Chapter Two
You should know
The Present
"My name is Mason Armstrong and I believe I alone possess all the details of this incredible story which I will now pass on to you before we leave for Ventura.
To begin, I'm thirty-two years old, single, reside in Alexandria, Virginia and am employed by the United States Government as a courier in the Diplomatic Service. I was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia which is geographically located at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay in the southeast corner of the state.
I lived most of my school-age years in a typical southern-style house built in the early nineteen hundreds in the conservative community of Prentis Park. It was what you would call a good neighborhood with ample homes occupied by established, financially secure, blue-collared families who tended their own lawns with visible pride. Our grey-trimmed, white two-storied wooden residence sat inside a vine covered wire fence draped with fragrant Morning Glory and Honeysuckle painted in soft pastels of pink and cream. Scarlet annuals in overflowing, green flower boxes balanced atop the veranda's railings added to the kaleidoscope of color cascading down our home's side walls - halting at a separate five-foot high picket fence to the rear.
Although not much larger than the landscaped area in the front, this was the back yard: Dad's domain and filled with his handiwork and plantings. Scattered about were rows of seasonal vegetables and tucked in the farthest corner sat a homemade chicken coop which housed eight bantam hens and one noisy, reddish-brown, bad tempered rooster. My father's intention was to save family grocery money for poultry by raising his own. As often happens, the birds became pets - very messy pets as a result of our infamous chicken debacle.
Right after Dad deemed his livestock production system to be operational he decided to slaughter the largest hen, de-feather and have Mom cook it... without consulting her beforehand. I, the helper, watched him crawl inside the glass-paned coop, remove the trusting victim and lay her down with one wing pinned against our red brick walkway. We didn't have a chopping block. My job was to hold her legs at the ankles with one hand and press with the other with my fingers spread wide on her slick, warm, topside wing to control her struggling body while he took aim with his short ax. My father gripped her throat just below the tiny head. The hen blinked repeatedly, incredulous she was being handled in this manner. After a minute of stillness she became calm, closing her eyes with the lids rising upward to await an unknown fate. The pitted blade rested against the bird's skinny neck. Dad drew the ax back slow, being careful not to spook her and lifted it to the height of his right ear. Then in a blur, 'Hack! Hack'! Her tiny eyes bulged; her body went rigid. A silent shriek whistled from her gaping beak and tore into my brain. The ax thudded twice more but was too dull to cut through the rubbery, gristle neck tendons. "Hold er' still," my father ordered, "while I go to the garage for the hedge clippers." I nodded, unable to speak. An opaque eye filled with pain and terror stared up at me and I prayed for Dad to hurry. Mortal fear, as tangible as the sweat on my brow, oozed from the helpless creature. The pungent scent of imminent death mixed with the fowl's natural musky odor filled my nostrils. In a desperate flurry of contortions the hen wrenched free of my sweaty, trembling hands. Flailing wings beat my face as she bolted away, her dangling head flopped from side to side. My father rocketed from the garage with his shears in hand and stopped short to observe the bird running amok through his vegetable garden - bouncing off the ground stakes then careening anew in a different direction. I remained kneeling in place, feeling queasy and guilty for letting the chicken escape, but most of all - sad. Dad finally recaptured her after she smashed into the garage wall and collapsed exhausted in the dirt. Ignoring the tears in my eyes - his son had lessons to learn, my father snipped her head off with the clippers.
Mom came to the backdoor to see what all the commotion was about. Instantly, she became horrified which quickly turned to unbridled anger. Her jugular veins stood out. I thought she was going to snatch the tool away from Dad and whack him over the head with it. I cowered frightened and vomited on the bloody bricks. Mom didn't say a word, none were necessary: the message was clear.
That evening she cooked the bird and set it on my father's dinner plate - to emphasize a point I was sure she had made sternly in private. He didn't take a bite or try to defend his actions. Instead, he offered restitution with apologies, promises and volunteered to bury the uneaten carcass first thing in the morning. Mom accepted the tragedy as the product of an acute failure in communications and fashioned a popsicle cross for a grave marker. Peace, although a bit strained, was restored.
As for me, the episode seared an indelible scar on my fragile, adolescent psyche which later became instrumental in steering me toward my present vocation of being a bearer of clear communications and good tidings. I also attributed my distaste for meat to this particular episode. Later, I learned there were other - stronger reasons for being a vegetarian...
