“Why don’t we have the next course upstairs?” he asked.
“Sounds like a good idea,” she smiled, surprised by his unusual boldness.
They stood and embraced, their bodies pressing against each other, he slipped his hand under her dress, ran it up her leg and thigh, lifting the dress in the air. She was wearing black lace underwear. She reached for his belt. They began to undress each other even as they headed for the stairs. They tore off the rest of their clothes in the bedroom; then fell onto the bed and lay facing each other. “My God, you look like a twenty-year old,” said Steve. She smiled then moved her eyes from his face to his crotch where his penis was wildly erect. “I could say the same for you,” she said with a laugh.
They made love three times that night: twice before they went to sleep, once again in the morning when they woke. She made bacon and eggs for breakfast before they each hurried off to their own jobs. “It was marvelous,” she told Steve before leaving, her eyes still radiant.
“I’d say fantastic,” he said, as he headed for his car. He was humming to himself as he drove towards the highway and the road to Langley.
They never dated again. It was Steve who backed off, as he always did in such circumstances. There was a switch inside his skull; a switch he couldn’t control. As soon as he got into a relationship that might actually go somewhere, that might demand he open up, lose his pervasive fear of getting too close, too intimate with someone else, he’d suddenly back off and run for the emotional hills. He’d done that with everyone except Maya. With her, it was the objective circumstances, not his emotional scars that destroyed any possible future together.
Without mentioning Maya, he tried to explain his problem to Gail when she called him at home three days later, asking why she’d heard nothing from him. She was at first sympathetic. “We’re so good together, Steve, I’m sure we can work this out,” and then she became increasingly irate. He had to admit his excuses sounded lame even to himself. They finally met for coffee, and after a very long discussion they agreed to remain good friends.
But Gail was a successful real estate agent, and it made all the sense in the world for Steve to give her a call when he decided to quit the agency and sell his house. She was surprised at his decision. She never knew that he worked for the agency, just something to do with Homeland Security. She already knew his place; it was an ideal location, sound construction, and should move quickly.
“It’s a good time to sell,” she said, “but I’ll miss you. Anything to do with another woman?” she asked cautiously. She had never lost a small hope that they could somehow come together again.
“Not at all,” he said with a smile.
That evening, Steve got a call at home. “Steve, Ed Diamond. Sorry to disturb you outside of office hours. But I wanted to make sure to reach you.” Steve immediately recognized the deep, portentous voice. Diamond was the lead reporter on Focus, the most watched news program in the country, broadcast every Sunday night. On the other hand, could someone at the agency be trying to set him up for a charge of leaking classified information?
“How did you get my number?” Steve asked.
“Can’t really tell you,” said Diamond. “One of my staff managed to dig it up. Again, sorry about the late hour. I wanted to know if I could come by to talk with you, informally.”
“About what?”
“The Russian hacking investigation.”
“Sorry, Ed, but no way. Everything is classified.”
“Totally off the record?”
“Nope. No can do.”
“You’d be doing a service to your country.”
“Ed, I know all the arguments. Please, no.”
“What about sometime in the future?”
“Who knows what the future may bring?” said Steve.
“Who indeed? At least let me give you my private number if case you ever change your mind.”
Steve jotted it down.
Gail sold his house two days later to a couple that had just moved into the area, the husband working at the FDA. They also bought most of the furniture. Steve’s car went at a bargain price to a neighbor who was a passionate hunter.
The rest Steve sold off at a garage sale that weekend, along with his mountain bike.
Gail Larsen dropped by. Steve absented himself from the sale for a couple of minutes, invited her into the kitchen, and poured them each a glass of wine. Her eyes were brimming as they toasted each other.
“You still haven’t told me where you’re going,” she said, taking his hand.
“I’m not really sure,” he said.
“Will you be back?”
He looked at her squarely, “Honestly? Probably not.”
A tall, muscular man wearing a battered rain hat, yellow slicker, and jeans, wandered about the garage looking over various items. He finally selected several paperbacks at two dollars each. Steve looked over his choices: Le Carré, Furst, Deighton, Ludlum.
“You must be an espionage freak, like me. Enjoy.”
“I plan to,” said the man, handing Steve a $10 bill. He walked up the block, turned left at the corner, and headed for the gray Galaxy parked by the curb. He opened the front door and got in.
“Certainly looks legit,” he said. “Selling just about everything he’s got, telling everyone who’ll listen he’s leaving town for good.”
“Maybe so,” said the green-eyed woman at the wheel. Captain Jean Swanson turned to face the man. A large red scar disfigured her right cheek. “But I still think there’s something going on,” she said. “I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Cape Cod
The following day Steve took a cab to Reagan National Airport to catch the 2:00 p.m. Jet Blue flight to Provincetown on Cape Cod. He exchanged a few polite words with his seat neighbor, spent half an hour glancing through the Times and the Post, then fell into a profound sleep. He was dreaming about himself and Brian mountain-biking near Kabul – though they’d never biked in Afghanistan. In the dream, they were joined by Benjy, Steve’s long-dead younger brother. And then, suddenly there was Maya and her daughter peddling along, also part of the group. Benjy yelled that he couldn’t keep up; they slowed down. Benjy still fell further behind. Finally, he began firing at them with an AK-47. As the bullets whizzed by, Maya was screaming, desperately trying to protect her child. Steve yelled at Benjy to stop, but the shots kept coming closer and closer. The nightmare abruptly ended when the plane bumped down at the Provincetown airport. Steve was breathing rapidly, his palms damp. What the hell gave rise to that God-awful dream?
He picked up a two-door silver Toyota at Avis, tossed his bags in the trunk, and drove half an hour along a narrow road to the town of Truro. There were dunes and wild grass on both sides of the road; the ocean and bay just a few miles away on each side. In the summer, the long white beaches attracted thousands of tourists. The pounding surf in some stretches made it a favorite of windsurfers. There was also a picturesque old stone lighthouse, humpback whale watching, and fishing. Fishing was Truro’s particular pride. It was also what brought Steve to the area.
Today, it was gray and cloudy, too early in the season for tourists or swimmers. A few hardy souls were surfing with wet suits. At 5:30 p.m. Steve checked in to the Alverton Inn, a 19th century gothic revival hotel, perched on a grassy hill above the town. The perfect setting for a dark Brontë novel, thought Steve as he walked along a dimly lit corridor to his room on the third floor. He ate by himself in the hotel restaurant that night. During the season, the tourists fought for reservations; this evening, the dining room was quiet, only two maroon-jacketed waiters on duty. Steve ate alone, reading the latest novel of Martin Cruz Smith. He ordered clam chowder, seared tuna, and a half bottle of Chassagne Montrachet. His waiter was a young man who also worked at the desk during the day. “First time here?” He asked as he brought the chowder.