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