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Then the shadow was gone, Martha was gone with it, and he heard, like the cathedral bells of Notre Dame, the sound of shattering wood and glass. In the space of the next heartbeat, a chill breeze off the river invaded the room.
He turned over, still half-asleep, and saw the curtains billowing crazily, the window’s panes and sash demolished as if by a great force. It wasn’t until he heard the screaming from outside that he rose, curious, and, then, as he approached the ruined window, his curiosity turned to a mounting horror.
“Martha,” he called over his shoulder. And then more loudly, “Martha!”
No answer. Of course there was no answer. He stuck his head out the window, unmindful of the glass shards that penetrated his palms. He looked down, and saw her, spread-eagled on the cobbles of the narrow street. Around her, like a princess’s bed of diamonds, glass shards glittered wetly. Blood leaked from beneath her, ru
My dear Senator Ring,” Li Wan said, “let me be one of the first to express my sincere condolences for your loss.”
A
Li Wan wore a black suit, as if he, rather than she, were in mourning. Belatedly, she recalled that white was the Chinese color of death and mourning. Well, she thought wryly, he iswearing a white shirt, so crisply starched it appeared as if the collar points might at any moment do him harm.
A
“There was a history,” Li Wan was saying now in a low monotone, “and history means everything.”
“That’s something we have in common, Mr. Li,” she said in an even tone.
He bowed his head slightly and risked a slight smile as he handed over a wrapped parcel. “Please accept this inadequate token of my sorrow.”
“You’re too kind.” She took the package, laid it squarely on her lap, and watched Li’s face. She was waiting, and she thought he knew she was waiting.
At last he said, “May I sit with you a moment?”
She gestured. “Please.”
He sat primly, almost as if he were a turtle, trying to pull its arms and legs into its shell. It was an almost womanly attitude she found repellent.
“Is there anything I can do, Senator?”
“Thank you, no.” Curious, she thought. He’s acting like a mainland Chinese, not like a Chinese American.Because of the special nature of this man and the relationship with him laid out for her by Chris Hendricks, she felt the need to explore that notion. “And please call me A
“You are far too kind,” Li said, ducking his head again.
What is his behavior telling me?she asked herself.
Li looked across the room to the flowers bedecking the console table against the opposite wall. “I have many memories of your husband, Senator.” He paused a moment, as if debating whether or not to continue. “Memories that might, in time, be shared.”
Now comes the light, she thought. But it was altogether unclear whether he was on an official mission. Her heart leaped at the thought that it might be a personal one, that something had happened between Li and Charles that might have changed their dynamic or, if not that, Li’s own goals as opposed to his government’s.
“You know, Mr. Li, I have my own memories of my husband. It might be pleasant to hear some others.”
Li’s thin shoulders twitched infinitesimally. “In that event, I would welcome the opportunity to invite you to tea, Senator, when you feel up to it, of course.”
“How kind of you, Mr. Li.” She had to be careful here, very careful. “I have a full slate of subcommittee and budgetary meetings that have been thrown into disarray. You understand.”
“I do, Senator. Of course I do.”
She turned on a wistful expression. “On the other hand, it would certainly be refreshing to speak of matters unrelated to Capitol Hill.” She fingered Li’s present. “Perhaps this evening, after my vigil. I have allotted time for a meal.”
Li Wan looked hopeful. “Possibly di
“Yes,” she said, ratcheting up her wistful expression. “That would be lovely.”
“I’ll pick you up here if you like.” Mr. Li’s smile was like a sliver of moon. “You have only to decide when.”
Sam Anderson spent fifteen fruitless minutes sending Treadstone perso
Not having found him, he recalled his people and sent out a BOLO via FBI and the Metro Police with a priority tag.
Then he joined the assembled IT team, which was feverishly working to ID the virus that was overru
Peter had chosen the perfect person to be his right-hand man. Anderson was neither ambitious nor complacent. He was wholly focused on the job he had been given to do, and he did it better than anyone else at Treadstone. Unlike many of his colleagues in the clandestine services, he was a people person, an exemplary manager. Those who followed his orders did so without question. They believed in him, believed he could work them out of any trouble they ran into.
This virus was trouble of an exponential order. Every minute the IT team delayed in identifying its basic algorithm, the virus broke through and a
“Keep on it,” Anderson said, and, turning to Tim Nevers, said, “Speak to me of the unspeakable.”
“You got that right,” Nevers said. “This guy Richards is a freakin’ genius at software programming. I’m still getting a good look at the Trojan, which, by the way, he definitely coded and entered into the system.”
“What about the virus?”
Nevers scratched his scalp. He was just over thirty and already shaved his head because he was going bald. “Yeah, well, it’s the freakin’ velociraptor of viruses, that much I can tell you.”
“Not helpful,” Anderson said. “You have to give me something I can export to the other IT guys.”
“I’m doing my best,” Nevers said, fingers blurred over the keyboard.
“Do better.”
That was what Anderson’s father had always said to him, not unkindly, but in a way that made Anderson wantto do better, not simply to please his father, though, of course, that loomed large. Doing better made him succeed, as well as learn something important about himself. Anderson’s father was a military man—intelligence— who ended up at Central Intelligence. He had revamped many of their clandestine intel gathering methods and was rewarded by being kicked out because of a bad heart. He hated idling at home and died sixteen months after he had been let go. His bosses all said, “We told you so,” but Anderson knew what his father had known: At home he couldn’t “do better.” Useless he went to sleep one night and never woke up. Anderson was quite certain his father knew that, too, as he drifted off.