One last pertinent item about the family: my father labored as a journeyman ironworker before he married my mother. He appeared to be much older than she and at first I attributed this to the long hours and grueling labors of his earlier years. I had it backwards; it was Mom and Grandma who belied their true ages. I realized later their youthful appearance was one of the side effects/bonuses of being a member of a worldwide subculture, sometimes hidden even unto one's own self. And another, yet quite different, non-visible attribute enabled its members to share a closeness which defied description - an intangible mental link. Mom said we had inherited it from Grandma Michelle (DeBlois/LeBlanc) and Dad did not possess the gift. I felt traces of this mysterious connection with Grandma also, but she passed away before it had fully developed.
Dad told me when I was old enough to understand, Michelle was Canadian and had lost her husband, André in the First World War. They were married while he was home on Army Leave in Thunder Bay. He returned to the fighting in France and died on a battlefield close to Paris. Some months later Michelle gave birth to my mother, like me an only child and she never remarried.
I learned many years later of Grandma's incredible foresight and personal sacrifice in attempting to save our lives but that's further into the story."
Five days earlier, Alexandria, Va.
Commenting to himself as most bachelors do, Mason examined the contents of the water jug. "Oops, almost empty." He removed the one-gallon plastic container and assessed, "Just enough for half a glass." Setting it aside on the kitchen counter, he checked the freezer, "Looks good here." It was full of freeze-dried vegetables plus a large bag of ice in case the building lost commercial power for an extended period of time before the emergency generator came on line. The middle shelves were nearly bare - thus the life of a dedicated vegetarian. Last check: the bottom produce bins - usually full, showed empty. "Good, wouldn't want anything to spoil while I'm gone." Opening the pantry, "I'll put another water in the frig so it'll get good and cold," but found only three more empty jugs on the floor. "Drat." He finished off what little was left, dried the glass and checked the time. With an hour to go before his pick-up, he decided to hop over to the 7-11 to buy another gallon for his return.
Mason retrieved his dark-blue suit jacket lying across the back of the recliner alongside the living room door and gave the place the once-over before heading out. He adjusted his tie and tugged on his sleeves while waiting for the elevator to arrive at the second floor, the lowest level available for rental. The Ground Level was lobby and Administration, vehicle parking was on Sub One.
Exiting the large, double foyer glass doors he bade a, "Good morning," to the maintenance man trimming a bush.
"And a, Good morning to you too, Mister Armstead. I see you're all decked-out in your travelling clothes. Are you leaving us now?"
"Not just yet, within the hour. I'm going to buy water across the street."
The sixtyish, black man grinned in reply. "I knows how you likes your water. Are you being picked up?"
> "Yes. It'll be a G.S.A. (Government Services Administration) driver. He'll come up."
"G.S.A, yes sir," adding, "You sure are a lucky man Mister Armstead. I wish I could go to some of those fine places you do."
"Yes, I have to admit, I have visited many interesting locales. We'll get together when I return and I'll tell you all about it."
Mason waved back as he strolled down to the public sidewalk crossing in front of Kennedy Towers where he'd been a tenant for the last three years. He was in an exceptionally good mood because he was about to begin a new assignment and exchanged pleasant greetings with a lady walking her dachshund. The women's outward affection for her dog caused him to consider that maybe next year he'd buy a pet for himself. But then he had second thoughts as he mulled over a mental checklist of the pros and cons of his lifestyle. His road trips generally entailed four to five excursions a month out of the country which lasted anywhere from two to six days apiece, making it near impossible to properly care for a pet. And regarding women, it would be rather difficult if he were in a serious personal relationship; even a short-term involvement would be tough to sustain. Most women want their beau nearby. "I can't blame them. Perhaps it's just as well I haven't found my special lady yet - someone who will cause me to make a career change so I can stay close to home. When I find her, I'll know it... and we'll raise the pet together!"
A new, unexpected thought came to mind, "Whoa... and what about children? And, just why not? I'm still a young man and have plenty of time to put down roots. Someday I may look back and miss this action because I have to admit, most assignments are interesting and sometimes exciting." He mulled it over a tad more, "Ha! Who am I kidding? Love versus a job? A welcome trade-off indeed!"
He observed a homeless man shuffling across the street; the fellow didn't seem to care about the traffic whizzing by him or its possible consequences. "Poor soul. I am so fortunate not to have to walk in his shoes or worry about losing my job like so many good people have suffered. I enjoy a rare safety in today's brutal job market because no matter how far technology develops, the Heads of foreign governments always insist on having an original, hand written signature on an important document. Yes sir, the U.S. State Department stays very busy."
