THE IMPERIALS #7 - Part 2: DIPLOMACY

Country Team

Early on Thursday morning the venerable group of government professionals gathered in the historic conference room for the weekly Team meeting. The meetings were usually approached with an air of dread as they were often long, dull and unproductive. No nuance of local politics too small to be discussed, no diplomatic initiative to insignificant to be debated, no personal achievement too inconsequential to be embellished and heralded, and no failing in a colleague too infinitesimal to evade ridicule.  But this meeting was met with great anticipation. It was the first working meeting with the new ambassador. How would she govern? Would she be a benevolent dictator, or just be a dictator? Touted as one of the leading business women of her generation, would she bring a proven business savvy to the realm of foreign relations, or would she be yet another hollow patronage appointment.

The Team lounged idly waiting on The Ambassador’s arrival. A low murmur filled the room as conversations were held in hushed tones. Fingers drummed nervously on the table and last minutes notes were scratched in notebooks. Suddenly, a blanket of silence fell over the room and everyone stood. On cue, The Ambassador marched into the room, followed by her legion of personal advisers, and occupied her space at the head of the table. She busied herself arranging her calendar, notebook and presentation materials without ever looking up. Finally, after all was in proper order she raised her eyes to the room. With a practiced smile she slowly turned her head from left to right silently making eye contact with each and every member of the Team. “You may be seated,” she pronounced authoritatively. Her personal staff immediately claimed the seats to her immediate left and right relegating the Team members to crowd around the far end of the table with the surplus members forced into the seats along the wall. “As this is our first working meeting I would like to go around the table once again and have everyone make a formal introduction.”

And off they went, each person once again announcing their name, what office they worked in, and providing a brief bio. The Ambassador would often interrupt with comments or questions intended to personalize the encounter.

“When I was a teenager our family jet broke down and we had to make an emergency landing in Wichita, so I’ve been to Kansas. If father hadn’t chartered another plane to come and pick us up we would have had to spend the night.”

“What prompted you to join the Foreign Service?”

“We have a janitor working for The Howell Family Foundation who is from India. He would often share such interesting stories of his homeland.”

“I have fond memories of Mississippi. I love the mud pie.”

“I have been to Dallas many times. I have an acquaintance who owned a baseball team there. He used to invite us to sit in the owner’s box.”

After an interminable trip around the room the roster was complete and it was The Ambassador’s turn.

“As you are all aware, I am Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States of America Madeleine Howell. I am glad to be here in Nordeland. I would like to take this opportunity to discuss my vision for my ambassadorship.”

A suffocating pall descended on the room. Everyone sensed it was going to be along meeting.

“I have been selected by the President of the United States of America and confirmed by the United States Senate in accordance with Article Two, Section Three of the United States Constitution to implement the foreign policy as directed by the President… Transformational Diplomacy… Mission Critical… Benchmark… Empowerment… REPRESENTATIONAL ENTERTAINMENT… Quantifiable results… Win win… Strategic planning… Responsibility… Coalition… Elaine Chao… Grandeur, prestige, and dignity… Paradigm shift… Shoes and ships… New world order… Afghan rugs… Benjamin Franklin… First Class Travel… Chauffer… Public Diplomacy… Sealing wax… American Values… Marten Martenson… Family friendly… Valued participation… REPRESENTATIONAL ENTERTAINMENT… Synergy… Performance oriented… Democracy… Market driven initiatives… Water… Abraham Lincoln… Fortify… I Am The Walrus… Support and sustain… Democratic ideals… Free markets… Ronald Reagan… Marching bands… Cabbages and kings… Jazz… Exports… Direct investment… Green… Equal opportunity… Family friendly… Benchmarks… Total Quality Management… Shining city on the hill… Vision… Mutual interests… Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious… Deliverables… Metrics… Global repositioning… Key Performance Indicators… Stakeholders… Change facilitation… Innovation… Conceptual… Democratic process… Lynn Cheney… Team… Networking… Soft Power… Reset relationships… Smart power… Diplomacy 2.0… The entire embassy staff must all work in support of my efforts to develop, maintain, and enhance the strategically import relationship between Nordeland and the United States. It will require an intense, well-coordinated effort by all personnel, who must be wholly dedicated to success. Accomplishment of the task at hand is vitally important to American interests in the region and imperative to the national security of our country.”

