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Rose sat back, arms folded. Problems, problems.
On the flight to Newport News two days later, it was as if settling into the seats and snapping the seatbelts put them back where they had left off. Nothing had been said in the interim; in fact, they had hardly seen each other. But clearly, the earlier conversation had been somewhere on her mind, because the first thing she said after they took off was, “Can I ask you something personal?”
“Sure, why not?” He flashed her a grin, all teeth and big brown eyes. “Maybe I won’t answer, though.”
“What’s that tattoo behind your right ear?”
“Pachuco.”
“What’s that?”
He didn’t believe it. “You don’t know pachuco?” He laughed, made the face that means, This is fucking incredible! “You know Zoot Suit.” He said it as a fact, not a question.
She was laughing now—at herself, at both of them. “What’s Zoot Suit? I’m sorry, Billie—”
“You don’ know Zoot Suit? Edward James Olmos, man! Luis Valdez!” Now, he was pleading with her to know. Then it was too much; he threw himself back in his seat and gave up. “I’ll bring you the video.” He started to take out his earphones, then turned to her again. “I saw Zoot Suit when I was a little kid. Another kid put the pachuco mark behind my ear; most guys got it on their hand, here, between the fingers so it doesn’t show. Then I did him. We weren’t gangbangers yet; we were being cool, big-time, but—It meant something to us! Zoot suits!” He shook his head. “It was a Latino thing. I kind of gave it all up when I went to Jesus, but, you know, it’s part of me, man.”
“Are you a born-again now?”
He folded his arms and stared at the seatback. “Yeah, and yeah, and finally no. I been to Jesus so many times I get frequent-flyer miles. You not laughin’? That’s one of my best lines, Commander; guys always laugh, ’cause it’s cool.” He slouched lower. He was a small man and the seat fit him. “Jesus got me out of the gangs and He got me through high school and into computers, but I couldn’t take church. Jesus, si, His people, no way, Jose. So, Jesus and me got our own church.” He looked at her, his head now lower than hers. “Okay?”
“Your mom and dad disappointed?”
“Yeah. Big-time. But after my old man died, my mom, she kind of toned it down. Maybe one day she’ll go back to the priests, I think—one of those little old ladies in a black shawl, goin’ to mass every mornin’. She believed the pentecostals because he did, I guess.”
“How did he die?” Rose asked gently.
“Fell off a scaffolding. Tired out.” That was enough of that; he wriggled upright. “Hey, did you find out what I ast you?”
“About the data stream?” She shook her head. She was a little embarrassed; the truth was, she didn’t understand the question well enough to ask it.
“Okay, I tell you how we goin’ to get the information. The Peacemaker electronics bein’ done on the cheap—off-the-shelf. That’s fine; there’s good stuff out there. But what it means is, someplace there’s a contract for all the software. You get that for me. Once I see all the software laid out, I know what’s goin’ on.” He pulled down his tray-table. “You want to keep your computer geek happy, remember, Commander.” He started to put on the earphones, then held them away for a moment. “You get me the list of software, I get you a video of Zoot Suit.”
Right. One more detail to take care of.
Washington.
At home in his rental apartment after Mikey went to bed, Alan had started “flying” a simulator on his PC. It was like a parody of the idea of going to flight school. It was a mockery of his desire to get out of his job. His old squadron friend Rafehausen had asked him to visit him at the War College at Newport, where he’d give him a real flying lesson, he said, and Alan had so far refused because he had had some dumb idea that by staying home he was being loyal to Rose. Or something.
One night, he crashed a Cessna three times in a row on the virtual ramp of his virtual aircraft carrier, and then he telephoned Rafe and said When should he come up? They made a date for it, and he told Rafe that he’d just learned that his board had deep-selected him for 0–4 for next year. It wasn’t like telling Rose, but she was on the road somewhere.
Off Hampton Roads.
The USNS ship Grace Orbis rolled in heavy swells and took enough water over the bows to splash against the bridge windows as if it had come from a monstrous bucket. Below, Rose and Valdez made their way along a narrow corridor whose steel bulkheads were studded with rivets, their path partly blocked by “knee-knockers,” those unmovable metal uprights—fire-hose connections, corners of lockers, sills of watertight doors—that put bruises on the shins of everybody before a voyage is over. The ship’s roll swayed Rose against a bulkhead and then out again, and she giggled. Ahead of her, Valdez was walking with his feet wide apart and his hands out at each side to keep himself off the bulkheads. He looked to her like a mechanical toy. She giggled again.
