would be around. And Gaudet would be waiting.
Sam walked through La Guardia International Airport on his way to the taxi, having flown in from LA. Using his cell phone he called Jill.
'We have a new problem,' she started right out. 'The CIA wants, and I quote, 'to know why the hell you sent the SDECE to investigate a report of a plot on the U.S.' '
'What are you talking about?'
'Apparently, the Turks have a guy who thought he had seen Gaudet. According to the CIA, the reports from Turkey indicated that the informant really didn't know much. Also they suspected he had been severely tortured and under those circumstances they were just as happy to have us do the ini tial interview. If it turned out there was something there, they could come along after the guy was cleaned up. I guess the Turks plugged his testicles into a wall socket, among other tricks. Figuring that since we were working Gaudet, and with the low priority and the torture and whatnot, it would be fine if we went. Only we didn't go and somehow the French did. There were pissed-off phone calls between the Turks and the CIA and Figgy Meeks right in the middle of it. The Feds are a little reluctant to criticize Figgy, since he was one of their own and they sent him to us. So they've decided they're pissed at us.'
'Get me Figgy,' Sam said, doing a slow burn.
'I thought of that. He's waiting for our call. He's at the French place in the UN.'
After a few rings Figgy picked up. 'Figgy, this is Sam,' Jill said.
'Figgy, what are you doing to me?'
'Well, I made a tactical error. The French were right near Turkey and, well, I figured-'
'I don't believe this. You took a call at my office from the CIA?'
'Well, yeah. I was in the office and Jill was taking a snooze, and, hell, I was one of them.'
'That's the last call you're taking. You called your French buddies and sent them and then you gave them the imprimatur of the CIA. I can't believe this. I'm speechless.'
'I won't make that mistake again. It just seemed efficient. They said he knew very little. It isn't like it was a big-deal interview. And if it was, Alfawd is dead.'
'Figgy, you haven't behaved like a friend.'
'What's that mean?'
'It means I can't trust you.' Sam hung up, fuming, wondering if he could kick the French out of the group; then he realized he couldn't. Figgy would eventually sell his 'tacti cal error' line to the CIA, and the Feds still had some irra tional favor they felt they owed the French, or they were trying to buy something, or… damn… what a mess. Climbing into the taxi, he got Jill back on the line.
'Don't let my great friend and mentor, Figgy Meeks, back in without an escort. He does no work in our office. Take him off anything to do with the journals and make sure Professor Lyman knows that Figgy has nothing to do with Bowden's journals. Let him stay at the French digs. And get a report of what the French found. It'll be a false piece of crap. Arrange for one of our people, Jim maybe, to try to see the guy, Alfawd, assuming the Turks will talk to us. Figgy claims he's dead but let's make sure.'
'Right
Sam sighed.
'Sam, I'm sorry. I mean about your friendship with
Figgy'
'I know.'
He hung up and mentally worked his way through his schedule. The plan was that he and Anna would meet Grady and Michael and then take Anna's charter jet directly from Republic Airport on Long Island to her ranch. He was hav ing misgivings about leaving headstrong Michael and Grady in New York.
Sam first saw Anna standing on the tarmac with a strand of her hair blowing gently in the breeze. But for the errant strands her hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, her face bright with excitement. The radiance was natural to her, nothing she consciously arranged, and it was the spontaneity of it that made her so attractive. He loved it when she dressed plainly, without baubles and makeup and all the trappings, and it was this way that she too preferred to dress. But he didn't enjoy her for long, his gaze wandering over the land scape looking for killers even as they made lovers small talk. If it wasn't killers, it was paparazzi. And if it wasn't them, he had to worry about the pilots and about Michael and what they might suspect or observe regarding his relationship with Anna. If the press learned about him and Anna, life as he knew it was over. Everything about Sam depended on anonymity.
For some reason private jets made him feel uncomfortable of late. Especially when Anna brought them. Since he wasn't going anywhere, there was no sense thinking about it, so he shook it off.
'God, am I looking forward to kicking back with you,' Anna said. Sam hadn't yet told Anna that he had decided minutes before that he didn't dare leave New York even for a weekend. He noticed Anna's pilots watching and the arrival of curious bystanders. Something about Anna's face or her body language was begging to be touched, maybe to have him put his arm around her or hold her hand, maybe a quick kiss.
'I think we should go riding tomorrow,' she said. He knew she would love getting on Toby, her big chestnut gelding, and that made it all the harder to tell her that he couldn't leave.
'That would be so good,' he said.
'I have some surprises for you when we get to the ranch.'
'Well, I have some surprises for you. But before we dis cuss surprises, I was wondering if maybe we could spend the weekend in Manhattan and see each other in the evening.'
'Manhattan? But we talked about the ranch… the horses… sitting by the fire…'
'I know. And I really wanted to.'
He let her work her way through the disappointment.
'I bought a book to read to you, it is a book of Native American lore on the subject of love, and if that fails us, due to cultural disconnect, I have some selected Shakespeare's sonnets, and a bottle of Turley zinfandel. I'm going to give you a back rub to your favorite music.' Sam offered this in a low voice, which was nearly a whisper, because other travel ers stood about twenty feet behind them. He knew he sounded uncomfortable about the Shakespeare.
Despite the audience he took her hand and gave her his best look.
'You are a thoughtful man and so prepared… bringing things to read… The forethought… it's so charmingly old-fashioned. Manhattan will be great. And since when did you start reading Shakespeare?' He knew she was forcing herself not to complain that he would be working.
'I didn't. I thought I would try. You keep saying he's good with words. We can always switch to Nelson DeMille.'
Anna laughed now and then looked at him. He couldn't quite read her feelings, but he knew they were good.
'You know that I would like to hold you.'
'I know,' she said, but there was the slightest hint of disappointment. No doubt she would trade one good public hug and kiss, a sort of public proclamation, for all of the poetry.
'You know reading poetry is not an Indian thing for a man to do to impress a woman.'
'Let's pull your pants down and check to see if they're shrinking,' she joked, then patted him on the back. 'I'm sure your status as a strong and brave man is intact. A little poetry won't shrivel them. Since you Indians don't bring ponies anymore, I suppose the manly thing would be to take me for a ride in Blue Hades and show me sliding turns. I think I'll go for the poetry. So where in Manhattan do you have in mind? My place?'
'You know I like your place.'
He began to walk toward a Lincoln model Town Car cab and nodded at the pilots, who already had the idea. They b egan unloading her luggage. As they walked, she said: 'So who are you today? Maybe you could be Kalok Wintripp? Personally, I like that name. We could have a sort of coming out of the closet party for you and unveil your real name.'
It was a mild rebuke.
'How about if I leak to People magazine that you're pregnant with frozen semen from the chairman of the Republican National Committee,' Sam bantered.
'Now that we're on the subject, it's probably a good time to bring it up.'
