“So you spin literally.”

“Very good, Corporal. Yes. I spin. That’s it. An occasion of spin.” He yawned. “Do you mind if I doze off for a bit? Didn’t get much shut-eye on the way over. I don’t want to nod off in front of Special Forces. They’ll probably think I’m a big enough wimp as it is. Wake me if we come under attack or anything really thrilling happens, would you?”

Chapter 4

“Funny,” Congressman Randy said as they drove down the muddy road from the Special Forces camp.

“What?”

“World War One. It finally ended in November. We were just at Camp November. And the war began right here in Bosnia. So in a way, we did a full historical circle in just a few hours.” He was quiet for a while and then said, “They were very gung ho, weren’t they.”

“Special Forces tends to be.”

“Did you do all the normal things in basic training? Or do Public Affairs people get a break from the foxhole stuff?”

Cass gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t join the army to issue press releases and…”

“Escort jerks from Congress.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Ah, but you thought it. Well, Corporal, believe me, I may not be a fan of our mission here, but I’ve never had less than full respect for the military. Do you know what I was doing when I was your age? Snorting cocaine in Peru with the Peace Corps and pretending to be with the CIA.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Cass said.

“Guilt.” He winked at her. “With liberals it’s a sacrament. I do admire the military. Though thank God I never had to be in it. Wouldn’t have lasted two minutes. Do you think they were, you know, laying it on thick for me back there? Spinning? What with me being on the record against our being here and all?”

“To be honest,” Cass said, “I think they have better things to do. Like keeping warm. And not getting blown up.”

“Touchй, Corporal. Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do or die. Onward rode the six hundred. Had to memorize that at Groton. Suppose these days they have you memorize Maya Angelou. Such drivel.”

“You don’t sound very liberal. You drive a Humvee, admire the military, prefer Tennyson to politically correct poetry.”

“On paper I’m pretty pink. My ADA rating is through the roof. But I know what you mean. You know what the French say: ‘Think left, live right.’ Would you like me to recite the whole of ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’?”

“No, thank you. It’s a good thing you didn’t do that back there. They might have opened fire on us.”

“Recited it once during a late night filibuster to block a school lunch cutback. I can do ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee,’ too. Don’t worry. I’ll spare you.”

“What was she like?” It just came out. Cass regretted it instantly.

“Who?”

“Nothing. I-”

“Ah-the Tegucigalpa Tamale.”

“It was out of line. I’m sorry.”

“Well…” Randy cleared his throat. “She can be very nice. I think she just thinks it’s more interesting not to be. We were actually engaged at one point. Mother…God, that was a night never to repeat. I tremble at the memory.”

Cass heard the humming sound again.

“Is that a-”

“It’s called Tourette’s. Just a mild case. Came with the genes. My father had a not mild case. He chirped like a South American cockatoo. Rather awkward in the middle of a Chopin nocturne at the Philharmonic. As children, we would cringe.”

“I don’t mean to laugh.”

“I’ve heard worse, believe me. Say, I’m famished.”

Cass reached behind the seat and handed him a Meal Ready To Eat. The wrapper indicated “ITALIAN STYLE. Spaghetti with M/Ball. 1200 calories.”

Congressman Randy stared at it on his lap, glumly. “Oh, yum.” He threw the MRE back. “Mind if I drive?” he said.

It was against all regulations.

“Uh-”

“Oh, come on. Please? I never get to, back home. You’re always being driven. Driven-in so many ways. Please?”

Cass used to let her younger brother take the wheel when he was fifteen. Congressman Randy, nearly forty, suddenly sounded like a teenager.

“I could get in serious trouble,” she said.

“If you don’t let me drive,” Randy said in a serious tone of voice, “I’ll recite the whole of ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ And you’ll go mad. And run off the road, and we’ll both die.”

She pulled over. They exchanged places and drove off, smoothly enough.

“Handles a bit heavier than mine,” he said.

“It’s armored,” Cass said.

“Of course. Brilliant. Are there any buttons I shouldn’t touch? Missile launchers, ejection seats, smoke machines? There’s a village.”

They were in a valley. There was smoke rising from a small town a few miles in the distance.

“They’ll have something to eat,” Randy said.

“Negative that,” Cass said. “This road we’re on is the perimeter of our area of operations. That town is outside of it. We can get something back at Turdje.”

“I bet you that village is the very epicenter of gastronomy in the region. Indeed, the Lyon of Turdje.”

“I don’t believe there is an ‘epicenter of gastronomy’ anywhere around here,” Cass said.

“See here, Corporal, I’m here to find facts. And the facts I’m most interested in right now include a bit of roast chicken, some fresh cheese, crusty bread, and a bottle of the local plonk. How’s the wine here, by the way? Pretty grim? Um…probably better off ordering beer.”

Against Cass’s protest, Randy turned the vehicle off the main road onto a smaller one that led to the village. Cass had visions of Serb snipers popping up from behind hedgerows. She reached for the radio.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Informing them back at base that I’m being kidnapped by a U.S. congressman.”

“Good idea. You never know.”

Cass alerted the duty officer of their position. He expressed concern, but Randy was as focused as a pig intent on truffle. A few moments later, they pulled into the village.

There was something resembling a small town square and a few locals. Cass saw a sign that seemed to indicate it might have something to do with food. They went inside. It was steamy and warm inside and smelled of stale pickles. Cass exchanged a few rudimentary words with the apparent proprietor, a large elderly woman with a mole.

“What did you order?” Congressman Randy said.

“Kulen pita.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Tripe pie.”

“Oh,” Randy said. “Yum, scrum.”

It wasn’t bad. Congressman Randy drank a bottle of the local beer, which he pronounced “a bit hoppy.”

As they ate, three rough-looking men entered and sat at a table. They stared at Cass in her uniform and her congressman. Randy gave them a friendly look and wave. They returned cold scowls.

“Must be Republicans.” He shrugged. He ordered another beer.

“My great-great-et-cetera ancestor,” Randy said, suppressing a hoppy belch, “knew Thomas Jefferson. Knew him quite well. They-awkward point-used to buy their slaves from the same dealer. You won’t hear me speechifying about that on C-SPAN. There are letters between them about it. ‘I think I overpaid for Hezekiah. Didn’t much like the look of those gums.’ Wait till I run for president. How the media will feast. Sorry, I’m rambling. Tripe pie does that to me. Anyhow, to the point. In 1815, Jefferson wrote a letter to someone. I’ve had it entered it into the Congressional Record so many times I know it by heart. Don’t worry, it’s shorter than ‘Sam McGee.’ He wrote, ‘The less we have to do with the amities or enmities of Europe, the better.’ This from someone who’d been our minister to France. He wrote, ‘Not in our day, but at no distant one, we may shake a rod over the heads of all, which may make the stoutest tremble. But I hope our wisdom will grow with our power, and teach us that the less we use our power the greater it will be.’ Damn good stuff.” He leaned back, gave the brutish-looking men a glance, and said, “And here we are once again-here you are, Corporal-smack dab in the center of Europe ’s enmities.”