The Old Man(77)

Julian entered and saw three men sitting on the other side of the conference table, as before. Mr. Bailey and Mr. Prentiss sat on either side of Mr. Ross, who was engaged in reading an open file in front of him while the others sat with yellow legal pads and pens, but not making use of either.

Julian watched Ross perform the familiar bit of theater. He closed the file and looked up at Julian. “Hello, Mr. Carson,” he said. “Have a seat.”

Julian had never been invited to sit before, and he knew it was intended to be another reward, a gesture of politeness that had to be earned before it was given. He sat.

Mr. Ross said, “I understand from Staff Sergeant Wright’s report that you were an asset to the team.”

This could only be ironic. Julian was supposed to understand this, so he pretended it didn’t matter. “He’s a good squad leader. His men trust him and they’re well trained and disciplined. He must be good in military situations.”

Mr. Ross had to know that Julian was asking him why he’d been sent such an inappropriate form of help. Mr. Ross pretended it didn’t matter. “But nobody got the old man and his girlfriend.”

“No,” said Julian. “I think the old man must have noticed there was an army rifle squad in the middle of that little resort town.”

Ross studied him. “They were that obvious?”

“Buzz haircuts. Brand-new winter clothes. Their physiques—necks about as thick as their heads, straight, stiff posture, not one beer belly. They’re all about the same age, too old to be in college. No women.”

Mr. Ross looked at Mr. Bailey and then Mr. Prentiss. Both of them looked down and made notations on their yellow pads. “So he spotted them and took off?”

“It might have been later. On the night the squad arrived Sergeant Wright saw the snow was already deep and falling steadily. So Wright had two men take a pickup truck in the morning and plow the road up to the cabin.”

“What did he have in mind?”

“He wanted to drive up and take the targets by surprise instead of hiking up through snowdrifts.”

Mr. Ross said, “This whole thing was a screwup from your point of view, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think we should have waited for optimum conditions?”

“It wouldn’t have hurt,” said Julian. “The old man’s cabin looked like he’d been there for a while and planned to stay.”

Mr. Ross said, “The assessment was made that it was better to complete the mission right after the storm than to risk the old man slipping off the next night.”

Julian shrugged. “I see.”

“So now we’ve got another botched operation to our credit,” said Mr. Ross. “We’ve involved two other government agencies and embarrassed ourselves. This reflects on you.”

Julian was silent.

“What do you think we should do now?” asked Mr. Ross.

“My opinion doesn’t matter anymore, sir.”

“It doesn’t? Why do you think that? If I’m asking, I want to know the answer.”

“I’m removing myself from the issue.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Julian stood. “I’ve decided to end my government service. I’m an independent civilian contractor, and as of now I quit. I don’t want any further employment. Thank you for the consideration.” He held out his hand toward Mr. Ross, who ignored it, and then offered it to Mr. Prentiss, and then to Mr. Bailey. None of them took his hand. He pulled his government cell phone out of his pocket and set the device on the table in front of his chair. Then he turned and walked out the door.

Julian Carson walked down the sidewalk past the rows of buildings, across the two large parking lots filled with the private cars of military intelligence and National Security Agency personnel. He felt buoyant, a feeling that grew stronger as he got farther away from that office. He controlled the feeling and walked on, looking around him at Fort George Meade. This would certainly be the last time he would ever see this place.





27


The Canadian passport looked a lot like her American passports—dark blue with gold writing and a seal on the outside. This one said CANADA, of course. The gold symbol was a fancy crown design, and along with PASSPORT below it there was PASSEPORT. The photograph and identity data were on the same page as they were in the American passports.

She read the name again. Marie Angelica Spencer. She said it aloud. It was okay. Probably his … Anna had thought of the name. She had caught herself thinking: First wife. He would have let Anna choose something she could imagine living with, and the name sounded compatible with the way Anna—and she—both looked, northern European, probably of Irish, English, or French descent or all three.

Changing—even being a person who was amenable to change—was confusing. She supposed that it wasn’t as big a deal to her now as it would have been before she took her husband’s name, McDonald. She had taken that wholeheartedly and without reservation, and then nineteen years later had learned it wasn’t her name after all, not really.

She had very quickly gotten comfortable being Marcia Dixon. It was a common and familiar name, like putting her feet in a worn-in pair of slippers. And being Marie Spencer was not going to be any less comfortable for her. Marie Spencer was another good name for a person who didn’t want to be noticed or wondered about.