He waited for the crosswalk light to change. The weekday morning-hour traffic was heavy; a Metro city bus passed by spewing noxious fumes, "Ugh." Complaining to another pedestrian, "How come pollution control devices are required on all vehicles but not enforced on municipal ones? They're the worse. I should drop a line to Sixty Minutes."
The convenience store was situated on the opposite corner; he started across several seconds after the white crosswalk signal flashed - so all the cars running the red lights could clear the intersection. "Hm'm, it's a little cool even for seven-thirty, maybe it'll warm up later. I should be long gone by then, somewhere," - his office had not advised him of the destination as usual. Smiling to himself he mused, "Another secret mission? Pretty funny considering my career advisor at the University of Virginia mentioned employment with the State Department as a passing joke. Is that why I pursued it? If I dropped in to let her know how this political science major turned out would she remember me? Probably not; I'm just another nameless face in a mass of thousands."
Still daydreaming of yesteryear, Mason approached the small convenience store. Within and to the side of the store's parking lot sat a fellow in an older, small, blue Chevy. The driver's window was open, exposing a man wearing a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses and who appeared to be conversing on a cellphone. The driver whispered into the handset, "Yes, I'm at a good vantage point. I have a clear view of the Tower's driveway. I'll call you back as soon as the chauffeur picks him up... Uh-oh, trouble. The subject's out of the building and walking in my direction."
The voice at the other end of the line became alarmed. "What! Ted, has he seen you? How did he know?" The man in the sunglasses turned his head away from the advancing Mason Armstead. Huddled over the phone, he stopped talking, cupped his hand over the receiver and stole a glance to the side.
Mason strolled by and reached for the store's door handle. He hesitated for a moment to scrutinize the phone user and then with a puzzled look on his face, continued inside.
"What's happening?" from the speaker at the far end.
"I don't know, Vic. He gave me the once-over and kept going. Oh... I can see him in my rear-view mirror. He's buying water. I'll sit tight until he leaves."
Mason paid the Pakistani cashier an amount double the regular grocery store price and proceeded to leave with his index finger hooked through the neck loop of the jug. This time before passing the booth he stopped to address the man with a, "Hello, sir." The fellow ignored him but he continued, "Please excuse me. Do I know you? Have we met somewhere before?"
The driver gave a quick jerk of his head and a curt, "No, you are mistaken," and turned away.
"Sorry," Mason dropped the inquiry. He knew better than to pester a stranger in a large, metropolitan area as this. You could end up bleeding on the sidewalk or have the guy follow you home seeking a sexual liaison.
"Is there a problem?" from Vic.
"No," as he watched Mason return to his building. "Armstead tried to pull me into a conversation. I snubbed him and he left."
Victor reasoned, "He must have been too physically close and inadvertently sensed you. Did he act suspicious?"
"No, your assessment was correct. He avoids confrontation. Everything's still on schedule. I'll call your cell phone when his car leaves."
"Good, meet me at the Lufthansa Information Desk. Do you have the key to the briefcase?"
"It's in my pocket. See you there," and hung up.
Back in his apartment, Mason brushed through his neatly trimmed black hair and dabbed a touch of Clearasil on a sweat blemish caused by running. He tried to exercise on a regular basis, preferably by jogging, even overseas - weather and snipers permitting. The mirror reflected a fit, 170 pound, 5'10" man who had somewhat heavy eyebrows with a faint scar from a rugby injury running though his right one. His cheekbones were prominent, his brown eyes were deep-set and his nose had a fashionable Tom Cruise bend - that was a hell of a tackle! Even with the rugged souvenirs of his college intermural sports days, he occasionally got I.D.'d at night clubs. Mason wasn't offended; it was amusing and remained cool - keeping a low profile to these minor challenges was the best course of action. After-all, a youthful appearance ran in the family. At the office his colleagues found him to be friendly and well spoken. He wasn't an attention grabbing show-off and preferred to blend in rather than stand out. His co-workers appreciated his non-actions; there were far too many super-ambitious, Go-Getters in Washington D. C. for sure. Armstead brushed his perfect, never-had-a cavity teeth, gargled with Lavoris mouthwash and was ready to roll.
Carrying his suitcase from the bedroom he called out, "C'mon in; it's open!"
The chauffeur stepped in, "How did you know I was there, Mister Armstead? I didn't have a chance to ring the bell." The driver surreptitiously checked the door's peephole. The lens was blocked - it had been accidentally painted over last week during a building renovation project.
