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“I just thought you’d like it confirmed. What you don’t know is that they found Teddy Fay’s body in the wreckage of the building, along with the homemade gun he used.”
“So, it’s over?”
“It’s over.”
“Are we going to announce anything?”
“I’m certainly not, and you’re crazy, if you do. Tell your congressional leaders and tell them to sit on it.”
“What happens if they don’t?”
“Then they’re guilty of hiding the whole business from the American people.”
“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”
“You made that decision weeks ago, pal; learn to live with it.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Now can I molest you?”
“You’d better.”
They reached for each other.
SIXTY
THREE WEEKS LATER, Irene Foster got home, tired and not a little drunk. Her living room was piled with boxes; her walls and bookcases were bare; there were still sheets on her bed, but that was the only comfort of home left in her little townhouse.
From somewhere, she heard the muffled ring of a cell phone, and she tore at her handbag looking for it, finally dumping the contents on the floor.
“Hello?”
“Hello, yourself.”
“Thank God, I was beginning to think…”
“Don’t ever think that”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere in the Middle East.”
She laughed. “Oh, that is very good news.”
“I thought so, myself. What have you been up to?”
“Today was my last day. There was a party; I’m roaring drunk.”
“I wish I were there to take advantage of you.”
“If I can join you in the Middle East, we’ll arrange that.”
“Come ahead.”
“Really?”
