Lopez stood up and opened the blinds.
“Hey, can you keep those closed?” Houston sniped. “The glare, remember? Computer screen?”
Familiarity was breeding contempt. Or maybe it’s the murders and stress, he told himself. Nothing was remotely normal about what was happening.
“Sara, I’m tired of the dark. I’m tired of this dark room. There has been nothing but darkness of late. Dark deeds, shrouded mysteries we can’t penetrate. Black ops.”
“Poetic.” The CIA agent arched her back in front of the laptop, pushing her chest outward and stretching her arms over her head. Lopez tried not to stare, but he found it difficult not to. She seemed to relax a moment. “But that’s exactly what it seems to be.”
The priest raised an eyebrow. Whatever his frustrations, he had come to know Sara Houston much better, and he quickly picked up on her tone. “You think you have something?”
“I wanted to be sure, but, yes, there’s a clear pattern here. Buried, but here. I’m sorry it took me so long to find it.”
Lopez walked over to the desk. Their hotel room was claustrophobic, two twin beds and a small working desk crammed beside them. He sat down at the foot of one bed and looked at the screen. “So?”
She sighed, her fingers resting gently underneath her chin. “I looked through what files I had on all the agents who have died this last year. Gerald Stone, John Fuller, Jack Conover. And Miguel.” Again he saw the flash of pain on her face. “There is something connecting them, but the records at CIA border on incomprehensible.”
“They’re covering it up?” asked Lopez, the growing cynicism with this business directing his thoughts.
“It seems so. Look here.” She ran her finger across a list of dates and locations. “I pulled these from all their records. These days here, often several in a row, they did not report into the office. That wouldn’t be so weird except for the fact that they all shared the same windows of absence. Like a buddy trip or something.”
“Wouldn’t you have noticed?”
“Not really, Francisco.” She breathed out heavily, resting her head momentarily on her hands. “Although maybe I should have. Our staff was very active, often traveling. Some months there would be more days I didn’t see agents than those I did. I never worked directly with Miguel or any of the others. Besides, it could always have been a conference or retreat or something specific for some of their projects. They were the elite. Special. Everything top secret.”
Lopez gave her a sidelong glance. “So, you’re not one of the elite?”
“I’m a woman, Francisco,” she said testily. “We may have come a long way, baby, but in many circles, especially government and military, there are certain kinds of missions and activities that are still thought to be the providence of men. Men especially think that, and they still tend to run things.”
“I see,” he replied. “So, these extended absences, you don’t think these are unrelated.”
She shook her head. “No, not now. The coincidences are piling up too high.”
Lopez was getting more curious. “So, what did these elite agents work on that didn’t involve you?”
Houston shrugged. “Many things, most of which were classified even from the bulk of the staff. Almost always related to the war on terror.”
Lopez grunted and stood up, pacing the small room. “How do you wage war on an emotion?”
“OK, bad name from the politicians. But the terrorists are very real. So are their organizations, and their desire to penetrate and infiltrate America.”
Lopez could hear the echo of his brother in her words. It annoyed him. “You sound paranoid.”
Her eyes flashed. “And you sound like a naive priest!” She glared at him. “I know too many good people who have risked their lives, lost their lives, because they know this threat is very real!”
Lopez stopped still in his pacing. “I’m sorry, Sara. I have a distrust of the government. Too many misguided wars and actions. Too many lies. Sometimes, hearing ‘war on terror’ sounds like another excuse to fund Halliburton and other businesses that make money on conflict.”
Houston lowered her fiery gaze. “Yeah, well, I’m not saying all that doesn’t happen. But I’m tired of seeing bleeding hearts pretend there isn’t an enemy to fight.”
Her words stung. He knew it was his ego that was hurt, but it still stirred him up. “Maybe the real enemy isn’t what we think, Sara. Maybe the true war isn’t being fought with guns or bombs, or against human armies.”
“Is it sermon time?”
Lopez planted his feet. “You can scoff, but maybe our best weapons in that war are love and forgiveness. Jesus was the ultimate bleeding heart, Sara. He was wrongly accused, unfairly tried, horrifically tortured, and did not strike back. Turn the other cheek.”
Houston laughed harshly. “I hate to say it, Francisco, but you’re gonna need retraining soon. You don’t understand what’s around you.”
“That’s my ethos. That’s where Miguel and I parted ways.”
She looked away quickly, but not before Lopez could catch tears beginning to fill her eyes. For several seconds she would not look at or speak to him, and her hurt struck him like an undefended blow to the stomach. He was usually more sensitive, more empathetic. It had been his gift as a priest. How had he missed her pain?
Because I’m fighting with Miguel, again. Because I’m seeing him in her words. Lopez felt slapped with the reality of their situation, the dim room suddenly real again, Sara Houston real, their loss all too real. The battles of his youth receded into a fog of past hurts.
“Sara, I—”
“Shut it.” She wiped her eyes almost violently and stood up, her arms folded across her chest. Her hair surrounded her face like halo of yellow, extending down to the freckled skin of her arms. “I’m tired of bottling this up. I don’t care if you’re a priest and he’s your brother.”
“Sara, you don’t have to—” he stammered, sensing the direction of her conversation.
“I was in love with your brother, Francisco,” she announced firmly. Lopez made no response, and the room was silent for a moment. Her voiced softened. “And he loved me, as much as he allowed himself to.”
Lopez lowered his head. He didn’t know if he was up for more confessions. He was tired. Please, no more transferal of sin.
“A deadly sin, I’m afraid, with married Miguel. Isn’t coveting a sin, priest?”
“Sara, look, that’s not fair. Judgment is not mine, God knows. I don’t judge you.”
“Save it. I knew he had a family. Had he let himself stray, I would have been there, with open arms.” She looked down toward the floor. Without warning, her downcast head snapped up, and she practically yelled. “Do you know what he’d been through?” The tears were back, filling her eyes, acting as distorting lenses magnifying her blue irises. “No, none of you did, because he had been taught to be strong for the family. For the community. Your football star. Soldier. Hero. Did you ever ask him if he was okay, Francisco? Did you?”
Lopez felt ashamed. Her words burned within him. His brother had come back from war. Many soldiers he had counseled never got their lives together after they returned. They turned to alcohol. Their marriages collapsed. They couldn’t hold jobs. They slept with their guns, committed crimes, committed suicide. Miguel had come back with them. What nightmares did he struggle with? Lopez knew he had not reached out to his brother. He’d been too damn busy protecting his own ego from their disagreements. He sat down on the far bed. My ethos? How could he love his enemies when he couldn’t even care enough about his own brother to ask?