For the first time, it sank in: she could have been killed. Her own sense of mortality was suddenly very real. It made her shiver. It made her cringe. Was her faith any stronger, or was it starting to come undone?
She wasn’t sure of the answer.
She thought back to the events earlier in the year, the catastrophe in Kiev. Then there had been the investigation of the missing Pietà of Malta in Madrid.
She wondered: why was God throwing all of this her way?
Was she strong enough to handle it?
She had no answer.
In her hand was her FBI/Treasury ID and shield. She turned it over and examined it.
Keep it? Chuck it?
Should she move forward or go back? Or should she find some other path that diverged to an unknown destination through the woods?
Could any human being answer questions like that?
Her eyes were looking straight ahead, toward the altar and the stained glass beyond. But her gaze was really upon an inner world. She was aware of her own breathing, calm and evenly paced. And she was further aware of an extraordinary stillness, almost trancelike, that overcame her.
Once again, she had killed someone. She didn’t like the feeling of it.
She closed her eyes.
An old habit kicked in. She reached to her neck and fingered the stone pendant that hung there on a gold chain, the pendant that had replaced the small gold cross she had worn as a child. She held her fingers to it, gripping it between a thumb and a forefinger. It was warm from her skin. Soothing. She allowed time to flow by. She didn’t know if it was a minute or five. It was as if she had a foot in two worlds, the physical and the spiritual. Then there was a sound, a clattering sound, that of a door closing. She opened her eyes and looked. She saw the sexton cleaning in the area where a side door led to the vestry and the quarters for the choir.
The trauma was still there, but she felt as if she had turned a small corner in dealing with it. She felt better. Something had changed. For the first time since the previous evening, she enjoyed an inner calm, a sense of peace.
There was no flash of light, no chorus of angels, no dramatic revelation. Rather, when she opened her eyes again, she felt as if God had wrapped himself around her and reassured her. She could live with what had happened. By all she believed in, she had done the right thing.
The question, which had been so perplexing just minutes earlier, seemed so simple now. She had acted in accordance with her faith and her interpretation of morality. She had defended herself and someone she was charged to protect. She had done what she had to do under the circumstances, unpleasant and violent as it may have been.
There then, she told herself. She would, of course, go forward.
She began to think of Egypt.
TWENTY-FIVE
Alex arrived by car at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, on Thursday morning at 8:35. The meeting was in a small conference room on the third floor, west. A taciturn young assistant led her in. There was an oblong table with twelve empty chairs. The walls were bare, painted light green, with no windows. A series of prints on the wall showed embassies in various parts of the world. Near it was a valance, and next to it an American flag in a stand.
Idly, as she waited, she examined the flag. There was a small white tag on it. Made in China. Typical. She sat at the table and waited. Two minutes later the door abruptly opened and three men surged into the room. All three wore dark suits and had ID badges dangling in plastic holders across their ample midsections.
The mere sight of them reminded her of how much she disliked most of these CIA people: frequently wrong but never in doubt. Disliked, she mused, and distrusted.
“Agent Alexandra LaDuca,” said the leader, extending a hand. “I’m William Quintero, Assistant Director/DCA, Middle Eastern Affairs. These are my associates who’ll also be involved in this case.”
He introduced them. Ronald Strauss, who was in charge of technical support for Egypt, Syria, and Jordan, and Miller Harris, whose official title suggested that he oversaw political officers and operations in the same region.
Handshakes went all around and the group of four sat down. The three men were on the opposite side of the table from Alex, with Quintero at the center.
“Well, now, Alex,” Quintero said to start, “heck of an incident the other night, wasn’t it? How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.”
“The arm?”
“It is what it is,” she said.
“You’re quite a trooper,” Harris said with admiration.
“I’m more of a grouch and a sorehead today than anything,” she answered. “Why am I here?”
Quintero looked at her carefully. “Are you up to a new assignment?” he asked. He continued before she could answer. “This is going to dovetail into areas where you’ve already done some work. So it’s not entirely new.”
“I’m here,” she said.
“And ‘happy’ to be here?” he asked.
“Obviously not,” she said.
“And mentally, you feel ‘together’?”
“As much as any of us might,” she said. “How’s that?”
There was a moment, then all three men smiled.
“It’s a strange line of work we do,” she said. “There’s stress with any assignment.”
“Yes, but some more than others,” Quintero replied.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Tell me why I’m here.”
Another short beat, then, “Okay,” Quintero said softly. “We’re here to talk about your ex-boss, Michael Cerny.”
“He was never officially my boss,” she corrected. “I was asked by my own boss, Mike Gamburian, to work with him on one particular operation. There was no name to the operation, but it involved Yuri Federov. Kiev. You have files in front of you. You know all that.”
“Yes, of course,” Quintero said. To his left, Harris was looking at a file that he had opened, glancing up and down intermittently, while to his right, Strauss sat frozen in place, a similar file closed in front of him, his sleek hand upon it.
“But recently you were asking questions about Michael Cerny?”
“That’s correct.”
“Would you mind telling us why?”
“Curiosity,” said Alex.
“Curiosity?” Quintero pressed. “Or maybe something more specific?”
“Such as?”