Just call me Clark....

Only in America...

... would they build a basketball arena in a pyramid, then turn it into a giant outdoor sporting goods store!

THE IMPERIALS #6

I AM an American!

When Chandrit Singh was nineteen years old he left the humble village in his native India and traveled to a new land with hopes of building a better life. He originally settled in Toronto, Canada and attended Seneca College. He studied Information Management Technology and English as a Second Language learning a lot more about computers than he did speaking English.

After graduation he took a position with Global IT Consultants in Dallas, Texas. The money was good, but the job was demanding. Providing customer support for a worldwide client base he was on call 24/7 and traveled constantly. Chandrit soon learned the high cost of the American dream.

The process of becoming a naturalized citizen was lengthy. There were forms to be completed and filed, a requirement to be legal resident for five years, American history and English language classes, more forms to be filed, interviews, court dates, and finally the oath of citizenship.

Immediately up naturalization Chandrit applied for a job with the Foreign Service. Another long, drawn-out, bureaucratic, ordeal ensued obtaining medical and security clearance. More forms to be completed and filed and additional interviews to be conducted. Finally, eighteen months into the process, the offer of an appointment was received. It was the opportunity that Chandrit had been searching for. It was less money than he earned at Global IT Consulting, but the job held considerably more prestige. He hoped for an assignment to India. He envisioned his triumphant return to the land of his fathers; an American citizen, an American diplomat; living in India in the style of their colonial masters.

He soon found the reality did not measure up to the fantasy. He never made it to India. His first posting was Kigali, Rwanda. Compared to this plush condo in Dallas his house was deployable. The sad fact was that the US government supplied some of the best housing in the country. What modern conveniences that existed were unreliable. The electricity was sporadic with the houses being powered by noisy generators the majority of the time. Restaurants and night clubs were few. With a limited number of television stations available, mostly in French, and no dependable internet, staying home wasn’t any better. With nothing else to do the expat community was quite active. If it weren’t for the parties life would have been unbearable. If he had wanted to live in the third world he never would have left his small, isolated, rural, village in India.

His next posting was Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. A large, beautiful, vibrant, modern, city, KL was a welcome change after Kigali. Chandrit was assigned to a spacious apartment with a view of the twin Petronas Towers. He thought he was going to like KL. Living in a country with a large ethnic Indian population he felt comfortable. Everywhere he turned there were the sights, sounds, and aromas of home. The one problem was that he was always being mistaken for a local.

His first day at work he arrived at the embassy with a tilaka on his forehead, the large red dot symbolizing his Hindu faith. As he prepared to enter the Controlled Access Area, where only Americans with a top secret security clearance are allowed to enter, he was confronted by the oafish Regional Security Officer demanding to see his ID badge. One hour, and a search of Chandrit’s personnel file, later the RSO grudgingly allow him access to the CAA and his office, all the while Chandrit repeating in his heavily accented English, “I AM an American! I AM an American!”

Chandrit’s outlook on life began to descend into a mass of doubt, regret and self-pity. He had had a good life in Dallas. Made a nice salary. Lived in an upscale condominium community. But like so many people he didn’t appreciate what he had. He had gone in search of something he didn’t really need. Now he was a low level government functionary making half the money he had made in the private sector. A fact of which he was continually reminding his co-workers, to their extreme annoyance.

He had found himself in a strange land surrounded by strangers. He began to feel isolated between two cultures. He didn’t fit in anywhere. His American coworkers asked him not to play Indian music in the office. He didn’t understand their jokes. “Marsha! Marsha! Marsha!” What the hell did that mean? And who is this Ginger and Mary Ann? Chandrit didn’t understand his fellow American and they didn’t understand him. Though he looked like the locals, and spoke their language, they held him at an arm’s length, never really accepting him as one of them. He was an American. At least that was what his passport said.

By the time he arrived in Nordeland his attitude had almost completely soured. He had become hypersensitive regarding his status as a naturalized citizen and resented almost everything about the Foreign Service. Nothing was good enough. He had left a job making more money, and sacrificed to serve his adopted country. He wasn’t treated like a diplomat. He was technical support.

