a sound, past Gia’s bedroom, their little girl, their love-child, down the hall to the master-bedroom and half-opened door and sounds of rising pleasure, and there they were, tangled in the sheets, humping and grinding and moaning, and he slammed the door back on its hinges and they freaked.
Jenny screamed, and the guy came out of her, pop, like a cork out of a bottle, and his eyes were the size of poker chips. Eric smiled, pulled the Smith-forty-five from his shoulder holster and pointed it at the sweating couple. “Now,” he said, “The only question is, which one of you do I kill first?”
Jenny burst into tears and was pleading with him to understand; the guy just babbled and frothed at the mouth. Eric went ahead and shot both of them, Jenny first, then the guy, right in the forehead, and their blood sprayed over the wall from floor to ceiling. But when he paused to admire his handiwork there was a shrill scream from behind him, and when he turned there was Gia in her teddy bear pajamas, Annie-doll clutched tightly, and she shouted, “You didn’t have to kill mommy! You’re a bad daddy! I’ll never speak to you again. Never, never, never!” She ran back to her room and slammed the door behind her.
And Eric Price finally awoke.
He awoke sweating, and disgusted with himself. The bedcover was on the floor, and the sheets were a twisted mess around his legs. He untangled himself, got his feet on the floor, put his head in his hands and sat that way for a minute, coming back to reality. No, he hadn’t killed Jenny, but a part of him still thought about doing it. There’d been no surprising a happy couple in bed. He’d simply come home from a three-month assignment in Bulgaria to find a house empty except for his clothes and a few personal things and a note lying on the floor by the front door.
You’re never here, and you don’t care about us. I’ve found someone who does. My lawyer will contact you. Jenny.
Seventeen years ago.
The dream disgusted him, the product of a brain-part he despised, the part that hated and plotted and killed. It was not Eric Price, not now, not at this moment. It was an evil, rancid thing, deep inside, but alert to anything that threatened or abused him.
He knew what had triggered the dream again. The day-old memory instantly brought an ache to his chest, a constriction in the throat, a burning in the eyes. A phone call while he was gone, the message left by a daughter who had refused contact with him for seventeen years.
Daddy, this is Gia. Mom will be furious if she finds out I called you, so please don’t tell her. I’m getting married in two weeks. Michael is giving me away, of course. Mom insisted on that. You probably don’t care, but I’m letting you know anyway. Maybe someday things can be different between us, but not now, so I’m not inviting you to the wedding. I don’t feel good about that; I guess that’s why I’m calling. But I missed you again. You’re just never there, daddy. You never were. Bye.
Eric wiped his eyes dry, then showered and dressed for the day. Breakfast was toast with peanut butter, and coffee. The limousine arrived for him at nine. He got in, and never saw his driver. The windows were totally blackened, but his trained mind followed the turns and measured the distances by instinct as they drove out into the Virginia countryside. Later, if required to, he would be able to locate the meeting place within a mile or two, but it was unlikely that Gil would ever use the place again.
One hundred and thirty four minutes later the car slowed, then stopped. A man wearing a black suit with a power tie opened the door. The loosely fitting suit failed to hide the bulk of a shoulder holster from an experienced eye. “Follow me, please,” said the man.
They were in a garage of concrete with a steel-baffle door already closed and a personnel door to one side. They went through it into what looked like a private residence with Georgian furnishings in dark woods and brass. The windows were covered with blinds, and lights were on. Gil sat on a couch in a lushly furnished front room, and several files lay open on a glass-topped coffee table. A silver tray was there with a press-down coffee server, and two glass mugs.
“Morning,” said Gil, and patted the sofa where Eric should sit.
Eric sat. “Nice place.”
“Borrowed from a friend,” said Gil. “Pour yourself coffee if you want it. We’ll be having lunch in an hour. This won’t take long, and you can do most of your reading on the plane. There’ll be a two week prep period in Phoenix before you go into the field.”
“I thought this was for data analysis.”
“It is, but it’s also a cover for something deeper. You’ll be living in town, so you need a cover, and that’s what the prep is about. You’re going to be an art dealer.”
“What?”
“Sedona is an art center. You’re getting a crash course in contemporary art represented there. You work out of your home, connected to galleries all over the country. You’re going to have an active social life.”
“Why can’t I work at the base? This is a military problem, not civilian.”
“The man we have there now thinks otherwise. He thinks there are commercial interests in the technology, interests that have compromised some of the leadership. There are several problems here, Eric, and they all affect base security. We want you in a position to see the overall picture, and that means playing two roles.”
“You have a lot of people experienced in domestic operations. Why me?”
Gil smiled. “Your record in data analysis and tech evaluation is top-notch. We have to be sure we’re being fed accurate information because we’re dealing with three factions, and two of them are resistant to giving us anything. You’ve spent over a decade in Eastern Europe, and you know how they love anarchy in their private business dealings. The technology is important to us; you need to find out if it’s real, accurate, and who the hell is trying to keep us from getting it. The bad guys might include American business interests who want it for their own. That’s enough challenges, even for you. Security prevents us from giving you much help. We have one man inside, and that’s all you’ll get. You’ll have to recruit your own allies without dropping your cover.”
“What about command-chains?”
“Once you’re settled, we’ll contact you regularly, but you run your own day-to-day operation.”
Eric’s eyes narrowed. “And what if it becomes necessary to neutralize someone?”
“That we will have to talk about,” said Gil firmly. He opened a lower-left drawer, withdrew a manila envelope stuffed tightly by its contents, and pushed it across the desk for Eric. “This is for starters: local cultural material, maps, and some bios of key people you’ll be dealing with. The rest will be waiting for you in Phoenix. You’re flying out this evening.”
“I’d like to get a few things from home to take with me.”
“Give me a list. You’re staying here until the plane is ready. All that you need is packed and ready. Your apartment is being cleaned and secured. You could be gone for several months this time.”
Eric thought of Gia’s wedding, and frowned. Gil seemed to read his mind.
“Sorry about your daughter. I didn’t see my kids much either while they were growing up, but I was lucky enough to have a wife who stuck with me.”
“You heard the recording?”
“We heard it when it came in; you know that. Time heals a lot of things, so for now just let her be happy. Do your job; it’s what you have. Okay?”
“Yeah, it’s okay—for now.” Eric took the envelope from the desk and looked at Gil darkly. “Not for much longer, I think.”
Gil nodded. “We’ll talk about that. It happens to all of us. It happened to me. Don’t worry about it. Just do the job this time, and then we’ll talk.”
Eric nodded. “What now?”
“Coffee, lunch, and a quiet room where you can read. You leave in four