quickly as possible, each choosing important mementoes to hold Sophia's memory close. But then Randi had continued to phone a couple of times a week, and he had realized she was checking on him.
Amazingly, she was worried.
“Hi, spy,” he retorted. “Where are you now?”
“D.C. The big city. Remember it? Working away at my lowly, boring job here at the think tank. Oh, for a life of adventure. I don't think I'm going to have a new assignment for a while, but I get the sense they're cooking up something big. Meanwhile, they seem to think I need my rest. Why don't you visit for Christmas? All that sunshine and good weather must be getting on your nerves.”
“On the contrary. It suits me just fine. It's going to be just me and Santa. We'll have a jolly old time.”
“You'll miss me and Marty. I know you will. I'm having Christmas dinner with him. Of course, there's no way to blast him out of that little bungalow of his, so I have to go there.” She chuckled. “He's made Samson part of his fortress routine. You should see them together. Marty's particularly fond of the way Samson can make his fangs drip. At least, Marty claims Samson has control over that particular involuntary bodily function.” She paused. “You're a doctor. What do you think?”
“I think they're both crazy. Who's cooking?”
“I am. Unlike them, I'm not crazy. I want something edible. What do you like ? traditional turkey? Maybe a standing rib roast? How about a Christmas goose?”
It was his turn to laugh. “You're not going to talk me into going back. At least not yet.” He gazed out at the tranquil Pacific, rippling with sunshine. Santa Barbara was where Sophia and Randi had grown up. He had driven past their childhood home the day he arrived. It was a beautiful hacienda perched atop a cliff with panoramic ocean views. Randi had never asked whether he had visited it. There were still areas neither wanted to discuss.
Their conversation continued about five minutes longer before they said good-bye. As they hung up, Jon thought about Peter, who had returned to his California aerie as soon as he had gotten permission to leave Washington. His wounds had been as superficial as Jon's initial diagnosis had suggested, and only the cracked rib had given him continuing pain. Last week, Jon had called to see how he was feeling, but a machine had answered. He had left a message. Within the hour, some officious clerk had phoned to inform him that Mr. Howell was on an extended vacation and could not be reached for a month or more. But don't get discouraged, Dr. Smith. Mr. Howell would be in touch as soon as he was available.
Translation: Peter was off on some operation.
Jon crossed his arms and closed his eyes. A warm offshore wind ruffled his hair and sent the glass chimes at the corner of the deck into a series of tinkling tones. In the distance on the beach, a dog barked. Children laughed. Seagulls called. He propped his bare feet up on the rail and felt himself grow drowsy.
Behind him, a voice asked, “Had enough peace and quiet yet?”
Jon jumped. He had not heard a door open or footsteps tread across the raised-wood floor of the house he had rented. Automatically he reached for his Beretta, but it was locked in a safety-deposit box in Washington.
For just that instant, he was back on the trail of Victor Tremont, wary and alert… and alive.
“Who the hell!” He turned.
“Colonel Smith, good afternoon. I'm an admirer of yours. My name is Nathaniel Frederick Mein.”
In the open sliding-glass doorway between the house and the deck stood a man of medium height, dressed in a rumpled charcoal suit. He held a calfskin briefcase in his left hand. With his right, he dropped picklocks into his jacket pocket. He had a receding hairline, wirerimmed glasses pushed up high on his long nose, and pale skin that had not seen the sun for any length of time since summer.
“Dr. Smith,” Jon corrected him. “Just get in from Washington?”
Klein gave a short smile. “Dr. Smith, then. Yes, came straight here from the airport. Care to keep guessing?”
“I don't think so. You look like a man with a lot to say.”
“Do I?” He sat in a deck chair. “Very astute of you. But then, from everything I've learned, that's one of the characteristics that makes you most valuable.” He rattled off a short history of Jon's life, from birth through education and the army.
As he talked, Jon felt himself sinking deeper into his deck chair. He closed his eyes again. He sighed.
When Klein finished, Jon opened his eyes. “Got that all in your briefcase, I expect. Memorized it on the flight.”
Klein allowed himself a smile. “Actually, no. I've got a month's worth of magazines. I'm behind in my reading. The flight gave me a chance to catch up. Field and Stream. That sort of thing.” He loosened his tie, and his shoulders slumped with weariness. “Dr. Smith, I'll come right to the point. You're what we call a mobile cipher?”
“A what?”
“Mobile cipher,” he repeated. “You're at loose ends. You've just had a terrible tragedy that has irrevocably changed your life. But you're still a doctor, and I know that's important to you. You have training in arms, science, and intelligence, and I'm wondering what else is important to you. You have no family, and only a few close friends.”
“Yeah,” Jon said drily. “And I'm unemployable.”
Klein chuckled. “Hardly. Any of the new international private investigative agencies would welcome you. Obviously none of that appeals to you. One look at your resume is enough to convince anyone with common sense that you're something of a maverick, which means that despite your years in the army, you're really a self-starter. You like to run your own show, but you still have a strong sense of patriotism and a commitment to principle that made the army attractive, and you won't find that in any business.”
“I have no plans to start a business.”
“Good. You'd probably fail at it. Not that you wouldn't enjoy starting one. You've got an entrepreneurial nature. If you were driven to do it, you'd go through all the hell of setting up a business, make it hugely successful, and then once it was running smooth as hot butter, you'd either sell it or run it into the ground. Entrepreneurs by definition make lousy managers. They get bored too easily.”
“You think you've got me figured out. Who the hell are you?”
“We'll get to that in a minute. As I said, `mobile cipher,' I think we've established the `mobile' part. The `cipher' refers to how the unfortunate events in October altered you. The external changes are easy to tally ? quits job, sells house, goes on a pilgrimage to the past, refuses to see old friends, is living clear across the country. Have I left anything out?”
Jon nodded to himself. “Okay, I'm hooked. Let's get to the internal changes. But if this is a free therapy session, believe me, I'm not interested.”
“Touchy, too. That's to be expected. As I was saying, we don't know ? indeed, you probably don't know either ? how much this has changed you inside. You are, in effect, at this moment a cipher to yourself as well as to everyone else. If I'm right, you feel at odds with the world, as if you've lost your place in it. Also, that you can't seem to find a reason to go on living.” Klein paused, and his voice softened. “I lost my wife, too. To cancer. So please know that I have tremendous sympathy for you.”
Jon swallowed. He said nothing.
“And that's why I'm here. I've been authorized to offer you employment that should interest you.”
“I don't need or want a job.”
“This isn't about `job' or money, although you'll be well paid. This is about helping people, governments, environments, whoever or whatever is in crisis. You asked who I am, and I can't completely divulge that information unless you're willing to sign a secrecy agreement. I will tell you this: There are interested parties, high up in government, who have taken a personal interest in you. They are forming a very small, very elite group of self- starters like yourself ? mavericks who have strong ethics but few encumbrances in the world. It might mean occasional hardship, travel certainly, and danger. Not everyone would be interested. Even fewer would be capable. Do you find this idea at all appealing?”
Jon studied Klein. Sunlight glinted off his glasses, and his expression was solemn. Finally he asked, “What's this group called?”
“At the moment, Covert-One. Officially part of the army, but really independent. Nothing glamorous about it or the work, although the work will be vital.”
Jon turned away to gaze at the ocean as if he could see the future. He still carried the pain of Sophia's death,
