Jihad by Stephen Coonts

talk about it with was Charlie, and he was the last person she could discuss it with. You couldn’t talk about an ex-lover with a present lover, no way.
    Terry Pinchon was an ex-lover. A brief lover, definitely ex. Even though her heart had jumped at seeing him.
    Even though it jumped now, thinking about him.
    How could he let her think he was dead?
    And what the hell had she seen in him? He was a jerk.
    But her heart was racing, even now.
    A handsome jerk.
    Lia looked out the window. The sky remained dark black, the stars twinkling brightly. She went back to bed, knowing she needed to rest, also knowing she wouldn’t get any.

CHAPTER 33
     
    IRENA HADASH MET Rubens at the door to her condominium in her stocking feet.
    “Thank you for coming over,” she said, reaching to hug him. She smelled of cigarettes—and a little gin, Rubens thought
    Certainly she was entitled to both.
    “There’s so much—I can’t process it all,” she said.
    Rubens followed her inside to the kitchen. Irena had reclaimed the family name after her divorce a year before, and the condo dated from then as well. It was a small, one-story unit in a development that would not have been considered fancy even outside the Beltway.
    “I have to find a funeral home to send him to,” said Irena, stacking forms to one side of the table before sitting.
    “He’s still at the hospital?”
    Instead of answering, she told Rubens that her father had begun to bleed uncontrollably during the operation. “That’s not supposed to happen, is it? It’s not.”
    “No,” said Rubens.
    “They want to do an autopsy.”
    “They should.”
    “The president—” Irena stopped. “Do you mind, would it be okay if I smoked?”
    “Of course not. It’s your house.” Rubens tried to smile, but even to him his voice sounded awkward and not particularly consoling. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing, but he felt as if he had to do something, had to offer some consolation. He owed George Hadash so much, he had to do something, even if it was inept.
    Irena got up and went to the counter, grabbing her pocketbook and struggling with a Bic lighter before getting the cigarette to catch. “I’m out of practice.”
    “What were you saying about the president?”
    “He said—he told me he thought...”
    The phone rang. Irena jerked around to grab it, but then hesitated.
    “Do you want me to screen your calls?” Rubens asked.
    “Maybe. Yes. Please.” Rubens got up and took the phone off the hook on the third ring.
    “Ms. Irena Hadash’s residence,” he said.
    “Who the hell are you?” demanded a male voice.
    “This is William Rubens. I’m a friend of the family. What can I do for you?”
    “Tell Irena her daughter’s father wants to know when he can drop her off.”
    Rubens cleared his throat. “There’s been a death in the family.”
    “Yeah. Put her on.”
    Rubens cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. “Your ex, I believe.”
    Irena nodded, took a long puff of the cigarette, then got up again and took the phone, walking with it to the far end of the kitchen before talking. He pretended not to hear her discussing whether or not the kindergartener could stay for a few days; the ex was clearly giving her a hard time. Well, there was no mystery there why she got divorced; the only question was how she could be so even tempered with the jerk.
    When she finally hung up, Irena stubbed her cigarette out in the sink and got another.
    “I can help arrange for a sitter,” said Rubens, though in actual fact he had no idea how this was done.
    “No. John will take her. He just wants to make it as miserable an experience as possible, on the theory that I’ll be less likely to ask in the future.” She smiled faintly. “It’s standard operating procedure. Do you want something? A drink?”
    Rubens shook his head. “You started to tell me about the president.”
    “He suggested a state funeral. In the Capitol Rotunda. I—he said it was up to me.”
    “You