CHAPTER 5
At dusk, Brenna sat in the back of a rattling D.C. Cab crossing town to her father’s compound in Spring Valley—an enclave of stunning homes later discovered to have been built over a World War I Army chemical dump.
In ten days the Special Envoy was leading a diplomatic mission to Vienna, where he would meet with Balkan military and political leaders to promote an ethnic partition of the region.
History was complex in the Balkans. At the crossroads of Europe and Asia, the region had been invaded, colonized, and counter-invaded since the Third Century B.C. Seven empires had swept through the mountainous terrain,
each leaving cultural and religious legacies that would pit subsequent generations against each other for centuries to come.
In an area the size of the state of Washington, people spoke seven different languages, used Roman and Cyrillic alphabets, and professed the beliefs of three major religions.
A map of ethnic, religious, and cultural identities was a hash.
A minority group in one province was the majority in the next.
Nothing resembling geopolitical unity existed.
Three years ago, when the death of the country’s communist dictator left a power vacuum, militants of all stripes began carving up the region, seizing power wherever their own people were most numerous.
Into this chaos came Nationalist General Goran ?avi?.
Using propaganda to heighten the differences among the factions, he pitted them against each other, standing to one side while their respective militias reduced each other, then moving in to annex them all.
Using a chilling combination of ethnic cleansing, wholesale rape, and military savagery, he slowly consolidated power in large sectors of the region.
Notable pockets of resistance remained.
The city of Kav?ak being one of them.
Tonight Brenna planned to plead the city’s case to her father. If that meant brawling with The Magnificent, then so be it. Yeah, he could bite. But whatever he threw at her would be a nip compared to the last few years of her life.
The taxi driver stopped at the entry gates of her father’s mansion. A Secret Service agent approached the window and bent to look inside the vehicle.
Brenna peered across the driver. “Brenna Rease,” she said.
The agent recognized her. “I’ll open the gates.”
The driver steered up the circular driveway and stopped under the portico. She handed a twenty over the seat and waited for change. Damn. Her hands were shaking. After she tipped the driver, he abandoned her to her father’s realm.
Graciela opened the door for her, pursing her mouth in disapproval. Her father’s housekeeper for more than twenty years, Graciela thought the Envoy was a god and his daughter, a demon.
“The Envoy is late,” she said. “He said to tell you he will be here in time for dinner.”
Graciela excused herself and disappeared into the house, leaving Brenna to roam at will. She grew up in this house but after her mom died she had come to think of it as her father’s, and it always surprised her that she wasn’t shown to one of the formal receiving rooms to wait like a guest.
A late-in-life, thought-we-were-finished-with-this baby, she was the only girl after a string of boys.
Brendan, Jr. and Ryan had left home before she could pronounce their names.
Patrick left for university when she was three, then Joseph, Christopher, and James left one by one until she became an only child at the age of ten.
Which at first was okay because she and her mom spent all their free time together, talking like best friends, playing word games, lending each other money in Monopoly games—they never played to compete, only to have fun.
Her mom sheltered her, made her feel like their cavernous house was a cozy cabin for just the two of them.
Her fondest memories were of the two of them working in her mom’s garden.
They sat on the bare ground under big straw hats, planting tiny seeds, watering the earth that hid them, and plucking weeds.
She remembered the luscious tomatoes and brilliant bouquets of multi-colored flowers that came from that garden.
Her mom died of ovarian cancer when Brenna was twelve, abandoning her to the care of a cold man who had no time for a little girl. She still felt her loss. So often, the world felt too big and she wished she had those safe arms around her again.
Brenna left the foyer and headed down a corridor wide enough to drive a limo through.
The house was the same as ever, with her mother’s touch still preserved after all these years.
High ceilings, polished hardwood floors, classic American furniture.
It was the epitome of enduring, understated good taste, befitting the State Department’s foremost career ambassador.
Brendan Rease had been personally appointed by the President to serve as Special Envoy for Balkan Affairs.
He was the man who was airlifted with pomp or shuttled in secrecy to the world’s summits and war rooms to forge economic alliances and avert military crises.
Her stomach clenched, recalling her last awful night here. The Billiard Ball, the tabloids had dubbed it.
Damn, she needed a drink.