Chandrit was assigned to a beautiful apartment in an historic old building near the waterfront. The district dated back to the turn of the twentieth century and was originally a national center for manufacturing. Over the decades, through war and peace, the ebb and flow of economic boom and bust, the district had deteriorated into a blight of dormant factories and empty warehouses on the face of the otherwise beautiful city. In recent years the government had instituted a major program of revitalization for the area restoring and converting the imposing old buildings into a trendy neighborhood composed of shops, restaurants, nightclubs and highly sought after loft apartments. Chandrit didn’t like his. His condo in Dallas was better. And he made more money back then. Chandrit had his regrets.

He was in a foul mood as he made his way to the embassy early on a bright Saturday morning. He had received a frantic phone call from the Marine on duty that The Ambassador needed assistance with her computer. He hopped off the tram and walked up the steep hill, arriving at the front gate to the compound at 7:35. He didn’t normally get up till after 8:00 on the weekends. As he entered the front door to the chancery the Marine on duty stood behind the thick bullet proof glass enclosure nodding his head no. “They’re over at the Residence.” Chandrit scowled, turned and marched across the courtyard to The Ambassador’s house.

The weekend maid let him in and escorted him to the private study where he found The Ambassador sitting at her desk, surrounded by her cadre of personal staff, all eyes transfixed on the blank screen of a laptop computer. The maid announced their arrival then excused herself. Chandrit stood in the doorway feeling quite awkward as the entire cabal silently stared at him. Finally he broke the silence and in his Hindi accented English asked, “Madam Ambassador, did you call for me?”

She gazed up at him with her politician’s smile and replied, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Nordelandean. Can you speak English?”

Chandrit was barely able to maintain his composure as the anger washed over him. His very soul wanted to scream out I AM AN AMERICAN! Instead he slowly, deliberately answered, “Ma’am, I am Chandrit Singh, the AMERICAN Information Management Officer. We met last week. Did you call for me?”

Unfazed, The Ambassador retained her empty smile and replied, “Yes, my computer won’t work.” Getting up from her chair to provide him access she continued, “Can you please fix it?”

Chandrit was quite perturbed, but worked hard to conceal it. He cautiously stepped closer to take a look. “It’s pink,” he commented.

“Yes,” Madeleine Howell beamed. “I had it special ordered.”

“It’s a Mac,” Chandrit correctly pointed out.

“Yes, Steve is a personal friend.” She liked to drop names more than she liked to shop.

“Ma’am, we don’t have any Macs in our inventory.”

“So?”

“I am a government employee. I am only supposed to work on government systems.”

Her smile began to melt. “Are you refusing to work on my computer?” she asked through tight lips.

“But it’s a Mac.”

“Are you refusing to work on my computer?” she asked again more forcefully.

“But ma’am, I’m not familiar with the Mac operating system.”

The Ambassador crossed her arms and stood glaring at him like a petulant child.

Bob Coleman quickly intervened. “Chandrit, this is for The Ambassador. I am sure there is something you can do.” Bob looked at him with pleading eyes.

Chandrit paused momentarily. He looked at Bob who appeared demoralized. He looked at The Ambassador. He couldn’t read her expression. She reminded him of a politician who had been caught in a scandal. A little of “What, who me?” with a dose of “How dare you?” He looked at the computer. He figured ‘what the hell?’ No use falling on his sword. He didn’t want his next post to be another third world hellhole. Besides, maybe he would break it. He stood hunched over the computer, checking the cable connections, projecting the image of a man intent on his work. In actuality he was too pissed off to even think straight much less work. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed an electrical plug lying loose on the floor. He visually traced the cord to the computer. The damn thing wasn’t even plugged in and the battery must be dead. With a disgruntled groan he got on his hands and knees underneath the table and found the outlet. The prima donnas must all be too good to perform such menial tasks. Sitting down in front of the computer he paused for a moment to familiarize himself with the controls, found the power button and pushed it. Seconds later the screen flickered to life. The gallery gathered around him released a collective “Ahhhhh!”

Chandrit relinquished the seat of honor to The Ambassador. “Thank you. Bob, please see to the gentleman,” she commanded in a dismissive tone as she settled into her custom-made leather chair.

The two walked silently through the darkened halls of the Residence. As Bob opened the front door he turned to Chandrit with a look of contrition on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders and hands outstretched with palms up as if praying. “I tried, but she wouldn’t even let me look at it.”

