Blasphemy

Hazelius came out of the kitchen carrying a platter heaped with medallions of grilled tenderloin. He set it down to a chorus of approval from the table.

Kate Mercer appeared behind him, carrying a bowl of steak frites. Without looking Ford’s way, she set it down and vanished back into the kitchen.

Nothing Ford imagined had prepared him for this first glimpse of her since they broke up. At thirty-five, she was even more beautiful than she had been at twenty-three—except that her long, unruly cascade of black hair was now short and stylish; the unkempt graduate student in jeans and oversized men’s shirts had grown up. Twelve years had passed since he last saw her—but it felt like only a few days.

He felt a nudge in his ribs and turned to see Corcoran holding out the platter. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian, Wyman.”

“Not at all.” He selected a slab oozing blood and passed the dish on, trying to appear relaxed. Kate’s appearance had unnerved him.

“Don’t think we eat like this every night,” she said. “Your arrival makes it special.”

A spoon tinkled against glass, and Hazelius rose, holding up his wine. Conversation stopped.

“I prepared a little toast of welcome—” He looked around. “Now where’s our assistant director?”

The door to the kitchen opened and Kate bustled out, quickly seating herself next to Ford with her eyes fixed ahead on the table.

“I was just saying, I wanted to offer a toast of welcome to the newest member of our team: Wyman Ford.”

Ford kept his eyes on Hazelius as he took in Kate’s slender presence beside him, the warmth of her body, her scent.

“As most of you know, Wyman is an anthropologist and his field of study is human nature—a far more complex subject than anything we’re working on.” He raised his glass. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Wyman. A very,very warm welcome from us all.”

A round of applause.

“And now, before I sit down, I wanted to say a few words about our disappointment last night . . . .” He paused. “We’re engaged in a struggle that has been going on since a human being first gazed up at the stars and wondered what they were. The search for truth is the greatest of all human endeavors. From the discovery of fire to the discovery of the quark, this is the very essence of what it means to be human. We— the thirteen of us here—are the true heirs of Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods and gave it to mankind.”

He paused dramatically.

“You know what happened to Prometheus. In retribution, the gods chained him to a rock for eternity. Every day, an eagle flies down, tears opens his side, and devours his liver. But because he’s immortal, he cannot die, and must endure the torture forever.”

The room was so quiet, Ford could hear the crackle of the fire in the grate.

“The search for truth is a hard, hard thing, as we are finding out.” Hazelius raised his glass. “To the heirs of Prometheus.”

People drank solemnly to the toast.

“Our next run will begin Wednesday at noon. From now until then, I want each of you to concentrate every fiber of your being on the task at hand.”

He sat down. People picked up their knives and forks, and the conversation gradually resumed.

When the voices had grown loud enough, Ford said quietly, “Hello, Kate.”

“Hello, Wyman.” Her eyes were guarded. “This is a surprise, to say the least.”

“You look well.”

“Thank you.”

“Assistant director—that’s quite an achievement.” He had felt like a voyeur, reading her dossier. But he couldn’t stop himself—it had intrigued him. She had had a rocky life since they parted.

“And you—what happened to your CIA career?”

“I gave it up.”

“And now you’re an anthropologist?”

“Yes.”

Neither said more. The sound of her voice, the musical lilt of it with just the hint of a lisp, hit him even harder than her appearance. He quickly stepped down on the flood of memories. The reaction was absurd—they had broken up long ago. Since then he had half a dozen relationships and a marriage. It hadn’t been a pretty breakup either—no “let’s just be friends” about it. They had said unforgivable things to each other.

Kate had turned and was speaking to someone else. He took a sip from his wine, lost in thought. His mind went back to when he had first seen her at MIT. Early one afternoon he’d been searching for a quiet reading corner at the back of the Barker Engineering Library when he noticed a woman sleeping under a table—a not-unusual sight. Her right cheek rested on her hand; the other arm lay across her shirt. Her long glossy hair fanned across the carpet. She was slender and cool, with the fine, delicate features often seen in people with dual Asian-Caucasian ancestry. She looked like a sleeping gazelle. The pale hollow at the base of her curved neck, next to her clavicle, struck him as the most erotic thing he had ever seen. His eyes lingered on her, shamelessly drinking in every erotic detail of her sleeping body. He couldn’t seem to move on. He just stared.

A fly grazed her cheek. Her head jerked, and her mahogany eyes flew open, fixing on him. He felt busted.

She blushed and scrambled awkwardly out from under the table. “What’s your problem?”

He mumbled something about having wanted to make sure she was okay.

She softened, embarrassed. “I must’ve looked kind of weird, lying on the floor. Usually there’s no one around at this time of day. I can sleep for ten minutes and wake up refreshed.”

His only interest in her, he assured her again, had been concern for her health. She made a throwaway comment about needing a double shot of espresso before hitting the books. He said he could use one, too—and that was their first date.

They were so different. That was part of the appeal. She was small-town working class, he big-city elite. She liked Blondie; he liked Bach. She sometimes smoked pot, which he found faintly scandalous. He was Catholic; she was a strident atheist. He was in control; she was unpredictable, spontaneous, even wild. On their second date, it was she who made the moves on him. On top of that, she was academically brilliant—perhaps even a genius. She was so smart, it scared him and turned him on at the same time. Even outside of physics, she had a fanatical drive to understand human nature. She was fiercely partisan, outraged at the unfairness of the world, a petition-signer, marcher, and letter-to-the-editor writer. He remembered their arguments on politics and religion that went on to the wee hours, and how surprised he was at her insight into human psychology, despite the raw emotionalism of her views.

His decision to join the CIA had ended their relationship. For her, either you were one of the good guys or you weren’t. The CIA was definitely in the “weren’t” category. She called it the Catastrophe-Inducing Agency—and that was when she was being polite.

“So, Wyman,” Kate said, “why’d you give it up?”

“What?” Ford came back to the present.

“Your CIA career. What happened?”

Ford wished he could just make himself say it: Because my wife got car-bombed while we were working undercover.

“It didn’t work out,” he said lamely.

“I see. Is it . . . is it too much to hope you changed your views?”

Is it too much to hope you changed yours? Ford thought, but let it pass. It was so like her: to get right to the heart of the matter, damn the cost. He’d loved that part of her, and he’d hated it.

“The dinner looks great,” he said, trying to keep things bland. “Last I remember, you were empress of the microwave.”

“Fast food was making me fat.”

Again, silence.