Any Minute Now by Eric Van Lustbader

its own face off.”
    *   *   *
    Julie Regan listened for Omar Hemingway to return from lunch down in the bowels of NSA HQ, where all the bigwigs congregated like geese honking their arguments on what route to travel flying south. No one ever won or lost that argument; it was endless.
    Julie herself had just finished her yogurt and fresh fruit, which she ate every working day, sitting at her desk. She did this so she could answer phones. Any call at any time might be important enough for her to alert her boss, drag him upstairs away from the constant honking.
    Three days had gone by without her finding a proper opening to speak with Hemingway without arousing his suspicion. As her boss liked to joke: “Only the paranoid survive.” Only with him it wasn’t a joke. Anyone who worked for him who didn’t get that was out on their ear in no time.
    Julie had been with him for six years, coming to him when she was still wet behind the ears. She got him instantly, and he got her. Soon after, she became his strong left hand. “I’ll keep my right, thank you very much,” he said, when he had summoned her to his office to anoint her. He raised her three pay grades, which was almost unheard of, sent her off on a week’s vacation, which, he said, was the last one she’d have for a long time. He hadn’t been kidding. Julie got Christmas and New Year’s off. Having no family to speak of, and her closeted husband out of town with his family in Missouri, she spent Thanksgivings with Hemingway, which was not nearly as bad as it sounded. Though he entertained few people, he was a tremendous host and, to her astonishment, an accomplished cook. She always stayed over, in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from the master suite. He never once made a pass at her or said anything suggestive. There had been times when she’d wished he would. He had missed his chance, however, and now she had King Cutler to snuggle with. She was far safer with Cutler, anyway.
    As usual, she heard Hemingway’s booming basso before she saw him. Quickly tossing the remnants of her Spartan lunch in the wastepaper basket, she was already standing when he entered the outer office, which was, in a way, her territory.
    He eyed her judiciously. “Calls?”
    â€œSix,” she said. “None urgent.”
    He took the clutch of pink notes out of her outstretched hand without breaking stride and vanished into his sanctum. He left his door open, however, and several moments after she heard the desk chair squeak beneath his weight, he called her in.
    â€œClose the door,” he said, as she crossed the threshold.
    She did as he asked, thinking, Now, this is unusual. He has never had me in here while the door is closed, not even when he was anointing me.
    Hemingway gestured. “Take a pew.”
    Not waiting to see if she complied, he swiveled around, stared out his slit-like window, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, seeming in deep contemplation. Julie sat in a state of mild anticipation. What in the world could have provoked this behavior? she wondered. Did the honking downstairs finally come to an end? Had something been decided? Or—and here she felt a sudden dread chill her insides—had he somehow found out about her sexual liaison with King Cutler? Impossible, she reminded herself. Their security had been impeccable. But still … she knew, because she had heard Hemingway preach many times, that no security was ever absolute. Someone, somewhere was always devising a better mousetrap.
    â€œI want to tell you about my best friend, Frankie. He wasn’t my high school basketball buddy, and he wasn’t my college roommate. We didn’t go through officer training together. It was the meat-grinder where we met: in-country. ’Nam. At the very edge of the map, where there are no rules, laws, or second chances. We met on the firing