He moved over and put his arms around me, pulling me into his lap so I could lean back my head.
'I'll go with you,' he quietly said into my hair.
We took a black cab to London's Victoria Station on February 18, the anniversary of a bombing that had ripped through a trash can and collapsed an underground entrance, a tavern and a coffee bar. Rubble had flown, shattered glass from the roof raining down in shrapnel and missiles with terrible force. The IRA had not targeted Mark. His death had nothing to do with his being FBI. He simply had been in the wrong place at the wrong time like so many people who are victims.
The station was crowded with commuters who almost ran me over as we made our way to the central area where Railtrack ticket agents were busy in their booths, and displays on a wall showed times and trains. Kiosks were selling sweets and flowers, and one could get a passport picture taken or have money changed. Trash cans were tucked inside McDonald's and places like that, but I did not see a single one out in the open.
'No good place to hide a bomb now.' Wesley was observing the same thing.
'Live and learn,' I said as I began to tremble inside.
I silently stared around me as pigeons flapped overhead and trotted after crumbs. The entrance for the Grosvenor Hotel was next to the Victoria Tavern, and it was here that it had happened. No one was completely certain what Mark had been doing at the time, but it was speculated that he had been sitting at one of the small, high tables in front of the tavern when the bomb exploded.
We knew he had been waiting for the train from Brighton to arrive because he was meeting someone. To this day I did not know who, because the individual's identity could not be revealed for security reasons. That's what I had been told. I had never understood many things, such as the coincidence of timing, and whether this clandestine person Mark was meeting may have been killed, too. I scanned the roof of steel girders and glass, the old clock on the granite wall, and archways. The bombing had left no permanent scars, except on people.
'Brighton is a rather odd place to be in February,' I commented to Wesley in an unsteady voice. 'Why would someone be coming from a seaside resort that time of year?'
'I don't know why,' he said, looking around. 'This was all about terrorism. As you know, that was what Mark was working on. So no one's saying much.'
'Right. That was what he was working on, and that was how he died,' I said. 'And no one seems to think there was a link. That maybe it wasn't random.'
He did not respond, and I looked at him, my soul heavy and sinking down into the darkness of a fathomless sea. People, and pigeons, and constant announcements on the PA blended into a dizzying din, and for an instant, all went black. Wesley caught me as I swayed.
'Are you all right?'
'I want to know who he was seeing.' I said.
'Come on, Kay,' he said, gently. 'Let's go someplace where you can sit down.'
'I want to know if the bombing was deliberate because a certain train was arriving at a certain time,' I persisted. 'I want to know if this is all fiction.'
'Fiction?' he asked.
Tears were in my eyes. 'How do I know this isn't some cover-up, some ruse, because he's alive and in hiding? A protected witness with a new identity.'
'He's not.' Wesley's face was sad, and he held my hand. 'Let's go.'
But I wouldn't move. 'I must know the truth. If it really happened. Who was he meeting and where is that person now?'
'Don't do this.'
People were weaving around us, not paying any attention. Feet crashed like an angry surf, and steel clanged as construction workers laid new rail.
'I don't believe he was meeting anyone.' My voice shook and I wiped my eyes. 'I
believe this is some great big Bureau lie.' He sighed, staring off. 'It's not a lie, Kay.'
'Then who! I have to know!' I cried.
Now people were looking our way, and Wesley moved me out of traffic, toward platform 8, where the 11:46 train was leaving for Denmark Hill and Peckham Rye. He led me up a blue and white tile ramp into a room of benches and lockers, where travelers could store belongings and claim left baggage. I was sobbing, and could not help myself. I was confused and furious as we went into a deserted corner and he kindly sat me on a bench.
'Tell me,' I said. 'Benton, please. I've got to know. Don't make me go the rest of my life not knowing the truth,' I choked between tears.
He took both my hands. 'You can put this to rest right now. Mark is dead. I swear. Do you really think I could have this relationship with you if I knew he were alive somewhere?' he passionately said. 'Jesus. How can you even imagine I could do something like that!'
'What happened to the person he was meeting?' I kept pushing.
He hesitated. 'Dead, I'm afraid. They were together when the bomb went off.'
'Then why all the secrecy about who he was?' I exclaimed. 'This isn't making sense!' He hesitated again, this time longer, and for an instant, his eyes were filled with pity for me and it looked like he might cry. 'Kay, it wasn't a he. Mark was with a woman.'
'Another agent.' I did not understand.
'No.'
'What are you saying?'
The realization was slow because I did not want it, and when he was silent, I knew.
'I didn't want you to find out,' he said. 'I didn't think you needed to know that he was with another woman when he died. They were coming out of the Grosvenor Hotel when the bomb went off. It had nothing to do with him. He was just there.'
'Who was she?' I felt relieved and nauseated at the same time.
'Her name was Julie McFee. She was a thirty-one-year-old solicitor from London. They met through a case he was working. Or maybe through another agent. I'm really not sure.'
I looked into his eyes. 'How long had you known about them?'
'For a while. Mark was going to tell you, and it wasn't my place to.' He touched my cheek, wiping away tears. 'I'm sorry. You have no idea how this makes me feel. As if you haven't suffered enough.'
'In a way it makes it easier,' I said.
A teenager with body piercing and a mohawk slammed a locker door. We waited until he sauntered off with his girl in black leather.
'Typical of my relationship with him, in truth.' I felt drained and could scarcely think as I got up. 'He couldn't commit, take a risk. Never would have, not for anyone. He missed out on so much, and that's what makes me saddest.'
Outside it was damp with a numbing wind blowing, and the line of cabs around the station did not end. We walked hand in hand and bought bottles of Hooper's Hooch, because one could drink alcoholic lemonade on the streets of England. Police on dappled horses clopped past Buckingham Palace, and in St. James's Park a band of guards in bearskin caps were marching while people pointed cameras. Trees swayed and drums faded as we walked back to the Athenaeum Hotel on Piccadilly.
'Thank you.' I slipped my arm around him. 'I love you, Benton,' I said.