The day was hot. But the street was clean. It didn't smell. I here was a pair of cops on the corner south of me, and another pair on the corner to the north. Standard NYPD deployment, in midtown. Proactive, and reassuring. But not necessarily useful, given the range of potential threats. Alongside me departing hotel guests climbed into taxis. The city's rhythm ground on relentlessly. Traffic on Seventh Avenue flowed, and stopped at the light, and flowed again. Traffic from the cross streets flowed, and stopped, and started. Pedestrians bunched on the corners and struck out for the opposite sidewalks. Horns honked, trucks roared, the sun bounced off high glass and beat down hard.
Sansom arrived in a Town Car at five past eleven. Local plates, which meant he had ridden up most of the way on the train. Less convenient for him, but a smaller carbon footprint than driving all the way, or flying. Every detail mattered, in a campaign. Politics is a minefield. Springfield climbed out of the front passenger seat even before the car had stopped, and then Sansom and his wife climbed out of the back. They stood for a second on the sidewalk, ready to be gracious if there were people to greet them, ready not to be disappointed if there weren't. They scanned faces and saw mine and Sansom looked a little quizzical and his wife looked a little worried. Springfield headed in my direction but Elspeth waved him off with a small gesture. I guessed she had appointed herself damage control officer as far as I was concerned. She shook my hand like I was an old friend. She didn't comment on my shirt. Instead she leaned in close and asked, 'Do you need to talk to us?'
It was a perfect politician's-wife inquiry. She freighted the word need with all kinds of meanings. Her emphasis cast me both as an opponent and a collaborator. She was saying, We know you have information that might hurt us, and we hate you for it, but we would be truly grateful if you would be kind enough to discuss it with us first, before you make it public.
Practically a whole essay, all in one short syllable.
I said, 'Yes, we need to talk.'
Springfield scowled but Elspeth smiled like I had just promised her a hundred thousand votes and took my arm and led me inside. The hotel staff didn't know or care who Sansom was, except that he was the speaker for the group that was paying a hefty fee for the ballroom, so they summoned up a whole lot of artificial enthusiasm and showed us to a private lounge and bustled about with bottles of lukewarm sparkling water and pots of weak coffee. Elspeth played host. Springfield didn't speak. Sansom took a call on his cell from his chief of staff back in D.C. They talked for four minutes about economic policy, and then for a further two about their afternoon agenda. It was clear from the context that Sansom was heading back to the office directly after lunch, for a long afternoon's work. The New York event was a fast hit-and-run, nothing more. Like a drive-by robbery.
The hotel people finished up and left and Sansom clicked off and the room went quiet. Canned air hissed in through vents and kept the temperature lower than I would have liked. For a moment we sipped water and coffee in silence. Then Elspeth Sansom opened the bidding. She asked, 'Is there any news on the missing boy?'
I said, 'A little. He skipped football practice, which apparently is rare.'
'At USC?' Sansom said. He had a good memory. I had mentioned USC only once, and in passing. 'Yes, that's rare.'
'But then he called his coach and left a message.'
'When?
'Last night. Dinner time on the Coast.'
'And?'
'Apparently he's with a woman.'
Elspeth said, 'That's OK, then.'
'I would have preferred a live real-time conversation. Or a face to face meeting.'
'A message isn't good enough for you?'
'I'm a suspicious person.'
'So what do you need to talk about?'
I turned to Sansom and asked him, 'Where were you in 1983?'
He paused, just a fraction of a beat, and something flickered behind his eyes. Not shock, I thought. Not surprise. Resignation, possibly. He said, 'I was a captain in 1983.'
'That's not what I asked you. I asked where you were.'
'I can't tell you that.'
'Were you in Berlin?'
'I can't tell you that.'
'You told me you were spotless. You still stand by that?'
'Completely.'
'Is there anything your wife doesn't know about you?'
'Plenty of things. But nothing personal.'
'Are you sure?'
'Positive.'
'You ever heard the name Lila Hoth?'
'I already told you I haven't.'
'You ever heard the name Svetlana Hoth?'
'Never,' Sansom said. I was watching his face. It was very composed. He looked a little uncomfortable, but apart from that he was communicating nothing.
I asked him, 'Did you know about Susan Mark before this week?'
'I already told you I didn't.'
'Did you win a medal in 1983?'
He didn't answer. The room went quiet again. Then Leonid's cell rang in my pocket. I felt a vibration and heard a loud electronic tune. I fumbled the phone out and looked at the small window on the front. A 212 number. The same number that was already in the call register. The Four Seasons hotel. Lila Hoth, presumably. I wondered whether Leonid was still missing, or whether he had gotten back and told his story and now Lila was calling me specifically.
I pressed random buttons until the ringing stopped and I put the phone back in my pocket. I looked at Sansom and said, 'I'm sorry about that.'
He shrugged, as if apologies were unnecessary.
I asked, 'Did you win a medal in 1983?'
He said, 'Why is that important?'
'You know what 600-8-22 is?'
'An army regulation, probably. I don't know all of them verbatim:
I said, 'We figured all along that only a dumb person would expect HRC to have meaningful information about Delta operations. And I think we were largely right. But a little bit wrong, too. I think a really smart person might legitimately expect it, with a little lateral thinking.'
'In what way?'
'Suppose someone knew for sure that a Delta operation had taken place. Suppose they knew for sure it had succeeded.'
'Then they wouldn't need information, because they've already got it.'
'Suppose they wanted to confirm the identity of the officer who led the operation?'
'They couldn't get that from HRC. Just not possible. Orders and deployment records and after-action reports are classified and retained at Fort Bragg under lock and key.'
'But what happens to officers who lead successful missions?'
'You tell me.'
'They get medals,'I said. 'The bigger the mission, the bigger the medal. And army regulation 600-8-22, section one, paragraph nine, subsection I), requires the Human Resources Command to maintain an accurate historical record of each and every award recommendation, and the resulting decision.'
'Maybe so,' Sansom said. 'But if it was a Delta mission, all the details would be omitted. The citation would be redacted, the location would be redacted, and the meritorious conduct would not be described.'
I nodded. 'All the record would show is a name, a date, and an award. Nothing else.'
'Exactly.'
'Which is all a smart person thinking laterally really needs, right? An award proves a mission succeeded, the lack of a citation proves it was a covert mission. Pick any random month, say early in 1983. How many medals were awarded?'
'Thousands. Hundreds and hundreds of Good Conduct Medals alone.'
'How many Silver Stars?'
'Not so many.'
'If any,' I said. 'Not much was happening early in 1983. How many DSMs were handed out? How many DSCs? I bet they were as rare as hens' teeth early in 1983.'
Elspeth Sansom moved in her chair and looked at me and said, 'I don't understand.'
I turned towards her but Sansom raised a hand and cut me off. He answered for me. There were no secrets between them. No wariness. He said, 'It's a kind of back door. Direct information is completely unavailable, but indirect information is out there. If someone knew that a Delta mission had taken place and succeeded, and when, then whoever got the biggest unexplained medal that month probably led it. Wouldn't work in wartime, because big medals would be too common. But in peacetime, when nothing else is going on, a big award would stick out like a sore thumb.'