I didn’t even know to which continent Oryx was sending him, but it was a familiar trek: the rucksack over his shoulder and my hand in his, the touch of our palms unable to deny the sweaty tension of leaving, as we walked the five blocks to Baciare, a neighborhood bistro where you could get a good plate of pasta after midnight; neither one of us expected anything more than a stiff drink to numb the coming separation.
London was on high alert. It had been an explosive spring. Two separate plots to blow up airliners were foiled at Heathrow. A Muslim student at the University of Nottingham was stopped for being in possession of an Al-Qaeda handbook he had downloaded at the library. He died in custody, stabbed by another inmate. University students clashed with gangs of teenage neocons, and dozens of cars were burned during three days of rioting in East London.
The Metropolitan Police were doing a good job of making the rest of the city seem jolly as ever to the tourists crushing the Embankment, but to the interested eye there was a remarkable number of foot patrols, even in the residential boroughs. Edgewater Crescent was a private square lined with redbrick town houses and cherry trees, a tiny oasis off the main drag, which was constantly jammed with posses of young men and women moving quickly, wave on wave of ethnicities and languages, unruly lines in front of the bars and gelato places. Even in this tranquil area, we saw two pairs of female police officers making the rounds beneath the Victorian streetlamps, hair pulled into scraggly ponytails, wearing bulletproof vests and boxy uniforms built for men.
Our trek was interrupted when the cell phone rang. Actually, it was a series of maddening electronic notes like a clown on crack playing an accordion.
After a moment I murmured irritably, “Why do you have such an unbelievably annoying ring?”
“Not my phone,” Sterling said.
It was my U.S. cell phone. It hadn’t rung in weeks, although out of a habitual sense of doom I always kept it charged. I dug it out of the bottom of my bag.
“Ana?” said a familiar voice. “It’s Mike Donnato, calling from Los Angeles.”
“Mike—?”
Sterling let go of my hand.
“—it’s great to hear from you!” I said.
It wasn’t great. It was a disaster. Donnato had been my handler on a domestic terrorism case in Oregon, where Sterling and I had met; and where it was pretty obvious that my FBI partner and I still had feelings for each other. Donnato’s intrusion into our last moments together in London was an unwelcome surprise.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“At the office,” Donnato said. “It’s daytime in L.A.”
“What’s going on?”
“This is not official business, Ana; it’s personal.”
Oh God, I thought. Now that I’m with Sterling, Donnato is finally going to say he’s getting a divorce.
“You need to check in with the legat in London,” he said, meaning the legal attaché for the FBI. Although the Bureau has no jurisdiction abroad, we maintain a presence in foreign countries to serve American citizens.
“Did someone die?”
“No, but I can’t talk about it on an unsecured phone.”
“Am I in trouble?” I asked.
“Go to the American embassy. They’re expecting you.”
“Mike, why?”
“I’m only the messenger. Do it tomorrow.”
I closed the phone. During the call, Sterling and I had not broken pace.
“What’s that about?”
“Mike wouldn’t tell me.”
“Your good ole buddy?” Sterling gave it a Texas kick just to bother me.
“Don’t be a dickhead. He’s my best friend.”
“Then why’s he holdin’ out on you?”
“It isn’t him. It’s the Bureau,” I said grimly, feeling a gut clench, like when you pass your old school packed with bad memories. One day I’ll have to return to the States to testify in that domestic terrorism case in Oregon, and possibly implicate a deputy director of the FBI. Meanwhile, I’m an active duty special agent on vacation — until they decide whether to hang me or give me a medal. Hearing the strain in Donnato’s voice, I’m thinking they’ve made up their minds.
It was a relief to get to Baciare, our comfort zone in London, our signature place, where the owner knew to bring two Proseccos and a plate of burrata cheese the moment we sat down.
But not tonight. Our quiet hideaway had been invaded by a raucous birthday party, a long table of shiny-faced Italian men making toasts. Espresso cups and cake plates, bottles of Champagne and platters of biscotti littered the table. The object of the celebration was a sweetheart of a boy — dark-haired and red-cheeked — who had probably just turned twenty-one. His angelic face was filmed with sweat, and he looked completely stewed. Half the men seemed to be older relatives; the others were his age, laughing together uncontrollably from whatever they had smoked in the alley.
The owner of the restaurant, a lanky fellow named Martin, who wore wire-rimmed glasses and had long gray hair trailing from a bald spot, usually greeted us with a fawning smile, murmuring, “Grazie mille!” between each breath. Tonight he turned us away, apologizing that it was a private celebration, but a man from the party, fortyish, fleshy face and dark hair, intervened, putting an arm around Sterling and insisting that we accept two glasses of bubbly. Martin checked his watch and reluctantly waved us to a table in the back. We promised to be quick. Sterling was to be picked up by another operative in fifteen minutes, and Oryx people were precise.
“Sterling,” I said with some urgency as we sat down, “are we all right?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
“Just want to be sure,” I said.
“You say that every time.”
“It’s no fun being the one who’s left behind.”
“We could try it the other way,” he suggested wryly.
“You’d never move to L.A.”
“Maybe I would, if you’d support my bad habits. You go to work, I lie by the pool. Fair?”
“Great, except who knows? Judging from Mike’s call, I might not have a job when I get back.”
“I was just playin’ about Mike,” Sterling said. “He’s a good guy.”
I started shredding a cocktail napkin. “This is not about Mike. That’s in the past.”
“Yeah, okay,” Sterling said.
I squinted at him. “Okay, what?”
He stretched back in the chair, but his eyes held mine. His blond hair was greasy, and he hadn’t shaved for the mission. My tender hooligan.
“What are you really trying to say?” he asked.
I blushed. Luckily, he had the grace not to point it out.
“I want us to be together, is all,” I told him.
Sterling inclined his head with a tiny smile, and his eyes said, I know you. I understand you.
“I promise to be back as soon as I can.” He glanced at the door, ready to move. “We ain’t gonna work this out now.”
I smiled and sprinkled napkin scraps into the ashtray. “That’s what you always say.”
It was how we kept going, I suppose. It’s easy to avoid talking about the future when you tacitly agree there might not be one. He’s leaving on a dangerous assignment. I’m on an ice floe of uncertainty concerning the Bureau. You don’t want your last good-bye to be a fight.
Spoons were being tapped against wineglasses at the long birthday table and everyone was quieting down. A boy maybe fourteen years old waited to speak. He wore a yellow satin zip-up jacket, had spiked hair. Obviously they’d let him have some wine.