CHAPTER ONE
UNTIL HE TRIED PUTTING on his tuxedo, Gideon Davis
didn't realize how much weight he'd gained. The extra pounds
were hardly noticeable on his muscular six-foot-one frame,
but Gideon had felt the tug across his shoulders when he
buttoned his jacket earlier that afternoon. Now, it felt
even tighter, and he tried to keep himself from squirming in
his chair as the president of the United States addressed
the General Assembly of the United Nations.
". . . ten
thousand lives have been lost in the bloody civil war
between the Guaviare militia and the armed forces of the
Colombian government, most of them innocent civilians. For
years, both sides repeately rejected calls for a cease-fire,
until the prospect of a peaceful resolution to the conflict
seemed unattainable to everyone in the international
community. Everyone . . . except for one man." President
Alton Diggs nodded toward Gideon, who smiled a smile that
felt as tight as his tuxedo. Being in the spotlight was
something he still hadn't grown accustomed
to.
Seventeen hours earlier, Gideon had been sitting
in a jungle hut in Colombia, while armed men prowled around,
waiting for an excuse to start shooting one another. The
cease-fire he'd negotiated was the culmination of a
three-month-long series of marathon sessions during which
he'd spent day and night shuttling between government and
rebel forces, usually eating the same meal twice—once with
each faction—which accounted for the extra ten pounds he'd
put on. In order to keep the warring sides at the table,
he'd partaken of huge heaping portions of ajiaco, the
traditional stew made of chicken, corn, potatoes, avocado,
and guascas, a local herb, and chunchullo,
fried cow intestines. As effective a diplomatic strategy as
it was, Gideon knew that no amount of food would make the
cease-fire hold. Chances were slim that it would last
through the month. But the president had told him the best
way to maintain the cease-fire was to get the international
community invested, and the best way to get them invested
was through a major media event. And the media loved Gideon
Davis.
President Diggs continued reciting for the
audience some highlights of Gideon's career as a Special
Presidential Envoy. He credited Gideon with defusing crises
from the Balkans to Waziristan, and for being among the
first public figures with the courage to argue that the
United States needed to rethink its approach to the war on
terror. To his detractors, Gideon was dangerous—a
pie-in-the-sky slave to political correctness who thought
the enemies of Western civilization could be jawboned into
holding hands and singing "Kumbaya." But anyone who'd ever
spent any time with Gideon knew how far from the truth that
was. They knew he was a straight talker with zero tolerance
for bullshit. They knew he listened to people. Simple enough
virtues, but ones rarely found in Washington—which was why
some insiders had tagged Gideon as the fastest rising star
in American politics. Before Gideon had left for Colombia,
President Diggs had let slip that some party bigwigs were
considering him for one of several upcoming races. One rumor
even had Gideon on the president's short list of potential
running mates. This caught Gideon by surprise, since he'd
never had any real political ambitions. Exposing his private
life to that kind of scrutiny, and having to make the
inevitable compromises that come with holding public office,
had no interest for him. But the prospect of wielding enough
power to make a real difference in world affairs had caused
Gideon to rethink his position. It was one of the reasons
he'd agreed to squeeze into his tuxedo to accept this award
from the president, who was now winding up his
introduction.
". . . more than simply building
bridges, this man has dedicated himself to that ancient and
most sacred cornerstone of our moral code: Thou Shalt Not
Kill. And so, it is my great privilege to present the United
Nations Medal of Peace to one of the great peacemakers of
our time, Gideon Davis."
Gideon approached the podium
to a generous stream of applause. He shook the president's
hand, then bowed his head to allow him to place the ribboned
medallion around his neck.
