A deep part of him that hadn’t been used for a long time seemed to find that amusing.
He sat down at his desk and wrote a long report for Gil, with details of what he’d seen inside Sparrow, and also the new call from Coulter. Encrypted, it left for satellite link with the strike of a key.
It was very quiet in the house, only an occasional creak here and there as the temperature outside rose and then began to drop again. He was aware of each small sound, a kind of hypervigilence he found distracting until the report was out and he was actually doing work for his cover. He spent over an hour studying several portfolios submitted to him on disk. The week before, thanks to NSA imagination, he’d actually placed nine paintings by a young, local artist. The works had been shipped to Berlin, and would never be seen again, but an advance in the low five figures meant rent and food for the artist for over a year, and word of the sale had gotten around quickly.
Leon called at two. “We had a visitor today.”
“Oh?”
“Nataly. Just stopped by to say hello, she said, but I think she was looking for you. Asked where you were, and I told her what days you were off.”
“I talked to her this morning,” said Eric. “We’re having dinner at her place tonight.”
“Just the two of you?”
“I think so.”
“Well, there’s no accounting for a woman’s taste in men. If she only knew, oh my. Be good to her, Eric. She really is a sweetie.”
“We’re just having dinner, Leon.”
“Of course. Any other news, maybe something dramatic that happened at the base yesterday? I hear the inside of some strange bird was revealed.”
“You’ve been talking to Davis?”
“We’re very close. Of course, you were going to tell me all about it.”
“Not until I reported to Gil. It just went out.”
“Must be quite a breakthrough. Davis is scared. He warned me to watch myself, said you might be in danger. Someone is upset with what you did. Want to talk about it?”
“Not until Gil gets back to me. Everyone talks to everyone around here. Security is a joke. Coulter called again, and already knew what happened yesterday. He practically offered me protection.”
“Probably got it from Davis,” said Leon.
“I’m meeting him again. He’s signing me up, and I still think he’s working for a government, not a corporation.”
“Maybe. We’re in a position to find that out. Davis is really scared, and the guy who shot Johnson is still running around. My bet he’s military. Davis and I are searching files for people with sniper training. You coming in tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll talk more then. Here comes a client. Got to go.”
Leon hung up on him before Eric could answer.
Lies, lies. Eric knew his own, and wondered how many Leon was telling. The man had been around for over a year, was likely deeper than Eric suspected, and there had been more than enough time for corruption. Eric knew all about corruption, sometimes wished he’d availed himself of it early enough to retire and save a marriage. And Coulter was giving him a new opportunity. Maybe.
Eric checked e-mail; saw the message from Auntie, the text a single exclamation point. His report to Gil had been received and logged. He clearly heard a car drive by outside. His state of hypervigilence lingered on, and he felt anxious. It was more than anticipating the dinner with Nataly, not simple nervousness. Perhaps his sub consciousness was dealing with the danger Davis was warning of, or the identity of Johnson’s killer, or even whom Coulter could be working for. And then there was the manual, written in Russian, but not by a Russian, and who else could make such an aircraft in the east? And why would a mercenary or turncoat leave out information when their money had already been paid? No more coffee, he thought. Too much banging around in my head. I’m getting jumpy. He heard every small sound, imagined blurred movement in his peripheral vision.
Enough of this. Eric stripped down, took a long, hot shower, and shaved. Nataly had said casual. He dressed in black slacks and a terra cotta sport shirt, and inspected himself in a mirror. The sight of his own, grim face disturbed him. I’ve forgotten how to smile. Why can’t I put things behind me, and just let go? The smile he tried looked forced, and didn’t show in his eyes. Oh, I’m going to be great company tonight.
For an hour he cleaned up the kitchen, the magazine and newspaper mess in the front room, and made up his bed for the first time in five days. The stalling was sufficient; in traffic, it was twenty minutes to Nataly’s place. The sun was low, and the buttes east of town glowed yellow to orange-red. There was the usual snarl at the Y, the crawl across Oak Creek, then acceleration out of town. A few minutes, and he turned on Back ‘O Beyond and wound his way up into the high rent district, then the turn on the unmarked road that was a driveway and wound his way up to the entrance gate. The guard there smiled and waved him through the opened gate. Four hairpin turns, and he parked in the gravel lot near the pool. Suddenly he was anxious again. I should have brought flowers, or some little thing for her. I should have asked Leon about it. By the time he reached the massive front door of her palace, his heart was hammering hard.
Nataly opened the door before he could knock on it. Her long, black hair fell over one shoulder, held in a tail by a band of gold filigree, and her dark eyes were lined in purple. A golden, sleeveless dress clung to her figure. “Eric,” she said, in a tone that made him feel welcome and missed, and she extended both hands as she said it, and her grip was warm and firm and lingering. His hammering heart slowed in an instant as she led him inside and shut the door behind them.
“It’s such a beautiful evening. I want to watch it on the balcony.” Nataly hooked her arm in his and led him across her vast living room to the balcony overlooking the pool, and looking out at the nearby peaks of Cathedral Rocks. Spires glowed red there. Where the angels come through their portal from another dimension, he remembered.
They sat down at a table covered with a tile mosaic of a red rock scene. A servant arrived, a young Native American with a finely arched nose. Nataly ordered tonic water, and Eric asked for a beer. Nearing sunset the view was breathtaking: deep red spires close by, and a sky painted in yellow and orange.
“I’ve never seen views like this anywhere but here,” said Eric. “It seems to me these so-called vortex sites are really just beautiful places that inspire people with romantic notions.”
“Have you read any of the books from my shop?” asked Nataly.
“All of them are interesting, but I don’t believe in a magnetic grid, or real vortices. The rocks have enough iron grains to make a nice rust, but that’s it.”
Nataly smiled. “Well, you did warn me you’re a skeptic. Any good scientist is.”
“I’m an art dealer, not scientist,” said Eric, then thought to add, “but I read about lots of things, including science. Art, mathematics, music, science, it’s all right-brain activity.”
Nataly gazed at him. Near dusk, her dark eyes seemed black. “I suppose you’re right, but I’ve never met an art skeptic before. Art either moves you or it doesn’t, but it still exists.”
The servant came with their drinks. Nataly raised her glass. “To sunsets,” she said, and their glasses clinked.
His apprehension was gone. Eric was mystified by how relaxed he suddenly felt. “Thanks for the invitations. In my normal routine, I just don’t get out much.”
“Neither do I,” said Nataly. “It’s self-inflicted, of course. I have nobody to blame but myself. Having a party in my own house is somehow different. I’m in control, and it’s my own territory. I get many invitations, but it’s usually for some charitable cause. My money is always welcome.”