Early on, he had that assumed his sexual attraction to his wife would abate during the pregnancy, but had been surprised to find that he desired her even more. He had been a poet since he was young, always finding it easier to express himself in words on paper than he ever could with those spoken from the lips. In his twenty years of service in the Marines, he had penned over five hundred poems specifically for Lonnie, thousands of words arranged for her alone, and never to be seen by anyone else. He reached up and rubbed her shoulders and neck, drawing another sigh from her lips as he gently squeezed the physical tension away. A knock at the door snatched their attention.
“Who is it?” Marcus called out.
“It's Mike and Hilde,” came the response from the other side.
Marcus crossed the room and opened the door.
“I've been trying to reach Tonia since we got back,” Hilde said, “but she's not answering.”
“How about the FBI office here in Anchorage?” Lonnie asked. “It's just a few blocks away.”
“I tried there too. Got the automated attendant that said to leave a message or dial 911 for an emergency. I left a voice mail, but it’s not likely that an agent will get back to us before morning. And this is not a 911-type call. Local police will think it's a prank.”
“Do you know what room your friend is in?” Marcus asked. “We could always go wake her up.”
“I don't know the room. And besides, Tonia probably won’t to be back until after midnight anyway. The president himself isn’t here yet, and she's just on prep detail and so she’s probably living it up with her per diem money.”
“Maybe we should wait downstairs,” Mike suggested, “and catch her when she comes in.”
“When she does get back, I doubt she’s going to be in the mood to talk business,” Hilde said.
“I don't think anything more is going to happen tonight,” Lonnie said. “If you guys want to do some more snooping around, that's up to you, but this pregnant lady has to get some sleep or she won’t be functional tomorrow.”
“All right,” Marcus said. “Let’s meet up in the a.m.”
“The FBI office probably opens about eight,” Hilde said. “How about if we meet downstairs for breakfast at seven, then head over there?”
“That works for me,” Lonnie said.
“Let's call Hogan, too,” Mike said. “He can get us an immediate audience with the local SAC.”
They said their good nights, and Mike and Hilde went back to their room. Marcus took a quick shower. When he came out, Lonnie had already climbed into bed. He joined her, lying face-to-face, the bulk of her pregnant belly pressed into his own abdomen. The baby kicked against its father's stomach.
“Baby wants to play with Daddy already.” he said.
“He likes your touch,” Lonnie said.
“Or she likes my touch.”
“Could be.”
Marcus smiled and started to hum a soft tune, as he had done almost every night since they were first married two years earlier. Like the arms of the mythical Morpheus, his sonorous baritone and smooth notes never failed to lull her into a deep sleep. Her stress faded as if washed away by a warm stream. Gradually, the baby stopped its movement, and Lonnie's breathing smoothed into a hushed rhythm. A few minutes later, Marcus drifted off too.
Marcus woke promptly at six a.m. He never needed a clock's buzzer to pull him out of sleep, even when he was sick. Whatever time he had to be up, he just was. Lonnie slept for a few minutes longer, but was soon roused by the light and noise of her husband’s morning rituals. By a quarter to seven, they were dressed and ready. They took a couple steps toward the door, then a succession of beeps burst from Lonnie’s purse. She pulled out her cell phone.
“Oh! I forgot to charge my phone last night. Battery just died.” She plugged it in to the charging cord on the table beside the TV cabinet. “I’ll come back for it later.”
They stepped into the hall, shut the door behind them, twisting the handle to make sure it locked, then walked to the elevators. Marcus held Lonnie's hand as they moved. In spite of the size of her belly, she walked erect and smooth. The fact that her body was at a fitness level far above average made it much easier to maintain her poise. Rather than shuffling with a penguin-like waddle, she strode like a pregnant momma jaguar, heavy with child, but still in control and still lethal.
By the time they reached the restaurant, a raised platform next to the hotel lobby set up like a European sidewalk cafe, Mike and Hilde had already gotten a table. Steam floated from two cups of black coffee in front of them. As they approached the table, Mike signaled a waiter who came with a third cup of coffee for Marcus as Mike had instructed before they arrived.
“Black, no sugar, right?” Mike said, remembering Marcus’s preference from their days in the military.
“You got it,” Marcus said, then turned to the waiter. “And a V8 with a couple of lime wedges for my wife.”
“Thank you, honey,” Lonnie said. While she had always loved Mexican food, which she craved constantly now, the smell of V8 vegetable juice had been repulsive to her before the pregnancy. Now, though, the tomato-based drink with two lime wedges was mandatory every day for breakfast.
“Did you call Hogan?” Marcus asked.
“We did,” Hilde said. “He is pulling up the file on Farrah to email to me, and said he'd put in a call to the local SAC right away. They should be expecting us about eight o'clock.”
The waiter brought the glass of V8 and set a small plate with two lime wedges next to it. Lonnie squeezed them into the drink, then dropped the green fruits into the glass and stirred with a straw as the waiter took their food orders.
After the waiter walked away, Lonnie said, “Did you mention the cabbie from last night?”
“The cabbie?” Marcus asked. “What about him?”
“Oh, man!” Mike said, tapping his fingers on the table like an exclamation point. “We completely forgot to tell you about him. Do you remember a guy named Kharzai Ghiassi?”
“Kharzai Ghiassi? Al Gul?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Shit,” Marcus said.
“What?” Lonnie was shocked. Uncommon for a Marine, Marcus almost never swore.
“If he’s here, that’s bad.”
“Why?” Lonnie said. “He said he was lying low after an operation. I didn’t think about it last night, but at the accident scene with Farrah, he claimed he’d left his ID at home. He called himself Samuel McGee.”
Marcus took a deep sip of his coffee and closed his eyes for a moment, his mind firing back several years into memories he’d worked hard to put behind.
“That dude doesn’t take breaks,” he said. “He’d go to ground, maybe, but never rest. Whereever he goes, you will soon find bodies.”
“Are you saying he’s serial killer or something?” Hilde asked.
“In a sense,” Marcus replied, “but he only kills people he figures deserve it for the sake of national security, or self-preservation. Great covert agent, but he’s not the kind of guy cops like to have around.”
“He wouldn’t answer our questions last night,” Mike said. “I’m pretty certain he’s up to something shady.”
Hilde swallowed a mouthful of coffee. The cup clinked against the saucer when she set it down.
“I remember the cold-blooded way he acted during that case we had in Ohio. The man was simply vicious when the action started,” she said. After a brief, thoughtful moment, she asked, “Do you think he could have turned bad?”
“Anything is possible,” Marcus said. “He’s been in the field for a long time. When I knew him years ago, he had already been established in deep cover among the terrorists in Iraq. I have no idea what he’s been doing since.”