“Well,” she shouted over the storm, “you wanted a change!”
“Hey, man, this is too much like being a sailor!” he bellowed.
They were doing a quick familiarization cruise. She was air Navy; now she had to learn more about what the despised line officers did. The Grace Orbis was a much smaller ship than Philadelphia, the one that would launch Peacemaker, but Philadelphia was at Newport News being refitted for the launch. She figured that if she could stay upright aboard Grace Orbis, Philadelphia would be a cakewalk.
A ladder led up to a watertight hatch and the deck. To Valdez’s disgust, she wanted to see the storm close up. She gave him a shove. “Move it!”
Valdez started up. The bow rose and he swayed back and she thought he was going to come down on top of her; she put a hand in the middle of his back and pushed. The bow started down and he swayed to vertical again, and she started up after him. He was at the hatch, reaching for the big white handle, and she was halfway up the ladder when the ship made a more abrupt move to starboard, the bow going down and the deck swinging far over to her right. She started to make some sound to show she wasn’t scared, the sort of sound you might make on a roller-coaster, and then she felt Valdez sway back and down and into her, and her feet were going out from under her, sliding, and briefly she was airborne and then slamming against the metal rail. She slid down, banging her shins on the ladder, feeling a sharp, horrible pain in her gut and then hitting hard on the bottom step and bouncing once more to the steel deck below. Valdez was beside her in two jumps.
She thought I’ve hurt myself, and then almost at the same time, Don’t show it, don’t show it! and she was clutching his arm, feeling the bow come up, taking her with it, swaying; she clutched his arm and said, “I’m all right—I’m all right—” She clawed herself halfway upright. The pain flashed down her abdomen and into her thighs and she thought she would fall again, and she held on to his arm with both hands, staring into his brown eyes so she wouldn’t pass out. “I’m really all right—!”
“Oh, Jesus,” he was moaning, “oh, help us, Jesus—!”
“Get me up straight—I’ve got to stand up straight—I’m all right, I’m all right—!”
7 (#ulink_802564d4-0c1a-59e3-8311-9a9fd0822ce6)
August
East Africa.
O’Neill sits beside Lake Victoria. He is waiting for her—the female agent who responded to his sign.
O’Neill is at peace, perhaps for the first time. He has found he likes Africa. He understands now what Craik meant about its size, about its smell, the look of it. He has no feeling of coming home; to the contrary, it is the most alien place he has ever been. Yet it brings him peace.
She will wear green, and if something is wrong she will also wear a red scarf. This is not the sort of tradecraft they taught him at the Ranch, but Ranch tradecraft is not designed for Africa in the 1990s; it is designed for Europe in the 1970s. He smiles to himself. The wonder of it is that any of what they taught him actually does work here. The cops-and-robbers of counter-surveillance, for example. Most of the psychology of recruitment. It is like being a Boy Scout and finding that what the Boy Scout Manual says about building a fire really does make flame, even if nobody in his right mind would ever make it that way.
Perhaps, when he goes back, he will teach about Africa at the Ranch.
He sees a green dress coming toward him. It is still far away, but he can see the swing of her, her size, and he can see that she does not wear a red scarf.
O’Neill rises and goes to meet his future.
Which is Alan Craik’s future.
Near Newport, Rhode Island.
“You’re over-controlling.” Rafe’s voice was calm, devoid of criticism, an LSO voice.
Alan eased up on the stick, flexed his hand, and tried to keep the little gauge that measured rate of climb centered on zero through the turn. The single-engine plane wobbled slightly, very like a horse that knows it has a novice at the reins.
“See the runway?” The question seemed superfluous—the ancient runway of Quonsett Reserve Naval Air Station almost seemed to fill the viewscreen. “Center up. Ease up on the stick. The plane will fly just fine without you.”
Rafe spoke to the tower one more time, but Alan’s entire concentration was on the airplane and the runway. The runway, which had seemed miles long a moment before, now seemed to flow beneath him at the speed of light.
“Throttle down.” Rafe seemed to be running a checklist. Alan looked at his flaps and saw they were at full. His momentary glance broke his concentration on the stick, and the plane wobbled. He corrected automatically and was delighted to find that he had recentered. The plane dropped lightly; the altimeter ran slowly down toward zero, and the plane touched, less than a third of the way down the runway. Alan wanted to shriek with joy, but Rafe smiled wickedly and said, “Full power.”