"Thank you, Mr. President,"
Gideon said, before acknowledging several other heads of
state whom protocol deemed worthy of acknowledgment. "This
is a great honor, and I accept it with gratitude and
humility. All of us in this room know that peace is more
than just the absence of war . . . it's also the absence of
poverty and injustice. The real work still lies ahead of us,
and its ultimate success depends on the diplomatic and
economic support of every country represented in this room
tonight." As Gideon continued to talk about the necessity of
international solidarity, he saw a woman in a red dress
stifle a yawn. He was losing them. But that didn't stop him
from making the point he wanted to make—that the real heroes
were the men and women in Colombia who had found the courage
to compromise and to break the cycle of violence that had
claimed the lives of so many of their countrymen. "With your
support, their goodwill and hard work might actually make
this a just and lasting peace. They're the ones we should be
honoring tonight. And so I share this award with them." He
took off the medal, held it in the air over his
head.
But his gesture was met with silence.
I
blew it, Gideon thought to himself. These people hadn't
come here to be reminded of their moral and economic
obligations. They'd come to feel good. They'd come expecting
Gideon to shovel out the kind of self-congratulatory
rhetoric that keeps the United Nations in business. Gideon
scolded himself for ever thinking otherwise and wished he'd
found an excuse to stay home and get some sleep.
But
then the applause started. Sudden and decisive, like a
thunderclap followed by a great rain that just kept going
until it flooded the room with the collective approval of
every person in the audience. Even the woman in the red
dress was clapping. And for a moment, Gideon allowed himself
to feel a flicker of hope that the cease-fire he'd worked so
hard to make happen just might last. At least for a little
while.
A few minutes later, Gideon was ushered into a
large adjoining room. As successful as his speech had been,
he had no illusions that it would have any real impact on
the cease-fire. Making speeches was the easy part. Turning
the enthusiasm of politicians and diplomats into real action
was a much taller order. Most of the people here couldn't be
counted on to follow through on any of the wine-inspired
promises they'd made. Some of them were powerless; others
were simply full of shit.
An embassy official from the
Netherlands introduced himself to Gideon, who remembered
that the man had been his country's foreign minister before
being sidelined to an embassy post because of an ongoing
relationship with a call girl. "You are a visionary," the
embassy official said, his small hand clamping around
Gideon's bicep.
Gideon did his best to smile. "I
appreciate the compliment, but I just did what the president
sent me to do."
"Your modesty is attractive, of
course," the man said, "but you do yourself an injustice
when—"
"Mr. Davis? I'm sorry to interrupt . .
."
Gideon turned toward the speaker. Unlike the people
around him— all of them wearing tuxedos or evening gowns—the
man who was addressing him wore a crisp military uniform.
Dress blues with a white web belt. His hair was trimmed high
and tight, with the sidewalls rarely seen outside the United
States Marine Corps.
"The president would like to see
you."
"Excuse me," Gideon said to the embassy
official, grateful for an excuse to end their conversation
before it had a chance to start.
The embassy official
glared at the marine, clearly unaccustomed to being
interrupted by some lowly soldier, as he parted the crowd
for Gideon.
The marine led Gideon to a door. Posted on
either side was a pair of Secret Service agents. One of them
opened the door for Gideon, who entered a large conference
room, where President Diggs was talking quietly to a plain
but pleasant-faced man in his sixties with the jowly,
careworn expression of a hound dog. It was Earl Parker,
Gideon's friend and mentor, and as close to a father as
anyone in his life.
"Uncle Earl . . ."
"You were
good in there," Parker said. "Truly inspiring."
"I
didn't know you were here."
"I was standing in back,"
Parker said, smiling. "I'm proud of you, son."
Gideon
returned Parker's smile, surprised at how eager he still was
for the older man's approval.
He had known Earl Parker
most of his life. Parker was not actually his uncle, but he
had been a friend of his father's, and after Gideon's
parents died twenty years ago, Earl Parker had stepped in,
becoming almost a father figure to him—and to his older
brother, Tillman. After their parents' deaths they had gone
to live with a foster family. But Parker had come to visit
them every weekend or two, playing football in the yard with
them, checking on their progress in school, and generally
acting as though they were related by blood. They had
wondered enough about his constant attention to eventually
ask him why he spent so much time with them. He explained
simply that he had served in the Marines with their father
and owed him a debt so great that caring for his sons would
not even begin to repay it.