It wasn’t her usual response to stress—except, apparently, when she was at her father’s.
She turned into the formal library with its recessed floor-to-ceiling windows, deep leather chairs, and towering bookshelves.
The silver knobs on his liquor cabinet clicked quietly as she opened the tall doors.
A small fridge, six tiers of liquor bottles, a 22-bottle wine rack, cut crystal wine goblets, martini glasses, old-fashioned glasses, decanters.
Everything a powerful man needed to impress his guests.
She dropped ice cubes into a cut-crystal highball glass, poured three fingers of bourbon over them, and lifted the liquor to her lips.
“Brenna Elizabeth Anne.”
Her father’s icy voice froze her in mid-act.
The Magnificent stood military-straight in the doorway, trademark coat regally draped across his shoulders. Scowling at her.
Well, what else was new?
Brenna had declared war on him the day he found her at her mother’s bedside, begging her not to die. He immediately had Brenna forcibly removed, kicking and screaming. I hate you! I hate you! Mama, don’t leave me with him! Mama!
She was taken to the family’s beach home in Delaware and sequestered there until after her mother died. Then she was brought back to round out the photo opportunities of America’s Royal Family at her graveside.
She never forgave him. He’d denied her closure with the woman who was the center of her universe, her very heart.
Afterwards, her father made a few awkward attempts at reconciliation.
She soundly rebuffed him, and after a time, he gave up trying, which made her hate him even more. If she had been an issue of national importance, he never would have quit until he got what he wanted.
Now he cleared his throat, glaring intently at the liquor glass in her hand. “There will be no reprise of your last shameful performance in this house.”
She lifted the glass and toasted him. “I see you haven’t lost your touch, Father. Within seconds of seeing me, you’ve managed both to chastise me and dredge up the past.” She took a defiant gulp. “Conveniently saves me the trouble of opening my mouth.”
“I’ll have none of your impertinence!” He cast his words at her like lances.
“Just once, Father,” she said conversationally, “it would be nice if you said you were glad to see me. Even just said it, like it mattered that I survived the fucking week.”
“I see you’re as crude and intractable as usual.”
“Not two weeks ago, I was nearly killed. A Nationalist had a bayonet at my throat.” She tugged at her collar. “Want to see the slit? Fortunately it’s a clean cut. The blade was razor-sharp.”
If her revelation prompted any emotional response on his part, he didn’t show it.
She’d never been a joy to him, never a celebrated child. She was a reproductive error, pure and simple. “Tch. All these years in the State Department and you haven’t learned to fake concern. Pretend I’m some president’s wife, why don’t you? Mumble a platitude. It doesn’t have to be heartfelt.”
“I suggest you take a few minutes to collect yourself before dinner,” he said, and walked out.
She dropped her head in her hand. Good start, Rease. That’ll soften him right up for your little talk about Kav?ak.
Special Envoy Brendan Rease contemplated his daughter across the polished table, with its silver candlesticks, crystal drinking glasses, and gold-rimmed china.
She had her mother’s looks, her intelligence, and maybe someplace deep inside, her good heart.
How had Anne so effortlessly drawn that once-shining spirit into the open?
It seemed all she did was sit with the girl in that big armchair, blather, and play games that neither tried to win.
Anne even got Brenna to do garden chores without complaint.
Brenna had adored her mother.
Which was proper.
It was a child’s duty to honor her parents.
Even if, like him, they made errors in judgment.
He never should have taken Brenna from Anne—much as he knew his wife had hung on by sheer willpower, suffering painfully, because her favorite child still needed her.
He’d only intervened to give Anne relief.
In the end he had made it worse for both of them.
But that was neither here nor there. There was principle involved.
He was Brenna’s father. As such, she owed him respect.
Until she acknowledged that, they had no basis for further negotiation.
And Brenna was one tough adversary. Next to her, diplomatic relations between Arabs and Jews were easy.
Serbs and Croats were nothing. She gave ancient enmities a run for their money.
Despite her defiance, he had stood fast as a father.
Stalwart and unwavering, using all his self-discipline to ensure that she learned she couldn’t just have her way.
He had done so even when he sometimes felt like wrapping her in his arms and asking forgiveness.
However, one of the things a father gave to his child was his willingness to be hated.
