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;