“Sounds like a bacterium,” Jack said. “Let’s stick with ‘hophead.’ “ He clinked the bottom of his Pilsner against her Corona. Then he checked his cell phone. It was dead. He went and got the power cord, plugged it in beside the coffee-maker, then sat heavily at the teak table. The microwave hummed busily behind him, then beeped. The sole was ready, followed quickly by the pasta, and the aromas took his mind off everything else. They ate in silence for quite some time, Dover evidently waiting on Jack’s lead. He was too tired and hungry to do much of that, at first.
“This is damn good,” he said when he became aware of the silence.
“Very damn good,” she said.
He realized he had been staring at his plate. He looked at her. The world outside was dark, giving a strong sense of home to the golden light in the room. He thought of the sterility of Hawke’s yacht and felt a deep sense of being grounded. He missed being on TV but he loved the scrappy life of a freelance, old-style journalist. He had a good life and he knew it.
“I really have to thank you for covering me,” Dover said. “I never imagined Hawke would be so obvious.”
“About booting you from his town? It was inevitable. Guys like that, who are surrounded by so many layers of yes-people, lose sight of anything that isn’t ‘theirs.’ “
“I don’t understand. Then why did he let you in?”
“Power play,” Jack said. “Bring me all that way in a gilded cage to slap me around, send me home.”
“Did he really think that would work against you? I mean, you climbed the Golden Gate Bridge to kill a terrorist.”
“Physical risk, an adrenaline rush, those are different from putting fear on a man’s radar, forcing him to watch everything and everyone more closely, think before he goes out, or speaks, or even turns out the light at night.”
“Terrorism,” Dover said. “Of course. Osama bin Laden didn’t exactly invent that concept.” “Anyway, you’re welcome. We actually did Doc a favor.”
“Oh?”
“If he sits on the shelf more than a few days, without someone to rescue, he gets sarcastic. I’ll bet he was in a good mood the whole time you were together.”
“Very.”
“You see?”
Jack finished his beer and went to get another. Dover was still working on hers and declined a second. He shot a disapproving look at Eddie, who was curled by her feet. The dog ignored him. Jack knew that Eddie was giving the lady some attention, as usual, but he was also guarding her. Jack and the poodle had that tendency in common.
He checked his recharging phone as he passed. There was a text from Doc.
Nothing from Abe. You?
Jack scrolled through his messages, wrote back:
Nada.
He sat back down.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Dover said after another lengthy silence.
“Shoot.”
“Who’s number one on your speed dial?”
Jack stopped chewing. “Why? Did you hit it by accident?”
“No, no—before Doc left he told me he was number two. So I was just wondering. Not that it’s any of my business. You don’t have to tell me. Obviously, you don’t have to tell me.”
Jack smiled. “It’s my former wife.”
His face must have registered the discomfort he felt because Dover flushed slightly.
“Sorry,” she said. “That was stupid of me—”
“No, it wasn’t,” he insisted. “It just was not a question I expected.”
“Please forget I asked it,” she said. She washed the statement down with the rest of her beer then went to get another.
“I’m not going to do that,” Jack said. He sat back, sipped his second beer. “My relationship with Rachel was—is—complicated.”
“Please, you don’t have to tell me—”
“I want to,” he said. “Doc, Abe, all our friends—they’re tired of hearing me be confused. You’re a fresh canvas. And you’re smart. And curious. And you analyze data. You may see something the rest of us have missed.”
She relaxed slightly.
“We were married for ten years. It ended two and a half years ago. It probably ended long before, but that’s when we pulled the plug. She was a model, five foot nine, green eyes, black hair—a real night owl. We met while I was doing a segment for The World of the Runway Model. She segued from that to flipping houses. One of those planners who had a real estate license ‘just in case’ her modeling career ended. She was— is—good at being prepared. Tastes change, anorexia is in, hips are out—you never know. Also, she would get bored with things real quick. She bagged college after six months, took up modeling, sold houses, studied nutrition so she had something else to do when the housing market collapsed. Always a step ahead. She’s got a terrific practice now, training vegans in Tiburon—that’s across the bay in Marin County.”
“Alone?”
He grew wistful. “She’s living with a big-shot tax attorney. I resent him.”
“Because—?”
“I wish I knew,” Jack admitted. “He treats her well, he makes her laugh, he’s been cordial to me the two times we’ve met—even if it’s this ‘I’m-a-Harvard-grad’ noblesse oblige, like he’s just a little bit better than me. Anyway, what about you?”
“I dated in college, a lot. There were trust-fund kids, bad boys, scholars. I date in Suitland. Career military, career diplomats, career bureaucrats. I always got along best with the guys who can put their work aside and concentrate on me. Do you ever use number one on speed dial?”
