“If I’d stayed in the States, they’d still be here.” He felt the lump of the child’s toy bear in his pocket, and his voice began to crack. “Today, because I was here, somebody else’s wife and child died.”
“What? Mark, you didn’t kill anyone.”
“If I hadn’t gone on that mission, they wouldn’t have been coming to any ceremony.” His eyes were red and wet, his voice shaky. “If I hadn’t come here, I wouldn’t have been followed and that woman and her kid would still be alive.”
She held him to her and let him cry. When he stopped shaking she pulled slightly away and looked him in the face.
Griffin pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “Shit, Maggie, I’m sorry.”
Her face was hard. “You were the best man for the Honduras mission,” she said quietly. “You told me they ‘volunteered’ you.”
“Yeah, they can’t order you to go on a mission that everybody says didn’t happen.” She nodded. He looked at the ground. “But today…”
“You didn’t kill anybody,” she said firmly. “That sedan came from the wrong direction.” Maggie let out a long breath. “I’d ditched him earlier. That’s why I was late,” she said. “He was following me.”
“It’s time, Maggie.” Griffin said. “Up and let ’em at you.”
“Uh-uh,” she mumbled sleepily. “Gimme fifteen more minutes.”
“C’mon, we both have three hours on the road if we’re going to get back in time. Besides, I have coffee.”
Maggie rolled over, propped herself up, and took a cup from his hands. In a half hour she was dressed. They sat at the small bedroom table in silence.
“I’m worried about you and your crew down there, Maggie.”
“If I said I was worried about you, you’d say something about your being a big boy now. We’re big girls, Mark.” Maggie smiled at him.
His look toward the window pulled her eyes with it. “Don’t worry about those goons, Mark. I shook them once.” She thought for a moment. “Who do you think it is?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but Cooper — the guy who does our intel— is a first-class computer nerd and not a bad intel analyst. I’ll let him work on it.”
“Will he be at this grand affair you’re going to?” She shook her head cynically.
“I doubt it; he looks too geeky. Are you sure you won’t come up for this thing?”
“Mark, though I love being with you, that ain’t this woman’s idea of a party. Sorry, Griffin, you can suck down that one alone.”
“You’re a very caring person. Remind me to starch your panties someday.”
“Thanks, pal.”
They held each other for a long time, then left the hotel by the back door.
The two men in the black sedan with the hastily repaired left front were fast asleep when Maggie’s and Griffin’s cars left the parking lot. Only when the first light of dawn woke them would they figure out the couple had left during the night. That meant there’d be hell to pay— not only had they caused a fatal accident, but they’d lost the American major. They decided to make up some story; otherwise, their superior would be livid — and so would his boss: Gen. Karl Blacksturm.
“So how the hell are you?” Stern said into the phone. “What’s so hot in the desert that you’re calling at this time of night?”
“It’s the middle of the morning there, isn’t it Alex?” said Lt. Col. Paul Jackson. Also known as Gator Two, Jackson was one of Stern’s closest friends at the National Training Center. It’s good to hear from him, thought Stern. I wonder how he’s doing?
“I’d forgotten about the time,” Jackson said. “Anyway, I’m calling from home.”
“Bullshit,” said Stern. “You never miss those details.” They traded office gossip awkwardly for a few minutes before Jackson fell silent.
“Paul, this must be costing you a fortune. What’s up, buddy, are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m not in any more trouble than usual,” Jackson replied. This is hard, he thought. How do you tell your friend…
“Then what? Out with it man!” Stern said jokingly.
“Al, it’s Veronica,” Jackson blurted out. “She’s out of control. I mean Sheila and I were out to dinner in Barstow last night and she— I mean Veronica — was at the bar with this guy. Then Stevensen over in the Control building saw her at a different place down in L.A. a few nights ago and… buddy, I’m sorry. I hate to be the guy to tell you this, but…”
Stern cut him off. His face had gone hard the moment he had heard his wife’s name. “Paul, you’re a good man, a good friend. And you got guts,” Stern said, “but, just like in the desert, you come up with your intel a day late and a dollar short.” Stern faked a laugh. “I know what’s going on, and I’m responding appropriately.”
“Hey, it’s tough, I know.” Through the static Stern could hear the sympathy in Jackson’s voice. “If there’s anything I can do…” “You can send me a new boss.”
He could hear Jackson laugh. “I’d like to. You know we have too many stars come through here for comfort.”
“On second thought, keep them,” said Stern. “They might be worse, though I don’t see how.”
“Well, the offers stand. Both of them. Look Al, I gotta go. Phone bills, you know.”
“Yeah, I understand.”
“Take care of yourself, Al.”
“My best to the Gators and Sheila and your kids. And Paul?” “Yes?”
“Thanks.”
“Sure. Goodbye, Al.”
Stern hung up the phone, leaned over his desk, and picked up the letter from his wife. Jackson’s words rang in his head as he reread Veronica’s condemnation of their marriage and her list of how the property should be divided. The knot in the pit of his stomach tightened. I guess I’ll be going to the victory banquet alone, he thought.
“I am sorry to have to bring this to you in your time of grief, Herr Colonel, but General Blacksturm himself sent me to you with this.”
Col. Joel Guterman had buried his wife and son less than a week ago. As he sat behind his desk, the commander of Panzerbrigade 11 held in front of him, between the “SECRET” classification markings, an investigator’s report. The report concluded that the deaths had been no accident, but rather a deliberate act by a radical group — one financed by two Jewish political-action committees based in New York. The pictures of his wrecked car and the sheet-draped bodies tore him apart. The mug shots of the two terrorists (killed, the report said, when their apartment was raided) only increased his rage. If I could just get my hands on those responsible, the ringleaders, he thought, I’d tear them to bloody shreds. But a good soldier shows no emotion. Guterman closed the folder and wordlessly handed it back to Blacksturm’s assistant.
“Thank you, Herr Major.” His voice was flat, kept calm by sheer force of will.
“I will leave you alone now, Herr Guterman.” Guterman nodded and looked down at his desk. “And Herr Guterman, General Blacksturm— and may I add the entire high command staff — sends personal condolences.” Guterman did not reply.
The major closed the door, leaving Guterman still staring at his desk. A desk arranged, with the exception of the framed portrait of his wife and child, with careful German precision. Guterman had not noticed that the major had made no mention of General Ulderthane. The major had noticed only that Guterman’s shoulders were beginning to shake.