Chandrit returned his gaze with a vacant expression, turned and walked through the door into the brilliant, sunlit morning. He was definitely going back to Texas.

Semper Fi

Bruno Jefferies, Sergeant Major, United States Marine Corps, retired, stood in the middle of The Ambassador’s living room listening to the cacophony of suggestions and instructions emanating from The Ambassador and her coterie of advisors, decorators, attorneys, event planners and personal assistants.

“The room should be bigger.”

“The room should be smaller.”

“The room should be grand.”

“The room should be intimate.”

“The room should be gay and joyous.”

“The room should be warm and inviting.”

“The house is a marvelous old mansion in need of careful renovation.”

“The house is a barn, an eyesore, in need of tearing down.”

“Call the architect!”

“Call the demolition company!”

“Call the construction company!”

“Move!”

“Stay!”

The individual voices began to blur into a mass of white noise as Bruno tried to tune them out. His body remained, but his mind drifted away. Some days he wondered where had he gone wrong. How had his life taken this turn? Had he offended the gods? Created bad karma? What had he done? It was one of those days.

Bruno had left his home for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina bright and early on the Monday morning after his high school graduation. He was only seventeen years old at the time and had been in service to his country in one manner or another ever since. It began with a tour in the jungles of Vietnam during which he distinguished himself by winning the Silver Star. In the years following Vietnam he sailed around the world as a Fleet Marine, made the rounds through the states: Camp Pendleton, Quantico, Camp Lejeune, and served in Japan and Korea before being assigned as First Sergeant to H Company, Marine Corps Embassy Security Group, in Frankfurt, Germany, where his life would be forever changed. He met a pretty, little exchange student from Nordeland named Riikka. They dated while she finished school and were married upon her graduation. She was content with their life while in Germany. They would spend long weekends indulging in their favorite past time, traveling. The surrounding regions are a rich mélange of ancient cultures and customs, with historical sites dating back a millennium. There are castles and forests. Beaches and museums. Restaurants and quaint little inns. Cruises on the Rhine and the Mediterranean. With the promotion to Sergeant Major came a transfer back to Camp Lejeune. Shortly after their move, Riikka became pregnant. Rural North Carolina lacked the cosmopolitan atmosphere to which the couple had grown accustomed in Frankfurt. The heat and humidity of the American South could be overwhelming. They both missed Europe. Pregnant and homesick, Riikka wanted to return to her home in Nordeland. Bruno wanted to make her happy. He retired from the Corps and moved one last time. 

With his experience in the Marines, Bruno was ideally suited to work at the American Embassy as a locally hired General Services Officer. His job description read “to provide all the logistical support for Embassy operations in the advancement of American foreign policy.” That sounded good. Would probably please the tax payers. But in reality his primary function was to make The Ambassador happy.

“Well for the time being we have to do something with this room,” The Ambassador stated in her most decisive manner. “Bob, at the very least have the servants re-arrange the furniture.”

“Madam Ambassador, these are government employees,” Bob answered in a hushed tone. “They don’t like to be called servants. They find it rather insulting.”

“Oh my, you’re right. Please forgive me,” she responded with a look of sincere contrition in her eyes. “Could we have the government employed servants rearrange the furniture?”

“Madam Ambassador, that is why we are here,” Bruno interjected. “If someone will just tell us exactly what they want moved, where, we will be glad to do it.”

“I wish Mr. Kwan was here,” The Ambassador declared in a desperate tone.

“Yes, what will we do without Mr. Kwan?” Lynn Nguyen, The Ambassador’s personal attorney and chief of staff commiserated.

 “Mr. Kwan may be in Singapore but Mr. Kwan’s plan is here,” Roberta, The Ambassador’s personal interior decorator, jubilantly proclaimed as she entered the room waiving a piece of paper over her head.

A chorus of applause rose up from The Ambassador and her personal staff. “That’s wonderful.”

”Who is Mr. Kwan?” Bruno asked Bob in a low voice.

“Mr. Kwan is the The Howell Family Foundation’s feng shui consultant,” Bob responded, leaning over close in a conspiratorial manner. “They keep him on retainer. He’s based in Singapore and unfortunately he is tied up with a big hotel design project there and couldn’t make it.”