Alan reacted automatically, running the throttle to full before the speed fell below thirty knots.
“Touch and go. Flaps up.” Alan ran the flaps all the way up with one hand, trying to watch the airspeed while keeping the plane centered on the runway. The airspeed needle passed through fifty-five knots and he pulled back lightly on the stick. His eyes flickered to the rate of climb; he was trying to hold on five degrees, with reasonable success. The plane began to climb away. Rafe spoke to the tower again and turned to Alan. “Nice job. You might have a stick hand, at that. Now ascend to 5500 and turn on course 172 for Naragansett. We’ll land there for lunch.”
The plane was Rafe’s. He kept it at Quonsett while he attended the War College. As a senior 0–4 with no kids and a busted marriage that so far hadn’t cost him alimony, he could maintain the sleek Cessna 182 in top condition and decorate the dash with gauges that were meaningless to Alan.
“You landing on the altimeter?” he asked casually, fiddling with the pocket on his windbreaker.
“Is that wrong?”
“Unfortunately, it just broke.” Rafe grinned and taped a piece of cardboard—he had been planning this, the sonofabitch—over the altimeter dial. “You liked flying with me off the boat, you get to learn my way.”
Rafe’s way was unnerving. Alan watched the ground, then started to glue himself to the angle-of-climb monitor. The airfield was down there, visible, and Alan was well into the approach, yet he felt lost. He kept waggling the wings to get a better view of the ground, and once, he almost panicked when he saw that he was in a 15degree descent instead of being level, but he fought the machine and himself and at last achieved lineup with the runway.
“How’s Rose?” Rafe asked.
Alan took a deep breath. “Rose was pregnant,” he said. “She lost the baby.”
He watched the runway and made a minute correction.
“Never try to correct so close to the ground!” Rafe shouted, and the wheels touched. He modulated his voice. “Nice landing, Buddy.”
“She fell down a ladder during sea trials on her new project.” Alan was thinking of Rose, the pale face on the hospital sheets, the limp hand in his, the averted face. No tears. Rose.
“Fucking A, Alan, that sucks.” With the engine at idle and no slipstream, the utter honesty of Rafe’s comment struck him. That was how it had been at the squadron. Confrontation, joy, sorrow—all right there. Not a lot of bullshit. “She taking it out on you?”
Two nights before, he had tried to make Rose talk about it and he still saw her gesture—hands raised on each side of her head, fingers spread, blocking out sound, sight, him; her voice, I’ll deal with it! Just let me deal with it! The hands, the voice shutting him out—
It was Rafe’s turn to try to smile, wryly now. “You don’t hide things very good, Spy.” He unbuckled his harness. “Get a hundred hours’ real time and you can solo in my plane. You’ll be a good pilot. Just stop paying such close attention to everything.”
Words to live by. Just stop paying such close attention. Right.
Houston.
Rose tears down the corridor and out a fire door, banging the handle with both palms to get it out of her way. The rental car waits in the parking lot and she almost runs to it. Drive as fast as she dares to the airport, dump the car; run to the check-in, only ten minutes to spare, slam down the ticket, run for the departure lounge—
If only I can stay busy. If only I can move fast enough. If only—
Work is a drug. She hates the evenings and the nights. Evenings, there isn’t always enough work to keep her mind from going back to it. Nights, there is never enough sleep, always the waking, the thinking, the pacing around the house or the hotel room. It is better on the road, because there is no Alan beside her there to remind her of what they have lost. Because of her. Because of going too hard, trying too hard, wanting too hard—
It was her fault. Not Valdez’s fault. Valdez had fallen on her, but that was because she had been hurrying him up on deck. Trying too hard. Going too fast. Her fault.
Now, so as not to remember, she tries to go faster. Cursing the people ahead of her in the aisle of the plane, the ones who left their overhead crap until the last moment, the ones who have to chat up the flight attendant, the ones who can’t walk fast enough. She hurries around them, almost running toward the terminal, toward the new rental car, the new offices. If she can only go fast enough—
Late that night, she calls Alan, as she does every night. She feels exhausted but doubts she will sleep. She hopes she has enough paperwork to last until tomorrow. She keeps her voice light, nonetheless. She must succeed in making everything seem okay, because he talks of other things: His job bores him. He has had lunch with Abe Peretz. He has heard nothing from O’Neill or Dukas; he is worried about them. What are they doing?
