dennison, Innes had learned, was to imply that public embarrassment would come to her husband if he were not told immediately of a late-breaking development. He stifled a smirk at the thought that Secretary Dennison indeed may literally have his pants down.
Innes gave the Secretary a concise readout on the murder.
"This is tragic. Just tragic…" Secretary Dennison said in his patrician New England voice, barely thickened by the vestiges of sleep. "Was anyone with the ambassador?" he added quickly.
"Apparently
not."
"What about his security detail? Where were they?"
Innes hesitated. "It seems that the ambassador gave them the slip."
"Gave them the slip?!"
"Er, yes. He had a habit of doing so."
18 JAMES
BRUNO
Innes heard an extended sigh from the other end of the line. He pictured Dennison sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his brow in despair.
"All right. I'll want a full briefing first thing in the morning. Tell whoever is running things over there at this hour that I will personally handle this with the White House. Got me?"
"Yes, Mr. Secretary."
"One other thing."
Innes readied pen and paper as he cradled the receiver on his shoulder.
"I want the full police report, autopsy report -- both translated into English -- with photos, and a detailed listing of every item on his person at the time his body was discovered. I want it delivered to my house along with the classified traffic."
Innes winced. Why the Secretary of State would want all the gory details struck him as strange, but his was not to reason why.
"Yes,
sir."
Innes knew that hell would be paid by those responsible for embassy protection, from the embassy security officer right on up to the chief of diplomatic security at the State Department -- who was number two on his list of officials to be notified this early morning.
"Mr. Innes?" Damn. It was her again.
"Yes, Mrs. Dennison?"
"Now, we don't want to receive any more calls from you tonight, you hear? I don't know what it is, but it can wait five more hours, y'understand now?" she drawled in her unapologetic Alabama delivery.
"I'll try not to, ma'am." Click. "Dumb cracker!" he cursed after hanging up.
PERMANENT INTERESTS
19
Upon being told the news, the only thing that Ralph Torres, the Department's head of diplomatic security, could bring himself to utter was an uninterrupted string of emphatic "Goddamn"-s.
Innes could hear Torres struggling to control his breathing. "How in hell could Kobalski let that…that neophyte out of his sight?" he seethed. Leonard Kobalski was Embassy Rome’s RSO – Regional Security Officer.
"This has gotta be an al-Qaida hit all right. Those friggin'
Italians are worthless against terrorism!"
Innes could see where this was leading to. It was called
"CYA" in bureaucratic parlance: Cover Your Ass. The buck was already passing at lightning speed. Lesson number one in government: Career comes first. And accept accountability only when glory is at stake.
It was this kind of behavior in the senior ranks that caused Innes to be increasingly disillusioned with his career. At 34 and with eleven years in the Foreign Service, Innes had advanced fairly rapidly until he hit a dead stall in the upper end of the middle grades. With a wife and two small kids and no marketable skills for the private sector, Innes had pretty much come to the conclusion that he was a government lifer. On the bureaucratic treadmill, drawing a decent wage and benefits, but going no place fast. At least the Foreign Service, one of the few remaining bastions for the generalist, offered a unique line of rarely boring work, lots of world travel and still a modicum of prestige.
Innes's shift in the Ops Center ended at 8:00 am.
Slouched at his work station, he looked at his watch. Ten minutes left. Innes
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