Choppy Water by Stuart Woods

wife?”
    “You’re damned right I am. You don’t know her; she has a bad temper when she’s riled, and a violent streak, too. She broke one of my teeth with a wine bottle once.”
    “Well, if you’re contemplating divorce, here’s your chance,” Elizabeth said.
    “Maybe,” he said, “if I can convince her up front that it’s a matter of national security . . .”
    “Tom, how did you ever get to be an assistant director of the FBI? You’re afraid of your own wife!”
    “I can’t deny that,” he said.
    “Look, here’s how to handle her.” Elizabeth outlined a plan.
    “And part of it is, I have to be mad at her ?”
    “You’ll be mad at her, because her attitude is forcing you to tell her about a top secret op, just to placate her in advance.”
    “I’m not sure I’m that good an actor,” he replied.
    “Well, there’s no time to send you to the Actors Studio for training.”
    “They didn’t cover this at Quantico,” he said.
    “They covered undercover, didn’t they?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Look at this as if you’re going undercover as yourself.”
    He burst out laughing.
    “Is it such a crazy idea?”
    “It is a crazy idea, but it might work.”
    “Don’t overthink it. You have to be real.”
    “She’s real enough for both of us,” he said.
    “Just get it done.” She wadded up her paper bag and took aim at a waste bin.
    Tom took it out of her hand. “I’ll dispose of this,” he said.
    “We’re leaving no trace, huh?”
    “Exactly.”

23
    Tom Blake left the J. Edgar Hoover building and drove to his house in Georgetown. As he opened the garage door with the remote and pulled inside, he was grateful—as he was every time he came home—to his late father-in-law.
    There was some discomfort about living in such a fine old house in such a beautiful neighborhood: he had had to explain to a committee of agency accountants how he could afford to live in a better house than the director. None of them, apparently, had received such a wedding gift. And they had gone over the deeds and closing documents carefully.
    Tom also had had to get used to having a wife who earned three times more than he did—and that was before her father died and she took over his large insurance agency and got a big raise.
    He switched off the car and sat in it for a couple of minutes, working up a head of steam. If this were a play, the stage direction for this scene would read: ENTER, ANNOYED.
    He found her in the kitchen, as usual. One of her great marital attributes was that she cooked beautifully and loved doing it. He had a constant battle with his waistline. He nearly lost his worked-up annoyance when he saw that she was wearing a frilly apron and nothing else. This was one of her little invitations to have sex, and she didn’t care if it was on the kitchen island. That was fine with him, too, even if he had to watch out for the hanging copper pots.
    “Good evening,” he said, more formally than usual. She froze for a moment, then turned slowly around, her bare breasts struggling for freedom from the apron. “And what, exactly, do you mean by that?” she asked.
    “I have a big problem,” he said, “and you’re the cause of it.”
    She frowned. Her interest in immediate sex went out of her eyes. “Go on, tell me.”
    “A big part of my problem is that I can’t tell you,” he replied. “It’s a matter of national security.”
    “Well, that’s a new one,” she said.
    “There’s something I have to do, and you can’t know about it.”
    “Why won’t you tell me?”
    “I didn’t say I won’t tell you. I said you can’t know about it. Think about that for a minute.”
    She thought about it, and her face relaxed. “Oh, I think I see. You’re going to tell me, and then I have to forget about it.”
    “You won’t have anything to forget,” he said.
    “All right, you’re going to tell me, but I can’t know.”
    “You’re starting to grasp the situation.”
    “But if that’s the