Valentina Metrace wore heels and a pleasantly snug gray knit dress that matched her eyes, and a number of other male travelers shot disgruntled looks at Smith as she smiled and stood to greet him.
“Hello, Colonel.”
“Hello yourself, Professor.” He set his briefcase down beside her small pile of carry-ons. “Are you bound for Washington?”
“No, I’m pleased to say.” She nodded up the concourse. “I’m on Southwestern a couple of slots farther on. I’m off to Palm Springs for a few days. I find I need to melt a bit of residual ice off my soul.”
“Palm Springs.” Smith nodded thoughtfully. “It would be nice down there this time of year.”
“Oh, it is, I assure you. There’s a swimming pool I know of, shaded by real palm trees and fed by one of the real palm springs. During the day I intend to lie beside it, wearing a swimsuit or less, and at night I will drink champagne and sleep between satin sheets. It will be a life of great beauty.”
She held out her hand to him. “I’ve been thinking… it would be nice to share it with someone.”
There was no coquetry in the invitation, no challenge, no dare to her offer, only a hint of wistfulness, an echo from the lonely operator’s existence that Jon knew and understood.
He hesitated for a last moment. Val would be different, so very different from anyone he had ever known before, and so would any roads they might walk down together. But different wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
“I’ll need to look into something first,” he replied.
“What’s that?”
He drew Valentina in to him. Putting a hand into her thick, rich hair, he kissed her, letting it linger, learning the softness of her lips, the delicate touch contours of her face.
Val’s eyes closed into the kiss and when they opened again he could see that she had been pleased with the result as well. It had been different from one of Sophia’s kisses, but that too was as it should be.
It was time. It was time and past time for a great many new things.
Smith went to change his ticket.
Epilogue
Anacosta, Maryland
The Wednesday Island operation wound down in the screen-lit dimness of Margaret Templeton’s office, coming to its conclusion against the soft purring backdrop of computer cooling fans.
“We’ve done the partial-truth feed to both the Canadian authorities and Interpol,” Templeton said from her desk workstation. “To wit, Anton Kretek and his people were involved in some armaments smuggling venture, the exact nature of which remains unknown, when their chartered helicopter went down in Hudson Bay. There were no survivors, but the appropriate wreckage has been recovered.”
“Is it selling?” Fred Klein inquired, testing the soil of Maggie’s bonsai tree with a probing finger.
“So far. The general consensus seems to be, the man is no great loss to anyone. We’ve also located and cleaned up Kretek’s refueling depots.”
Klein nodded absently, adding a jet of water to the little planter from the squeeze bottle beside it. He was seated beside Maggie’s desk, watching the bank of flat-screen displays on the far office wall. His features were softened by a faint haze of gray beard, and his tie had been loosened a couple of casual inches. It was the end of another average twelve-hour day. “What about the getaway trawler?”
“Successfully dealt with, sir. The USS MacIntyre placed a SEAL team on board the vessel. The Icelandic crew were essentially hired help. Likely they were viewed by Kretek as a disposable asset. They knew nothing about the true nature of the Wednesday Island operation. Accordingly they have been released to the Icelandic authorities.”
“And Kretek’s men?”
Maggie’s even-featured face was worthy of a championship poker table. “An operational accident. While they were being taken across to the destroyer, the whaleboat carrying the arms smugglers capsized in a rogue wave. The guards and the coxswain were wearing antiexposure suits and lifejackets and were rescued; Kretek’s men weren’t. Hudson Bay is a very dangerous body of water, sir.”
“Very much so, Maggie. Here’s hoping we won’t have to work up that way again for a while.” Klein snugged his tie tight once more. He and Maggie would finish this up and then, for certain, call it quits for the night. “How are our people doing?”
Maggie’s hands danced across her keyboard, the file photos of Jon Smith and Valentina Metrace windowing up on the wall screens. “Physically, they are recovering from exhaustion, exposure, and a variety of minor injuries. Psychologically, they appear to be stable and still comfortable with operating. Given a reasonable period of rest and recuperation, I feel they will be deployable again. In my opinion both Jon and Professor Metrace continue to be valid mobile ciphers.”
Klein nodded. “I concur. I’m pleased with the way they seem to work in harness together. I’ve always been a bit concerned about Metrace, she tends toward being a bit of a cowboy at times. I think Jon’s a steadying influence on her. The chemistry’s good.”
In the screen glow, Maggie’s lips quirked into a slight smile. “In a number of ways. They’ve spent the last week together in Palm Springs.”
“Indeed.” Klein frowned, not in disapproval, but in consideration. “Normally, I don’t like to see off-mission fraternization between our prime ciphers, but in this instance I think we’ll make an exception. If Jon’s good for Metrace, I think Metrace may be good for Jon.”
“I agree, sir. Now, there’s one other personnel point I’d like to bring up.”
“What’s that, Maggie?”
His executive officer’s fingers clattered across her keyboard again, and a third wall screen lit, filling with the image of Randi Russell. “I think we had best declare this young lady radioactive. I don’t think we should ever tap her as an outside asset again.”
“Why so, Maggie? According to Jon’s report, Ms. Russell’s actions have been exemplary. She has a history of successful operations with him.”
“Yes, sir, but she’s CIA, and the Agency knows Covert One is out here now. They don’t know exactly who or what we are yet, but they don’t like our authority and the way we keep tapping their assets. They’re starting to sniff around, hunting for a line on us. Ms. Russell can bore-sight two of our prime ciphers, and we could get some comeback through her. I think we need to keep her distanced in the future.”
Klein shook his head. “I disagree. I believe we have another option.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“We don’t distance her. We absorb her. We bring her all the way in.”
Maggie lifted an eyebrow. “We recruit her as a mobile cipher?”
“Why not? Ms. Russell has the package. She has an excellent set of skills. She has the experience, and she doesn’t have any connections or attachments.”
“Except to the Agency.”
“We can work around that.” Klein smiled to himself, like a fencer flexing a new foil. “In fact, we may be able to make use of it.”
“As you wish, sir.” Maggie sounded dubious. “Do you want me to set up a recruitment approach?”
“No…not quite yet. But let’s keep an eye on her. Silver-flag her file and redesignate her as a special asset; then have her placed under a loose assessment surveillance. We’ll wait for another opportunity to team her with Smith and Metrace, and then…we shall see what we shall see.”
“Very good, sir.”
A silver border blipped into existence around Randi Russell’s photo. Fred Klein leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped, his expression intent. “Welcome to the firm, Ms. Russell,” he murmured to the blonde woman’s image.