Beyond the fact that he'd
never married, the boys knew precious little about Uncle
Earl's personal life. Which didn't stop Gideon from trying
to assemble some rough biography based on his observation of
certain details. Like Parker's teeth. They weren't good,
indicating an upbringing in the sort of family where
dentistry was considered a great extravagance. When he
spoke, his accent had the marble-swallowing quality found
only in the highest, most desperate hills of east
Tennessee.
But the public record had also yielded some
choice facts, which is how Gideon first learned that beneath
that modest exterior was an extraordinary man. Parker had
been the first and only Rhodes scholar to come from East
Tennessee State University. After his stint at Oxford, he
enlisted in the army and served for eight years in the
Marine Corps, before going on to hold a string of
increasingly powerful jobs in various departments and
agencies of the United States government whose functions
were rarely clear to the average American. His current job
was deputy national security advisor, and his was generally
considered to be one of the most important voices on foreign
policy in the White House. Some said even more important
than that of the secretary of state.
It was Uncle Earl
who'd brought Gideon into the State Department, convincing
him to leave his position at the United Nations. But after
the Twin Towers fell, the apprentice found himself
challenging his mentor. Gideon started supporting the
position that the United States needed to engage more fully
with the Islamic world, using the tools of soft power, like
diplomacy and economic aid, while Parker argued that
overwhelming military force was the only thing our enemies
understood. Gideon and Parker had always engaged in
good-natured debates over their political differences. There
had been a time when the vigor of those debates had been
part of the bond that connected them. But in recent years,
their policy differences had begun to strain their personal
relationship— especially as Gideon's influence with the
president grew. Both men were pained by the widening rift
between them, but neither knew quite what to do about
it.
Gideon looked from Uncle Earl back to the
president, who was now speaking. "How familiar are you with
the Sultanate of Mohan?"
"Just what I've read in the
State Department briefs." Gideon proceeded to tell them
everything he knew about the small island nation—that it was
equidistant between Malaysia and the Philippines, with a
population of somewhere between five and six million people,
90 percent of them Malay-speaking Muslims, 5 percent ethnic
Chinese and Indians, and a smattering of off-the-census
tribes living in the uplands. Gideon also knew that Mohan
was more or less the personal possession of the Sultan, who
had ruthlessly put down an Islamist insurgency a few years
earlier. With some back-channel military assistance from the
United States, the Sultan's armed forces had managed to
contain the jihadis to a few remote provinces.
The
president nodded tightly. "Except it turns out the jihadis
were down but not out. Once they realized how much oil was
buried beneath those coastal waters, they started recruiting
and rearming. And while you were in Colombia, they came out
of hiding. They're moving against several of the inland
provinces, and our friend the Sultan is in some serious
trouble."
None of this had even been on Gideon's radar
when he headed down to South America.
"I need you and
Earl to get over there."
"When?"
"Right
away."
Gideon ran his hands across his tuxedo. "In
this monkey suit? I don't even have a toothbrush."
The
president's eyes glittered with amusement. "I hear they have
toothbrushes in Mohan."
"With respect, sir, I just got
back a few hours ago. I haven't even been briefed on Mohan,
I don't know the conflict points or the key players on
either side—"
Uncle Earl interrupted, "This isn't
about negotiating a truce."
"Then what's it
about?"
"Your brother," he said.
Although Uncle
Earl's face rarely betrayed emotion of any kind, it was as
troubled as Gideon had ever seen him. "Tillman needs our
help."
"Our help with what?"
Parker wrestled
with the question before he finally answered. "We've got
forty-eight hours to save his life." He glanced down at his
watch. "I take that back. Make it forty-seven."