“I e-mailed him the floor plans and photos. After careful analysis he has prepared THE plan for use until we can make some significant changes to this… this… charming old house,” Roberta explained. “Have the servants rearrange the furniture according to this diagram,” she instructed as she handed the paper to Bruno. “Now let’s talk about the long range plan. What can we do with this room?”

“It needs to be bigger,” Roberto exclaimed in his uniquely flamboyant style. “If we want to hold true events we need more space!”

“What can we do?” The Ambassador mused as she looked around the room.

“Yes, what can we do?” Roberta asked.

“Yes, what can we do?” Lynn asked.

“Yes, what can we do?” Roberto asked.

There was a long pause in the discussion. The only sound breaking the silence was the muffled rumbling of furniture being moved in accordance with Mr. Kwan’s plan.

“Yes, I do believe it must be bigger,” The Ambassador finally determined. “In order to adequately represent the grandeur, prestige, and dignity of the United States the room must be bigger.” In her most decisive tone she continued, “We will remove these interior walls,” motioning all about, “combining all the smaller rooms into one great room suitable for entertaining.”

“Excuse me ma’am,” Bruno hesitantly interrupted, “but these are all load bearing walls.”

All eyes turned to him. No one said a word. They just stood staring at Bruno.

“They can’t be removed,” Bruno persisted.

Again he was met only with quizzical stares.

“These walls provide support for the floors above them,” he tried to explain as if speaking to children. “Without these walls we would be looking up at the roof.”

Another long, silent pause followed as if a cloud of confusion had fallen over the room. Then slowly, one by one, expressions of comprehension began to appear on their faces. Soon there were gleeful smiles all around.

“Excellent!” The Ambassador beamed. “I love vaulted ceilings.”

Coming Home

Flew home yesterday. While passing through immigration and customs in Houston, I began  to wonder if that was what travel in the old Soviet Union was like.

Reminded me of an old movie, traveling through Germany during World War II, passing through gauntlets of armed agents, continually being asked to see my ID.  

THE IMPERIALS #5

It’s Showtime

The melodic strains of show tunes filled the walls of the windowless office. Jon Doe sat behind his computer reading the morning cable traffic. A large hulking physique, bald head, and intense facial expression belied his effervescent love of the musical Chicago. Jon had a fondness for musical theater in general, but was obsessed with Chicago. He loved the stage production. He loved the movie. He owned the DVD of both. He owned the soundtrack. It played constantly in his office as he sat mouthing the dialogue that he had so diligently memorized.

As the station chief for The Agency of Which We Do Not Speak, it was Jon’s responsibility to compile and deliver the daily intelligence brief at nine o’clock each morning. He copied and pasted, copied and pasted, mostly benign snippets from the open source file. Launching into the next song, he maintained the rhythm striking the print key on the down beat. Bobbing his head and dancing in his chair, he grabbed the page from the printer, placed a giant scarlet TOP SECRET stamp across the header and slid the document into a similarly marked briefing folder, keeping the tempo all through the process. Leaving his musical sanctuary behind, Jon ventured down stairs. Rendezvousing with Raymond outside the RSO office, the two walked in step down the marbled hall to the Executive Office.

Ambassador Howell had only been in country for a week but had already found the opportunity to completely redecorate the office in her own personal style. Reminiscent of the Oval Office, she had replaced the desk with a much larger, imposing, solid oak, monstrosity more fitting The Ambassador’s stature. Situated in front of the bay window, facing the door, it commanded the entire room. A large area rug with the State Department Seal woven into it lay in the middle of the room. Mounted on the walls was the pantheon of the political elite from The Ambassador’s Party. There were pictures of Madeleine Howell with the President, with the First Lady, with the President and the First Lady, with the Vice President, the wife of the Vice President, the Vice President and his wife, and the Secretary of State. There were pictures of The Ambassador’s granddaughter with the President, with the First Lady, with the President and the First Lady. It was a veritable who’s who of who can be bought in Washington DC.

The Ambassador sat in a high wing back chair with Jon and Raymond seated on the low sofas on either side. Jon handed her the red briefing folder and tracking form for her signature. Her eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. A socialite with a security clearance, she appeared to derive great pleasure in being presented with classified information. There was nothing of any significance in the document, but Jon had learned quickly that The Ambassador was happier, and he got back to work quicker, when the report was classified Secret or above.

