Stuart Woods: Hothouse Orchid

They sat and watched the evening light on the sea for about a minute.

“All right,” he said. “What do you do, and who do you do it for?”

Holly had to make a decision; usually she told people she was an official at the Department of Agriculture, which pretty much prevented any further conversation, but she liked him, and it wasn’t strictly against the rules to tell someone where she worked. “I work at the CIA,” she said. “I’m an assistant deputy director of Operations.”

He looked at her sideways. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

“I kid you not.”

“What does an assistant… whatever that title is… do?”

“At the top is the director of Central Intelligence,” she said. “Under her are the two principal deputy directors: one for Intelligence, one for Operations. The Directorate of Intelligence deals with analysis-many, many analysts working on information from all over the world. The Directorate of Operations runs spies all over the world.”

“Are you supposed to be telling me this stuff? Because, if you’re not… Oh the hell with it, keep talking.”

“I haven’t told you anything that the brochure for the Agency won’t tell you.”

“So, you’re a spy?”

“I’m trained to be, but essentially I’m an administrator.”

“That’s not what your title says. It says you’re the assistant head spy.”

“One of a few assistant deputy directors. I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you how many.”

“I’m not sure I want to know. You did say you were trained to be a spy?”

“There’s a place, Fort Peary, in Virginia, commonly called the Farm, where prospective officers are sent for a considerable period of time and punished in all sorts of ways, not to mention trained in all sorts of ways.”

“May one ask about the punishment and the training?”

“One is punished with long runs over difficult terrain and physical training of all kinds, especially self-defense.”

“Killing with a single blow? Like that?”

“Like that.”

“And the other training?”

“One may not know about that.” She took his empty glass. “Can I get you a Scotch?”

“I think I’ll have another bourbon.”

“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” she said.

Holly started the risotto, then handed Josh the wooden spoon. “Now you work,” she said. “Just keep pouring in the stock, a little at a time, and constantly stir until the rice absorbs it all, then add more stock, et cetera, et cetera, until it’s all gone.”

“And what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to set the table, then watch you, to see if you have any stamina at all. I guess risotto must be the most physically demanding of all cooking chores.”

“I have stamina,” he said.

“Don’t tell me; show me.” She set the table and got out her good Baccarat wineglasses, then returned to the kitchen. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing just great,” he said, “but I’m getting a blister between my thumb and forefinger.”

“Chef’s hazard; switch hands.”

He did so. “This better be delicious when it’s done,” he said.

“It will be delicious after I add the final ingredients,” she said, going to the refrigerator to fetch them.

“You used to be chief of police in Orchid Beach, didn’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Were you always a cop?”

“I was a military cop from the age of eighteen for twenty years, and don’t start doing the arithmetic for my age.”

“Oh, I think I can figure that out without arithmetic,” he said, continuing to add stock and stir.

“You’d better not,” she said. “Remember, I can kill with a single blow, and Daisy is trained to attack genitals.”

Josh winced. “I’m fifty,” he said. “Let’s forget your age.”

“What a good idea,” she said. “All right, I have to add the final ingredients, now,” she said.

“And what are they?”

“Crème fraîche and grated Parmesan cheese-Parmigiano-Reggiano, the real thing.”

“I thought Parmesan cheese came from Wisconsin.”

“Wash your mouth out with soap, then taste this.” She held up a pinch of the grated cheese for him to taste.

“Mmmm, tangy!”

“Exactly. Now will you set the iron skillet on the dining table, on the trivet, please, not on the nice wood.”

He did as he was told, then came back. “Anything else?”

“There’s a corkscrew over there,” she said, pointing to a drawer. “You can open the red wine.” She got a potholder and carried the copper risotto pot to the table and set it down. “I think we’re ready,” she said.

He held her chair for her. “I’m certainly ready; I never got around to eating lunch today.” He sat down, poured a little wine and tasted it. “I think we’ll drink it,” he said, pouring them both a glass.

“Okay,” she said. “Your turn. Full bio, please.”

“Okay. Born Delano, Georgia, fifty years ago, to a small-town general practitioner and his nurse. Educated local schools, then at the University of Georgia, Emory Medical School in Atlanta. Interned at Georgia Baptist Hospital, then did a residency in surgery at Emory Hospital. Practiced general surgery for fifteen years, then did a two-week stretch in the trauma center at Piedmont Hospital, subbing for a friend. Loved the ER, got a job there, and I’ve been doing emergency medicine ever since.”

“Why do you like it?”

“Variety, intensity, a constant challenge to diagnose and treat quickly, and you don’t have time to form a bond with your patients, so when they die it isn’t the kind of personal loss it is if you’ve been treating them for weeks or months.”

“My, but you’re a sensitive soul.”

“Watching people die while trying to prevent them from doing so is not fun, but it’s less painful if you’re not acquainted with them.”

“Okay, I buy that. Who’s your least favorite patient to treat?”

“A rape victim,” he replied without hesitation. “That’s why I was so glad you weren’t raped.”

“On behalf of rape victims, I thank you.”

“You were raped before?”

“No, but someone has tried twice. Daisy dealt with the would-be rapist the first time, and I got lucky the second, when that young couple arrived in time to scare the guy off.”

“Ex-cop that you are, are you going to try to catch the guy?”

“So far, I’m just keeping in touch with the investigation through old acquaintances,” she said. “I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to stick a nine-millimeter in his ear, though.”

“Would you pull the trigger?”

“Probably not, but my father would.”

“Ham? That’s his name?”

“Yep.”

“He looked like retired military.”

“An old first sergeant, tough as boot leather, but squishy soft if you work your way inside far enough.”

“His wife seemed nice.”

“Yes. Ginny taught me to fly.”

“That’s something I’ve thought I’d like to try,” he said.

“I’ll introduce you. She’s a first-rate instructor and has her own flying school at the Vero Beach airport.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

“How’d you come to be working in Orchid Beach?” she asked.

“Heard about it on the grapevine, liked the idea of a warm winter. With my skills, it’s easy to work wherever you want to. There’s lots of demand for good ER physicians. I’ve been here eight months, and I like it.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m renting a house in Vero at the Orchid Island development. I have an option to buy.”

“Good golf there.”

“Yes, you play?”

“Yes, but I haven’t had time for a few years. I’d like to play while I’m here.”