Even before the start of the Olive Branch war, thought Christine. “Why, what happened…”

“I apologize,” said the general, shoving his chair back and snapping to his feet. “I’m being rude. My name is David Isaakson. You must be the reporter from the Banner.”

“Christine Temetri,” said Christine, shaking the general’s hand.

“Please, have a seat,” said the general. He gestured to another chair across the table.

Christine sat down and the general took his seat.

“So,” said the general. “So how is Harry Giddings?”

Christine involuntarily clenched her teeth and then forced a smile in an effort to counteract this display of pique, catching a glimpse of the unflattering result in a metallic briefcase on the general’s desk. She looked, she thought, like an otter whose head had been crushed with a mallet.

It wasn’t that she didn’t like Harry. She didn’t, but it wasn’t that. Mostly she just disliked being asked about him, in the way that famous people’s children dislike being asked about their parents. Christine’s usual tactic was to turn the question around on the questioner. This, in fact, was her method of dealing with most questions, which is one of the reasons she wasn’t a very good substitute English teacher.

Christine had learned years ago, as most journalists do, that the main drawback to asking so many questions was that questions tended to provoke answers. After all, it is difficult for a journalist to formulate a coherent narrative when subjects keep providing information that is, by and large, irrelevant to the point one is trying to make.

The question that came out of her mouth was not one she had rehearsed on the plane ride over.

“How well do you know Mr. Giddings?” She asked.

“We met at that conference in Norway a while back. We’ve had occasional contact since.” He added, after a moment, “He seems very sincere in his love for the land of Israel.”

Christine frowned. “It doesn’t bother you that Harry’s interest in Israel stems from his belief that Israel is destined to play a pivotal role in the Christian Apocalypse?

The general shrugged. “I’m a soldier, not an ideologue. I take allies wherever I find them.” He went on, “It’s quite a vote of confidence that Harry sent you here to cover this story. I must admit that I’m not familiar with your work. Have you been to the Middle East before?”

“Er,” said Christine. “Not exactly. In college, I came very close…”

“How close?” said the general, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Portugal.”

“I see,” said the general, clearly unamused.

Christine felt a sudden tickling of sweat down her left side. The initial pleasantries having concluded, the interview was going badly. The general waited stolidly, his stone gray eyes seeming to stare through her. Christine was used to feeling morally and intellectually superior to her subjects, but Isaakson made her feel silly and insignificant. She wished very much she hadn’t said that thing about Portugal. Had she offended him? Forget it, she told herself. Just press on. Make your next question count.