They also protected Jason against GrünWelt.
It was close to eighteen hundred hours, six p.m., when, in front of the BOQ, Jason paid the cabbie, took the packages, and went to his quarters. At the door, he stooped, checking the knob. The telltale he had left was gone; someone had entered his suite in his absence.
Leaving the packages on the floor, Jason put his ear against the door.
Nothing.
Either the intruder had come and gone or was silently waiting to spring his trap. Whoever might be in there could well have seen Jason get out of the cab, since the windows faced the front of the building. So much for the security provided by a military base.
Leaving the packages in the hallway, he retraced his steps to the elevator and returned to the lobby. Behind the front desk, an Airman First Class looked up from his Washington Post.
“Help you, sir?”
“I think there’s someone in my quarters.”
The young man stared at him blankly for what felt like a full minute. “That would be Major Ferris, Captain.”
“The doctor? In my quarters?”
“She made it quite clear you were expecting her. She had a number of grocery bags. In fact, I helped her with some of them. Said she was fixing dinner for the two of you.”
A look at Jason’s face made him ask, “Anything wrong, sir?”
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure.”
Not remember my name, indeed!
Back upstairs, Jason used his key to open the door. Instantly, an aroma swirled around him that made his mouth water. He dumped his parcels on the couch and followed his nose.
The kitchen was small and full. Full of pots, pans, containers, and Major Ferris, wearing blue-jean cut-offs under an apron that nearly reached her ankles. Jason couldn’t help but think she looked even sexier now than in last night’s red dress.
“Oh! Hello!” she said as though surprised to see Jason in his own rented suite. “I do hope you don’t mind! I’ve been trying to call you all day. The switchboard said you were out.”
“I was out of town on business.”
He lifted the top of a pot. In it, a small chicken was boiling amid strips of carrots, slices of onions, specks of herbs, and material he did not recognize. “What’s this?”
“The broth for Brodo di Carne.”
“You mean the soup with the noodles stiffened with ground meat?”
“The same.” She pointed to a flour-covered cutting board. “You can see them there.”
He lifted another top. “And this?”
“The yeast batter for the stuffed squash flowers. I had to look all over the District to find zucchini blossoms.”
She took his hand away from the top of the pot. “Now, be a sweetheart and pour me a Martini.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any gin.”
She tossed her head toward the suite’s diminutive refrigerator. “Standard medical supplies. In the freezer.”
Using one of the wine stems in the cabinet, he made a makeshift shaker, handing her a frosting glass.
She took it, kissing him on the nose. “Now, be a sweetheart again and go amuse yourself for an hour or so while I finish here.”
Jason was unsure he had ever been kissed on the tip of his nose before, and relatively certain no woman had ever told him to go amuse himself while she finished preparing dinner.
The meal was a pastiche of regional and seasonal Italian culinary art: the Brodo di Carne a wintertime Tuscan favorite; spring’s squash flowers from Rome’s ancient ghetto, batter-fried and stuffed with cheese and anchovies; and Piccata di Vitello, veal in lemon sauce, a Milanese specialty. She had even found a bottle of Gaja.
The after-dinner cheese selection consisted of an Asiago d’Allevo, a firm but creamy-tasting product from the Dolomite Mountain region northwest of Venice; Lombardy’s buttery, semisoft Bel Paese; and a Sicilian Caciocavallo.
Jason sliced a bit of the latter onto a toast point. “I understand the ‘cavallo’ part of the name comes from the fact the Romans made it from mares’ milk.”
Judith’s face scrunched into an expression of disapproval. “I don’t know why, but I find that mildly disgusting. I understood the name came from the fact it was delivered by horseback.”
“I think I like your explanation better. Where’d you learn all the Italian dishes?”
“I was married to an Italian — at least, a first-generation American one.
“An Italian in Iowa? I didn’t know there was anything but corn and cattle out there.”
She gave him a playful shove on the shoulder. “Silly! I met him when I was stationed at Lackland in Texas. Like me, he owed the service five years.”
“Obviously it didn’t work out.”
She shook her head, stood and began clearing dishes. “No, he was a mammone.”
Jason understood the word describing a uniquely Italian phenomenon that gave new meaning to the term “mama’s boy.” It was not uncommon for some men well into their thirties to still live with their mother. Once married, they would insist their unfortunate wives duplicate Mama’s cooking, even the way she did his laundry. The woman would exist under the tyranny of her mother-in-law.
Judith stopped halfway to the kitchen, a stack of plates in her hands. “He even had his mother take an apartment in San Antonio. Every week, he’d bring seven days’ worth of her cooking home. I should have known better when I had to put my foot down on the subject of her coming along on our honeymoon.”
What were the odds of that, of having the two women presently in his life, Maria and Judith, both with Italian exes? Coincidence, or a commentary on Italian men?
“From the information I could get,” Judith continued, “the Army’s correspondence with you after retirement went to Italy, so I figured a Italian dinner might be appropriate.”
“That information isn’t in a service jacket. You must have done some digging. I’m flattered you went to the trouble.”
Her eyebrows knitted in thought. “You have no idea. That was about all I could find out, that and you were based at Fort Bragg before being posted to the Pentagon. Your service record had more redactions than a CIA agent’s diary.”
She took the few steps needed to deposit the dishes in the kitchen sink. “With the First Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta based at Bragg, it doesn’t take a lot of imagination to guess what you did. That, plus your performance last night.”
Jason’s raised eyebrows asked a question.
Judith giggled. “I mean what you did before you came home with me. I’ve never seen anyone handle a knife like that.” She grinned. “Of course, what you did afterward was pretty spectacular too.”
“You weren’t exactly a slouch on either count.”
She was wiping her hands on the apron as she grew serious. “I’ve given a lot of thought to that, too. I mean, like I said, I’d never killed anyone before.”
“Not even a patient? Not many docs can say that.”
Her hand brushed away the attempt at levity. “I’m serious. I thought I’d feel terrible about it. Now, I feel terrible that I don’t.”
Jason’s experience with first kills was as varied as the individuals making them. Usually, if the event occurred at long range and in the confusion of unit combat, there was as little remorse as there was elation. Close-quarters, individual combat was another matter. It was up-close, messy, and personal. Near enough, and the victor was more often than not splattered with his enemy’s blood, sometimes his entrails as well. Some had lingering guilt that ultimately impaired their usefulness to the service. Some felt godlike with the realization it was in their power to end a human life, an unmatchable high. Others simply saw the act as an unpleasant necessity of service to their country and went on with their lives. Jason was definitely not in the guilt category and refused to speculate as to the other two.