She tries to enter into his concern. Maybe it will get her through the night. What are O’Neill and Dukas doing? What are O’Neill and Dukas … ? All she can think about is the baby and the accident, and she turns on the light and begins to memorize the launch-parameter codes for Peacemaker.
8 (#ulink_7ca2346c-2883-5bad-afdf-d5435f1a9912)
August
East Africa.
Harry O’Neill had made a mistake.
In fact, he had made the biggest mistake a case officer can make.
He had fallen in love.
With one of his agents.
All case officers, it is said, sleep with their agents—surely an exaggeration—but they don’t fall in love. It is the falling in love that is the mistake.
And he knew it was a mistake, and he was happy. He was happier than he had ever been in his life, happy in a way that reconciled him to his father’s snobbery and his ex-wife’s nastiness, to his own self-doubt and to the dangers of his mistake. If his life ended tomorrow, he told himself, he would say it had been worth it.
“I love you,” he said to her. “You make me happy.”
Elizabeth Momparu looked at him. Her eyes were slightly swollen from sex and sleep and fatigue, and when she half-closed them to look at him, they seemed to turn up at the corners. She had a fair idea of how she looked to him but no notion of how she really looked to him—the most beautiful, the most wonderful, the most enchanting woman in the world. She had had a lot of men, white and black. Some of them had said they loved her. She had thought she had loved three. She had never known one like Harry.
“I like being with you,” she said. “I like being safe with you.”
They were sitting on the terrace of a game lodge in eastern Kenya. Night was almost there, coming fast; the retreating day had left a reddish light that made everything—waterhole, thorn trees, sky—seem like an old color slide that had lost all its blue and green. In front of them was a low wall, and a dropoff of twenty feet to an artificial waterhole that would be floodlighted later. For now, only rock hyraxes the size of gray squirrels were there, scrambling up over the wall and taking crumbs from the tourists. It was a safe place, she was right; O’Neill had looked for a long time before he had picked it. None of the Hutu Interahamwe would ever come there.
“Why don’t we get married, and you can feel that way all the time?”
“Harry—!”
He smiled, shrugged, as a man who has asked the question before will shrug. He would go on asking it, too. One day, as they both knew, she would say yes. He touched her fingers, and she twined hers into his.
The reason it is the worst of mistakes for a case officer to fall in love with an agent is that he endangers his very reason for being when he does so. An agent, cut it how you will, is expendable, but a lover is not. At the same time, the agent is rarely unique, is more likely part of a network. When the case officer wants to fold the agent into his real life, he destroys both of them, and often the rest of the network, too.
O’Neill knew these things. He was thinking of them as he sat in the near-dark and seemed to watch the hyraxes. He had already decided that he didn’t care, at least not about the theoretical part—his job, his career, the Agency. He did care about disentangling her from her role as agent.
“I don’t want you to go back,” he said.
She squeezed his fingers. “I have to.”
“I want you to fly to Paris. I’ve made a reservation for you.”
“Oh, Harry—”
“You’ll be safe. Somebody will meet you.”
She was silent for so long, she seemed to have forgotten. “You know I can’t,” she said at last.
He knew she wouldn’t go. He had to do it, had to make the arrangements, as if she would. Maybe she would. But of course she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t for the reason—one of the reasons—that he loved her: because she wanted to stop the killing. She had first allowed Hammer to recruit her because once she knew what he was doing, she thought that helping the Americans would bring their power and what she saw as their idealism into it. The Americans would stop the killing, she had thought. But the Americans hadn’t stopped the killing, as it turned out.
“I have to go back there,” she said. “You know you need me there. Six months, then maybe—”
“I’ll get somebody else.” He knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t. She was close to the leadership; he’d never find anybody so close, with all the turmoil. It would take years to replace her. That would be somebody else’s problem.
“Maybe,” she said, “things will change next year.”
Things wouldn’t change in a hundred years. They both knew that. But it was what people told themselves all over central Africa: maybe things will change. Meanwhile, the uneasy truce in Rwanda had become a preparation for war in Zaire, using the refugees there as a weapon. O’Neill had agents in Uganda and eastern Tanzania and Zambia now, and they all said the same thing: a splinter Zairean group in Tanzania was going to be supported in a takeover of Zaire. The other nations would all profit, grabbing slices of territory—buffer zones, minerals. The Hutu refugees were a kind of shield for all sides, behind which the Interahamwe sheltered and the potential invaders hid their intentions.
