When he failed to elaborate, she said, “I’m baffled. Where do you work?”
He took the drinks from the bartender, handed her one, and shrugged. “Across the river.”
“Where across the river?”
“That big outfit located in a big building down the GW Park-way. I don’t actually work in that building, but I keep a town-house nearby for when I’m in town.”
“Oh, you’re with the CIA?”
“Yes. But we’re not really supposed to admit more than that.”
“What do we talk about then?”
“At the moment, I’m posing as a college professor on sabbatical who travels overseas and does research on public health systems. If you happen to have a keen interest in matters of public health, ask away.”
A look of dread crossed her face. “Public health?”
“I know.” He chuckled. “I hate my cover.”
“It’s a bad choice anyway. You don’t look like a college professor.”
“No?”
“Nor do you dress like a college professor.”
“I have a closet filled with worn tweed jackets. Also a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. You’d be surprised how a few minor touches can alter an appearance.” And truly she would, he thought.
She licked her lips. “That’s exciting.”
“Sometimes. But like I said, we’re not supposed to talk about our jobs.”
“Are you supposed to lie?”
“If need be, yes.”
She coyly stirred her drink with her forefinger. “You mean like you went to the prom with somebody, dropped out of school, and raised four orphaned sisters?”
“Touche.”
She chuckled and twisted her ankles together. Julia Cuthburt was everything his file and research projected her to be-a bored woman in a tedious job she could barely stand, past the age when she had hoped to be married and raising three kids, a living parody of Looking for Mr. Goodbar, prowling through singles bars in search of a jolt of excitement.
A tall, muscular, absurdly handsome CIA agent just in from the trenches was exactly what the doctor ordered.
She licked her lips again and asked, “You’re not joking, are you? You’re really a spy?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Are you working now?”
“I’m back for a debriefing.”
She felt a flip-flop in her stomach. No more Hill clerks, two-bit lawyers, and civil servant jerks for her. A real-life James Bond type had his feet perched on her barstool, his briefcase parked at her feet, and was buying her drinks.
What was in that big briefcase anyway? Plans for the defense of Pyongyang, maybe. A termination order for the greedy, evil prime minister of Botswana who’d been dealing under the table with terrorists.
“I’ve never met anyone who works at the-” She caught the frown forming on his face, and swiftly said, “Well, that place.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh… of course.” She nodded, as though this made sense.
After a moment, he said, “But enough about me, I’d rather talk about you. For instance, where are you from?”
“A small town in Kansas. But I left a long time ago.”
He knew this, of course. And that she hadn’t merely left Kansas, but fled at the first chance. He knew she was a math genius, had two little sisters, left Kansas at seventeen, and after majoring in mathematics at the University of Delaware, had picked up a master’s in accounting at Boston College. She’d done well. Offers had poured in from the top firms. Her specialty was corporate taxation, and setting up tricky offshore accounts was her particular talent. She billed out at $350 per hour, high for an associate, but her firm described her to interested customers as a wizard at loopholes. The bookshelves in her apartment were crammed with thick accounting texts, intermixed with romance paperbacks with those corny covers depicting forlorn women being crushed in the arms of bronzed, muscular men. He assumed she had taken the job in Washington because it was filled with powerful men with interesting lives she wanted to marry into.
Over the next hour he walked her back through her history, posing a succession of perfectly timed questions that allowed her to portray herself in the most favorable light, no easy task with an accountant. She liked talking about herself and was thrilled to the core that such a man would be so fascinated with her.
She was merrily chattering away when at 8:30 he absently glanced down at his watch. “Oh… my God… Julia, look what you’ve done.”
“What?”
“I never lose track of time. Never.”
“It’s only eight-thirty,” she protested.
He looked embarrassed. “I have a 6:00 A.M. debriefing scheduled. My mind has to be sharp. I should walk you to your car. Where are you parked?”
The invitation was a test, she was sure. Say no, thanks, and he would conclude she was still on the prowl. There would be an awkward moment, then sayonara, and she’d never see her CIA man again.
A toothy grin and she grabbed her handbag. “In the underground garage across the street.”
“Me too.” He dropped a fifty on the bar to cover their drinks with a hefty tip, hefted up his briefcase, took her elbow and helped her up.
They chatted amiably until they reached her car in the garage. He opened her door, then shuffled his feet and said, somewhat awkwardly, “Julia, I… I’ve really enjoyed this evening. I mean, really.”
“Me too.”
The ball was back in his court, and he appeared suddenly tentative and nervous about what to do or say next. How beguiling. This fearless man who could face the most daunting dangers had melted into a shy puppy. He said, “I’d invite you back to my apartment for a nightcap, but… not tonight.”
“Why’s that?”
“Two other agents are crashing there. Most guys don’t keep apartments here. When they return for a debrief, I let them use my place.” He gave her a sad smile, and added, “In the field, we all live in a state of constant fear and anxiety. Sometimes… well, it’s nice to cook your own meals, be with friends, people you trust.”
Her stomach did another flip-flop. She’d been so obsessed talking about herself, and so selfishly concerned with her own romantic needs, she’d nearly forgotten how hazardous his life was. The man could be killed at the drop of a hat.
She clutched his arm and stared deeply into the contacts that gave his eyes that wonderful sea blue glaze. She said, “My apartment’s not far. I know it’s late for you… but a nightcap?”
She felt exuberantly guilty. So selfish of her.
He smiled. “A quick one. I’ll follow you.”
“Maybe you’d feel more comfortable talking about yourself in my apartment. You’re so mysterious. I’m dying to know the real you.”
He grinned. “It’s a promise.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I returned to my apartment and found a message on my answering machine from a ceremonies officer of the Army’s Old Guard who wanted to finalize the funeral details; how many guests, the denomination of the chapel ceremony, who’d get her flag, the normal menu items regarding military funerals. The Army was moving with its usual selective efficiency. It’s astonishing how differently the Army treats the living and the dead. Have a problem getting paid correctly and you’ll be retired before it’s fixed; die, and clods of dirt are bouncing off your coffin before the obituary’s dried.
Message two was from Clapper and said, “Cy Berger called about some damned exam you’re supposed to take. Don’t screw with me, Drummond. Fail and I will make you the legal officer on Johnston Island Atoll. The orders are sitting on my-”
Wow! My answering machine suddenly leaped off the side table and crashed into the wall.
I mean, you think you’ve got it all figured out, some smartass reads your mind, and life turns to shit. It was past ten. The manuals in question were gathering dust on my desk at the firm.
Forty minutes later, I was seated behind said desk, studying a thick binder titled “Preparing and Processing Billings,” aka “Keeping the Juices Flowing.” By 4:00 A.M., knowing more than I ever wanted about the ethical and administrative policies of big law firms, I crawled over to the comfy leather couch.