but he felt the tension drain from his body.
“You look tired, Alan. Is everything alright at home?”
Canfield affected a weary smile. “Just fine, sir. I’m sure it’s just all the travel.”
“Of course it is.” Again the appraiser’s eye.
When Canfield left his boss’s office, it was with the feeling of having had a huge weight lifted. He knew, though, the temporary nature of that state. Twelve days remained for him to accomplish a great deal. If he failed, the next meeting he’d be having with Arthur Van Camp would be of an entirely different nature. And that truth spoke to the other emotion rising to the surface—one he seldom allowed himself to entertain: anger. For it was becoming increasingly clear that the endgame he’d laid out for himself was now subject to alteration.
Over the last couple of years, as he’d led Project: Night House from one milestone to another, he’d approached the endeavor as a career advancement strategy. That mind-set made it easier to get through some of the more sordid elements of the project. Now, however, he was beginning to realize that, like Dabir, and the earthquake project at Afar, and the mining operation in South Africa, and any of a dozen other initiatives that Van Camp had called a halt to, Canfield might find himself on that list as well. After all, if Night House succeeded, the man who had pulled it off would undoubtedly be the most dangerous of loose ends. Rather than consider that unpleasant thought more, he decided to go home.
He pulled into the driveway just after eleven p.m. and could see no lights on in the house. Phyllis wouldn’t have waited up for him. He stepped through the front door and set his briefcase on the hall table, then moved quietly to the kitchen. There, he turned on a light and began scrounging around in the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich. He sat at the small kitchen table, letting go the stresses of the day. In fact, so thoroughly did the list of things he had to accomplish drain from his mind that he decided to head up to bed rather than spend the next few hours in his office. Setting his plate in the sink, he switched off the light and went upstairs.
Reaching the bedroom, he saw the shape of his wife in bed. In the darkness, eased only by the moonlight spilling through the window, he thought he saw a wineglass on the nightstand. He shook his head as he started to undress. If she was drinking to help her sleep, it meant she wasn’t in a good place. He resolved to go to the office late tomorrow, to spend some time with his wife. Maybe he’d make breakfast. They hadn’t taken a walk around the neighborhood in a long time.
As he slid into bed he moved close to her and gently kissed her cheek. The action took him closer to the nightstand on her side of the bed—the one with the empty wineglass. Next to the glass lay an open pill bottle.
December 10, 2012, 9:54 A.M.
When Richards walked into the room, Brent could sense a different tone than he’d witnessed so far, even before the colonel opened his mouth. Maddy must have sensed it as well, because her face lost its smile.
“Problem, Colonel?” she asked.
Instead of answering, Richards tossed a few stapled pages on the table between the captain and the professor. Maddy reached for it, reorienting it so she could scan the text. In only a few moments she looked up, her eyes carrying either surprise or worry—Brent couldn’t tell which.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a threat update,” the colonel answered. “We get one daily.”
Brent reached for it, assuming that if he wasn’t supposed to read it, Maddy would break his hand. He read the first few lines, essentially bullet points of various hot spots around the globe. It went on for three pages, and if the first entries were an indication of things, then the overall state of the world was much more precarious than Brent thought. He looked up at the colonel.
“Since you get this every day, I’m
“You look tired, Alan. Is everything alright at home?”
Canfield affected a weary smile. “Just fine, sir. I’m sure it’s just all the travel.”
“Of course it is.” Again the appraiser’s eye.
When Canfield left his boss’s office, it was with the feeling of having had a huge weight lifted. He knew, though, the temporary nature of that state. Twelve days remained for him to accomplish a great deal. If he failed, the next meeting he’d be having with Arthur Van Camp would be of an entirely different nature. And that truth spoke to the other emotion rising to the surface—one he seldom allowed himself to entertain: anger. For it was becoming increasingly clear that the endgame he’d laid out for himself was now subject to alteration.
Over the last couple of years, as he’d led Project: Night House from one milestone to another, he’d approached the endeavor as a career advancement strategy. That mind-set made it easier to get through some of the more sordid elements of the project. Now, however, he was beginning to realize that, like Dabir, and the earthquake project at Afar, and the mining operation in South Africa, and any of a dozen other initiatives that Van Camp had called a halt to, Canfield might find himself on that list as well. After all, if Night House succeeded, the man who had pulled it off would undoubtedly be the most dangerous of loose ends. Rather than consider that unpleasant thought more, he decided to go home.
He pulled into the driveway just after eleven p.m. and could see no lights on in the house. Phyllis wouldn’t have waited up for him. He stepped through the front door and set his briefcase on the hall table, then moved quietly to the kitchen. There, he turned on a light and began scrounging around in the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich. He sat at the small kitchen table, letting go the stresses of the day. In fact, so thoroughly did the list of things he had to accomplish drain from his mind that he decided to head up to bed rather than spend the next few hours in his office. Setting his plate in the sink, he switched off the light and went upstairs.
Reaching the bedroom, he saw the shape of his wife in bed. In the darkness, eased only by the moonlight spilling through the window, he thought he saw a wineglass on the nightstand. He shook his head as he started to undress. If she was drinking to help her sleep, it meant she wasn’t in a good place. He resolved to go to the office late tomorrow, to spend some time with his wife. Maybe he’d make breakfast. They hadn’t taken a walk around the neighborhood in a long time.
As he slid into bed he moved close to her and gently kissed her cheek. The action took him closer to the nightstand on her side of the bed—the one with the empty wineglass. Next to the glass lay an open pill bottle.
December 10, 2012, 9:54 A.M.
When Richards walked into the room, Brent could sense a different tone than he’d witnessed so far, even before the colonel opened his mouth. Maddy must have sensed it as well, because her face lost its smile.
“Problem, Colonel?” she asked.
Instead of answering, Richards tossed a few stapled pages on the table between the captain and the professor. Maddy reached for it, reorienting it so she could scan the text. In only a few moments she looked up, her eyes carrying either surprise or worry—Brent couldn’t tell which.
“What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a threat update,” the colonel answered. “We get one daily.”
Brent reached for it, assuming that if he wasn’t supposed to read it, Maddy would break his hand. He read the first few lines, essentially bullet points of various hot spots around the globe. It went on for three pages, and if the first entries were an indication of things, then the overall state of the world was much more precarious than Brent thought. He looked up at the colonel.
“Since you get this every day, I’m
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