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Frank knew he was a very good chess player. That said, it was difficult for him to best John at the game. The younger man was as analytical as a computer, as patient as Job, and, when the time was right, as aggressive as George Patton ever dreamed of being. In chess, as well as in his chosen field, that made John Medina a dangerous opponent.
Kaiser, an enormous German shepherd, snoozed contentedly at their feet, occasionally
emitting puppylike yelps incongruous with his size as he chased rabbits in his dreams. Kaiser’s peacefulness was reassuring.
The house had been swept for eavesdropping devices that morning and again that night when Frank arrived home. Electronic noise prevented their conversation from being picked up by a parabolic mike, should anyone try to eavesdrop using that method. The security system was state of the art, the door locks the strongest available, the windows protected by steel bars.
The house, which from the outside looked like the ordinary house of a moderately prosperous man, was a fortress. Even so, both men knew fortresses could be breached. Frank’s 9mm was in his desk drawer. John’s weapon was in his belt holster, tucked into the small of his back. Frank’s position as deputy director of operations, CIA, made him a valuable commodity in the espionage community; for that reason, very few people knew where he lived. His name wasn’t on any deed or any utility record. Any calls to or from his private number were routed through several switching stations that made them untraceable.
For all that, Frank thought wryly, if any hostile government was given the choice between snatching him or snatching John Medina, he would be the one left behind.
John studied the board, idly stroking the rook while he pondered his next move. Making his decision, he lifted his fingers off the rook and moved his queen’s bishop. “How are my friends in New Orleans?”
Frank wasn’t surprised by the question. Months, even a year or more, might go by without seeing John, but when he did, John always asked certain questions. “They’re doing well. They have a baby now, a little boy born last month. And Detective Chastain is no longer with the NOPD, or a detective; he’s a lieutenant with the state.”
“And Karen?”
“Working in a trauma unit, or she was until the baby was born. She’s taken a leave of absence, for at least a year, I think, maybe longer.”
“I don’t expect she’ll have any trouble returning to her job when she’s ready,” John said, his tone mild, but Frank knew him well enough to read the request—or perhaps it was an order—underneath the tone. While he was formally John’s superior, in truth John was pretty much autonomous.
“Not at all,” Frank said, and it was a promise.
A couple of years before, both Karen’s father and John’s father had been murdered in a plot to cover up Senator Stephen Lake’s hired killing of his own brother in Vietnam. In the process of uncovering the plot, John had become an admirer of both the plucky Karen and her tough-as-nails husband. Though they never knew his name, since then he had made a point of smoothing certain obstacles out of their way.
“And Mrs. Burdock?”
That question too was expected. “Niema’s fine. She’s developed a new surveillance device that’s almost impossible to detect. The NSA has borrowed her for a couple of projects, too.”
John looked interested. “An undetectable bug? When will it be available?”
“Soon. It piggybacks off existing wiring, but without causing a drop in power. Electronic sweeps can’t find it.”
“How did she manage that?” John nudged a pawn onto another square.
Frank scowled at the board. Such a small move, but it had moved the game in a different direction. “Something to do with frequency modulation. If I understood it, I could get a real job.”
John laughed. He was a surprisingly open man, during those rare times when he could relax with people he could trust, and who knew who he was. If he liked you, then you were never in doubt of his friendship, perhaps because the majority of his life was spent in danger, in deep shadows, answering to different names and wearing different faces. He treasured what was real, and what was reliable.
“Has she remarried yet?”
“Niema? No.” The pawn’s position had him worried, and he continued frowning at the board, only half his attention on his answer. “She doesn’t see anyone on a regular basis. She dates occasionally, but that’s all.”
“It’s been five years.”
Something in John’s tone alerted Frank. He looked up to see the younger man frowning slightly, as if he were unhappy to learn that Niema Burdock was still single.
“Does she seem happy?”
“Happy?” Startled by the question, Frank leaned back, the chess game forgotten. “She’s busy She likes her work, she’s very well paid, she has a nice home, drives a new car. I can take care of those things, but I can’t direct or know her emotions.” Of all the people for whom John was an anonymous guardian angel, Niema Burdock was the one he followed the closest. Since he brought her out of Iran after her husband was killed, he had taken an almost personal interest in her well-being.
In a flash of intuition, a leap of reasoning that had made Frank Vinay so good at his job, he said, “You want her yourself.” He seldom blurted out his thoughts in such an unguarded way, but he was, abruptly, as certain of this as he had ever been of anything. He felt faintly embarrassed at making such an observation.
John glanced up, eyebrows lifted quizzically. “Of course,” he said, as if it were a given. “For all the good wanting does.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m scarcely in a position to become involved with anyone. Not only am I gone for months at a time, there’s always a good chance I won’t come back.” He said it coolly, unemotionally. He knew exactly what the risks were in his profession, accepted them, perhaps even sought them.
