Before Mercer told his story he grabbed the cordless from the couch. Drag whimpered in his sleep. In the months since Harry had found the basset bawling at the Dumpster behind Tiny’s trying to get food, he and Mercer had come to the conclusion that the dog couldn’t be dreaming of rabbits. Snails, maybe, or arthritic sloths were more his speed. Mercer dialed information and got the number for the CDC in Atlanta.
After dealing with a Byzantine automated answering system, Mercer managed to get an operator and request the personnel office.
“Human Resources, John speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hello, John. My name is Harry White. I just got back from Africa and I think the airline gave me a piece of luggage belonging to one of your people.”
“The name.” It sounded to Mercer as if John took his social cues from the automated system.
“Stowe, Cali Stowe.” Mercer spelled it.
“We don’t have anyone — oh wait.” There it was, the pause Mercer feared he would hear. “Um, yes. Let me transfer you to Mr. Lawler.”
“That won’t be necess—” John had already started to reroute the call.
A moment later a guarded voice came on the line. “This is Bill Lawler. I understand you’re asking about Cali Stowe.”
“No, Mr. Lawler. I just want to make sure that if I send a piece of her luggage mistakenly dropped off at my house by the airline that she would get it. She mentioned that she worked for the CDC when I met her on a flight today.”
“Ah, yes, she is an employee. You said she was on a flight today? May I ask from where?”
“So she works there. Great. I’ll put her bag in the mail first thing in the morning. Thank you.” Mercer cut the connection before Lawler could ask any more questions.
“What the hell was that all about?” Harry cocked one bushy eyebrow. “And more importantly, if I find her bag does that mean I can go through her underwear?”
“There is no bag,” replied Mercer, his voice filling with frustration and exhaustion. “I met Cali Stowe in Africa. She told me she worked for the CDC but when she and I split at JFK I spotted her getting into a government car.”
“And?”
“And the guy I just talked to at the CDC seemed pretty interested in why I was asking about her. I think she uses them as a cover for something else. Cali’s name shows up on their computer but it flags whenever someone tries to get information about her.”
Harry ground his cigarette into an ashtray and drained the last half of his drink. He spoke while Mercer rummaged through a drawer behind the bar. “Any suspects on who signs her paycheck?”
“Dozens of suspects but no clue.” Mercer found a blue pushpin and pressed it into the CAR on the world map hanging behind the bar, adding one more to the dense forest of pins studding the framed chart. There were easily eighty other gaily colored tacks denoting the places Mercer had traveled for work and pleasure. There were almost a dozen clear ones, showing places where he had been involved in covert actions. His eyes lingered on the transparent pin stuck into the island of La Palma, part of the Canary chain. It was all he had of Tisa.
Harry noted the tension creeping into Mercer’s neck and saw the shadow lingering in his storm gray eyes when he turned from the map. “You were attracted to her.”
“She was attractive,” Mercer admitted.
“Quit dodging. That’s not what I asked.”
No matter how much Mercer wanted to avoid the issue, he knew his friend wouldn’t let him. “Yes, I was attracted to her.”
“She’s the first since Tisa and now you feel guilty about it.”
“Yeah.”
“Six months is an eternity and it’s a blink of the eye. I can’t tell you how to feel about this but I will tell you that being attracted to another woman is not a bad thing. You do realize that since Tisa died you’ve held yourself to a standard most married men can’t touch. Guys find women attractive every damned day and you can bet that not one of them feels the least bit guilty. But you, you see it as an act of deepest betrayal. This isn’t mourning, Mercer, it’s self-inflicted punishment.”
“What if I can’t help it?”
“You’ve always found a way in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
Harry lit another cigarette, gathering his thoughts. “You beat yourself up every time something in your life goes wrong. You blame yourself whether it’s your fault or not. Most people don’t take responsibility when they screw up but you do even if you don’t. This isn’t a character flaw, or maybe it is but not a bad one to have, except each time it costs you a little more to find your center again and come to grips with whatever just happened. It’s been six months since you lost Tisa and you’re no closer to putting her death behind you.”
Mercer’s anger flared. “I won’t put her behind me.”
“Not her, you dope, her death. You haven’t put her death behind you. There’s a distinction and maybe that’s where you’re stuck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I bet you relive her death every day but don’t relive her life.” Mercer didn’t deny it so Harry continued. “You’ve turned her into the symbol of some perceived failure, a memory where you can unload all the guilt you carry around. You don’t celebrate the short time you were with her and that’s not very fair. To her I mean.”
Mercer was rocked by what Harry had said. In a rush he realized it was all true. Tisa’s memory had become a wound he would reopen just so he could revel in the guilt he was certain he deserved. This wasn’t mourning. It was self-flagellation and was actually a little sick. He’d made her death about him and in doing so reduced her life to something he could blame himself for.
“So how do I put my life back together?”
Harry leaned back on his stool, jetting smoke from his nose. “How the hell should I know? It’s your life. Ask that Cali woman out on a date. Or maybe spend a week at a resort watching honeys parade by.”
Mercer hadn’t been to a beach in years and couldn’t imagine himself sitting around leering at bikini-clad hardbodies, nor did the prospect of dating Cali hold much interest, not at least until he found out who she was and whom she really worked for. That thought reminded him that he needed to contact Admiral Lasko. He dialed Ira’s cell, ignoring the red light indicating that the handset’s batteries were low.
“Your being back early can’t be good news,” Lasko said in greeting, having finally mastered caller ID. Ira Lasko was a former submariner who then transferred into Naval Intelligence. John Kleinschmidt, the President’s national security advisor, had tapped him shortly after his retirement from the navy to work for the White House. Lasko possessed a mind that could think on both strategic and tactical levels and intuitively understand the link between the two. He was below average height and had a slight build but he more than compensated with a commanding voice, boundless energy, and a pugnacious attitude to go along with his shaved head.
“No and no,” Mercer replied. “No, I didn’t find any coltan. I’ll call Burke at the UN tomorrow, then fax him a formal report later this week. And the second no is because I found something else that isn’t good news.”
“You want to get together?”
“I think we should. I’ve got a couple of items that need to be analyzed.”
“I’m stuck in the office until eight. I’ll meet you at that Thai place I like near the Pentagon City Mall.”
“Eight thirty at Loong Chat’s. Got it.” After some of the swill Mercer had been eating over the past weeks, the idea of Thai food sent a spasm through his guts. He’d grab a sandwich before the meeting.
“I’m off,” Harry announced. “Drag, get up.”