Madeleine Howell tilted her head back and peered down over her nose at the document while Jon provided a brief oral summary. There was a long awkward silence after he finished as she continued to peruse the paper. Finally she lay the paper in her lap and said, “That is very good, Jon. In the future I would like you to report on possible Al-Qaeda activities here in Nordeland and how they may affect regional stability.”

“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” Jon answered submissively.

Turning to face Raymond she continued, “Now what is the security situation?”

Raymond cleared his throat and hesitantly began, “Madam Ambassador, the Department of Homeland Security National Threat Advisory is Yellow, or elevated. Locally, there are no indications of threat. The Royal Nordelandian Police intelligence estimate is positive, no credible threats. Our surveillance detection operations have identified nothing. Routine crime is almost non-existent in Nordea City. No significant danger there. With consideration for our operating environment I would place our threat assessment locally as Blue, or guarded risk.”

The Ambassador looked at him quizzically and asked, “Exactly what do you mean?”

Caught off guard Raymond replied with a stutter, “I’m just saying… Our security situation is… I’m just saying… There are no credible….” He stopped in mid-sentence.

The Ambassador’s superficial smile was gone. She glared at him with displeasure and forcefully said, “In the future I would like you to report on what you are doing to counter Al-Qaeda and other transnational terrorist threats against the Embassy.”

Blondes, Brunettes, & Redheads

Craven Weaselman sat with the résumés spread out before him on the desk. He was hiring a new administrative assistant and it was a hard decision. All three were gorgeous women, and one even had some secretarial skills. He wished he could hire them all. His appreciation of the fact that his wife, Evelyn, had left him and taken her kids with her was growing by the day.

Their previous posting had been to Manila, The Philippines. They had enjoyed the casual, laid back, tropical lifestyle. The extra hardship pay intended to alleviate the adversities of life in less developed nations, and the strong US dollar, bought the maids, gardeners, chauffeurs and just about everything else needed to live like royalty. Evelyn had been thrilled when he suggested they bring their maid with them to Nordeland. She hated housework, cooking, basically anything domestic, and with the high cost of living in Europe they wouldn’t be able to afford to maintain their previous lifestyle. It was unusual for Craven to be so thoughtful, but she unsuspectingly, enthusiastically agreed. Craven bought the pretty young woman a plane ticket and arranged for her to meet the family in Nordeland.

Evelyn had been quick to make new friends upon their arrival. She was an adventurous spirit and liked to travel. Having taken a three day shopping excursion to Stockholm, she returned home earlier than expected to find their young maid was providing a wider range of services than she had realized. No wonder Craven had been so keen to bring her along. Evelyn packed up her three brats, moved back to the States, and filed for divorce leaving him deliriously alone in his sprawling seafront villa. He had never reported the divorce to the State Department and continued to collect the additional allowances for a family of five. Once again he was living like a king.

It became awkward bringing other women home. The maid had taken on the air of lady of the house. It made for some embarrassing moments. Finally Craven gave her six months severance pay and a ticket back to Manila.

Pushing sixty years of age with the personality of Lounge Lizard Larry and the face of a basset hound undergoing an enema, most women found him repulsive. But to that select few he was apparently irresistible. And no matter what country he was in he was always able to find that select few.

As Management Officer he ran the embassy like Vito Corleone, dispensing justice in reciprocity for service. Planning ahead for his pending retirement, he intended to open a small collectibles shop on the old square of his home town, he had been preoccupied for years buying antiques and hand crafts from around the world and shipping them home through the diplomatic pouch. Craven was going to be well taken care of; spare no expense to the tax payers.

He looked again at the résumés. The blonde was the sexiest. But sexy blondes were nothing uncommon in the Nordic countries. Craven was almost bored watching them. The brunette was a goddess. Tall, graceful, regal. But Evelyn had been a brunette. Not as pretty, but still somewhat similar looking. He was ready for something different. The redhead. Craven had always had a thing for redheads. She had never worked as a secretary, and had none of the required skills or experience, but with long sculptured legs, an alabaster complexion with a shadow of freckles splashed across her face, and piercing blue eyes, she was absolutely stunning. And he had picked up a bit of a vibe from her during the interview. Her name was Siri, and Craven was confident she would make a first rate assistant.