“Never have,” Jack said, “but it’s the only human connection I’ve got left with her.” He stood suddenly. “Let’s take our beers on deck. I want to see if I can learn this relaxing thing.”
He wasn’t sure if that was a “move” or if his guard was just way down. Whichever it was, Dover rose and smiled and seemed happy to follow his lead. Maybe she was just tired, too.
They went out onto the flybridge, followed by Eddie. It was chilly and Jack offered her a blanket. She said she was used to the cold, actually enjoyed it. He showed her to the helm seats but she remained standing. So did Jack.
“I’m not sure it’s working,” he said. “All I am is tired. But my brain’s still working.”
“Look up,” she said.
Jack turned astern to view the stars. They were unusually bright and he realized why. It was past four A.M. He wasn’t usually out at this hour. The lights of the city did not throw as much light in the sky as he was accustomed to.
“Does that relax you?” Dover asked.
“Frankly, it bores me,” he said.
“Hmm. That’s not what we’re going for.”
“I don’t get philosophical about the stars, eternity, the cosmos. I tend not to think about the things I can’t impact.”
“So what do you think about?”
“When I’m not thinking about work?”
“Yeah,” she smiled. “That’s the drill.”
He looked across the water. “I think about now and a little beyond. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy things, like wine and beer and good company. And I can appreciate the dynamics of what’s going on around me—like the harbor and the life that’s under it or on it or above it. I like interaction, sparks, surprise. I guess that’s why I don’t think past the moment. I’ve learned we don’t have a whole lot of control beyond that. I can plan for a TV show and—bang. I’m suddenly off the air. I can plan to walk down a street and—bang, literally. A car bomb goes off. I can be infatuated with a woman and she’s gone. I can be angry at all women and then one shows up who makes me forget that I was mad. I live in the moment because that’s all I’m guaranteed.”
“That’s fair,” she said. “A little grim, but fair.”
Dover was watching him with eyes that sparkled with reflected lights from the city, from other boats. There was a moment he liked. They were far more interesting to him than the stars.
&nbs
p; “What about you?” Jack asked. “What do you think about?”
“I’m still optimistic enough to look ahead,” she said. “I think about the big things. The usual, I guess. Eventually having a relationship, a family.” She laughed. “I guess I’ll also have to think about a new job, a new career.”
“I’m not convinced of that,” Jack said. “I still think there’s something big we can pin on that—”
“Uh-uh,” Dover said. “That’s not relaxing. That’s work.”
“Sorry,” Jack said. “It’s involuntary. We were talking about you—”
She drank a little beer, leaned with her back against the rail. She was a dark silhouette against the darker waters.
“I also find myself thinking about how hopeless things seem at times,” she said. “The world, I mean. Some of the reports I see, about atrocities, genocide, tribal warfare—it’s enough to make me want to find a Tibetan mountaintop or South Pacific atoll to retire to. But that’s not me, either. So I guess I kind of punt. I get reactive instead of proactive.”
“Until you didn’t with this whole Squarebeam thing,” Jack pointed out.
“Until I didn’t,” she agreed. “And it got me thrown into a maelstrom.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Ask me again when we find out what happens next.”
“What do you want to happen next?” he asked.
That did not come out the way it had sounded in his head. Spoken, it was less a question than an invitation. The time between his asking and her answering seemed uncomfortably long.
“Bed,” she said, finishing the beer.
That was no help, Jack thought. He looked down at the dog. “How about it, Eddie? Are you ready for sleep?”
Dover smiled. “I didn’t say sleep.”
Jack grinned boyishly. “I wasn’t sure I heard correctly.”
They went below and whether it was mutual exhaustion or conviction that moments were worth seizing or Dover being more shaken and afraid than she had let on, they slipped into one another’s arms. They remained standing in an embrace that surprised Jack with its intimacy. This wasn’t a woman jaded with life experience and looking to escape for as long as she could. This was a woman who still had questions, and dreams. He didn’t just feel her need, he felt her trust in the way she kissed him, held tight to his shoulders, let him prop her up just a little. She made him feel like Jack, not just any man. Rachel had done that, too, but it was not always a Jack that either of them liked.
This one was. The hero, the mentor, the winner. Every man needed to experience that now and then.
He literally waltzed her toward his stateroom as they kissed; he leading, she following. He cradled her carefully as he lay her on the bed, still kissing. The smell of her was stronger now, even more enticing, and when his fingertips touched her arms through her sweatshirt she shuddered and sighed, a small taste of the much deeper desire he would quickly discover.
Not being promiscuous and not having had a sexual encounter in a while, Jack was somewhat shy and intimidated, especially since Dover was so much younger than him.
