I replied, 'Have you seen any good movies lately?'
'It's a perfectly healthy topic, you know. Men can be a little strange about it. Adults should be open about these things.'
'My thoughts exactly. So… are you a Democrat or a Republican?'
'You're weird.'
She reached over and turned on the radio, moved the dial around a while, and settled on a station playing a romantic ballad by Pete Seeger.
I finished my omelet.
She said, 'I love this song.' She stretched and added, 'I need to lay down.'
So she lay back on her bed, I polished off the fries, and I lay back on mine. After a moment, I asked her, 'Where did all those scars come from?'
'I was quite the tomboy when I was younger.'
'You should've stuck to skirts and dolls.'
'Yeah, well, you should see the other guy.'
'Right.'
Silence.
Eventually, Jennie said, 'This is… a little uncomfortable, isn't it? Should we have gotten two rooms?'
'Well, what can I say? We're partners.'
'I don't often do this… even with partners.'
'I hope not.'
Silence.
I said, 'Why aren't you married?'
'Why should I be?'
'Elizabeth thinks you should be married. Elizabeth thinks you should have a house in a burb, and ten kids screaming in the back of a red stretch minivan.'
'Elizabeth should mind her own business.' After a moment she asked, 'What about you?'
'Ask Elizabeth.'
She laughed.
She turned on her side and faced me. 'Look, I enjoy you as a partner. You're very smart and very quick. I also think we've become friends.'
'Right. I think-'
'Shut up. Let me finish. We've only known each other a day. It's been a very long and tense day, and… both our emotions are running high. If we… well, if we take the next step… and I'll admit I'm thinking about it, too… Sean, I don't do this casually.'
'That's not what Elizabeth told me.'
A strawberry bounced off my forehead. 'Cut it out.'
'I always send flowers.'
She smiled. I thought we were on the cusp of something. Maybe. So far, I had been the perfect gentleman. I had put down the toilet seat, and even taken the other bed. I don't believe in throwing myself at women, and she was telling me she didn't believe in throwing herself at men, which meant one of us had to get over it and make the first move, or we'd both walk out of here with our beliefs intact. So, going where no man had gone before-or I hoped very few-I stood up and took a step toward her bed.
Suddenly we both heard a loud bleeping sound.
We looked into each other's eyes a moment. She said, 'It's mine.'
'No-they're both going off.'
'Shit.' We raced back to our clothes and scrambled around for our cell phones. Jennie found hers first. 'Margold.'
I got mine. 'Drummond.'
Phyllis was on the line. 'Where are you?' she asked.
'I'm… nearby.'
'They… they struck again. It's very bad, Sean.'
I had assumed so from her tone. In fact, her voice sounded shaky, and I thought she had been crying. 'Tell me about it.'
'Well, we… we should have considered… but we didn't. It's the one thing we weren't guarding against.'
It suddenly hit me. 'The families.'
Phyllis said nothing, which said everything.
'Whose?'
'It's… they… Mark Townsend's wife.'
'Shit.' I felt really stupid. Worse, I felt terrible. Why hadn't I figured this out before?
Phyllis said, 'Please, get there right away It's important for Mark to know, at this moment, that we in the Agency… that we.. .'
A long silence ensued while Phyllis discovered what she wanted to say. Eventually, she informed me, 'I've known Mark and Joan nearly two decades. They have a daughter in college… Janice. I've… well, we're very…'
'I'm on my way. I will find these people, Phyllis.'
'Do that. I mean it.' She hung up.
I began dressing. Jennie was pulling up her pants with one hand, and with the other she held the phone to her ear and listened to the details of what had happened, and where.
I already knew what had happened. Literally and figuratively, we'd been caught with our pants down. Too late, I realized what had been gnawing at me. For Jason Barnes, this was a vendetta- both personal and borderless-like the Hatfields and McCoys, a blood feud with lines of vengeance that radiated beyond the government officials he believed had wronged his father. Barnes was a man of faith, a fundamentalist par excellence; he would subscribe to a biblical retribution, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; a mother for a father and a parent for an angry son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The aftermath of a bombing is more terrifying and more horrible than any other form of murder. When I was an infantry officer, I once helped clear a bombed barracks in the Middle East. I have never erased the sights, nor the distinctive smells of seared flesh, blood, and internal organs from my mind.
Joan Townsend was a former FBI agent. Once a Fibbie, always a Fibbie. She remained admirably disciplined, a creature of habits wholesome and predictable-church every Sunday morning, a stop at the dry cleaners every Wednesday, grocery shopping on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and an efficient cardio workout every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning at the Gold's Gym located at Tysons Corner.
Twenty minutes of pumping light weights, ten minutes on the stairstep, finished off with twenty minutes on the running machine, a quick shower, and a fast dash out to the parking lot for the drive home. She was dedicated and she was fit, and at sixty years old she still wore a size four. She had just settled her firm and svelte butt into the leather seat of her gray Crown Victoria, and was probably in the process of buckling her seat belt when she blew right into the roof and windshield.
Three unfortunate souls were getting out of the car parked beside Joan Townsend's and also were obliterated. A few limbs were scattered around, and I noted some viscera hanging from the handicapped parking sign.
When it's the boss's wife, word spreads both efficiently and fast. It appeared that half the FBI had rushed to the scene. Three fire trucks were parked alongside the curb as the firemen were rolling up hoses and putting away their equipment. Yellow crime scene tape was already strung, and forensics experts were combing the scene, picking through body scraps and car parts, bagging and tagging. Also, I noted, a few TV vans had made it to the scene, and three or four reporters were scrambling to get their mikes and camera crews into broadcast mode. The circus had started: It was going to be a three-ringer. But a large and expanding crowd of people who
