diplomats. What they like even less is having to explain to their prickly bosses how they made it onto the front page of a nationally read newspaper in a distinctly unfavorable light.
Bittlesby said, “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?” He wasn’t really asking. He was taking the first grudging step in a full-scale retreat.
“Twenty-seven minutes, Captain.”
“Where are you?”
“We’ll be at the front entry of the Dragon Hill Lodge in thirty seconds.”
Half a minute later, Katherine, Keith, and I stood at the hotel’s entrance as three humvees with flashing yellow lights careened around the corner. Katherine looked at me and I shrugged nicely. It was the kind of taunting gesture meant to say, “Pretty cool, huh? Think you could’ve pulled it off?”
The first and last humvees were loaded to the gills with military policemen in riot gear. The middle one contained only a driver, also in riot gear.
I swiftly moved to the rear door of the middle humvee, yanked it open, and held it for Katherine. They don’t call us officers and gentlemen for nothing. But before I could react, Keith swiftly walked over and climbed in, brushing my arm softly and saying, “Thanks, sweetie.”
Katherine chuckled and climbed in the front seat. That left me to join Keith in the back. I could’ve strangled her.
By the time we got to the gate, it seemed apparent that the MPs had radioed ahead, because a platoon of South Korean riot police in blue uniforms were already shoving and hammering protesters aside to make a path for our convoy to get through.
Lots of angry, sullen faces glared at us as we passed through the crowd. It didn’t leave you with the impression you were among friends.
The ride to the embassy took just shy of thirty-five minutes. At the gate, once again, a platoon of South Korean troops in blue uniforms with riot shields and batons were beating a wedge through more protesters.
We dismounted at the front entrance and the young lieutenant in charge of the convoy came over. I told him to wait till we were done, and with excruciating politeness he said he would. Bittlesby must’ve warned him I was a righteous prick.
After a security check we took an elevator to the fourth floor and walked into the ambassador’s outer office. The secretary had a long, droopy face and a long, narrow nose, and she looked at us like we were stray dogs who’d come to crap on her lawn. She lifted the receiver, pushed a button, and announced we were here. Then with a dismissive wave, she signaled us to enter the door to the left of her desk.
Two men were seated on gold silk couches in the corner of the regal-looking office. They stood as we entered. I might’ve been imagining things, but their faces looked vaguely guilty, or slightly embarrassed, or mildly entertained, or maybe all three.
One had the eagle of a full colonel on his collar. “Janson” was written on his nametag. He was in his mid-fifties, with short, tightly cropped gray stubble on his head, tough, distrustful eyes, and lips that were too big and wide for his narrow face. Like the lips on a piranha. He wore JAG brass on his other collar, of course, since he was the legal adviser to General Spears. He didn’t look like a lawyer, though. He had the aspect of a high school disciplinarian who accidentally got a law degree and still resented it.
The other guy looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: a diplomat — a particular kind of diplomat, though. I mean, they’re not all vanilla ice cream, and he was the type I guessed I wasn’t going to like a lot. Maybe late forties, with black hair that was blow-dried back in the currently fashionable style, and that should’ve had at least a few wisps of gray but mysteriously didn’t. He had a chiseled, lined face, dark, piercing eyes, and an imperious curl on his lips. There was a gold Harvard ring on his left hand, but no wedding band. He was either single or advertising his
Bittlesby said, “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?” He wasn’t really asking. He was taking the first grudging step in a full-scale retreat.
“Twenty-seven minutes, Captain.”
“Where are you?”
“We’ll be at the front entry of the Dragon Hill Lodge in thirty seconds.”
Half a minute later, Katherine, Keith, and I stood at the hotel’s entrance as three humvees with flashing yellow lights careened around the corner. Katherine looked at me and I shrugged nicely. It was the kind of taunting gesture meant to say, “Pretty cool, huh? Think you could’ve pulled it off?”
The first and last humvees were loaded to the gills with military policemen in riot gear. The middle one contained only a driver, also in riot gear.
I swiftly moved to the rear door of the middle humvee, yanked it open, and held it for Katherine. They don’t call us officers and gentlemen for nothing. But before I could react, Keith swiftly walked over and climbed in, brushing my arm softly and saying, “Thanks, sweetie.”
Katherine chuckled and climbed in the front seat. That left me to join Keith in the back. I could’ve strangled her.
By the time we got to the gate, it seemed apparent that the MPs had radioed ahead, because a platoon of South Korean riot police in blue uniforms were already shoving and hammering protesters aside to make a path for our convoy to get through.
Lots of angry, sullen faces glared at us as we passed through the crowd. It didn’t leave you with the impression you were among friends.
The ride to the embassy took just shy of thirty-five minutes. At the gate, once again, a platoon of South Korean troops in blue uniforms with riot shields and batons were beating a wedge through more protesters.
We dismounted at the front entrance and the young lieutenant in charge of the convoy came over. I told him to wait till we were done, and with excruciating politeness he said he would. Bittlesby must’ve warned him I was a righteous prick.
After a security check we took an elevator to the fourth floor and walked into the ambassador’s outer office. The secretary had a long, droopy face and a long, narrow nose, and she looked at us like we were stray dogs who’d come to crap on her lawn. She lifted the receiver, pushed a button, and announced we were here. Then with a dismissive wave, she signaled us to enter the door to the left of her desk.
Two men were seated on gold silk couches in the corner of the regal-looking office. They stood as we entered. I might’ve been imagining things, but their faces looked vaguely guilty, or slightly embarrassed, or mildly entertained, or maybe all three.
One had the eagle of a full colonel on his collar. “Janson” was written on his nametag. He was in his mid-fifties, with short, tightly cropped gray stubble on his head, tough, distrustful eyes, and lips that were too big and wide for his narrow face. Like the lips on a piranha. He wore JAG brass on his other collar, of course, since he was the legal adviser to General Spears. He didn’t look like a lawyer, though. He had the aspect of a high school disciplinarian who accidentally got a law degree and still resented it.
The other guy looked exactly like what he was supposed to be: a diplomat — a particular kind of diplomat, though. I mean, they’re not all vanilla ice cream, and he was the type I guessed I wasn’t going to like a lot. Maybe late forties, with black hair that was blow-dried back in the currently fashionable style, and that should’ve had at least a few wisps of gray but mysteriously didn’t. He had a chiseled, lined face, dark, piercing eyes, and an imperious curl on his lips. There was a gold Harvard ring on his left hand, but no wedding band. He was either single or advertising his
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