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 eyes, but Breanna did it, as did Kelly. Then the sultan, trailed by his entourage, strutted his way out of the room.

“YOU INSULTED HIM,” KELLY SAID WHEN THEY WERE GONE.

“Relax,” Zen told her. “What’s he going to do? Nuke us?”

“Jeff, that’s terrible,” Breanna told her husband. “Really, hon. I know you’re still upset. But cut the guy some slack.”

“Why? He’s the supreme ruler, right? He’s in charge. Who else should take the heat?”

Breanna rolled her eyes. It was always obvious when he was upset—he got even crankier than normal. She turned to Kelly. “I don’t think he really insulted the sultan. And he has a point about the aircraft. Megafortresses are overkill.”

“The sultan was insulted,” said the state department rep. “Believe me, I could tell. You don’t understand this country.”

“I do understand that we almost got killed,” said Zen.

“Weapons procurement is none of your business.”

“I know more about those weapons than the sultan ever will. And I’ll tell you—Brunei doesn’t need them. They do need counter-insurgency aircraft. That’s what you should be selling them. Those people who attacked us yesterday are just the tip of the iceberg, I’ll bet.”

Kelly got up. “Please contact my office if you need anything else. Have a good flight home, Major.”

“You were really rude,” Breanna told him when Kelly was gone.

“Come on. Kelly forgets whose side she’s on.”

“She’s just trying to do her job. And I meant to the sultan. He’s a very nice man. Very charming.”

“Aw, come on, Bree. He’s a dictator. Just because he calls himself sultan, you’re going to let him off?”

“He’s very educated and civilized. He’s a hereditary ruler.”

“So was King George, the guy we kicked out of America two hundred years ago, remember?”

“I forgot your ancestors came over on the Mayflower.”

“It was the Guernsey,” said Zen. He wasn’t joking—his relatives had come over in the 1600s, landing in Virginia.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to be more diplomatic,” she insisted, taking her cup of tea. “You’re going to have to be more diplomatic if you want to make colonel.”

“Why? Your dad doesn’t kiss ass.”

Breanna put her hand out and touched his arm. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself.”

“Let’s not fight.”

“Who’s fighting?”

“Okay.”

“Want me to cancel my flight?”

Breanna looked at him. She did, actually. Not just for this afternoon—for weeks and months. She wanted him to stay here with her, stay in paradise.

Or something less than paradise. As long as they were together.

She’d been scared yesterday, worried what she would do if she found him dead there. Breanna had faced that fear before, but that didn’t make it easier—if anything, it seemed to be getting worse.

She wanted to tell him to stay. But he had a job to do. He was due back at Dreamland for a VIP demonstration.