There were rules to be obeyed. Respect for one’s parents, sobriety, and sexual propriety chief among them. She had defied all of them.
That had never been clearer than the last time she was home.
After graduating from the San Francisco Art Institute—not Vassar as he wished—she had continued her college habit of drunkenness, sexual adventuring, and public criticism of his politics.
The paparazzi followed her everywhere, sure of headlines.
And she obliged.
She culminated her debauchery at a diplomatic reception he hosted in this very home. She appeared barefoot at the foot of the stairs wearing a provocative red silk dress, clutching the neck of a magnum of champagne, and loudly announced that she would, that night, seduce the man of her choice.
Not an hour later, a buzz spread through the press corps.
She was downstairs sprawled on the billiard table in mid-intercourse with the evening’s guest of honor—an Arab emir, one of his most-loathed political adversaries, with whom he had been conducting delicate negotiations.
He hastened downstairs and ordered the press to surrender their film to the Secret Service and leave.
Then the Envoy had gazed at his shoes while his daughter rearranged her dress.
One photographer, however, escaped with a fuzzy but unmistakable photo.
On his way upstairs as he closed his pants, the Emir smirked: “No need to apologize for the interruption. I was already finished.”
Brendan believed unwaveringly in the diplomatic process. A lifetime in international service had trained him to be in command of himself at all times. Nobody—but nobody—could make him lose his composure.
Except Brenna.
That night he had nearly struck her. But he controlled the impulse and cut her verbally instead, using his most powerful weapon. Your mother would be ashamed of you.
There had been headlines, and lots of them. The one blurry photo that leaked out was reprinted in every newspaper he couldn’t badger into withholding it. Eventually, it ended up on the internet, completely out of his control.
The political backlash left him reeling.
Brenna had compromised his work, his critics said.
If he couldn’t control his daughter how could he be expected to handle the affairs of a nation?
He recused himself from the negotiations with the Emir.
It took every bit of political skill he possessed to save his career.
Brenna fled the country, wandered across Europe and eventually settled in Israel.
“The Washington Post says you aren’t going to address human rights violations in the Vienna talks,” Brenna said, cutting into his reverie.
He watched her put her knife and fork together in the middle of her empty plate. Apparently, a few good manners had stuck.
“Is that true?”
“There will be the usual tribunals, but it’s a war, Brenna. Atrocities always occur.”
“It’s systematic. General ?avi?’s at the root of it.”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“He’s targeting civilians. Nine civilians die for every soldier. In World War II, it was three soldiers to one civilian. Twenty percent of the civilian population has been wounded. The hospital is shelled daily during visiting hours. Civilian targets, not military. The city’s under siege,
closed off from the world without food, water, heat, or health care.”
He dabbed his mouth with his linen napkin, folded it, and set it on the table beside his dinner plate. His plate still had food on it but he had lost his appetite. She hadn’t returned to apologize as he hoped. She had come to peddle influence.
“It’s a humanitarian issue,” she persisted.
“And to that end,” he said, “we are holding peace talks. You’re aware of that.”
“Talks? The international community has done nothing but talk for three years.”
“There have also been United Nations sanctions—”
She snorted dismissively.
“—And the partition agreement I’m taking to Vienna.”
“You can’t partition Kav?ak. Everyone’s intermarried. Families aren’t just Christian or Orthodox or Muslim, they’re everything, mixed up together. Where the hell are they going to go?”
“Don’t say ‘hell.’”
“What shall I say, Father? ‘Heck?’ ‘Tarnation?’ Shall we convene talks to negotiate acceptable curse words?” Her voice oozed sarcasm. “But wait! We’ll have to hold talks, first, to determine where we’ll hold the talks on talking. Who cares if people die while we’re booking the hotels?”
He pushed away from the table. She despised everything he stood for. He’d been in the foreign service for longer than she’d been alive, and she had the nerve to challenge him!
Diplomacy was the antidote to war. It took time to broker accords between people who detested each other.
It took patience. Threats. Doggedness. You didn’t just wave your hand and conjure up an ideal world.
And, yes. Treaties contained injustice. That was the price paid to thugs like General ?avi? so the most people possible could enjoy peace.
“See yourself out,” he said.