women get into this work. It’s almost a stereotype of the profession. The ordinary, workaday fellow, the ‘invisible’ plodder who years later, well into his retirement, is revealed to have been a longtime ‘famous spy.’ “She stopped. “But if you really dissect him, psychologically I mean, this banal old man, he is anything but benign. His perversity is only more cleverly dissembled. He’s uncanny, disguising his moral petulance as a virtue.”
She smoked a moment more and Graver waited, knowing all of this was prologue, watching her, suddenly and strangely aware of the extreme nature of this profession and how quickly logical steps could take you, one at a time, to such outrageous places.
“Except you, Marcus,” she continued. “I’ve known you a good while now, longer than many. But I’ve never sensed any perversity in you at all. And I can tell you, dear, I look for it. Oh, I look for it in everyone I have anything to do with.”
Her smile was very faint now, almost not there at all. Outside, the world seemed to be populated only by birds.
“It could be,” he said, “that you’ve never met anyone who was so adept at guile.”
It was a remark both cynical and self-condemning, one that Graver himself almost had come to believe. It was the kind of extreme thinking one came to when one began searching inside one’s self for the reasons for other people’s actions. Maybe it didn’t make sense, but for some people it was instinctive, and it took an equally extreme act of will not to believe that the search was justified.
Arnette studied him, the smoke coiling from the cigarette beside her gypsy face, so exotic in saffron, in the twilight.
“Well, it could be,” she drawled thoughtfully, her voice barely audible. Then stronger, her tone changing: “Anyway, this looks like a rough one, baby. I hope you’re ready for it.”
Chapter 23
On the way back to the office Graver stopped at a small steak house that catered to businessmen, a place that had sat very still and very quiet while the last two decades had passed it by. It was a sunless retreat with heavy wood furnishings that smelled of liquor and cigarettes and cigars, and whose waitresses dressed in little Heidi uniforms with white ruffled scoop necks and push-up bras. The steaks sizzled in their own grease; there were only three kinds of salad dressings, none of them low cal; and the only kind of sweetener on the table was sugar. Everything was unhealthy and delicious.
He ate alone at a corner table and reviewed his conversation with Arnette. He remembered the look on her face when he told her he wanted her to put Dean and Ginette Burtell under surveillance. For just a flicker of an instant she had looked as if she doubted his loyalties, rather than Burtell’s. What in the hell was he doing putting a tail on Burtell? That’s the way it was with everyone, Dean Burtell was beyond reproach, his integrity was a given, so solid you just didn’t bother to give it any thought. He was the kind of guy you would want standing beside you if one day the world suddenly turned nasty on you and all the rules changed and everything seemed stacked against you through no fault of your own. You’d want Dean there because you knew there would be no recriminations, an abundance of understanding, and an assurance that he would see you through to the end. Graver knew that was the way people felt about him. That was the way he felt about him too.
Graver’s chopped steak arrived swimming in its own juices and with a side of fries that were long, thin, limp, and golden brown. As he ate, he tried to force his thoughts out in front of events. He really didn’t have a lot of time to mull over his options. He knew that And he also knew he didn’t have much room to maneuver in a conventional sense. By the time he polished off the last bite of steak he had made some major decisions. There were certain points of reference he had to establish. There had to be one or two things he could rely on unequivocally.
It was nearly one-thirty when he got back to the office. He stopped at Lara’s door and stuck his head in.
“Have you got a minute?”
“Sure,” she said. Grabbing a steno pad and pencil, she followed him into his office. He closed the door behind them, and she went over and stood in front of his desk. He noticed she had freshened up after lunch, brushed through her hair, put on fresh lipstick, tucked and pulled at her suit until it looked as crisp and fresh as it had when she came in that morning.
“Sit down,” he said, and he walked around her and sat in one of the other chairs opposite her in front of his desk. She held her steno pad and pencil in her scarlet-nailed Fingers, resting on her lap. Her expression was anticipatory, though not anxious. She already had sensed this was not going to be a routine conversation.
“Lara, I need your help with something that’s… out of the ordinary,” Graver said.
Her expression did not change, but a slight vertical shadow, the beginning of a puzzled frown, appeared between her dark eyebrows.
He crossed his legs, trying to appear more relaxed than he actually felt, though he suspected that none of his consternation was escaping Lara. As always, there were things that passed between them about which neither of them ever spoke. It was one of the peculiar characteristics of their relationship that much of what they felt for each other, whether it was amorous or simply the affection of friendship, was never articulated. That, of course, was Graver’s decision, or, as he thought of it more often lately, his fault.
“I’m going to be asking you for a favor, Lara, something that goes beyond your job description,” he said. “It’s something you’d ask of a friend, a close friend… someone you’d trust… no matter what happened.”
The shadow in her expression lightened at these words, but the uncertainty remained.
“Is it personal or business?” she asked.
“Both,” he said. “And that’s the problem.”
He saw her stiffen. “Does it involve a woman?” There was an unmistakable tension in the question.
“No,” he said, “it’s nothing like that.”
As he looked at her, he realized how much he relied on her, how much he wanted to rely on her in order to weather the storm of the coining events. He felt like a doctor looking through a microscope at the cells of his own recently discovered disease. There was the danger of the loss of rationality. There was the tendency to see the vague, squirming shadows swimming in their own viscosity as something other than what they were, an inclination to see them as manifestations of Evil, Death, Divine Judgment Graver wanted someone-Lara-to be there when his fears grew to mythological proportions, when his doubts grew more articulate and wiser than his convictions, and he was in danger of believing a lie.
She might have seen something of this fear in his eyes, in his manner, or sensed it in the tone of his voice. Whatever it was, her face softened as they stared at each other, and she nodded.
Jesus Christ If he had any sense at all he would not let this woman out of his sight Without any further explanation, Graver began at the beginning and told her everything. Everything. More than he was going to tell either Neuman or Paula. More than he was going to tell Arnette. As he talked his voice grew quieter, an unconscious habit when he was preoccupied beyond the moment about what he was saying. He talked to her as if she were the only other person in his life, allowing her to see the fear and the doubt, making no excuses for his confusion and the pain he felt for all the betrayal. He tried to give her the perspective from inside his own mind, to give her some semblance of the stress of his own emotions.
When he finally finished talking, she sat silently, looking at him. She hadn’t moved a muscle. Then she dropped her eyes to her lap, to her hands.
“This is hard to believe,” she said, her voice studied, thoughtful. “You must be…”
“In a state of shock,” Graver said.
She looked up. “Yes, I would imagine so.” Then hesitantly, “I’m sorry about Dean. Very sorry. I can see… I know how this is hurting you.”
Graver shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“You understand… the risks will be real,” he said. “This is off the books. You’ll be putting your job at risk. There aren’t any guidelines, no operating procedures for this. I’m just going to do what I think has to be done. It’s a judgment call; my judgment call. I don’t want to mislead you about this.”
“No, I understand that,” she said. “It’s just… so unexpected, a little breathtaking.” She tried to smile, but it didn’t happen. “It’s just so… I don’t know, strange, I guess, when you know these people.”
One hand slid to the hem of her skirt, and she pulled at it to keep it from creeping any higher on her
