Tess Geritsen - Call After Midnight

“So why didn’t you resign?”

“I just might. Since that fiasco in London, my career’s been shot. And now I’ve got to put up with this bastard, Ambrose.”

“Is he still out of town?”

“One more week. Till then I can do the job my way. Without all that bureaucratic nonsense. Hell, if he rewrites any more of my reports to make ’em ‘conform to administration policy,’ I’m going to puke.” Nick put his fork down and scowled at the salad. The mention of his boss had just ruined his appetite. From the very first day, Nick and Ambrose had rubbed each other the wrong way. Charles Ambrose reveled in the bureaucratic merry-go-round, whereas Nick always insisted on getting straight to the point, however unpleasant. The clash had been inevitable.

“Your trouble, Nick, is that even though you’re an egghead, you don’t talk gobbledegook like all the others. You’ve got ’em all confused. They don’t like guys they can understand. Plus you’re a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“So? You are, too.”

“But I’m also a certified nerd. They make allowances for nerds. If they don’t, I shut down their computers.”

Nick laughed, suddenly glad for the company of his old buddy, Tim. Four years of being college roommates had left strong bonds. Even after eight years abroad, Nick had come home to find Tim Greenstein just as bushy and likable as ever.

He picked up his fork and finished off the salad.

“So what’re you going to do with this Fontaine case?” Tim asked over dessert.

“I’m going to do my job and look into it.”

“You gonna tell Ambrose? He’ll want to hear about it. So will the guys at the Company, if they don’t already know.”

“Let ’em find out on their own. It’s my case.”

“It sounds like espionage to me, Nick. That’s not exactly a consular affair.”

But Nick didn’t like the idea of turning Sarah Fontaine over to some CIA case officer. She seemed too fragile, too vulnerable. “It’s my case,” he repeated.

Tim grinned. “Ah, the widow Fontaine. Could it be she’s your type? Though I can’t quite see the attraction. What I really can’t see is how she hooked that husband. Blond Adonis, wasn’t he? Not the kind of guy to go for a woman in horn-rimmed glasses. My deduction is that he married her for reasons other than the usual.”

“The usual? You mean love?”

“Naw. Sex.”

“Just what the hell are you getting at?”

“Hmm. Touchy. You liked her, didn’t you?”

“No comment.”

“Seems to me the old love life’s been pretty barren since your divorce.”

Nick set his coffee cup down with a clatter. “What’s with all these questions?”

“Just trying to see where your head’s at, Nick. Haven’t you heard? It’s the latest thing. Men opening up to each other.”

Nick sighed. “Don’t tell me. You’ve been to another one of those sensitivity training sessions.”

“Yeah. Great place to meet women. You should try it.”

“No, thanks. The last thing I need is to join some big cry-in with a bunch of neurotic females.”

Tim gave his friend a sympathetic look. “Let me tell you, Nick. You need to do something. You can’t just sit around and be celibate the rest of your life.”

“Why not?”

Tim laughed. “Because, dammit, we both know you’re not the priestly type!”

Tim was right. In the four years since his split-up with Lauren, Nick had avoided any close relationships with women, sexual or otherwise, and it was starting to show. He was irritable. He’d thrown himself into salvaging what was left of his career, but work, he’d discovered, was a poor substitute for what he really wanted—a warm, soft body to hold; laughter in the night; thoughts shared in bed. To avoid being hurt again, he’d learned to live without these things. It was the only way to stay sane. But those old male instincts didn’t die easily. No, Nick was not the priestly type.

“Heard from Lauren lately?” asked Tim.

Nick looked up with a scowl. “Yeah. Last month. Told me she misses me. What she really misses, I think, is the embassy life.”

“So she called you. Sounds promising. Sounds like a reconciliation in the works.”

“Yeah? It sounded more to me like her latest romance wasn’t going so well.”

“Either way, it’s obvious she regrets the divorce. Did you follow up on it?”

Nick pushed away what remained of his chocolate mousse cake. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

Tim leaned back and laughed. “He didn’t feel like it.” He sighed to no one in particular. “Four years of moaning and groaning about being divorced, and now he tells me this.”

“Look, every time things go bad for her, she decides to call good old Nick, her ever-loyal chump. I can’t handle that anymore. I told her I was no longer available. For her or anyone else.”

Tim shook his head. “You’ve sworn off women. That’s a very bad sign.”

“Nobody’s ever died of it.” Nick grunted as he threw a few bills on the table and rose. He wasn’t going to think about women right now. He had too many other things on his mind, and he sure as hell didn’t need another bad love affair.

But outside, as they walked back through the cherry trees, he found himself thinking about Sarah Fontaine. Not about Sarah, the grieving widow, but about Sarah, the woman. The name fit her. Sarah with the amber eyes.

Nick quickly shook off the thoughts. Of all the women in Washington, she was the last one he should be thinking about. In his line of work, objectivity was the key to doing the job right. Whether it was issuing visas or arguing a jailed American’s case before a magistrate, getting personally involved was almost always a mistake. No, Sarah Fontaine was nothing more to him than a name in a file.

She would have to remain that way.

* * *

Amsterdam

THE OLD MAN loved roses. He loved the dusky smell of the petals, which he often plucked and rubbed between his fingers. So cool, so fragrant, not like those insipid tulips that his gardener had planted on the banks of the duck pond. Tulips were all color, no character. They threw up stalks, bloomed and vanished. But roses! Even through winter they persisted, bare and thorny, like angry old women crouched in the cold.

He paused among the rosebushes and breathed in deeply, enjoying the smell of damp earth. In a few weeks, there’d be flowers. How his wife would have loved this garden! He could picture her standing on this very spot, smiling at the roses. She would have worn her old straw hat and a housedress with four pockets, and she would have carried her plastic bucket. My uniform, she’d have said. I’m just an old soldier, going out to fight the snails and beetles. He remembered how the rose clippers used to clunk against the bucket when she walked down the steps of their old house—the house he’d left behind. Nienke, my sweet Nienke, he thought. How I miss you.

“It is a cold day,” said a voice in Dutch.

The old man turned and looked at the pale-haired young man walking toward him through the bushes. “Kronen,” he said. “At last you’ve come.”

“I am sorry, meneer . A day late, but it couldn’t be helped.” Kronen took off his sunglasses and peered up at the sky. As usual, he avoided looking directly at the old man’s face. Since the accident, everyone avoided looking at his face, and it never failed to annoy him. It had been five years since anyone had stared him boldly in the eye, five years since he’d been able to meet another person’s gaze without detecting the invariable flinching. Even Kronen, whom he’d come to regard almost as a son, made it a point to look anywhere else. But then, young men of Kronen’s generation always fussed too much about appearances.