‘They’re not getting F-22s. No one is,’ said the president. ‘They’re not getting F-15s, either. Not F-15Cs, or F-15Es. But if we don’t give them something, they’ll simply buy from the Russians. The world is becoming more complicated, Colonel. Very much more complicated.’
‘I appreciate that. I just don’t want my weapons systems making things worse.’
‘Neither do I,’ said the president. ‘We’ll have to work hard to see that they aren’t.’
Malay Negara Brunei Darussalam 7 October 1997, (local) 0802
In Zen’s opinion, the official Brunei reaction to the incident on the beach was schizophrenic beyond belief. On the one hand, they clearly didn’t consider it, or didn’t want to consider it, as anything but an isolated and freakish incident.
On the other hand, they considered it an insult to the country, which prided itself on being the perfect host. Because of this, the authorities felt obliged to apologize in person, and therefore Breanna and Zen had been invited to breakfast at the Royal House, an exclusive club used only by very high-ranking government officials just outside of town.
Zen might not have minded it except that he was due to catch a flight home at one o’clock, which meant rather than spending the next few hours alone with his wife he had to sit stiffly through a long and formal breakfast. He even had to wear a civilian jacket and tie, purchased specially for him by the State Department liaison, due to some obscure protocol that he didn’t understand.
‘Oh, you look handsome. Stop complaining,’ said Breanna.
‘I’m sorry, but it really is necessary to present the proper image,’ said Brenda Kelly, a state department liaison who had been sent over to help smooth the Stockards past the protocol hazards. It was at least the third time she’d apologized. ‘And wearing your uniform might have sent the wrong message.’
‘I wasn’t going to wear my uniform,’ said Zen.
‘You’ll have to excuse my husband,’ said Breanna. ‘He thinks wearing a clean T-shirt is dressing up.’
‘I’m on vacation, Bree. It’s not that advanced a concept.’
‘There are elaborate customs here,’ said Kelly. ‘Just as people in Brunei usually eat with their fingers – ’
‘Only the right hand,’ said Breanna in a stage whisper to remind him.
‘We have to follow their lead,’ finished Kelly.
Zen sighed. It was no use arguing; he was stuck in a tie, without hope for parole.
‘So are they going to catch these jokers or what?’ asked Zen.
‘Please don’t ask that when the minister comes,’ said Ms Kelly.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s insulting, Jeff. Of course they’ll catch them,’ said Breanna.
‘They were probably guerillas from across the border,’ said Kelly. ‘Islamic terrorists who want to disrupt the Malaysian government. Brunei itself doesn’t have an insurgent problem. There’s no poverty here. Everyone’s happy.’
Zen thought that was incredibly naive. People didn’t rebel against governments just because they were poor. The people who threw the tea into Boston Harbor weren’t starving.
‘I think it was a kidnapping for money,’ said Breanna.
‘Well they tried to get the wrong people then, obviously,’ said Zen. ‘They could have saved themselves a lot of trouble by looking at our checking account.’
‘If they could figure it out,’ laughed Bree.
‘I think they were going after the royal family,’ said Zen. ‘It was their beach.’
‘Oh, my God, I was afraid of this,’ said Kelly. She pushed away from the chair and rose.
Zen looked up. The sultan himself had just come into the room. He wore a white Western suit, with no outward sign of his rank, but there was no mistaking his authority; a phalanx of aides followed in his wake, and they were trailed by a dozen soldiers. He strutted confidently across the room – the gait even seemed a bit arrogant, thought Zen, but then if he were absolute ruler of an oil-rich kingdom, he’d be a little arrogant, too.
The sultan smiled at Breanna and Kelly, waving his hands at them to make them sit in their seats. Zen watched him bow to the ladies, then bowed his own head as the sultan looked at him.
‘The heroes!’ exclaimed the ruler.
Attendants and restaurant staff swept in behind him, one pulling up an oversized chair and others appearing with trays of food. Zen’s coffee was refilled; the ladies were given fresh tea. Breakfast meats and sweets suddenly covered every inch of the table.
‘I apologize to you on behalf of the people of Brunei,’ said the sultan, looking at Breanna.
‘Oh, an apology isn’t necessary,’ Bree told him. ‘It was nothing.’
The sultan shook his head. ‘These criminals. They are outlaws before the eyes of God.’
‘Who were they, exactly?’ asked Zen, ignoring the evil-eye glare Kelly shot at him.
‘They came over from Malaysia, we believe,’ said the sultan, who did not seem offended. ‘Or they were Chinese criminals. We will catch them.’
‘Good,’ said Zen.
The sultan turned to Breanna. ‘You have been training our pilots.’
‘Yes. They’re very good students.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘Your plane is a wonderful aircraft. I hope we will be able to purchase many.’
‘Maybe you should get more counter-insurgency aircraft, if guerillas are a problem,’ said Zen.
The sultan’s expression gave only the slightest hint that the comment was out of line. Kelly, on the other hand, seemed to be having a heart attack.
‘We have requested many aircraft to bring ourselves up to present standards,’ said the sultan, his tone slightly indulgent. ‘Fortunately, we ourselves do not have an insurgent problem. We need the aircraft to fulfill our role in ASEAN, the Asian alliance. Beyond that – well, you see for yourself. Everyone is happy here.’
The sultan rose. Kelly jumped up. Zen half expected her to beckon at him to rise out of his chair.
Hey, if the sultan had any real power, maybe Zen would be able to.
‘I apologize again, and I hope you will enjoy your stay,’ the sultan told Breanna. ‘Anything that can be done to make you happy, will be done.’
Then he held out his hand for her to kiss his ring. Zen rolled his
