Saving Faith By: David Baldacci

in the Washington Post the next morning would identify them only as Mr.

and Mrs. Robert Thornhill.

Ironically, the invitation to the dinner had not come because of

Thornhill’s position at the Agency. Who was invited to White House

functions such as this, and why, were the greatest of mysteries in the

capital city. However, the Thornhills’ invitation had been extended

because of his wife’s well-known philanthropic work for the District of

Columbia poor-a charitable endeavor in which the first lady herself was

much involved as well. And Thornhill had to admit, his wife was

dedicated to this cause. When she wasn’t at the country club, of

course.

The ride home was uneventful; the couple talked of mundane things while

most of Thornhill’s mind was focused on the phone call from Howard

Constantinople. Losing his men had been a blow to Thornhill, both

personally and professionally. He had worked with them for years. How

all three had been killed was beyond his comprehension. He had people

down in North Carolina right now finding out as much as possible.

He had not heard anything further from Constantinople. Whether the man

had run was unknown. But Faith and Buchanan were dead. And so was the

other FBI agent, Reynolds. At least he was almost certain they were

dead. The fact that no newspaper reports had come out regarding at

least six dead bodies at a beach house in an affluent area in the Outer

Banks was particularly troubling. It had been over a week, and

nothing. It might be the Bureau’s doing, covering up what was quickly

building to a PR nightmare for them. Yes, he could see them doing

that. Unfortunately, without Constantinople he had lost his eyes and

ears at the Bureau. He would have to do something about that soon. It

would take time to cultivate a new mole, yet nothing was impossible.

Well, the trail could never lead back to him. His three operatives had

cover buried so deeply that the authorities would be incredibly

fortunate if they managed to dig through even the surface layer. They

would find nothing after that. Well, the three had died heroes. He

and his colleagues had toasted their memory in the underground chamber

upon learning of their deaths.

There was one more troubling loose end: Lee Adams. He had gone off on

his motorcycle, presumably to Charlottesville to make sure his daughter

was safe. He had never arrived in Charlottesville, that Thornhill knew

for a fact. So where was he? Had he come back and managed to kill

Thornhill’s men? And yet one man taking out all three of them was

incomprehensible. But Constantinople had not mentioned Adams in the

call.

As the car drove along, Thornhill felt much less confident than he had

at the beginning of the evening. He would have to watch the situation

very carefully. Perhaps there would be some message waiting for him at

home.

As the car pulled into their driveway, Thornhill glanced at his watch.

It was late, and he had an early morning. He had to testify tomorrow

before Rusty Ward’s committee. He had finally tracked down the answers

the senator wanted, meaning he was prepared to throw out so much

bullshit that the room would have to be fumigated after he had

finished.

Thornhill disarmed the security system, kissed his wife good night and

watched as she went up the stairs to her bedroom. She was still a very

attractive woman, slender, fine-boned. Retirement would be coming

soon. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d had nightmares about it; his

sitting in agony at interminable bridge games, country club dinners,

fund raisers or hacking his way through infinite rounds of golf, his

insufferably perky wife at his side for all of it.

However, as he watched the woman’s nicely shaped backside gliding up

the stairs, Thornhill suddenly saw more enticing possibilities for his

golden years. They were relatively young, wealthy; they could travel

the world. He even thought he might turn in early tonight, and take

advantage of the physical urges he was suddenly feeling as he watched

Mrs. Thornhill gracefully ascend the stairs to their bedroom. He

liked the way she slid her high heels off, exposing black-hosed feet;

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