Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [63]
The event was to honor professors of international affairs and diplomacy whose students had interned at State over the past year. Jessica, as an adjunct professor at George Washington, had one such student, a young Egyptian exchange student she held in high regard.
“Must be satisfying to see your students go on to successful careers in diplomacy,” Annabel said.
“No more so than seeing Mac’s law students succeed,” Jessica said.
“The stakes are different,” Mac grumbled.
He’d become depressed over the past few weeks, and Annabel recognized it because she, too, had been out of sorts, feeling a vague, nagging discontent that was always there even when events surrounding her were happy and positive. Like most of the country, she mused.
The downing of the three commercial planes with the loss of dozens of lives, and a sense of the loss of control, had set the nation on edge, although few were introspective enough to realize why their mood had changed. Not that the terrorist attacks had sent the population scurrying to bed and under the covers in fear of another attack. As with the World Trade Center bombing, it was business as usual, it seemed, across the country—except that it wasn’t. Outwardly, perhaps; but inside, every American was a mix of rage and fear, confusion and anxiety. Depression—anger turned inward—was the way the shrinks explained it on the chatterbox TV and radio talk shows.
In Congress, the White House, and every other agency, federal, state, and local, the outrage was expressed daily in speeches, press releases, and appearances on those same talk shows for which the attacks were the subject of choice, the only subject, it seemed, worth exploring. Whether out of true sorrow, posturing, or genuine mystification, the country couldn’t get enough of it, even though there was little new to get—the same video clips, the same sound bites played over and over while the talking heads tried to come up with different ways to say what had already been said.
“I’m so glad you could come,” Jessica said to the Smiths as they prepared to leave.
“Thanks for the invitation,” said Annabel. “Join us for dinner?”
“Love to but can’t,” Jessica said. “I’m going directly from here to my office, catch up on things. It’s overwhelming.”
“The attacks?”
“Yes. The paper piles up. The questions don’t go away.”
Annabel stepped into the ladies’ room before leaving for dinner, and Jessica accompanied her. While brushing their hair and touching up makeup, Annabel asked about Max Pauling.
Jessica’s response was a sardonic laugh. “Max who?”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” Annabel said.
Jessica touched Annabel’s arm. “Don’t mind me,” she said. “Max is away.”
“On business, or flying somewhere for fun?”
“State business.”
Jessica leaned against the edge of the counter and seemed to deflate. “Funny,” she said, “how the men in my life always seem to ‘be away.’ Skip—you met my ex-husband, didn’t you?”
“Once, briefly.”
“Skip’s work with the Bureau had him off somewhere ninety percent of the time. I knew that would be the case when I married him, but wasn’t mature enough to know how much I’d resent it. When I met Max—it was right here at State, at a reception—”
“I know. I remember how taken you were with him, although you tried to be aloof about it.”
“You saw through that? Yes, I was taken with him. If he’d still been stationed overseas, in Moscow or someplace else, my antenna would have gone up. But he’d been assigned to DC, a desk job, like me.”
“This latest trip—only temporary, I assume?”
“I’m sure it is. But do you know what, Annabel?”
“What?”
“It’s not temporary in Max’s mind and heart. He’s been gone from the day he arrived in Washington. He hates being here.”
“But didn’t hate being here with you.”
“No, I’m sure not, but he—a man like that—men like that are only happy when they’ve escaped the mundane, when they’re being challenged by something or someone few of us encounter.” She looked up at the ceiling, then at Annabel and smiled. “Max told me he once