Their first kiss changed all that. Like teenagers in the backseat of the family car their tongues did all the talking without many words. Applying the New Age technique of “friends first” Jack asked Dover if she’d like a back rub, both knowing where this would go.
He told her to lie on her front side, her back to him. Mounting her, still fully clothed he straddled her buttocks and began the deep-tissue massage of her all too tense upper back all women seemed to love.
Dover told him how good his hands felt, not mentioning the stiff center prodding at her parts with each thumb press on her upper and lower back. Jack initiated the next step in the sequence asking the lovely, long-legged blonde girl to remove her sweatshirt so he could better massage her.
Her shirt off he faced one of the most erotically charged sights known to man. A half-naked beauty completely submissive on his bed, the straps of her brassiere asking to be pulled.
Being Irish her cheeks turned a deep pink. Being Jack he removed his pants.
Knowing all men feared they were not large enough or hard enough Dover said, “Your thing is nice.” Jack was taken aback but pleased. He didn’t know what to say ...
Naturally this encouraged him, and excited the blood rush making him even more potent, and more vigorous.
~ * ~
The sun was just illuminating the skyline from behind the city when they fell asleep. The lovers were cuddled, beyond exhaustion, but they were closer and much, much richer for the moment they had seized without any thought of the future.
~ * ~
Fairfield, California
Agent Al Fitzpatrick spent the night in the hotel lobby.
Though he hadn’t been on a stakeout since his rookie years, the ten-year veteran slipped back into it like he’d never been away.
Except that you‘re six years older, he reminded himself between snatches of sleep and short breaks outside to check the pool area.
He had arranged with the night clerk to hit the front-desk bell if their Chinese guest came down or seemed to have visitors. The first bell had rung after the target had picked up brochures at the front desk, then returned to his room. The second bell rang at seven A.M., when Fitzpatrick was drinking a complimentary cup of coffee from the continental breakfast bar.
“We offer this service free to any law officer who safeguards our establishment,” the manager had said with a trace of sarcasm when he’d poured the coffee a half hour earlier.
Fitzpatrick had a cab waiting. He had called the previous evening and agreed to pay $150 for it to stay until nine A.M., when the driver’s shift ended. He had a feeling it would be needed. Fitzpatrick had also obtained the names and addresses of the local attractions for which the Chinese guest had made appointments. The agent assumed he would be following the man.
As the night clerk rang the desk bell, a black sedan pulled up at the front door. Fitzpatrick didn’t see an FBI tracking vehicle on the main road. Less than a minute later the man Fitzpatrick had tailed the night before entered the lobby from the hotel. He was wearing a red wind-breaker with bell sleeves and a hood, sunglasses, and blue jeans. Fitzpatrick didn’t bother taking a picture of his face; there wasn’t enough of it to be seen, even if he didn’t mind being obvious about it.
The man was carrying a camera case, several brochures, and nothing else. He greeted the hotel employees with a clipped “Good morning” and a little bow. He got in the sedan and shut the door.
The sedan just sat there.
A few minutes later the man emerged from the sedan with another man, this one wearing a business suit. They reentered the lobby and came directly over to Fitzpatrick. The man in the red windbreaker stood behind the man in the suit. The agent rose so he could see them both.
“This gentlemen says you have been following him,” the man in the suit said. “He would like to know why.”
“He is mistaken,” Fitzpatrick said. “First, to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“I am Yan Hua of the Chinese consulate in San Francisco and this man is our guest.” He removed a small leather folder from his inside pocket and made a point of showing Fitzpatrick his credentials.
“Mr. Hua, I assure you I have been here on other business entirely.”
From the corner of his eye, Fitzpatrick saw the sedan pull away. He looked back at the man in the windbreaker. He wasn’t sure it was the same man. What the hell were they up to? Pinning him down?
“Excuse me,” Fitzpatrick said. “There’s something I need to take care of.”
The men remained where they were as the agent went out to the cab. He looked at the man’s license that was affixed to the passenger’s side visor. Then he gave the driver a $100 bill and his business card.
“Mr. Enslin, I need you to stay with the black sedan,” Fitzpatrick said. “Call and
let me know where it goes.”
“Mister, there are restrictions on where I can go—”
“I’ll smooth it over, whatever it is,” the agent told him. “Please.”
There was urgency in the speaker’s voice and the driver finally looked down at the card. Then he looked back at Fitzpatrick. “You’ve got it, sir,” he said, and drove off.
The agent turned back to the lobby, peered through the dark windows.
The Chinese were gone.
Fitzpatrick ran inside, asked the clerk where they went.
“To the room, I believe,” the clerk told him. “At least, they went in that direction.”
A Time for War Page 24