"A lucky guess. I must have heard the elevator."
The chauffeur didn't buy it. This apartment was the seventh from the far end of the hallway. Gloved hands at his side, "Not the first time you've made guesses like that, Mister Armstead," letting the inference fade away. He spied the ready suitcase, "Let me get that for you." Hefting up the baggage he commented, "Looks like you're gonna be gone for a while. You usually just take an overnight bag."
"I really don't know. The office said to take some warm clothing so I packed extra. If it's pleasant, I may spend a few extra days and do some sight-seeing... after I complete my assignment, of course," as he locked the apartment's deadbolt.
"You should get that peephole fixed, Mister Armstead."
"You are so right. I'll call Maintenance as soon as I return... and thank you,
sir."
A few minutes later as they were crossing the Potomac River via the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, he silently admonished himself, "I've got to be more careful; it makes some people uneasy. Of course I knew he was there; he's driven for me before and I'm familiar with his..." searching for the correct word and concluded he didn't know exactly what to call it. "His aura? His vibes? Is there a suitable definition? Proximity detection pretty well describes it. It's something I've had since childhood. Mother had it too; I'm not sure about Grandma." Mason frowned, "Mom, there's a painful subject I don't want to dredge up again - her mysterious disappearance eleven years ago." He sighed, "It doesn't do any good to rehash it over and over. She's gone and I'll probably never see her again. It haunts me that in all these years I haven't been able to come up with any new leads which would help locate her and I fear the counterfeit expectations spurred on by another fruitless investigation would only serve to pour salt in old wounds. I must let it go, pray for the best and move on." The ache in his heart caused even more reminiscences to flare: that special bond, the invisible connection we had. "Is it the same for all mothers and their children? I hope so." An old, blue Chevy followed at a safe distance.
They were nearing the State Department Building when out of nowhere the face of the man in dark glasses at the 7-11 flashed before his inner-vision: Mason, for no apparent reason thought, "I sensed a familiarity of him also - but so much different from George's and the many other people I know well. The fellow said we had never met and I believe him. And yet, I felt subliminal transmissions which made me feel as if I had known this guy all my life. I don't understand; he was a perfect stranger. It's a crazy world."
The driver interrupted his thoughts, "Here we are, Mister Armstead. I'll check your suitcase into the diplomat's personal effects room."
"Thank you, kind sir." Then Mason marched up the granite steps to receive his new assignment from the Director, Chad Parkerson.
"Hi, Sweetheart, nice to see you again," greeted his executive secretary.
"Good morning," returned Mason to the dumpy, forty-something, mother of five, typing at her desk. He leaned over, gave her a shoulder hug and a peck on the cheek.
She cooed, "Oooh, nice, I thought you were avoiding me." Blinking in a seductive manner, "It's been so long, Sugar, did you lose my cell phone number?"
He grinned broadly, "Never had it, as you well know. Besides it's not my fault we never get to talk; you're the one who got promoted and moved out of our cozy little section. But weren't you expecting me? The office sent me up here; they said I'd get my assignment from the Man himself. What's the scoop?"
She glanced at the Director's closed office door, wiggled her pinky for him to lean over again and put her face close to his ear, "Love your cologne; what is it?"
"Ecstasy."
"Yes, it would be."
"You know better..."
Resigned, she whispered, "Berlin."
"Really? Not too shabby, could be worse."
"Uh-huh," she agreed. "You be careful, Mason. Don't let one of those blond, blue-eyed fräuleins steal you away from me."
"Not a chance," and playfully feigned mild distress. "You know I'm just waiting for your hubby to give you up so I can claim you for myself."
She pouted, "He won't; I make more money than he does. But he might agree to share me on alternate weekends, for a price. He's such a penny pincher."
"No thanks. I think I'll pass."
"Fraidy cat, where's your spirit of adventure?"
"It's hiding right behind my spirit of survival. I've met your ex-professional football player husband, remember?"
"Humph, since you're going to let a little thing such as life and death stifle a torrid love affair then I'm feeding you to the lions," and pressed the intercom buzzer. "Mister Armstead is waiting sir."
"Send him in, please."
Mason started to reach for the handle. Suddenly serious, the woman touched his arm. "Watch yourself, Sugar. This assignment could get dicey." Armstead raised an eyebrow. "Parkerson's got a spook with him, and that usually means trouble."
"C.I.A.?"
