His head hung, and he clasped his hands together, in an unspoken plea. She stifled another sob.
“After yesterday, I could never trust you again, not like before, and my heart would ache for that kind of trust, for that loss. I would have to lie to you, hide from you. It would slowly ruin our relationship, putting us through more pain than either of us can handle.”
He looked at her silently, unable to say a word, the sadness in his blue eyes speaking in his place.
“I’m sorry, Steve, I really am.” She wiped another tear with her sleeve, then said in an agonizing voice, “Please, go now.”
He approached her slowly and took her hand, holding it gently. She didn’t turn to look at him; she just continued to stare into the thickening darkness.
“There’s one thing that neither Tom nor I were going to tell you, but I think you should hear it anyway. This obsession you have with your elusive Russian terrorist, your stubbornness to accept that the case is closed, is who you are: dedicated, persistent, driven. The fact that saving a few lives and catching a few terrorists just isn’t good enough for you, well, that’s what makes you who you are. That’s what makes you great, what makes you special. That’s what makes you so damn good at what you do. But that’s also what could destroy you. And we just couldn’t sit idle and let it happen… we’re here for you. I’m here for you… always.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her hand, then let it go. She still didn’t look at him; she couldn’t.
He turned away and walked out, closing the door behind him silently, after releasing the auto lock on her deadbolt.
She heard his car start and pull away from her driveway. Soon thereafter came a deafening silence, the time for her to mourn her loss.
…37
Jeremy Weber knocked three times on the doorframe before stepping in his boss’s office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes. Sit down.”
He sat where instructed, and waited for SAC Taylor to speak.
“I’m putting you on the Walcott case,” Taylor said, pushing a file folder across the desk.
“Me, sir?” Weber blurted, then bit his lip. Stupid remarks like that cost people their careers.
“Yes, and I’m doubting my own sanity as we speak,” Taylor replied coldly. “There’s no better choice… believe me, I tried. I had assigned Porter and Sinisky on it yesterday, but their car got rammed by an eighteen-wheeler. They’ll both be out of commission for weeks.” Taylor stopped for a second, drilling Jeremy with his intense gaze. “You’re it. Don’t screw this up. One moment of embarrassment from you while you’re on this case and you’re history.”
Jeremy didn’t reply; diplomatically he diverted Taylor’s attention to the work at hand.
“What’s the scoop?”
“Walcott’s got an info leak, state secrets, major damage,” Taylor replied. “The rest is in the file. Read it. Carefully.”
“Yes, sir. Umm… I don’t have a partner assigned yet,” Jeremy said hesitantly. “I’m perfectly fine without one, sir, but—”
“But I’m not,” Taylor cut him off. “Just get me preliminary findings and come back to report. I’ll assign you a partner.”
Jeremy stood and grabbed the file from Taylor’s desk.
“Understood,” he said, turning to leave.
“Weber?”
“Sir?”
“This could be a major clusterfuck… Huge government contractor, massive political influence, and the leak is scary as hell — their latest weapons technology, no less. Tread lightly, be thorough, but get the facts ASAP. Follow the damn procedure, got it?”
“Yes, sir, got it. You can count on me,” Jeremy added, and immediately regretted it.
“Well, that’s precisely it, Weber, I can’t. Can’t count on you, now can I?”
Jeremy hesitated, inclined to make additional promises to his reluctant boss, but decided to keep quiet instead.
“Sir,” he said in lieu of a farewell, then stepped out of Taylor’s office.
He didn’t even stop by his office; he went straight for the parking garage. He wanted to get as much work done as possible, before getting who-knows-who for a partner to slow him down or drive him crazy.
…38
Henri Marino checked her reflection in the stainless steel doors and repressed a sigh. She looked professional, of course, yet not really in line with what she had in mind for herself. The loose ponytail keeping her long brown hair in check looked sloppy and hasty, like she’d tied that up in a hurry. Well, in fact, that was the truth. She had to admit it, remembering how she had finished dressing in her building’s elevator that morning.
She checked the time again; just a few more minutes before Director Seiden would see her. She put down the brief she had prepared for the director, afraid her sweaty palms would leave marks on the elegant cover bearing the CIA logo in gold foil emboss.
Now she had two idle hands and nothing to do, while waiting, pacing, checking the time once more.
“You can take a seat,” Seiden’s assistant said, visibly irritated by her restlessness.
She was tempted to oblige for a split second, then declined with a shy smile. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”
For the next few minutes, she tried to stay true to her commitment to never crack her knuckles again. She’d read somewhere it was a bad habit, not necessarily causing arthritis or anything, but annoying the hell out of everyone present.
“You can go in now,” Seiden’s assistant said.
She headed straight to the director’s door, then turned on her heels and grabbed the report she’d forgotten.
She knocked twice, then entered the director’s office. Seiden had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, but the perma-frown on his forehead looked deeper than usual, ridging canyons above his bushy eyebrows.
“Henri,” he greeted her and pointed to a chair in front of his desk.
“Sir,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she added, to demonstrate she could still use her vocal chords.
“So?” Seiden asked, keeping his hand extended toward her. “Are you gonna let me read it?”
“Umm… sure,” she said, handing him the brief, painfully aware she was blushing.
Director Seiden took the brief and started reviewing it, flipping through pages at a constant pace, for what seemed like endless minutes. Finally, he spoke.
“OK, never mind this,” he said, putting it on the table and placing his hand on it. “What do you think?”
“Well, it’s in there,” she started talking, then stopped abruptly. Of course, it’s in there, you ninny, she thought. He knows that. He just wants to have a conversation with his senior analyst.
“Since my last report, the count of incidents climbed to sixty-two total,” she finally heard herself say, in a relatively confident voice.
“Since when?”
“I’ve gone back eighteen months, but their frequency has increased over time.”
“What do you mean?”
“There were only seven incidents in the first six months I looked at. Then in the following six months, the count jumped to nineteen. And the most recent six months had forty-three incidents, more unevenly distributed from a geographical perspective, and more aggressive each month.”