wariness in her voice.
He went across the room to his walk-in closet, slid a set of hinged drawers aside, and opened the small floor safe, from which he took a small black leather bag of the type diplomatic couriers usually carried strapped to their wrists aboard commercial air flights. It was his field operations bag, what in the old days he’d called his “go-to-hell kit.” Inside were several passports, U.S., Canadian, and French, all identifying him under work names as a diplomatic representative. The bag also held ten thousand dollars in cash, in U.S. dollars and euros; credit cards to match the passports; and his pistol, a Walther PPK in the 9 mm version, two spare magazines of ammunition, and a quick-draw holster that could be worn at the small of his back or at the inside of his left ankle.
On the inside of the satchel, a fine mesh lead alloy screen had been sewn between the fabric lining and the leather, which made airport screening devices useless. In most instances traveling under a diplomatic passport excused him from body and baggage searches. The mesh was just another precaution.
He took the case down to the garage, where he added the DVD player Rencke had given him, locked it, and put it in the backseat of his Nissan. The he got a bottle of good Pinot Grigio from the wine safe in the kitchen pantry, opened it, got two glasses, and went down to the gazebo.
She’d put her book aside, and when she saw her husband coming with the bottle of wine and glasses, she looked away for a second, vexed. “Whenever you show up down here with wine and that look, I know something’s up that I won’t like.”
“Am I that obvious?” McGarvey asked. He kissed her upturned cheek, and poured a glass of wine for her.
“Transparent,” she said.
“Sorry about lunch, sweetheart,” he said. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Her lips compressed and she nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“In the morning.”
“Maybe I should fly up with you,” she suggested hopefully. “While you’re out at Langley doing your thing I could see Audie, and take Elizabeth shopping or something. Afterward you could join us and we could make a nice minivacation out of it. What do you say?”
McGarvey shook his head. “Not this time, sweetheart.”
Her face fell. “Washington is just a way point.”
He nodded.
“You promised that you wouldn’t get involved with anything unless it was important to both of us. Is it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. But his gut feeling was as strong as ever, and Rencke’s programs were lavender and deepening. “I’m just going to take a closer look, and maybe turn around and come home.”
“Any hint where you’re going?”
He shook his head.
“How long you’ll be gone?”
“With any luck only a few days,” McGarvey told her.
“And without any luck?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Katy. Could be a week, maybe longer. Maybe even a lot longer.”
“Goddamn it to hell!” Katy shouted. She jumped up, threw her glass away, shattering it against the railing, wine flying everywhere, and stormed out of the gazebo and down the thirty yards to the wooden dock.
It wasn’t often she had these outbursts because of his profession, but he’d learned the hard way that when she did it was best to let her work it out on her own. She would calm down, and they could talk it out.
Early in their marriage he’d been sent to Santiago, Chile, to assassinate a general who’d been responsible for the torture and deaths of thousands of people, and who, if he had lived, would possibly have become president of Chile and would have killed even more of his people.
When he’d come back to Washington he’d learned that the operation had been called off at the last moment, but it had been too late to stop him. It had been a setup to get rid of him, and he’d been fired from the Company.
That afternoon when he walked through the front door of his house, bag in hand, Katy had been there in the stair
He went across the room to his walk-in closet, slid a set of hinged drawers aside, and opened the small floor safe, from which he took a small black leather bag of the type diplomatic couriers usually carried strapped to their wrists aboard commercial air flights. It was his field operations bag, what in the old days he’d called his “go-to-hell kit.” Inside were several passports, U.S., Canadian, and French, all identifying him under work names as a diplomatic representative. The bag also held ten thousand dollars in cash, in U.S. dollars and euros; credit cards to match the passports; and his pistol, a Walther PPK in the 9 mm version, two spare magazines of ammunition, and a quick-draw holster that could be worn at the small of his back or at the inside of his left ankle.
On the inside of the satchel, a fine mesh lead alloy screen had been sewn between the fabric lining and the leather, which made airport screening devices useless. In most instances traveling under a diplomatic passport excused him from body and baggage searches. The mesh was just another precaution.
He took the case down to the garage, where he added the DVD player Rencke had given him, locked it, and put it in the backseat of his Nissan. The he got a bottle of good Pinot Grigio from the wine safe in the kitchen pantry, opened it, got two glasses, and went down to the gazebo.
She’d put her book aside, and when she saw her husband coming with the bottle of wine and glasses, she looked away for a second, vexed. “Whenever you show up down here with wine and that look, I know something’s up that I won’t like.”
“Am I that obvious?” McGarvey asked. He kissed her upturned cheek, and poured a glass of wine for her.
“Transparent,” she said.
“Sorry about lunch, sweetheart,” he said. “Couldn’t be helped.”
Her lips compressed and she nodded. “When are you leaving?”
“In the morning.”
“Maybe I should fly up with you,” she suggested hopefully. “While you’re out at Langley doing your thing I could see Audie, and take Elizabeth shopping or something. Afterward you could join us and we could make a nice minivacation out of it. What do you say?”
McGarvey shook his head. “Not this time, sweetheart.”
Her face fell. “Washington is just a way point.”
He nodded.
“You promised that you wouldn’t get involved with anything unless it was important to both of us. Is it?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. But his gut feeling was as strong as ever, and Rencke’s programs were lavender and deepening. “I’m just going to take a closer look, and maybe turn around and come home.”
“Any hint where you’re going?”
He shook his head.
“How long you’ll be gone?”
“With any luck only a few days,” McGarvey told her.
“And without any luck?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, Katy. Could be a week, maybe longer. Maybe even a lot longer.”
“Goddamn it to hell!” Katy shouted. She jumped up, threw her glass away, shattering it against the railing, wine flying everywhere, and stormed out of the gazebo and down the thirty yards to the wooden dock.
It wasn’t often she had these outbursts because of his profession, but he’d learned the hard way that when she did it was best to let her work it out on her own. She would calm down, and they could talk it out.
Early in their marriage he’d been sent to Santiago, Chile, to assassinate a general who’d been responsible for the torture and deaths of thousands of people, and who, if he had lived, would possibly have become president of Chile and would have killed even more of his people.
When he’d come back to Washington he’d learned that the operation had been called off at the last moment, but it had been too late to stop him. It had been a setup to get rid of him, and he’d been fired from the Company.
That afternoon when he walked through the front door of his house, bag in hand, Katy had been there in the stair
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