She shrugged her shoulders, "Could be any one of a half dozen covert groups. But then, I'm not supposed to know about such things being a lowly clerk and all." Flipping her wrist, "The truth is, Honeybun, it doesn't take much to spot the orange in the apple barrel. All the spooks look the same - kinda sleazy, like they'd rather slink than walk. Oh, and Mason, I suggest you take that winsome smile off your face before you enter. The Man is in one of his official moods. Good Luck."
"Right, Mister All-Business, that's me," while giving the lady a good natured wink.
Parkerson performed a brief introduction. "Mister Armstead, meet Mister Doan."
"Pleased to meet you, sir." As Mason offered his hand he thought, "Dolly was right on; he is obviously an agent. He looks just like someone who stepped right out of a grade B flick: sunglasses indoors, cheap suit, a tie so tasteless you couldn't give it away to a street person and a face I doubt could remember when it last laughed."
"Mister Doan is with the National Security Council. He'll accompany you on this assignment," stated the Director. "You'll be delivering this briefcase," gesturing to the black leather attaché sitting on his mahogany desktop, "to the U.S. Embassy in Berlin." Adding, "As you probably no doubt have already been informed by my secretary."
Mason, his hands innocently folded in front, cracked an embarrassed grin at Doan, who remained stoic and rocked slightly on his heels while clearing his throat in disapproval.
Parkerson raised his hand, "I understand the past loyalties. I'll deal with her later. Now, getting down to our business, this is not a routine delivery." Turning the briefcase toward him and sliding it across, "As you can see this case has an external lock and it also requires a six digit, security code to open it. Inside, there is an envelope with a wax seal. The recipient, our German ambassador, Mister Rhinemann, has the lock's, specially-fitted key. As for the other mechanism, Mister Doan has a chip in his forearm which contains the access code and will be scanned at the appropriate time. The chip implant is a brand new security device and should slow down the case's being opened if thieves should secure it. Of course it can still be unlocked by extraordinary measures but that could prove to be counterproductive. Enough of the technology angles, here is your portfolio," as he handed Mason a manila packet. "Your office informs me you have not had an assignment of this nature before. Welcome to the club." He turned to the silent escort, "Mister Doan, if you please."
The NSC agent produced a set of dull-gray steel handcuffs, opened one side and locked it onto the carrying case handle, then extended the other cuff for Armstead's left wrist.
Mason was caught off guard, "Oh, my, a bit of cloak and dagger have we? I've heard of such things." His humor, clearly wasted on Agent Doan, seized his forearm with firmness and attached the second cuff.
"And that completes this aspect, so be on your way. You have a flight to catch, Armstead." Parkerson noted the less than comfortable look on Mason's face and added, "Don't be overly concerned; you'll be quite pleased with your itinerary. It's first class all the way and Mister Doan will take good care of you. Good day, gentlemen."
With his escort on his heels, Mason exited the administrator's office and rolled his eyes upward when he saw his ex-coworker checking out his manacles.
She chirped, "Have a nice day, Mister Armstead," and nothing to Doan.
Wearing a plastic smile of false bravado, "Thank you, madam. I'm sure it will be peachy keen and quite memorable."
The Director punched the intercom, "Get me Rhinemann in Berlin please." Chad Parkerson opened a locked drawer in his desk, removed a personnel file and spread out several sheets while awaiting a buzz back from his executive secretary.
"The German ambassador is on the line, sir."
"Thank you," as he picked up the secure, scrambled telephone. "Good afternoon, Otto. Parkerson here."
"Hello, and a good morning to yo
u, Chad. How is it coming along? Are we proceeding as scheduled?"
"Affirmative, Otto. The package is on the way. You may expect delivery at five p.m. Tuesday, Berlin time at your office. The courier is Mason Armstead and his escort is Wayne Doan of the N.S.C."
"Tuesday? Tomorrow evening? Why so late?"
"We're not sending them on military; they're going commercial."
"Unusual... May I inquire as to why?"
"We have a problem at this end: a leak or possibly a mole. We're taking counter measures. Part of the plan is to make Armstead appear accessible to a hit and run team. Not to worry, he has an umbrella. We want to catch an enemy operative for interrogation."
"Bait for a trap? Hmm... intriguing. Is the courier aware?"
"No. Due to his lack of experience in this type of venture, the Secretary felt he would act more natural if he remained uniformed."
"I agree with that particular aspect, but what if something unforeseen occurs and they capture the document?"