**********

Also by E.C. Jacobs

THE COAST

Evan Stanley is a disillusioned insurance fraud investigator. When a friend is savagely murdered while investigating a claim, he is drawn into a journey of intrigue and suspense from which he may not return.

Evan likes his work but hates his job. He is an experienced Special Investigator for National Insurance Company, but management doesn’t like his attitude. While investigating a routine personal injury claim on the sultry Mississippi gulf coast, he inadvertently uncovers a conspiracy of corruption and murder. Traversing the back roads and bayous of the Deep South, from Biloxi to New Orleans to Memphis, Evan follows the trail through a storm of events to an explosive conclusion.

THE IMPERIALS #4

The Clan

The DCM gushed through her obsequious welcome speech as The Ambassador stood nearby preening. At the appropriate time The Ambassador stepped forward to become the center of attention, where she belonged. Her speech was short and void of substance. After the final toast the audience dispersed throughout the garden clustering in small conversational groups.  

The military attachés gathered along the rail at the bluff’s edge, looking out over the city, conversing in hushed tones. The Defense Attaché, US Air Force Colonel Joan Saindoux-Fessier, commanded the group with the military precision of a Beverly Hills Brownie troop. She was living proof that cream is not the only thing that rises to the top. Her husband, Ashley Fessier, a flamboyantly enthusiastic fellow, stood ever at her side daintily sipping champagne. Their offspring, Pat, maintained a solitary vigil posted not far away in the corner of the garden. Somewhat of an enigma, no one in the embassy community was sure if the name Pat was short for Patrick or Patricia, and none dared to ask the volatile Defense Attaché. Pat stood in silence staring into space over the rooftops of the city below. 

The DATT’s lackey, officially known as the Operations Coordinator, Air Force Chief Master Sergeant Chet Fortune, hovered nearby at the end of the very tight leash held by his overly attentive wife, Deidre. Possessing an odd physique, muscular and sinewy, yet somehow dystrophic, with stoop shoulders, always looking at the ground, shifty eyes darting about, never making contact, he maintained the demeanor of a heroin addict in need of a fix. It was often difficult for the casual observer to determine exactly what official purpose Chet served. He appeared primarily preoccupied with the task of redecorating their apartment to appease Deidre. He was amazed by the fact that he was actually beginning to enjoy it. Normally he hated shopping for anything. Maybe he was getting in touch with his feminine side. Maybe it was because he didn’t have worry about cost. The government provided fully furnished quarters and it was if he had a blank check to spend as he, or in actuality Deidre, pleased. 

Completing the group were the Naval Attaché, Commander Dominic Vasquez, and his wife Consuelo. A proud Latino Catholic, and graduate of the US Naval Academy at Annapolis, Dominic was the father of eight children with one on the way. It was if the couple was on a mission to personally supplant the world population of protestant heretics. 

“I don’t believe ya’ll have been over to pay your respects to The Ambassador,” Wynette said in her uniquely annoying manner as she intruded upon their conversation. The Colonel grunted with disgust. She despised pandering to the cookie pushing diplomats. The grandeur, prestige, and dignity of the United States were best represented by the military. She was the face of America to Nordeland. The rest of the embassy was simply inconsequential. 

The Ambassador was holding court in the center of the garden, seated on a bench on the flagstone patio, surrounded by her courtiers. Short of stature and wide of girth, the Colonel waddled more than walked as she moved toward The Ambassador. Bypassing the line of lesser staffers waiting to pay homage, she approached The Ambassador directly, elbowed the underlings aside, delicately took The Ambassador’s hand and with feigned sincerity said, “It’s a beautiful party, Madam Ambassador. Such a lovely evening. We just wanted to thank you for your gracious hospitality and once again welcome you to Nordeland.”

The Ambassador stared at her with a slightly stunned expression, yet at the same time maintained the ever present superficial smile. Their eyes met. The Colonel spun on her heel and led her troops to the exit.

