Man O' War, стр. 9

She examined the touch-up job the crew had done on Carri. The normally pale senator now had a nice, out-doorsy tan, perfect down to the bit of burn they had blushed into his bald spot. Staring at the thin patch, she thought, They can grow hair on a billiard ball these days, and yet you let yours thin because you don't want to be thought of as affected. Every move you make is politically motivated, Mick. I sure wish I knew what was motivating you this time.

Knowing how much their present act would gall Carri, how much it must be galling him already, Beckett thought, Hawkes, when I think about the kind of payback he must have in store for you, I could almost feel sorry for you.

Suddenly, her wrist-link beeped again—the thirty-second warning. As she shut down the electronics in the gold-and-jewel-encrusted accessory, she fingered the expensive gift and smiled to herself. Then she took a deep breath and whispered softly, "Almost."

3

HAWKES WALKED DOWN THE MARBLE-AND-WOOD-corridor, wondering if it were at all possible to catch someone off guard who was as savvy and enduring in the game as Michael Carri. The ambassador had no doubt the senator knew when his plane had arrived, when he had gotten up in the morning, when he had caught his cab . . . He certainly knows when I entered the building.

So, he asked himself, if he knows you're here, then why hasn't anyone stopped you from going in? You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow. After what we cost him, you know he has to have some kind of special humiliation all choreographed for us. The good Senator Carri isn't the kind of man that lets revenge slip by that easily.

Who says he's letting it slip by? another voice in his head asked, one to which Hawkes usually listened.

"Well, yes," Hawkes whispered to himself, his smile growing grim, "there's a thought."

The ambassador kept his pace even. Not politic to let anyone see him moving too slow or too fast. It was an old trick—one learned in the military, and reinforced by the corps. Never dawdle, never run. Both looked bad, showing either a lack of preparation or nerve. Neither was good—for the careers of officers or diplomats.

Of course, there's not much career left to worry about now, Benton. You made sure of that.

Hawkes ordered his carping inner voice to be silent. He had done what he had done—what his conscience dictated had to be done—and that was it. There had been no other choice. He simply could not allow a corporation—not even a corporation with its own embassies—to steal millions of acres of private land.

Anyway, what did it matter? It was done. He had won the fight for the Australians. Now, ironically, he had to return home to fight the same kind of fight for himself.

Nothing ever changes, does it?

A great many things in the world were uncertain, but of that one small point, the ambassador had little doubt.

Arriving at the outer office to Senator Carri's chambers, Hawkes unconsciously straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, then opened the door and went inside. He found Carri's chief of operations giving orders to the aide presiding over the reception desk.

He noted her hairstyle, gently upswept, gelled in place. It took him back to the past for a moment—made him feel old, comfortable—and strengthened his resolve. Walking up behind her, he said,

"Hello, Gladys. I like your hair."

The woman turned around, feigning annoyance at the interruption until she could pretend to be surprised at who it was, and then feign covering up her initial pretense.

"Ambassador Hawkes . . . ah, my—you weren't scheduled to be here until tomorrow. I mean . . . oh, please, sir, don't take that the wrong way. I'm sure the senator will be pleased to see you, it's just . . ."

"Don't apologize," he told her. "You're not the one who stepped in anything. I got in early. Didn't see any reason not to let Mick have the fun of throwing me out and telling me to come back when I was supposed to."

"Ambassador . . . really . . ."

"Please, don't try to spare me," said Hawkes, a touch of humor smoothing his tone. "I'm a big boy. I like to at least try to be responsible for my actions. I'll take what I earned." The ambassador tilted his head and then, with a twinkle in his eye, added, "Unless, of course, he's planning to have me killed or something. You could spare me that."

Gladys Beckett's smile jumped nervously, her eyes blinking at the same time. Hawkes noticed, wondering exactly what the sudden agitation in her face boded. She instantly covered with a clever rejoinder, but at the same moment let Hawkes know that he was in for something. Deciding to do some fishing, he asked, "So, just how deep in did I step?"

"Ambassador, I'm just a poor working girl," answered Beckett, stepping back toward the senator's office. "He doesn't tell me anything except what he wants and when he wants it." With her hand to the senator's door, she indexed Carri's confidential lock code for access, adding, "Let me find out if he can see you now." Then she turned toward the opening door and moved inside, saying, "You'll never guess who's here."

Hawkes listened to the lilt in her voice. Something was wrong. It was a slight thing, but he had been in the game too long not to notice. The operations chief was good, he granted her that much. But he was being gamed, and he knew it. Benton Hawkes might not have liked Michael Carri, but he had enough respect for the senator to know that the man had not survived and prospered in Washington, D.C., for more than two decades by being lax or stupid.

You're being set up, his dark inner voice told him. Carri knows you're here. He