More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
The true nature of terror is the unknown. The truly terrible thrives in silence.”
She hesitated. She could wait. Should wait. Had been ordered to wait. Except it couldn’t wait. And they didn’t know what she did. Orders based on ignorance could not be legitimate. Could they?
The UK Foreign Secretary bristled. He did not take kindly to being told what to do by France. Or Germany. Or Italy. Or Canada. Or his own aides. Or probably, thought Ellen, his mother.
From that day forward, Ellen and Betsy were almost inseparable. Ellen taught Betsy that goodness existed, and Betsy taught Ellen how to kick attackers in the nuts.
In every office, on every floor, men and women of the State Department were contacting colleagues and informants. Mining information. Digging deep. And when a nugget came in, they tried to discern the gold from the fool’s gold.
After decades of teaching high school, Betsy Jameson had become fluent in body language. Especially that of people who’d completely lost interest.
Those who underestimated teachers did so at their peril. “OK, you shithead,” she muttered as she typed. “I’m coming for you.”
“On the flight over to Frankfurt,” Betsy said to the White House Chief of Staff, “I had a few too many and told Ellen that I thought President Williams wasn’t a vacant asshole with shit for brains. That he certainly wasn’t a prick who’d escaped from a bag of idiots. And he sure wasn’t a dumb-as-dirt egotist who got his law degree by mailing in tops from Cap’n Crunch boxes.”
“Yes, probably, but it goes far beyond party affiliation. There are those who hate America’s diversity and the changes it’s brought. They see it as a threat, to their livelihoods, to their way of life. They think of themselves, see themselves, as patriots. You must’ve seen them at demonstrations. True believers, neo-Nazis, fascists.”
“Probably because he actually believed what he was saying. The propagandist is his own first customer.” It was something she used to drum into any green journalist hired by her media empire, along with the Buddhist nun Thubten Chodron’s advice: “Don’t believe everything you think.”
His eyes now pleaded with her. No, not her. Betsy realized while he was looking at her, he was seeing his accusers. In the closed-door meeting. As they placed the evidence in front of him. His shock. His denials. His pleading. His weeping. They had to believe him. And the tragic thing was that, of course, they did.
She opened her mouth to speak, to deny it, but then she remembered the Azhi Dahaka. Who thrived on lies. How easy it was, Ellen thought, to deny the truth for fear of feeding an even bigger lie. And she realized then how dangerous the Azhi Dahaka was. Not because it was some creature in pursuit of good people. There was no pursuit. It was already there. Inside them. Manufacturing, dictating lies. It was the ultimate traitor. “That is true,” she said.
She turned back to Ellen. “It doesn’t make sense.” “Not everything has to,” said Ellen. “Some of the most important things in our lives defy reason.”
He was experienced enough to know that the weak blustered, denied, lied, and struck out wildly. The powerful admitted a mistake, thereby robbing it of its hold on them. Only the truly formidable could afford to show contrition. Far from displaying weakness, the American Secretary of State had demonstrated immense strength and resolve.
Saviors, Gilgamesh had come to appreciate, came in unexpected forms. And often did not initially appear to be saviors. Just the opposite. Saviors could be quite unsavory, and monsters could be compelling, making the worst seem the best.
The most combat Charles Boynton had done was with the vending machine at Foggy Bottom. And even then he lost.
If conspiring with terrorists was the answer, what in the world was the question?
Betsy, listening to this, was reminded of the famous line about President Reagan during the Iran-Contra hearings. What didn’t he know, and when did he know he didn’t know it? What Eric Dunn didn’t know would fill archives.
It was the strong shadow that accompanied the bright light of democracy. People were free to abuse their freedoms.
Finally, this is a work of fiction but the story it tells is all too timely. It’s up to us to make sure its plot stays fictional.
