Brad's jaw was doing the heavy lifting for American foreign policy. He chewed his third piece of Winterfrost Nicorette with the rhythmic, punishing intensity of a man trying to physically bite his way out of an international crisis.
Outside the reinforced, blast-proof glass of his top-floor suite at the Serena Hotel, the Margalla Hills of Islamabad looked genuinely picturesque. Brad wasn't looking at them. He was staring dead-eyed at the muted flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, where a CNN chyron scrolling in bright red read: VANCE POLL NUMBERS DIP IN RUST BELT AHEAD OF ISLAMABAD SUMMIT.
"Tyler," Brad rasped, not breaking eye contact with the television.
A young staffer, who looked like he had been ironed directly into his Brooks Brothers suit, scurried into the living area holding a heavily encrypted Panasonic Toughbook.
"Sir?"
"Tyler, explain to me how the United States Air Force managed to fly three up-armored Chevy Suburbans, a tactical communications array, and enough heavily armed Secret Service agents to invade a small island nation across two oceans on a C-17 Globemaster..." Brad paused, finally turning to look at the aide, "...but we cannot plug in the secure laptop."
Tyler swallowed hard, gesturing helplessly at the wall socket. "It's the prongs, sir. Pakistan uses the British Type G three-pin outlets. We only brought the North American two-pins. The detail swept the hotel for bugs, but they didn't bring universal adapters."
Brad closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a long, desperate drag from his thirty-two-ounce brushed-steel Yeti thermos. The lukewarm drip coffee inside tasted like battery acid and jet lag, but it was the only thing anchoring his soul to his physical body.
"So, to summarize," Brad said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper, "we are here to orchestrate the most consequential Middle Eastern peace treaty since Camp David, effectively dictating the geopolitical future of a three-thousand-year-old Persian civilization... and we are currently thwarted by a piece of plastic they sell at the Hudson News in Terminal 4."
"I have an agent running down to the lobby gift shop right now, sir. He's going to buy one."
"Did he bring Pakistani Rupees?"
Tyler blinked. "I... I think he has a corporate Amex."
Brad let out a slow, hissing breath and returned his gaze to the mirror above the hotel's ornate credenza. He needed to focus. He adjusted his tie and practiced his Tough But Fair face. Jaw set, eyebrows slightly lowered, projecting the casual, overwhelming dominance of a global superpower that could sanction your grandmother into poverty with the stroke of a pen.
The problem was, Brad knew the leverage was slipping. Washington desperately wanted a win. The administration needed a shiny, historic photograph of Vice President Vance shaking hands over a totally denuclearized Iran before November. They wanted the Strait of Hormuz wide open so gas prices would drop in Ohio and Pennsylvania.
He looked at the map of the Persian Gulf spread across the desk. Decades of embargoes, proxy wars, and covert ops, all boiling down to a windowless conference room downstairs and a guy named Reza who probably just wanted to be able to buy Boeing airplane parts that weren't manufactured during the Carter administration.
"Tyler," Brad said, grabbing his massive Yeti and heading for the door. "Tell the Secret Service we're moving to the conference room early. And find me an outlet. If I have to negotiate the fate of the free world on six percent battery, I'm launching a drone strike on the hotel gift shop."