Saving Faith By: David Baldacci

himself. The wondrous colors, the exquisitely painted profiles, the

subtle brilliance of the hand that had invented this image so clearly

evident in every brush stroke, never failed to enrapture anyone who saw

it. The gentle curl of finger, the luminosity of the eyes, each detail

still so vibrant almost four hundred years after the paint had

hardened.

It was perfect love on both sides, uncomplicated by silent, corrosive

agendas. At one level it was the simple thread of biological function.

At another it was a phenomenon enhanced by the touch of God. This

painting was his most prized possession. Unfortunately, it would soon

have to be sold, and perhaps his home as well. He was running out of

money to fund the “retirements” of his people. Indeed, he felt guilty

for still owning the painting. The funds it could generate, the help

it could bring to so many. And yet just to sit and gaze at it was so

soothing, so uplifting. It was the height of selfishness, and brought

him more pleasure than just about anything else.

But maybe it was all moot at this point. The end was coming for

Buchanan. He knew that Thornhill would never let him walk away from

all of this. And he had no illusions that he would let Buchanan’s

people enjoy any retirement whatsoever. They were his

slaves-in-waiting. The CIA man, despite his refinement and pedigree,

was a spy. What were spies but living lies? However, Buchanan would

honor his agreement with his politicians. What he had promised them in

return for helping him would be there, whether they would be able to

enjoy it or not.

As the light of the fire played over the painting, the woman’s face, it

seemed to Buchanan, took on the characteristics of Faith Lockhart-not

the first time he had observed this. His gaze traced the set of full

lips that could turn petulant or sensual without warning. As his eye

ran down the long, gracefully formed face, the hair golden, not auburn,

in just the right splash of angled light, he always thought of Faith.

She had a pair of eyes that held you; the left pupil slightly off

center added depth to make Faith’s countenance truly remarkable. And

it was as though this flaw of nature had empowered her to see right

through anyone.

He remembered every detail of their very first meeting. Fresh out of

college, she had bounded into his life with the enthusiasm of a newly

minted missionary, ready to take on the world. She was raw, immature

at certain levels, largely ignorant of the ways of Washington,

astonishingly naive in various respects. And yet she could also

command a room like a movie star. She could be funny and then turn

serious on a dime. She could stroke egos with the best of them and

still get her message across, without overtly pushing the issue. After

five minutes talking to her, Buchanan knew she had what it took to

flourish in his world. After her first month on the job, his intuition

proved correct. She did her homework, worked tirelessly, learned the

issues, dissected the players down to the level needed to do the job

and then went deeper. She understood what everyone needed in order to

walk away a winner. Burning bridges in this town meant you didn’t

survive. Sooner or later, you needed help from everyone, and memories

were exceptionally long in the capital city. As tenacious as a

wolverine, she had endured defeat after defeat on a number of fronts,

but continued to pound away until she was victorious. He had never met

anyone like her before or since. They had been through more together

in fifteen years than couples married a lifetime. She was really all

the family he had. The precocious daughter he was destined never to

have. And now? How did he protect his little girl?

As the rain drifted across the roof and the wind strummed its peculiar

sounds down the aged firebrick of his Old Town chimney, Buchanan forgot

about his car and his flight and the dilemmas confronting him. The man

continued to stare at the painting in the soft glow of the quietly

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