“Do I get to see the family for a couple of days?”
“Sure. It’ll take awhile to get things in place. I’ll have all the information you need messengered down to The Farm.”
“What do we call this one?”
“RECIPROCITY.”
“I guess that about covers it.” Clark’s face broke into a grin. He walked out of the room toward the elevator. The new DDI was there, Dr. Ryan, heading to Judge Moore’s office. They’d never quite met, Clark and Ryan, and this wasn’t the time, though their lives had already touched on two occasions.
14. Snatch and Grab
I MUST THANK your Director Jacobs,” Juan said. “Perhaps we will meet someday.” He’d taken his time with this one. Soon, he judged, he’d be able to extract any information he wanted from her with the same intimate confidence that might be expected of husband and wife – after all, true love did not allow for secrets, did it?
“Perhaps,” Moira replied after a moment. Already part of her was thinking that the Director would come to her wedding. It wasn’t too much to hope for, was it?
“What did he travel to Colombia for, anyway?” he asked while his fingertips did some more exploring over what was now very familiar ground.
“Well, it’s public information now. They called it Operation TARPON.” Moira explained on for several minutes during which Juan’s caresses didn’t miss a beat.
Which was only due to his experience as an intelligence officer. He actually found himself smiling lazily at the ceiling. The fool. I warned him. I warned him more than once in his own office, but no – he was too smart, too confident in his own cleverness to take my advice. Well, maybe the stupid bastard will heed my advice now… It took another few moments before he found himself asking how his employer would react. That was when the smiling and the caresses stopped.
“Something wrong, Juan?”
“Your director picked a dangerous time to visit Bogotá. They will be very angry. If they discover that he is there -”
“The trip is a secret. Their attorney general is an old friend –
I think they went to school together, and they’ve known each other for forty years.”
The trip was a secret. Cortez told himself that they couldn’t be so foolish as to – but they could. He was amazed that Moira didn’t feel the chill that swept over his body. But what could he do?
As was true of the families of military people and sales executives, Clark’s family was accustomed to having him away at short notice and for irregular intervals. They were also used to having him reappear without much in the way of warning. It was almost a game, and one, strangely enough, to which his wife didn’t object. In this case he took a car from the CIA pool and made the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Yorktown, Virginia, by himself to think over the operation he was about to undertake. By the time he turned off Interstate 64, he’d answered most of the procedural questions, though the exact details would wait until he’d had a chance to go over the intelligence package that Ritter had promised to send down.
Clark’s house was that of a middle-level executive, a four-bedroom split-foyer brick dwelling set in an acre of the long-needled pines common to the American South. It was a ten-minute drive from The Farm, the CIA’s training establishment whose post-office address is Williamsburg, Virginia, but which is actually closer to Yorktown, adjacent to an installation in which the Navy keeps both submarine-launched ballistic missiles and their nuclear warheads. The development in which he lived was mainly occupied by other CIA instructors, obviating the need for elaborate stories for the neighbors’ benefit. His family, of course, had a pretty good idea what he did for a living. His two daughters, Maggie, seventeen, and Patricia, fourteen, occasionally called him “Secret Agent Man,” which they’d picked up from the revival of the Patrick McGoohan TV series on one of the cable channels, but they knew not to discuss it with their schoolmates – though they would occasionally warn their boyfriends to behave as responsibly as possible around their father. It was an unnecessary warning. On instinct, most men watched their behavior around Mr. Clark. John Clark did not have horns and hooves, but it seldom took more than a single glance to know that he was not to be trifled with, either. His wife, Sandy, knew even more, including what he had done before joining the Agency. Sandy was a registered nurse who taught student nurses in the operating rooms of the local teaching hospital. As such she was accustomed to dealing with issues of life and death, and she took comfort from the fact that her husband was one of the few “laymen” who understood what that was all about, albeit from a reversed perspective. To his wife and children, John Terence Clark was a devoted husband and father, if somewhat overly protective at times. Maggie had once complained that he’d scared off one prospective “steady” with nothing more than a look. That the boy in question had later been arrested for drunken driving had only proved her father correct, rather to her chagrin. He was also a far easier touch than their mother on issues like privileges and had a ready shoulder to cry on, when he was home. At home, his counsel was invariably quiet and reasoned, his language mild, and his demeanor relaxed, but his family knew that away from home he was something else entirely. They didn’t care about that.
He pulled into the driveway just before dinnertime, taking his soft two-suiter in through the kitchen to find the smells of a decent dinner. Sandy had been surprised too many times to overreact on the matter of how much food she’d prepared.
“Where have you been?” Sandy asked rhetorically, then went into her usual guessing game. “Not much work done on the tan. Someplace cold or cloudy?”
“Spent most of my time indoors,” Clark replied honestly. Stuck with a couple of clowns in a damned comma van on a hilltop surrounded by jungle. Just like the bad old days. Almost. For all her intelligence, she almost never guessed where he’d been. But then, she wasn’t supposed to.
“How long… ?”
“Only a couple of days, then I have to go out again. It’s important.”
“Anything to do with -” Her head jerked toward the kitchen TV.
Clark just smiled and shook his head.
“What do you think happened?”
“From what I see, the druggies got real lucky,” he said lightly.
Sandy knew what her husband thought of druggies, and why. Everyone had a pet hate. That was his – and hers; she’d been a nurse too long, had too often seen the results of substance abuse, to think otherwise. It was the one thing he’d lectured the girls on, and though they were as rebellious as any pair of healthy adolescents, it was one line they didn’t approach, much less cross.
“The President sounds angry.”
“How would you feel? The FBI Director was his friend – as far as a politician has friends.” Clark felt the need to qualify the statement. He was wary of political figures, even the ones he’d voted for.
“What is he going to do about it?”
“I don’t know, Sandy.” I haven’t quite figured it out yet. “Where are the kids?”
“They went to Busch Gardens with their friends. There’s a new coaster, and they’re probably screaming their brains out.”
“Do I have time to shower? I’ve been traveling all day.”
“Dinner in thirty minutes.”
“Fine.” He kissed her again and headed for the bedroom with his bag. Before entering the bathroom, he emptied his dirty laundry into the hamper. Clark would give himself one restful day with the family before starting on his mission planning. There wasn’t that much of a hurry. For missions of this sort, haste made death. He hoped the politicians would understand that.
Of course, they wouldn’t, he told himself on the way to the shower. They never did.
“Don’t feel bad,” Moira told him. “You’re tired. I’m sorry I’ve worn you out.” She cradled his face to her chest. A man was not a machine, after all, and five times in just over one day’s time… what could she fairly expect of her lover? He had to sleep, had to rest. As did she, Moira realized, drifting off herself.
Within minutes, Cortez gently disengaged himself, watching her slow, steady breathing, a dreamy smile on her placid face while he wondered what the hell he could do. If anything. Place a phone call – risk everything for a brief conversation on a non-secure line? The Colombian police or the Americans, or somebody had to have taps on all those phones. No, that was more dangerous than doing nothing at all.
His professionalism told him that the safest course of action was to do nothing. Cortez looked down at himself. Nothing was precisely what he had just accomplished. It was the first time that had happened in a very long time.