Five Years in Yemen
Page 46
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My lesson on compromise had taken place when Nikki had asked me where I wanted to live once we got back from our honeymoon.
“Since I have to be gone most of the time, why don’t you make that decision?” I said.
“No, I think this is something we should decide as a couple.”
“Should we look for a house to buy?” I asked.
“House-hunting is such a hassle.”
“I agree.”
“Both of us already own a house. We could live in one of them.”
“That sounds good. The question is, your house or mine?”
“Your house is a lot bigger than mine, but mine’s been painted recently. Of course, that would make a good selling point for it.”
Nikki lived in a three-bedroom house on a half-acre plot in a subdivision called Summit Lake, whereas my four-bedroom farmhouse was nestled on thirty acres of wooded property just outside the city limits of Norman on Tecumseh Road.
I hadn’t planned on becoming a homeowner.
Originally, the Agency had leased the property as a safe house for me when they’d learned the Iranian regime had hired Ahmed Al-Amin, a Hezbollah assassin, to come after me after I’d escaped from Iran following the rollup of my network in Tehran.
I’d been put on Ahmed’s hit list because I’d shot two VEVAK agents in Tehran when my deep-cover assignment had been blown wide open, and most of my assets had been brutally murdered.
After my debriefing at Langley, I’d been sent to Norman in order to recuperate from a broken leg I’d received while escaping from said VEVAK agents, and also to give the Deputy Director of Operations time to recover from the accusations I’d made against him when I’d learned he’d been responsible for my botched mission in Iran.
Buying a house hadn’t been on my radar, but after meeting Nikki—a detective in the Norman Police Department—and acquiring Stormy—a stray who’d suddenly shown up on my doorstep during a thunderstorm—I’d found myself wanting to put down some roots.
Norman seemed to be the perfect place to do that.
It was a mid-size city, twenty miles from Oklahoma City, with a population of over 100,000 and the home of the University of Oklahoma.
More importantly, it was the home of Nikki Saxon.
Nikki had arrived at my house to interrogate me as a possible suspect in a murder investigation a few months after the Agency had sent me to Norman.
As soon as she’d walked in the front door, she’d expressed how much she loved the modernized farmhouse. When I’d shown her around, she’d admired the house’s floorplan, the view of the lake from the dining room window, and the sunroom at the back of the house. She’d even shown enthusiasm for my double oven in the kitchen.
Now, however, as we were discussing where we should live, I had the feeling she wasn’t that enthusiastic about moving into my place.
“Since my house is bigger than yours, does that mean you want to sell your place and move in here?” I asked.
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“Is it what you want?”
“I guess it makes sense.”
Her half-hearted attitude was a mystery to me, so I decided to test out some possible reasons for her reluctance.
“This is a big place,” I said, “and my nearest neighbor is at least a mile away. You might get lonely here while I’m away.”
“The isolation doesn’t bother me.”
I checked off one possible reason for her reluctance to live here.
Since she’d recently attended a sixteen-week course at the FBI’s training facility at Quantico, Virginia, and received an award for excellence in marksmanship, it was hard for me to believe she had any concerns for her safety, but I threw it out there anyway.
“I could always install a few more cameras around the perimeter; beef up the security a little.”
“Do you really think that’s necessary?” she asked. “Making this place look like a fortress would only draw attention to it, and I know that’s not your objective.”
“No, Detective, my objective is to make you happy,” I said, reaching over and touching her cheek, “and correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t sound very happy about the prospect of living here.”
Instead of responding to my observation, she’d gotten up from the sofa and walked over to the picture window at the front of the house.
I decided she was either trying to come up with an answer, or she was checking on Eleanor, whose favorite reading spot was an antique wooden swing on the front porch.
After briefly glancing outside, she walked back over to the sofa and sat down beside me, leaning her head against my shoulder. “To be perfectly honest, Titus, the first time I sat here on this sofa and interviewed you about the murder of Farah Karimi, I thought about how nice it would be to live in this house.”
“If I recall, that interview was more like an interrogation.”
She laughed. “You’re right, but eventually I got the truth out of you. That was the night you told me you were with the CIA.”
“Which you refused to believe.”
“Yes, but you managed to convince me eventually and look at us now. We’re about to get married in a few months.” She looked up at me. “I never thought I’d fall in love with a spy.”
I leaned over and gave her a kiss. “And I never thought I’d fall in love with a cop, but you’re not answering my question. If you love this place so much, why aren’t you more excited about living here?”
“Uh . . . don’t get me wrong. I love your house, and I’m really looking forward to living here, but uh . . . if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to make a few changes.”
I looked around the living room.
“Oh, sure. I get that. When I bought the house, I had the owner leave all the furniture, so I realize this stuff is pretty outdated.”
“Are you saying there’s nothing of sentimental value here?”
“Nothing except my telescope in the sunroom.”
“What about the colors?”
“What colors?”
“The wall colors. Would you mind if I had the walls painted a different color?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“And what about updating the appliances?”
“I thought you said you loved my double oven.”
“I love your double oven. I just want to update it.”
“Okay, I’m good with that.”
“Let’s talk about the master bedroom.”
“Sure, let’s talk about the bedroom.”
“Would you mind if I made some changes there as well?”
“Like what?”
“Like getting rid of all that dark heavy furniture.”
“Even the leather recliner?”
“You want to keep it?”
“It’s pretty comfortable.”
“I don’t mind compromising. The leather recliner can stay. Now, let’s talk about the patio.”
In the months that followed, Nikki and I had a few more conversations that ended up in similar compromises, and now here I was sitting out on my newly redecorated patio the night before my wedding, about to go to bed in my completely refurnished master bedroom, and wondering if I would ever get used to the gray walls in my freshly painted office.
Suddenly, I realized my wedding jitters had returned, and just as I was about to try Danny Jarrar’s suggestion and start contemplating the stars, my phone vibrated.
It was Carlton.
“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” he asked.
“What’s there to be nervous about? I’m marrying a beautiful, fascinating woman, and I’ve already learned marriage is all about compromise.”
Carlton laughed, something he rarely did, and as I was about to ask him why he thought that was so funny, he turned serious.
“I’ve received some new intel about Lisa Redding from my contact in Shin Bet.”
END OF CHAPTER 1
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