  

Regional inSecurity

Raymond Hoffman, the embassy Regional Security Officer, sat in his car partially concealed by the faint shadows of the overhanging tree branches. He was parked at the base of the three hundred foot tall bluff that constituted The Hill, directly under the embassy compound. The wall he faced was almost sheer straight up and down. It might be climbable, but not without some effort. And most assuredly not without someone noticing. But The Ambassador was security conscious. Especially since she lived on compound. She felt the unprotected cliff face provided a welcome point for surreptitious entry. Raymond explained that the embassy maintained a roving guard within the compound at all times. The guards walked the complete length of the cliff top every twenty minutes. The Ambassador promptly informed him that The Residence and its associated grounds were her private residence and she did not appreciate the embassy guards entering her back yard without her prior consent. She considered that an invasion of her privacy and demanded the practice stop immediately. Raymond then recommended raising the height of the wall along the cliff top. That would not do. The Ambassador enjoyed the views. Especially from the courtyard. The presentation the vistas provided was essential for her most important of duties, entertaining. He had consulted his liaison with the Royal Nordelandian Police to see if they could provide a permanent police presence posted at the bottom of the cliff. It was all the man could do to keep from laughing in Raymond’s face. The Nordelandian police already went to great expense indulging the Americans’ concerns. He had no additional manpower to provide. He could ensure that the nighttime roving patrols included the area as a part of their normal routine. 

The Ambassador was not happy. She ordered Raymond to provide a plan to improve the security. He didn’t look forward to the task. Original thought was not exactly Raymond’s forte. In the meantime he was to personally inspect the wall daily during hours of darkness. Good thing it was only dark about four hours a night.  

He took a sip of his coffee then peered through the night scope at the wall. Nothing. He would stay a few more minutes, make a pass by the front gate to check in, and then head home. Raymond hated getting new ambassadors. There was always such a long breaking in process. And here he was, posted in a safe country, in the city with the lowest crime rate in the world, conducting night patrols to ensure superfly didn’t scale the wall and attack The Ambassador. If he had wanted this he would have stayed on the Miami-Dade Police Department.

Raymond had enlisted in the Marines while he was still in high school. He reported to boot camp immediately upon graduation and served in his Military Occupational Specialty, Postal Clerk. Three years later he re-enlisted and volunteered for the Marine Security Guard program protecting embassies around the world. He quickly learned that embassy life was not bad, even for a lowly watch stander. No perk or benefit was too large or too small to expect the American tax payer to provide. Raymond knew where his career path lay. 

Upon his discharge Raymond returned to his home and enrolled at Florida State University. He found the academic challenges of a degree in Criminal Justice to be grueling, but he worked hard and finally graduated. Unfortunately, there was a hiring freeze at the State Department and Raymond found himself unemployed and idle. He considered re-enlisting in the Marines, but he wasn’t that desperate. With no money coming in, he realized he had to do something so he joined the Miami-Dade Police Department. Long nights of patrolling city streets, working innumerable muggings, robberies, domestic disturbances, and every other type of crime imaginable evolved into a suffocating drudgery further fueling his desire to return overseas. Five years, a wife, and two kids later Raymond’s dreams were finally realized. 

His first posting was in Asia. Life was easy. A nine-to-five job with an office, blustering authority with little actual responsibility, cheap cost of living, and extra hardship pay which bought the maids, gardeners, amahs, and just about every toy he wanted. Raymond had found a home. 

*****************

Also by E.C. Jacobs:

LAST CHANCE

The kidnapping and massacre of the passengers and crew of a pleasure craft trigger a fateful chain of events.

Dive into intrigue and suspense in exotic Southeast Asia. Join Ian McEdwards, a down-on-his-luck American businessman living in Malaysia, as he weathers storms, outwits terrorist, and fights for his business and his life, all while looking for clues to the location of a sunken shipload of gold.

Ian McEdwards is a freelance international business consultant. That is how he earns a living. But his passion is SCUBA diving and the search for the wreck of the legendary treasure ship Sunchaser. Desperate for business, Ian unknowingly takes a client that is in actuality a money-laundering front for Abu Sayyaf, one of the most virulent terrorist organizations in Southeast Asia. Soon, the CIA moves in to investigate and Ian finds himself falling in love with a young, beautiful, covert agent. Caught between terrorists and the Agency, while searching for a fortune in lost gold, Ian is grasping for one LAST CHANCE.