Ashes (29 page)

Richard hesitated, looked at him with keen intensity. No suspicion there, yet. But how long would that last? How long before the trust he had earned was outbalanced by the loss of Connolly and MacReady? Not too much longer. If nothing else, he had to move soon for his own sake. He could not risk another MacReady. And he could not bear the weight of this charade much longer without paying some price.

Sean let none of this show, merely waited for Richard to reply. “No,” said Richard. “I’ve got history with this fellow, and it’s the sort of history that should just be me and him. But if you could...I feel silly asking you this.”

Sean smiled. So strange and oddly endearing to see Richard hesitant. “Spit it out, come on.”

“OK. This summer’s been rough on Anna. Could you keep her company while I’m away? Maybe take her to a movie or something? There’s that new one with Tom Hanks in it, she’d like that.”

Sean did not quite know what to say. It was the last thing he’d expected. Who knew that the man responsible for the second most deadly terrorist attack on U.S. soil was currently fretting about his wife? And asking Sean, of all people, to take her to the movies. God, life could be weird sometimes. He couldn’t wait to tell Robert this; it was the sort of thing that amused him.

“I’d be happy to.”

* * *

H
e had thought it would be strange, going to the Blaines’ on a Saturday night not for a meeting but to pick up Anna and take her to the movies. But as they drove to the theater and made small talk, that familiar feeling of ease came over him. Sean was relieved to see that Anna was in excellent spirits. She still looked a bit unwell, though. “Anna, are you OK? I mean, you just look a little tired lately.”

She smiled. In the late summer twilight she looked more fatigued than before, but her eyes were warm. “I’m fine. Just been laying off the coffee. Was turning into a caffeine maniac and thought I should give it up for a bit.”

He saw no lie in her eyes. “I did that once,” he said. “Swearing off the coffee.”

“How’d it go?”

“Worst three hours of my life.”

Their laughter mingled as they drove through the warm Wisconsin twilight.

* * *

H
e sat next to Anna in the theater. Watched the movie, but thought about Monique. That was no surprise, really. He’d been telling Anna jokes while they waited in line. He liked hearing her laugh, had been ransacking his brain to recall Beatty’s jokes (not the dirty ones, definitely
not
the one about the Jew, the Frenchman, and the nun). Anna’s laughter was unrestrained, carefree. Like Monique’s.

Monique was about ten years his junior, tall, with a long, fast stride and a way of walking with her upper body thrust slightly forward. She had long black hair and dark eyes and her good looks were old-fashioned somehow, like a film noir actress transported to the present day. But her voice was the first thing he noticed about her. He did not know if there was such a thing as bittersweet honey, but that was how he thought of her voice. She was a lawyer with a big corporation that did a lot of work with the government, hence her presence in D.C. He never saw her in court — they kept the business sides of themselves out of their relationship — but liked to imagine it, Monique using that voice to work her will on judges and juries.

Sean met Monique at the bar in a hotel where he was staying; having just finished a mission and the debriefing, he had time on his hands and was eager for some company of the female variety. It was February; the TV in the bar was on, and that year’s Oscar nominations were being announced.

“The Academy strikes again,” said a woman’s voice, entrancingly sweet and husky, a little way down the bar. “Nominates a bunch of art-house pretentiousness where nothing happens for two hours.”

He turned to look at her. “Nothing happens, but you feel bad at the end anyway,” he said.

“You saw that one, too?” She turned to him and smiled, he smiled back. He knew he was average-looking at best, but he also knew how to make what he had work for him. At least he wasn’t as bad off as Halsey, who’d just had his third wife walk out on him and couldn’t get laid in a brothel, according to agency gossip. Sean was charming when he wanted to be, and right then he wanted to be; he agreed with her opinion, liked her looks, and oh, that voice. He longed to hear her say his name in the dark.

