Color of Blood(33)

“I could have killed him,” she said, staring at the row of liquor bottles at the back of the bar, “really killed him. I was so bloody furious and humiliated. I actually locked my service weapon in the trunk of my car one night for fear I’d use it on him if I took it inside. Isn’t that awful? God, what a bloody wreck I was.”

At some point, Judy realized she was a little tipsy and had talked too much. A little embarrassed, she got up and said she needed to leave.

They hugged each other, and to Judy’s surprise, Dennis held her awkwardly with his arms partially extended and brushed her cheek with his.

Judy pushed Dennis back. “Was that a good-bye hug? My God, you act like I have typhus.”

Dennis frowned and pulled her back into his grasp, unexpectedly pressing his lips against hers, kissing her hard at first and then parting gently at the end. Judy was startled and then thrilled. At the end of the kiss, she hung on for a millisecond, feeling his lips.

“You’re always surprising me, Dennis,” she said in a slightly husky voice.

“I’m, um, sorry about that. It just happened.”

They stared at each other.

“I really must go,” she said again.

“Good-bye, Judy.” He pressed her two hands in his. “Take care. Maybe we’ll run into each other again.”

“Not likely,” Judy said. “We only live about fourteen thousand miles apart.”

“Well, that’s true,” he said.

She left Dennis at the bar and stood inside, waiting for her car. Outside, vehicles whizzed by in silence, muffled by the plate glass. Two gardeners plucked and trimmed a strand of flowers, talking and gesturing animatedly, but she could hear nothing except the silly beating of her heart.





Chapter 15


The house had a musty odor, as if it had not been inhabited for years. Dennis chose to continue living in the small, two-story Cape Cod–style house because it meant that nothing changed.

He and Martha had lived in the ordinary white house with blue shutters in Arlington, Virginia, for almost eighteen years, and it had suited him just fine. Why should he think about moving now? There was nothing to be gained, really. The commute to Langley was not bad. The constantly changing neighbors—slick, young professional couples driving Audis and BMWs, or rootless military families on Pentagon rotation—were simply a backdrop to Dennis’s plodding life.

Yet, returning home from this latest mission left him forlorn. The house smelled stale; the modest front yard was littered with small branches and a child’s empty, flattened juice box. It took him a while to feel comfortable again.

Back at work, Dennis kept a low profile. Mercifully, Marty had not made a fuss about the complaint from the State Department, and Dennis hoped it was a dead issue.

He had just finished brushing his teeth one evening when his home phone rang. He went into the bedroom and glanced at the clock radio—it was 10:56 p.m., and he wondered whether his daughter was calling.

“Yes?”

“Is this Dennis Cunningham?”

“Yes it is. Who is this?”

“Matthew Clancy, sir. I’m the shift supervisor at Warehouse B in Silver Spring.”

“Warehouse B? What’d you say your name was?”

“Clancy, sir. Matthew Clancy.”

“Well, Clancy, could you make it quick?”

“Are we on a landline, sir?”

“Yes we are,” Dennis said.

“We need to go to a secure line. Can I give you a phone number to call back?”

Dennis had never received a call from anyone at Warehouse B, the huge storage facility run by the Agency in suburban Maryland.

“Clancy, are you sure you got the right guy? I don’t have anything in the warehouse. I think your wires got crossed somewhere.”

“No, sir, I don’t think so,” he said with the kind of clipped precision Dennis had learned to expect from the Agency’s administrative employees. It was easier for the Agency to hire former military personnel from Smalltown, USA, that already had a security clearance and an appreciation for lines of authority than it was to place a Help Wanted ad in the Washington Post for a snot-nosed twenty-one-year-old kid fresh out of George Washington University.

Dennis took down the number, found his encrypted cell phone, and returned the call.

“Clancy, can we make this quick?”

“Absolutely, sir. We have a shipment that’s a Level 2 hazmat, and we had to quarantine it. Your name’s listed on the intake form.”

“Clancy, you’re not listening to me,” Dennis said, feeling his face flush with anger. “I just told you that I don’t have anything in Warehouse B. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had anything stored in Warehouse B.”

“Sir, we have two crates that were received yesterday for storage and processing. You were listed on the shipment authorization. It says here,”—he rustled some papers—“we have two hundred-pound plastic storage crates originating from the US Consulate in Perth, Western Australia. You’re Dennis Cunningham, correct? Inspector general’s office?”

“Oh,” Dennis said. “Maybe I know about these. Do you know what’s inside?”

“Sir, the form says ‘Personal effects of G. Garder. Store until cleared for release to family.’ That’s all.”