The Threat

Dan said, “We buy weapons for security against a threat. Why not spend a hundredth that much to reduce it? Too many people seem to be looking around for the next enemy so they can keep everything the way it is. I see a window instead. Nobody knows how long it’ll be open. Maybe now’s the time to say, ‘Let’s get these things off our backs.’”

She cocked her head, interested, or maybe just acting it. “What are you talking about?”

“Put the genie back in his bottle. Isn’t that what Reagan tried to do? One on one with Gorby? We made having nukes the mark of a superpower. Why don’t we make not needing them the mark of a postnuclear superpower?”

“You’re so cute when you get serious.” She took his arm and he felt the soft pressure of her breast. “So cute I could be on your side. But give me a reason, Dan — because I absolutely cannot afford to do something for nothing. A PAC check. A swing bloc. A hot issue, if that’s all you’ve got. If you can’t … then hasta la banana. It is that cutthroat where I live. If I don’t claw and scheme every minute I’m awake, I won’t keep playing.”

He had to admit she’d always been up front about exactly what she thought or wanted. Unless, of course, that too was one of her games. Did she play it with the older man who was weaving between couples toward them, smiling fawningly at her?

“It may be a long shot,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do, though.”

“So tell him that,” Sandy said, as if she were sucking something bad. “Your wop boss. The Firefighting Cowboy.”

But her husband was taking her arm, presenting Dan with what might pass for a smile but looked more like a territorial display, a monitory baring of teeth. Sandy was turning away. “Stay in touch, Dan,” she trilled. A whiff of Guerlaine, and she was gone.

* * *

He went over to Admiral Contardi, who was still standing alone, and introduced himself. Reminded him of the Arroyo Gold operation, when he’d briefed him on a then-untested missile. Contardi’s eye lingered on the blue-and-white ribbon. He said he remembered Dan and was glad to see him again. Then started talking about something he called a smarter, nimbler military. It involved “networks” and “nodes” and communications and satellite surveillance. It sounded very high-tech, but after a few minutes Dan wasn’t sure he was following. Maybe that showed, because after a quizzical pause where they stared at each other Contardi said gently, “Well, I’m still sort of bouncing these ideas around. We can talk about it some other time if you want.”

Dan took the hint and excused himself for the buffet. Held a plate and nibbled, looking around for Blair but not finding her. Then he saw her talking to the actress, her face flaming, her eyes sparkling. He smiled again at how excited she looked.

“Commander Lenson, I presume?”

He turned from the table to a swarthy, smiling man whose silver hair gleamed in the candlelight. He was in a tux, with some sort of foreign order in his buttonhole. Dan took his extended palm.

“You are Lenson?”

“That’s right. Have we met before, sir?”

“No, sir; you don’t know me. And there’s no reason you should. I happen to be in the service of the state of Israel.”

Dan said he was glad to meet him. “Perhaps it’s best that way,” the man said, keeping his voice so low amid the hubbub Dan had to bend to catch it. Still holding his hand — he’d not released it after shaking it. “A certain distance must be maintained. Especially with this administration, it seems. But we know you. Yes, we do. And I have something for you.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“When you were in command of USS Thomas W. Horn. I don’t believe you have ever been officially thanked for your service. For what you risked, and what you suffered.”

Dan cleared his throat. “Oh. Uh, that wouldn’t be necessary, I was actually—”

He was interrupted in midsentence. “Good, because we do not intend to do so officially. Lo hayu ha’dvarim miolam. We are not supposed to know what took place off our shore. But rest assured we appreciate your — acts.” He squeezed again, the hand he hadn’t let go, and with the other slipped a slim case of dark wood from inside his jacket. “If you would do me the honor?”

Dan clicked it open, and blinked, dumbfounded at what lay within.

The silk ribbon was red as fresh blood. The heavy, dull silver medal, nestled in dark blue velvet, resembled no American decoration he’d ever seen. Swords, entwined by an olive branch.

“What’s this?” he muttered.

“It’s the Tzalash. The Medal of Courage. I do not think it has ever been awarded to a foreigner before.”

“Well, it’s very handsome. But I, uh, I can’t accept this. We can’t accept foreign decorations—”

The Israeli raised both hands. “Unfortunately, I cannot take it back. We are in your debt, and always will be. If ever we can return the favor, please — just ask.”

The little man bowed, smiling faintly, and moved off.