Saving Faith By: David Baldacci

in history. This man will not beat you. Slowly, steadily, Thornhill’s

breathing returned to normal.

It could be that Buchanan would simply use the tape as insurance. Why

spend the rest of his life in prison when he could quietly disappear?

No, it made no sense that he would take the tape to the authorities. He

had as much to lose as Thornhill, and he couldn’t possibly be that

vindictive. Thornhill had a sudden thought: Perhaps it was the

painting, the idiotic painting. Maybe that was what had started this

whole thing. Thornhill should never have taken the damned thing. He

would leave a message on Buchanan’s machine at once, telling him his

precious object had been returned. Thornhill left the message and

arranged for the painting to be brought back to Buchanan’s home.

As Thornhill sat back and looked out the window, his confidence was

restored. He had one ace in the hole. A good commander always held

something in reserve. Thornhill made another phone call and received

some positive news, a piece of intelligence that had just come in. His

face brightened, the visions of doom receding. It would be all right

after all. His mouth eased into a smile. The snatch of victory from

the jaws of defeat; it could either age a man several decades overnight

or give him bronze balls. Or sometimes both.

In another few minutes Thornhill was getting out of his car and going

up the sidewalk to his lovely house. His impeccably dressed wife met

him at the door and gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. She had

just come back from a country club function. In fact, she was always

coming back from a country club function, he thought, muttering to

himself. While he agonized over terrorists sneaking into the country

with nuclear-bomb-making materials, she lounged at fashion shows where

young, vacuous women with legs stretching to their inflated bosoms

pranced about in outfits that didn’t even bother to cover their

derrieres. He was out every day saving the world, and his spouse ate

finger sandwiches and drank champagne in the afternoon with other

ladies of considerable means. The idle rich were as stupid as the

uneducated poor-more brainless than cows, in fact, was Thornhill’s

opinion. At least cows had a reasonable understanding that they were

the slaves. I’m an underpaid civil servant, Thornhill mused, and if I

ever let my defenses down, the only thing left of the wealthy and

powerful in this country would be the echoes of their screams. It was

a mesmerizing thought.

He barely heard his wife’s inconsequential ramblings on “her day” as he

put down his briefcase, mixed a drink and escaped to his study and

closed the door. He never told the woman about his day. She’d chat

about it to her one-name, oh-so-chic glorified barber, who would tell

another client, who would let it slip to someone else and the world

would stop tomorrow. No, he never talked shop with the wife. But he

did indulge her in just about everything else. But finger sandwiches

indeed!

Ironically, Thornhill’s home office was much like Buchanan’s. There

were no plaques, testimonials or souvenirs of his long career on

display. He was a spy, after all. Was he supposed to act like the

idiotic FBI and wear T-shirts and hats emblazoned with CIA? He almost

choked on his whiskey at the thought. No, his career had been

invisible to the public, but highly visible to those who mattered. The

country was far better off because of him, though the ordinary folk

would never know it. That was all right. To seek accolades from the

great and ignorant public was the vice of a fool. He did what he did

because of pride. Pride in himself, in his devotion to his country.

Thornhill thought back to his beloved father, a patriot who carried his

secrets, his distinguished triumphs to the grave. Service and honor.

That was what it was all about.

Soon, with a little luck, the son would notch another triumph in his

own career. When Faith showed up, she would be dead within an hour.

And Adams? Well, he would have to die too. Certainly Thornhill had

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