found it difficult to think. He jumped up, walked over to the window behind the DCI’s
desk, stood staring out at the Washington night. All the monuments were lit up, all the
streets and avenues were filled with traffic. Everything was as it should be, and yet
nothing looked familiar. He felt as if he’d entered an alternate universe. He couldn’t have been witness to what just happened, NSA couldn’t be about to absorb CI into its gigantic
corpus. But then he turned around to find the office empty and the full horror of seeing
the DCI frog-marched out in handcuffs swept over him, made his legs weak, so that he
sought out the big chair behind the desk and sat in it.
Then the implications of where he sat, and why, sank in. He picked up the phone and
dialed Stu Gold, CI’s lead counsel.
“Sit tight. I’ll be right over,” Gold told him in his usual no-nonsense voice. Did
nothing faze him?
Then Marks began to make a series of calls. It was going to be a long and harrowing
night.
Rodney Feir was having the time of his life. As he accompanied Afrique into one of
the rooms in the back of The Glass Slipper, he felt as if he were on top of the world. In
fact, popping a Viagra, he decided to ask her to do a number of things he’d never tried
before. Why the hell not? he asked himself.
While he was undressing he thought of the information on Typhon’s field agents Peter
Marks had sent him via interoffice mail. Feir had deliberately told Marks he didn’t want
it sent electronically because it was too insecure. The info was folded into the inside
pocket of his coat, ready to give to General Kendall before they left The Glass Slipper
tonight. He could have handed it over while they were at dinner, but he’d felt, all things
considered, that a champagne toast after all their treats had been consumed was the
proper way to cap off the night.
Afrique was already on the bed, spread languidly, her large eyes half closed, but she
got right down to business as soon as Feir joined her. He tried to keep his mind on the
proceedings, but seeing as how his body was totally in it, there wasn’t much point. He
preferred dwelling on the things that made him truly happy, like getting the better of
Peter Marks. When he was growing up it was people like Marks-and, for that matter,
Batt-who’d had it all over him, brainiacs with brawn, in other words, who’d made his life
miserable. They were the ones who had the cool circle of friends, who got all the great-
looking girls, who rode in cars while he was still tooling around on a scooter. He was the
nerd, the chubby-fat, really-kid who was made the butt of all their jokes, who was pushed
around and ostracized, who, despite his high IQ, was so tongue-tied he could never stick
up for himself.
He’d joined CI as a glorified pencil pusher, and, yes, he’d worked his way up the
professional ladder, but not into fieldwork or counterintelligence. No, he was chief of
field support, which meant that he was in charge of gathering and distributing the
paperwork generated by the very CI personnel he longed to be like. His office was the
central hub of supply and demand, and there were days when he could convince himself
that it was the nerve center of CI. But most of the time he saw himself for what he really
was-someone who kept pushing electronic lists, data entry forms, directorate requests,
allocation tables, budget spreadsheets, personnel assignment profiles, matйriel lading
bills, a veritable landslide of paperwork whizzing through the CI intranet. A monitor of
information, in other words, a master of nothing.
He was enveloped in pleasure, a warm, viscous friction spreading outward from his
groin into his torso and limbs. He closed his eyes and sighed.
At first, being an anonymous cog in the CI machine suited him, but as the years
passed, as he rose in the hierarchy, only the Old Man understood his worth, for it was the
Old Man who promoted him, time after time. But no one else-certainly none of the other
directors-said a word to him until they needed something. Then a request came flying
through CI cyberspace as quick as you could say, I need it yesterday. If he got them what
they wanted yesterday, he heard nothing, not even a nod of thanks in the hallway, but
should there be any delay at all, no matter the reason, they’d land on him like
woodpeckers on a tree full of insects. He’d never hear the end of their pestering until they got what they wanted, and then silence again. It seemed sadly ironic to him that even in
an insider’s paradise like CI he was on the outside.
It was humiliating to be one of those stereotypical Americans who time and again got
sand kicked in his face. How he hated himself for being a living, breathing clichй. It was
these evenings spent with General Kendall that gave his life color and meaning, the
clandestine meetings in the health club sauna, the dinners at local barbecue joints in SE,
and then the delicious chocolate nightcaps at The Glass Slipper, where he was for once
the insider instead of having his nose pressed to someone else’s window. Knowing that
he couldn’t be transformed he had to settle for losing himself in Afrique’s bed at The
Glass Slipper.
General Kendall, smoking a cigar in the corral, the colloquial name for the parlor room
where the girls were paraded for the benefit of the patrons, was enjoying himself
immensely. If he was thinking of his boss at all, it was of the heart attack this scene he
was enacting would cause LaValle. As for his family, they were the farthest thing from
his mind. Unlike Feir, who always went for the same girl, Kendall was a man of diverse
tastes when it came to the women of The Glass Slipper, and why not? He had virtually no
choice in any other areas of his life. If not here, where?
He sat on the purple velvet sofa, one arm thrown along the back, watching through
slitted eyes the slow parade of flesh. He had already made his choice; the girl was in her
room, undressing, but when Bev had come to him, suggesting that he might want
something a bit more special-another girl to create a threesome-he hadn’t hesitated. He’d
been just about to make his choice when he saw someone. She was impossibly tall, with
skin like the darkest cocoa, and was so regal in her beauty that he broke out into a sweat.
He caught Bev’s eye and she came over. Bev was attuned to his desires. “I want her,”
he said to Bev, pointing at the regal beauty.
“I’m afraid Kiki’s not available,” she said.
This answer made Kendall want her all the more. Venal witch; she knew him too well.
He produced five hundred-dollar bills. “How about now?” he said.
Bev, true to form, pocketed the money. “Leave it to me,” she said.
The general watched her pick her way through the girls to where Kiki was standing,
somewhat apart from the others. While he observed the conversation his heart began to
beat in his chest like a war drum. He was sweating so much he was obliged to wipe his
palms on the purple velvet of the sofa arm. If she said no, what would he do? But she
wasn’t saying no, she was looking across the corral at him, with a smile that raised his
temperature a couple of degrees. Jesus, he wanted her!
As if in a trance, he saw her coming across the room toward him, her hips swaying,
that maddening half smile on her face. He stood up, with some difficulty, he noted. He
felt like a seventeen-year-old virgin. Kiki held out her hand and he took it, terrified that she’d be repulsed if it was damp, but nothing interfered with that half smile.
There was something intensely pleasurable about allowing her to lead him past all the
other girls, enjoying the looks of envy on their faces.