They had a couple of drinks, discussed the nominations. It turned out that she liked the movies as much and as indiscriminately as he did. They ended up at a little art-house theater and saw a David Lynch film. Afterward a spirited argument about the film, a late dinner, and he invited and she accepted. Once in the room neither said anything at first; they circled each other like cats, eyes always meeting. Like cats, they both pounced at the same time.

It was supposed to be merely a fling, a night’s enjoyment. That was what he had intended, and Sean felt fairly certain that was what she had intended. Yet in the morning, neither was eager for the other to leave. In fact, each caught the other dawdling, prolonging the inevitable parting. But the moment came when he was accustomed to saying
Nice seeing you
or
I’ll call you some time
; instead, he heard a note of mild surprise in his voice as he asked, “Would you like to have breakfast with me?”

He’d heard the same surprise in her voice. “I’d like that very much.”

* * *

S
ean didn’t think it was love. But if not love, it was something both of them were very pleased with. They went to good restaurants and saw many films and the occasional play, whiled away hours in bed at his hotel or her apartment. He bought her presents on his travels, scarves and jewelry, bottles of odd wines and liqueurs. She poked around the corners of D.C. and found unusual restaurants for them, good sushi bars or Moroccan places where they ate with their hands, sitting on the floor. They sometimes drove up to New York for the theater. Sometimes they took a walk through Central Park at night. “I’ve never done this before,” she confided the first time they did that, her honey voice holding an excited thrill at venturing into forbidden territory. This was after he had told her, in general terms, what he did for a living. She never asked him anything about his work after that — she knew better — but understood that he could handle anything Central Park might throw at them.

It lasted for four years, and he marveled that he had a person’s company to look forward to rather than just time off. He cherished his time with Monique more and more as the years went on and his old friends were lost to retirement or death. As the world that had once been in black and white became a dull gray. As he watched missions get canceled or end up bungled because those in charge did not want to give them time or equipment or funds. Once, long ago, he had stepped into quicksand, had felt the ground shudder treacherously beneath his feet before he threw himself back onto solid earth. During those last few years, he felt that way much of the time, that the earth was weak beneath him, waiting to pull him down. Only when he saw Monique again, saw her smile at him, heard her bittersweet honey voice, felt her body against his, did that sense of standing on shaky ground leave him. No, not love, but the closest he was able to get to it, and he was thankful for it.

* * *

C
oming up on five years ago now, the day that Halsey summoned him. Sean walked down the hall, knowing why he was being summoned, feeling the knowledge seep into his heart like icy water. It was not unexpected. Quite the contrary. He was the last of his old crowd. Robert, Beatty, Hamilton, Harris, Goodman. All of them retired now. At first those who were left placed bets on who would be next, but it stopped being funny when Goodman shot himself six months after they sent him away. His note said,
If I have to tell you why, you’ll never understand.

As he walked down the hall to Halsey’s office he saw people glance his way from hallways and cubicles. So many faces he did not recognize. So young, most of these people, and what did they know besides computers and satellites? How many of them could go in undercover with nothing but their wits and a gun, and survive?

He sat, politely refused Halsey’s offers of water or coffee. Long and distinguished career, Halsey said, a comfortable retirement for his valuable service. A stipend, enough to live quite comfortably on. Only thing to do for such a distinguished agent.

“Where?” he asked.

Florida. Sean wished he was like Robert, who knew where enough bodies were buried (so to speak) for them to
ask
him where he wanted to go. Or like Juliette, the agency’s top assassin — everyone was too afraid of her to send her anywhere she didn’t want to go.

“Is there any chance of this retirement being...temporary?” he’d asked.

Oh, of course, of course. They would let him know, call him if he was needed. He noticed the
if
. Not a
when.

Halsey asked him if that was all right, not really asking, and Sean said yes it was, for what other choice did he have? Halsey said that he knew they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but it had been good working with him over the years, and Sean lied and said, oh yes, likewise. Thinking that he might respect Halsey if the man had come out and said what Sean knew he was thinking:
I never liked you and I’m glad I’m rid of you.
Halsey handed him a gold watch, and Sean smiled and said thank you, thought,
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.

