Andrew Britton - The American

“Kealey here. Yeah… Good, it’s about time. Okay, that works for me. I’ll see you then.”

She was sitting up on the bed, pulling the sheets around her body and staring at him as he cut the connection. “Who was that?”

He hesitated, and that said it all. “Oh, I get it.” Her face changed. “It was that Naomi, right?”

“Yes, it was. Listen, I need to head out early, Katie. I might be gone when you wake up.”

“Why?” She gazed up at him with worried eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Just to Langley. It’ll be a long day, though. I might not make it back tomorrow night.” He set the phone down and moved to join her once again. As he leaned in to kiss her, though, she turned away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m fine, really.” But Ryan couldn’t see her face or read her thoughts, and had no way of knowing how hard his words had hit her: I might not make it back tomorrow night.

The unfortunate double meaning of the statement served to remind her of the fear she had been living with over the past several weeks. It had been hard enough to deal with in the first place, but now that they were engaged, it just seemed like she had that much more to lose, because there was the implied promise of a family and a life together that seemed so close she could almost touch it.

She wanted to tell him how she felt, to try to make him understand. At the same time, she didn’t want to be a burden. Katie sensed that whatever he was involved in was much more dangerous than he was letting on, and she couldn’t help but think that the less she bothered him with her concerns, the clearer his mind would be if he was headed into harm’s way.

Ryan was confused by her sudden change in demeanor, and automatically assumed it had something to do with Naomi. Jesus, he couldn’t help but think. How many times do we have to go over this? She still had her back to him. Realizing that she obviously didn’t want his company, he wandered aimlessly over to the French doors that led out to the balcony. Pulling them open, Ryan stepped out into the cold night air wearing nothing more than his boxers. The view below was spectacular, as the Federal Suite overlooked Lafayette Square and St. John’s Cathedral, the lights below illuminating the fresh white powder that blanketed the streets.

The scene was lost on him. Instead, he was remembering something that had occurred more than five months earlier.

They had still been getting to know one another at the time, enjoying the thrill of a new and exciting relationship, too caught up in each other to notice any flaws. She spent the night at his house on the Cape more often than not, although she kept a small apartment in Orono. On one particular night, some of Katie’s friends had come over for what she called, with an impish grin, “margaritas and a movie.” Evidently the emphasis was on margaritas, because after at least four of the sweet frozen drinks, her best friend from Orono had made some highly suggestive remarks about Katie’s new boyfriend, with Ryan in clear and obvious earshot.

Katie had tried to brush it off, but once her friends had gone, it was clear that she was still upset. When he asked her what was wrong, she refused to talk about it. Finally, after a great deal of gentle coaxing on his part, she had tearfully confessed that she didn’t think she could compete with that particular friend for Ryan’s attention.

That incident summed up everything he loved about her: she simply didn’t know how beautiful she was. The friend, while remarkably attractive in her own right, was plain in comparison. Strangely enough, a large part of Katie’s allure was her complete disinterest in her own appearance; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen her stand in front of a mirror for more than a few seconds. What made her modesty so remarkable was the fact that it was completely unfounded. She was a goddess in every sense of the word, but no matter how many times he told her so, she just scowled and told him to quit teasing her.

He loved every inch of her, from her delicate toes to the strands of gold in her hair — caught and brought out by the sun, a rare-enough sight in Maine. The way her full lips felt on his own, the way her cheeks had flushed when he found a book of her poetry and proclaimed it to be, with complete sincerity, “really good,” and in response to her skeptical gaze: “Seriously!”

What really held him, though, were her eyes. They were the perfect shade of cerulean blue, beautifully framed beneath long, dark lashes, and they changed dramatically with her mood. Lighter when she was amused or happy, turning to deep, dark pools of indigo in moments of concern or anger, and at the precise moment of climax…

Damn! Ryan shook his head angrily. If only she wasn’t so touchy when it came to Naomi, or just about every other woman he had ever met, for that matter. As he emerged from his thoughts, the scene below suddenly came into focus. In the dim light, the snow swirled furiously around the statues of Andrew Jackson and the Comte de Rochambeau, as if struggling to breathe life into the marble figures. All in all, it was a breathtaking sight.

But it was incomparable to the view that greeted him when he walked back into the room. The woman he loved was still turned away from him, but it didn’t matter; she was beautiful from any angle. He could not help but admire the way her skin glowed in the soft light of the suite, as the stunning curves of her body seemed to perfectly complement the elegant atmosphere that suffused the room.

Seeing her in this way, Ryan came to a sudden realization. He would put up with these petulant tantrums forever. He didn’t care if she grew out of it or not. If that was the price of knowing her, then it was a small price, and he would pay it gladly.

A few minutes passed. Katie tried to push the worry out of her mind and go to sleep, but her skin was still tingling from his touch. Her gaze drifted down to the diamonds that twinkled on the third finger of her left hand. The last of her resolution disappeared, and when she turned over to face him, her heart lifted when she saw that his attention had not wandered. That was all it took. “Well, come on,” she said with feigned impatience and a precocious grin. “You’re not going to give up that easily, are you?”

His smile lit up the room. Three steps later he pounced on her, and she was shrieking with laughter until his attention became too much, and her cries of ecstasy spilled out into the night.

NORFOLK, WASHINGTON, D.C.

When Will Vanderveen arrived at Norfolk International Terminals late in the afternoon to collect his consignment, the last-minute rush in the container yard rendered him almost invisible to the workers who hustled over the broad expanse of rain-slicked cement.

It was how he had planned it. The change in shift allowed him to blend easily into the crowd, and it was not a coincidence that his navy blue coveralls, steel-toed boots, and wool knit watch cap closely resembled the outfit worn by many of the lower-level NIT employees.

The cement was littered with hundreds of 20- and 40-foot containers, stacked four high and seven deep, as port regulations required. Towering above the identical metal boxes were the rail-mounted gentry cranes that were in constant motion, depositing one container after another onto an endless procession of flatbed trucks.

As he crossed the open space, he approached three men standing next to a row of containers. One was holding a clipboard and a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee, and his uniform identified him as a captain in the Virginia Port Authority.

Vanderveen studied the captain, an older man with iron-gray hair cut close to the scalp and hard ridges carved into his face. His pale blue eyes were almost unnaturally clear. Vanderveen was almost certain that he was an ex-Marine, most likely an upper-level NCO.