“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“So end eight glorious years with the State Department,” he muttered, furiously snatching up his overcoat and walking toward the door. “I’ve gotta go. Look, you’ve still got the chain. Use it. Better yet, stay with your friend tonight. And call the police. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
She followed him into the hallway. “But Mr. O’Hara—”
“Later!” he called over his shoulder as he stalked away. She heard his footsteps echo in the stairwell, and moments later the lobby door slammed shut.
She closed the door and slid the chain in place, then slowly gazed around the room. Her stack of Advances in Microbiology lay on the coffee table. A vase of peonies dropped petals onto the bookshelf. Everything was as it should be.
No, not quite. Something was different. If she could just put her finger on it…
She was halfway across the room when it suddenly struck her—there was an empty space on the bookshelf. Her wedding picture was gone.
A cry of anger welled up in her throat. For the first time since she’d returned to the apartment, she felt a sense of violation, of fury that someone had invaded her house. It had only been a photograph, a pair of happy faces beaming at a camera, yet it meant more to her than anything else she owned. The picture had been all she had left of Geoffrey. Even if her marriage had been mere illusion, she never wanted to forget how she had loved him. Of all the things in her apartment, why would anyone steal a photograph?
Her heart skipped a beat as the phone rang. It was probably Abby, calling as promised. She picked up the receiver.
The first sound she heard was the hiss of a long-distance connection. Sarah froze. For some reason she found herself staring at the empty shelf, at the spot where the photograph should have been.
“Hello?” she said.
“Come to me, Sarah. I love you.”
A scream caught in her throat. The room was spinning wildly, and she reached out for support. The receiver slipped from her fingers and thudded on the carpet. This is impossible! she thought. Geoffrey is dead....
She scrambled on the floor for the receiver, scrambled to hear the voice of what could only be a ghost.
“Hello? Hello? Geoffrey!” she screamed.
The long-distance hiss was gone. There was only silence and then, a few seconds later, the hum of the dial tone.
But she had heard enough. Everything that had happened in the past two weeks faded away as if it were a nightmare remembered in the light of day. None of it had been real. The voice she’d just heard, the voice she knew so well—that was real.
Geoffrey was alive.
“YOU’VE HAD IT, O’Hara!” Charles Ambrose stood outside the closed door of his office and looked pointedly at his watch. “And you’re twenty minutes late!”
Unperturbed, Nick hung up his coat and said, “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. The rain had us backed up for—”
“Do you know who just happens to be waiting in my office right now? I mean, do you have any idea?”
“No. Who?”
“Some son of a—” Ambrose abruptly lowered his voice. “The CIA, that’s who! A guy named Van Dam. This morning he calls me up wanting to know about the Fontaine case. What’s the Fontaine case, I ask. He had to tell me what’s going on in my own department! For God’s sake, O’Hara! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Nick gazed back calmly. “My job, as a matter of fact.”
“Your job was to tell the widow you were sorry and to fly the damned body back. That was it, period. Instead, Van Dam tells me you’ve been out playing James Bond with Sarah Fontaine.”
“I’ll admit that I went to the funeral. And I did drive Mrs. Fontaine home. I wouldn’t call that playing James Bond.”
In reply, Ambrose turned and flung the office door open. “Get in there, O’Hara!”
Without blinking, Nick walked into the office. The blinds were open and the last drab light of day fell on the shoulders of a man sitting at Ambrose’s desk. He was in his midforties, tall, silent, and like the day outside, totally without color. His hands were folded in a gesture of prayer. There was no sign of Tim Greenstein. Ambrose closed the door, stalked past Nick and seated himself off to the side. The fact that Ambrose had been evicted from his own desk spoke volumes about his usurper’s prestige. This guy, thought Nick, must be hot stuff in the CIA.
“Please sit down, Mr. O’Hara,” said the man. “I’m Jonathan Van Dam.” That was the only label he gave himself: a name.
Nick took a chair, but obedience had nothing to do with it. He was simply not going to stand at attention while he was put through the wringer.
For a moment Van Dam silently regarded him with those colorless eyes. Then he picked up a manila folder. It was Nick’s employment record. “I hope you’re not nervous. It’s just a minor thing, really.” Van Dam glanced through the folder. “Let’s see. You’ve been with state for eight years.”
“Eight years, two months.”
“Two years in Honduras, two in Cairo and four years in London. All in the consular service. A good record, with the exception of two adverse personnel memos. It says here that in Honduras you were too—er, sympathetic to native concerns.”
“That’s because our policy there stinks.”
Van Dam smiled. “Believe me, you’re not the first person to say that.”
The smile threw Nick off guard. He glanced suspiciously at Ambrose, who’d obviously been hoping for an execution and now looked sorely disappointed.
Van Dam sat back. “Mr. O’Hara, this is a country of diverse opinions. I respect men who think for themselves, men like you. Unfortunately, independent thinking is often discouraged in government service. Is that what led to this second memo?”
“I assume it’s about that incident in London.”
“Yes. Could you elaborate?”
“I’m sure Roy Potter filed a report with your office. His version of the story, anyway.”
“Tell me yours.”
Nick sat back, the memory of the incident at once reawakening his anger. “It happened the week our consular chief, Dan Lieberman, was out of town. I was filling in for him. A man named Vladimir Sokolov approached me one night, in confidence. He was an attaché with the Russian embassy in London. Oh, I’d met him before, you know, at the usual round of receptions. He’d always struck me as a little nervous. Worried. Well, he took me aside at one of their—I don’t know, I guess it was a reception for the ambassador. He wanted to talk asylum. He had information to trade—good information, to my mind. I immediately brought the matter to Roy Potter.” Nick glanced at Ambrose. “Potter was chief of intelligence in our London mission.” He looked back at Van Dam. “Anyway, Potter was skeptical. He wanted to try using Sokolov as a double agent first. Maybe get some hard intelligence from the Soviets. I tried to convince him the man was in real danger. And he had a family in London, a wife and two kids.