"Rather unlikely. They would have to resort to extreme prejudice which they've never used before. These people are inherently nonviolent, to a fault, fortunate for us."
"Very well, it's your show. Who did you say the courier is? I didn't recognize his name."
"Mason Armstead. He's been with the department a number of years performing non-critical assignments. A good man according to his record, but I don't know him personally. Our top two couriers have unexpectedly become unavailable. We had to call up the reserves, so to speak. Our best man, the one most proficient with handguns, came down with a virus a few days ago - quite severe. He's been hospitalized. The second in line, a martial arts expert, is vacationing in Puerto Rico and we haven't been able to contact him."
"Sounds a bit odd. Shouldn't the second fellow be on-call?"
"Yes, that's correct. He'll have some explaining to do when he checks in. So, in regards to Armstead, if the interested parties do something unheard of in an attempt to steal the document such as contracting out the job to professional hit-men and the courier becomes a casualty, it won't be a significant loss. He's a nice enough fellow, but as far as the business goes, expendable."
"Pity, but then aren't we all, Chad?"
"Yes, I guess when you get down to the brass tacks, that's true." He examined the 8x10 glossy of Mason. The date on the bottom had been stamped five months earlier. There was a hint of a smile in the corner of Armstead's mouth, complemented by large compassionate eyes. Mason's picture radiated a person filled with confidence in pursuit of realistic goals, a happy man. The courier reminded Parkerson of a young, eager seminary graduate he had served with who had enlisted in the Army at the end of the Vietnam War. He was a medic and died during a night patrol ambush.
"I'll be faxing a dossier with an up-to-date photo immediately after this conversation."
"Very well, I hope he arrives in one piece."
"As I said, there's no need for concern; he's being covered by a crew of our best," assured the Director.
"Good... and Chad, one more thing while I've got you on the line if I may. Off the record, just between you and I, do you have any idea what the President's personal views are regarding, The Plan? Just being curious. I'll understand if you decline to comment."
This change in the flavor of the conversation transformed Parkerson's friendly tone to one of stiff formality. "Ambassador Rhinemann, you placing me in a difficult position. Such a disclosure would be a breach of governmental policy."
"Sorry, Chad. Please forget I mentioned it. I'll advise you of when I have the document."
"Thank you sir, I'll be awaiting your report."
An uncomfortable silence ensued, neither said, Goodbye. Parkerson cleared his throat twice. He was having second thoughts about how he responded to his niece's godfather at the far end of the line. As a close friend of the family for over twenty years and Chad's confidant, the ambassador's discretion was beyond question. "Otto, er, wait. You're aware I'm not officially authorized to divulge this information?"
"Of course. I hope it's not necessary to say you can trust me."
Parkerson paced back and forth behind his desk, looked out the window at the White House a few blocks to the east and muttered, "With liberty and justice for all."
"Pardon?"
"Sorry, Otto, that's what I would call an ironic commentary on what's transpiring." Continuing, "In regard to your question, the President is very upset and diametrically opposed to the World Security Council's decision. He believes they are dead wrong."
"Which tells me he voted against the proposal," surmised Rhinemann. "Do you think he'll veto or take an independent course of action?"
"No. It was a secret ballot by the two hundred and fifteen countries represented in the WSC. Each has an equal vote, regardless of their population and there are no vetoes. The President is a team player; he will abide by the Council's decision. Besides, how can the United States as the bulwark of democracy, refuse? Personally, I'm willing to bet he called in every marker he had to fight it. Apparently to no avail. It's unknown how each country voted. My guess is the nonnuclear members carried the tide."
"Sounds logical, Chad."
"Otto, I fear this is destined to become our country's deepest and darkest secret sin. I personally believe the United States can keep the lid on it for a long time. We've done it before as with Columbia, and are still doing it with some of our older skeletons in the closet. It's the third-worlders I'm worried about. They've let the proverbial cat out of the bag too many times in the past. They'll have a coup and the new leaders will invariably start blowing their horns to impress their countrymen like Venezuela and Cuba did: making allegations and pointing their fingers at the rest of us." He sighed, "I must confess old friend, I hope I'm long gone before this one's blown. It's so volatile it could possibly lead to global revolution. I'm glad I didn't have to cast a ballot."
"Me too," agreed the Ambassador. "Do you think the decision could change?"
"No, it's too late. It took the better part of a year with all the bickering and posturing to get the representatives to the U.N. table. The die is cast. The preparations are nearing completion. The wheels of self-destruction are in motion."
"God save us all."
"Amen."