Читать книгу Captive Dove - Judith Leon - Страница 11

C IA field agent Joseph Cardone unbuckled his seatbelt. He should have been tired but instead he felt “fired up and raring to go,” one of his father’s expressions. Within the hour he’d be driving on a summer evening through moon-washed Texas sagebrush, soaking up vistas from a childhood that had been damn near perfect. He’d grown up in a loving family on a Texas ranch, where he’d ridden horses, milked cows, mended fences, driven a tractor, and baled hay. He was almost home.

The man next to him in first class, an oil exec also returning from Baghdad to Houston, had the aisle seat. They stood, and the man opened the overhead bin and pulled out his briefcase. Like Joe, the exec had traveled casual: chinos and a short-sleeved shirt, white for the exec and a light blue for Joe.

“It’s been damn pleasant sharing the hours with you,” the exec said. He stuck out his hand and Joe shook it. “You decide to come into town for some fun during your stay, give me a call. Or if IBM ever sends you to Houston on a troubleshoot. I’d love to show you around.”

IBM troubleshooter was Joe’s cover identity, and he would never take the likable guy up on his offer of hospitality. CIA business was Joe’s real life, one that occupied virtually all of his time. He had no idea where the Company would send him next, although it sure wouldn’t be Houston. “Like I say, I’m just here for a few days for my brother’s wedding. Family stuff. It’s not likely I’ll get away from my folks’ ranch or into any town other than Placita. That’s where the church is.”

At the door leading from first class into the Boeing 737’s exit, the flight attendant on this leg out of Baghdad pressed her business card into Joe’s hand. She said, “I don’t fly out again for four days.” He flipped the card over and checked the back. Sure enough, there was her phone number.

He smiled and used his forefinger to touch the tip of her chin. “I don’t know my schedule right now. But thanks for great service.”

He pocketed her card and strode down the gangway.

There had to be sixty or seventy people waiting for arrivals, but drawn by the unerring pull of maternal love, the first face that registered was his mother’s. Rosalinda Cardone. She stood next to his brother, Manuelito, and seemed to glow from within, her smile identical to the one for which Joe was legendary among CIA colleagues of both sexes: brilliant white teeth, sensual lips.

He dropped his overnighter as she embraced him, plump arms hugging his waist, her head pressed hard against him. Standing on tiptoes, her head came to his midchest.

He closed his eyes and let a warm sensation spread up his neck to his face. He was flushing with happiness. And something else. Some powerful feeling. This is absolutely the only place in the world where I am safe.

His mother pulled back enough to look up at him. His eyes were dark brown with some gold flecks, like his father’s. Hers were deep pools of velvet black from her Spanish heritage. “Your muscles are firm enough, but you are too skinny, Joseph,” she said.

He laughed and kissed her on the forehead. “You are my home.”

“Been too damn long,” Manuelito said, grabbing Joe into a bone-crushing hug.

“And how’s Dad?” Joe asked.

His mother took his hand. “He’s fine, he just didn’t want to wrestle the wheelchair through the airport. He’s waiting for us at the ranch.” His bullock of a father had finally been broken by a car accident that had robbed him of the use of his legs.

Joe checked out Manuelito, head to toe. Levis. Red shirt. Black, well-worn cowboy boots. He’d let his hair grow long and wore it pulled back in a ponytail, Antonio Banderas style. It looked good. When they were young they were often mistaken for each other. Same dark brown wavy hair, light brown skin, brown eyes, and quarterback physique.

Joe at thirty still had rock-hard abs. He patted his twenty-eight-year-old brother’s midsection, softer-looking than the last time they’d been together. “Well, Manuelito, looks like you’re ready for marriage, all right.”

“You bet. Time for the really good life.” His brother picked up Joe’s overnighter.

“I can get it,” Joe said.

The ride Joe had been imagining took place in the cab of a beat-up Chevy truck, Manuelito driving, Joe riding shotgun and their mother in the middle. Life could sometimes be so damn good.