When he left Halsey’s office, Halsey’s secretary was there waiting for him with papers to sign. He signed and thanked her and walked down the halls, nodding at people but not bothering to say goodbye, for although there were people he knew, there was no one he would miss. All those people were already gone.

Only when he was outside, standing in the sun and the cool breeze, did it all come home to him. Only now did he understand what Robert had said when Sean had asked, “So how are you enjoying retirement?”

“This isn’t retirement,” Robert said. “This is exile.”

With an effort Sean got moving. Only two things would dull the pain for a little while. The first was motion, the second was Monique.

He walked back to his hotel, quite a long walk, but he’d had far worse in his days. About a block away from his hotel he spotted a street musician he knew by sight, playing an alto saxophone. Over the years he’d often thrown money into the musician’s hat, often enough that, while they had never spoken, they always gave each other a nod.

Now he stopped, stood listening while the musician played some old blues riff he vaguely recognized. Sean had never stopped to listen before. The musician finished, looked his way. “How goes it, my friend?” the musician asked.

“I’ve been better.”

“Something to cheer you up? Maybe a little Bird?”

“How about ‘Take Five’?”

The musician grinned, put the horn to his lips, and began to play. For a few minutes, there might have been nothing else in the world, just he and the cool spring day and Paul Desmond’s sweet melody. When the musician was done, Sean thanked him and gave him the gold watch. God knew this man would need it more than he would.

Once in his room, he made two phone calls. One to a better hotel, to book a suite, and the other to Monique. “Flint!” she exclaimed. “Hello, stranger. When did you blow back into town?”

“Yesterday.”

“Your timing is impeccable. I just got out of deposition hell and could use the pleasure of your company.”

“Imagine that. I was thinking the same thing. Can you make it over here tonight?”

“I’ll be there with my jingle bells on.”

It had been two months since they had seen each other. They would have been famished for each other under normal circumstances, but the day’s events had put an extra edge on his hunger, and he pounced almost as soon as the door was shut behind her. She didn’t seem to mind; in fact, she was the one who said, “No, on the floor, we’ve never done it on the floor before.”

Later, she strolled out of the bathroom, her hair wet from the shower, wearing one of the hotel robes. Wandered over to the table, where the remains of a room service feast were strewn about, the empty champagne bottle upside-down in its cooler. “Well, you haven’t forgotten how to show a lady a good — oh, cheesecake!” She picked up the plate of chocolate-chip cheesecake and a fork, sat down next to him on the bed. Sean lay on his stomach, chin on his folded arms, trying to keep the feeling of defeat away, not wanting to taint this evening with it. “How much did you order from room service, anyway?” she asked.

“All of it.”

“I’ll say.” She rubbed his right shoulder. “So, when are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Objection. We’ve had two rolls in the hay, a calorie bomb, a fifth of bubbly, and a shower, and your shoulders still feel like they’re carved out of wood. So come on.” She set the cheesecake aside, knelt astride him and began massaging his shoulders. “Tell me about it.”

For a few moments he was silent. Then he said, “I’m retired.”

Monique’s hands stopped in mid-massage. “I see.” Her voice was unusually quiet. “Did you jump or were you pushed?”

“Pushed.”

She said nothing, ran her fingertips over a scar on his right shoulder blade. It was one of his more recent acquisitions, the nerves tingled under her touch. “Where? I mean, what happens next?”

Sean rolled over to face her. “They’re sending me to Florida. Guess I’ll be a snowbird,” he said, trying to make light of it.

She held her thumbs and index fingers together to form a camera lens. “You’ve just been retired. Now what are you going to do?” she asked in a broadcaster’s phony voice.

“I’m going to Disney World!” They both laughed, but it wasn’t funny, and they knew it.

She slid off, lay beside him, head on his shoulder. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

The unspoken question was, what was going to happen to them. Because he couldn’t stay, and she couldn’t leave. The silence stretched out. He had the feeling she was waiting for him to make the decision, but when he tried to see her expression, her face was hidden by her hair.