both our throats.”
The room enclosed them, silent and dark.
“Now you know me,” she said.
Gianni didn’t believe her for a minute.
12
P ETER W ALTERS TOOK a morning flight from Naples to the Spanish border city of Andorra, picked up a rental car, and drove high into the lush
summer green of the Pyrenees.
He parked at the edge of a fivc-thousand-foot elevation where he had a clear view of the road winding up toward him and any
traffic that might be approaching on it.
After about twenty minutes, a gray Mercedes rounded a curve a few hundred feet below and stopped at a turnoff. Peter sat there
another few minutes and watched a few cars and trucks pass in both directions. Then he slowly circled down and eased alongside
Tommy Cortlandt, his company connection.
Cortlandt slid into Peter’s car, a tall, slim man with fair hair that appeared to be leaving him by the hour.
He smiled. “Good to see you, Charlie.”
They met perhaps nine or ten times a year, and after eight years the brief exchange had become their standard greeting. Cortlandt
always addressed Peter as Charlie because that was his signature on coded communications, and his assorted aliases meant nothing.
As for Cortlandt’s name, that was old Boston and very much his own. It was his alleged duties as an embassy trade attache
in Brussels that was his cover for his real work there as CIA chief of station. Cortlandt was Peter’s only live contact with
the Company, but even he had no idea who Peter really was, where he lived, or what he did there.
“Nice clean job you did in Zagreb,” said Cortlandt, and handed Peter the plain, sealed envelope that contained his pay in
deutsche marks. “Congratulations.”
Peter stuffed the envelope into his pocket without opening it. “Not so clean. Sirens went off that I didn’t even know about
and never cut.”
“It didn’t hurt anything.”
“No? Try telling that to the poor bastards I had to waste just getting my ass out of there.”
Cortlandt was silent.
“The thing was, I should have known. It was nothing but carelessness.”
“It happens.”
“Not to me.”
Cortlandt looked at him with his pale New England eyes. “You can’t be that different from the rest of us. Even you are allowed
a mistake once in a while.”
“Not when nine or ten people end up dying of it.”
Peter stared off at the mountains fading into the distance. They started green, went blue-purple, then ended a misty gray
at the horizon.
Cortlandt touched his arm and brought him back.
“There’s some news,” he said. “We’re doing Abu Homaidi.”
Peter looked at the COS and waited. A small, cold action began somewhere inside him.
“That last horror in Amsterdam finally did it,” said Cortlandt. “Our consul’s whole family. His three little kids and his
wife. And not enough left to mop off the sidewalk.”
“That’s the fourth. I told you right after the first how it would be. You should have taken the sonofabitch out then.”
“It wasn’t that simple, Charlie. It still isn’t.”
“Bullshit! In the meantime, between the TWA flight and the other bombings, you’ve got almost three hundred dead that could
have still been walking around.”
“That’s unfair.”
Peter had to work to put down his anger. The effort alone made him sweat. And this sort of thing was getting worse, not better.
“We don’t operate in a vacuum,” said Tommy Cortlandt quietly. “Remember. At first we weren’t even sure it
was
Homaidi. Then the peace talks were going on and we couldn’t risk fouling them up. And after that there was some hope of Syria
handing him over for trial.”
“Does all this mean I’m getting him?” Peter asked.
“Do you want him?”
“You kidding? Someone like that, it’s why I’m in this shit to begin with.”
“As I said, it’s still not that simple. So before we decide, let’s talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? He needs to be hit, so I’ll hit
The room enclosed them, silent and dark.
“Now you know me,” she said.
Gianni didn’t believe her for a minute.
12
P ETER W ALTERS TOOK a morning flight from Naples to the Spanish border city of Andorra, picked up a rental car, and drove high into the lush
summer green of the Pyrenees.
He parked at the edge of a fivc-thousand-foot elevation where he had a clear view of the road winding up toward him and any
traffic that might be approaching on it.
After about twenty minutes, a gray Mercedes rounded a curve a few hundred feet below and stopped at a turnoff. Peter sat there
another few minutes and watched a few cars and trucks pass in both directions. Then he slowly circled down and eased alongside
Tommy Cortlandt, his company connection.
Cortlandt slid into Peter’s car, a tall, slim man with fair hair that appeared to be leaving him by the hour.
He smiled. “Good to see you, Charlie.”
They met perhaps nine or ten times a year, and after eight years the brief exchange had become their standard greeting. Cortlandt
always addressed Peter as Charlie because that was his signature on coded communications, and his assorted aliases meant nothing.
As for Cortlandt’s name, that was old Boston and very much his own. It was his alleged duties as an embassy trade attache
in Brussels that was his cover for his real work there as CIA chief of station. Cortlandt was Peter’s only live contact with
the Company, but even he had no idea who Peter really was, where he lived, or what he did there.
“Nice clean job you did in Zagreb,” said Cortlandt, and handed Peter the plain, sealed envelope that contained his pay in
deutsche marks. “Congratulations.”
Peter stuffed the envelope into his pocket without opening it. “Not so clean. Sirens went off that I didn’t even know about
and never cut.”
“It didn’t hurt anything.”
“No? Try telling that to the poor bastards I had to waste just getting my ass out of there.”
Cortlandt was silent.
“The thing was, I should have known. It was nothing but carelessness.”
“It happens.”
“Not to me.”
Cortlandt looked at him with his pale New England eyes. “You can’t be that different from the rest of us. Even you are allowed
a mistake once in a while.”
“Not when nine or ten people end up dying of it.”
Peter stared off at the mountains fading into the distance. They started green, went blue-purple, then ended a misty gray
at the horizon.
Cortlandt touched his arm and brought him back.
“There’s some news,” he said. “We’re doing Abu Homaidi.”
Peter looked at the COS and waited. A small, cold action began somewhere inside him.
“That last horror in Amsterdam finally did it,” said Cortlandt. “Our consul’s whole family. His three little kids and his
wife. And not enough left to mop off the sidewalk.”
“That’s the fourth. I told you right after the first how it would be. You should have taken the sonofabitch out then.”
“It wasn’t that simple, Charlie. It still isn’t.”
“Bullshit! In the meantime, between the TWA flight and the other bombings, you’ve got almost three hundred dead that could
have still been walking around.”
“That’s unfair.”
Peter had to work to put down his anger. The effort alone made him sweat. And this sort of thing was getting worse, not better.
“We don’t operate in a vacuum,” said Tommy Cortlandt quietly. “Remember. At first we weren’t even sure it
was
Homaidi. Then the peace talks were going on and we couldn’t risk fouling them up. And after that there was some hope of Syria
handing him over for trial.”
“Does all this mean I’m getting him?” Peter asked.
“Do you want him?”
“You kidding? Someone like that, it’s why I’m in this shit to begin with.”
“As I said, it’s still not that simple. So before we decide, let’s talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? He needs to be hit, so I’ll hit
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