Читать книгу Liar's Market - Taylor Smith - Страница 14

American Embassy, Grosvenor Square, London

5:41 p.m.

Carrie’s facial muscles were beginning to ache from the effort of so much forced smiling. Her feet, perched on impractical three-inch heels, were wet and cold, and as she shifted her weight on the thick pile carpet, she felt water squishing in the toes of her strappy black Manolos. She’d probably ruined her most expensive shoes, wearing them out on such a rainy afternoon, but Drum had told her to “spiff it up” when he’d called unexpectedly and pressed her to put in an appearance at this late afternoon reception and the dinner to follow.

Now, it turned out she wasn’t needed at dinner.

The expendable chair-filler, that’s me, she thought, dodging the frond of one of the tall, potted palms that dotted the perimeter of the long room. She kept finding herself backed into the thing, wedged into a corner by two of the reception’s more garrulous guests, and it felt as if a persistent spider were landing on her bare neck every few minutes. It was beginning to get really irritating.

She took a dangerous sip from her wineglass—dangerous because she was starving and now there wasn’t even the prospect of a good meal to fill her empty stomach. Not that the wine did anything to improve her mood, which was becoming grumpier by the minute, knowing she’d trudged out in the pouring rain for nothing more than a tepid glass of mediocre California Chardonnay and yet another chance to observe the diplomatic version of that ancient male ritual, the pissing contest.

In this environment, it meant feigning to possess more insider access than the other guy—with “feign” being the operative word here, Carrie decided, watching her two companions over the rim of her wineglass. One was an ambitious young Bostonian, who had to be fresh out of college, with that thick, shining mop of Ivy League hair and those darting, nervous eyes that belied a self-promoting line of patter. Carrie had already forgotten his name. David? Douglas…something? He was a junior aide to one of the visiting senators. She was guessing it was his first official trip abroad.

The other was Nigel St. John (pronounced “Sin-jin,” she had to keep reminding herself, like that actor who always insisted that “Ralph” was really “Rafe”—God, but some Brits could be pretentious…). St. John was a minor British Foreign Office functionary who always seemed to latch on to her whenever she was dragooned into attending one of these official cocktails.

Carrie would have been happy to leave the two of them to their own devices, now that she’d done her duty and made introductions and a little small talk, except that Nigel kept clutching her arm and drawing her back into the circle of their conversation every time her gaze drifted over his shoulder in search of some avenue of escape.

The embassy’s top-floor reception area was a large, open room painted a pale antique yellow, with cherry wainscoting and crown moldings imported from the Carolinas and deep blue broadloom woven in the carpet mills of Georgia. Occasional chairs, chests and tables scattered around the room were eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Philadelphia Hepplewhite and Chippendale pieces. An ever-changing array of canvases by contemporary American artists lined the gallery-like walls.

This was where America put its best foot forward in the British capital. Guests were expected to do no less.

The scent of hot seafood canapés and expensive colognes drifted over the assembled crowd of sixty or so guests invited to meet the visiting senators this afternoon. Tinkling glasses provided a high counterpoint to the deep drone of mostly male voice holding forth from every part of the room, punctuated by the occasional eruption of mock-hearty laughter.

As she looked over the room, seeking out her husband, Carrie recognized a number of faces belonging to the usual crowd of Brits and officials from other friendly embassies who regularly showed up at these functions and hosted their own in return. One or two returned Carrie’s glance with acknowledging nods that ranged from merely polite to downright lascivious—the latter from a randy Australian charge who smirked as he checked her out from head to toe and back up again, with pointed pauses at breast level. Carrie was tempted to offer a stiff-fingered salute in return, but that would have been considered poor protocol and, in any case, took more nerve than she possessed.

Instead, she turned away from him, and as she did, she spotted Drum over by the tall, arched windows with Senator Watkins, head of the Senate’s select intelligence committee.

Her husband’s raised eyebrows when Carrie had first walked in the room, followed by a quick smile and nod, told her she’d probably passed muster—maybe even exceeded his expectations. Well, fine. With the exception of an ambassador’s spouse, whose role as chatelaine made her something of a social force to be reckoned with, nobody on the diplomatic circuit paid much attention to a mere “wife of.” After seven years of marriage, the last three spent here in the British capital, she’d long since resigned herself to the fact that her primary job at these affairs was to serve as ornamentation.

She’d worn a green silk wrap dress that Drum said turned her gray-green eyes catlike. Her long, coppery hair was clipped up in a loose twist impaled by a jeweled stick. There hadn’t been time to do much else with it, given the last-minute nature of this command performance. In any case, it had seemed the safest bet to survive the sleety rainstorm she’d had to brave to get over here from their Kensington town house. A few soft tendrils had shaken loose in the bluster.

“Don’t you agree, Carrie?” St. John asked out of the blue.

Carrie shifted her focus back and offered what she hoped was a convincing nod. She’d dropped the thread of the conversation, which seemed at the moment to consist of the usual complaints about the fickle French. Her two companions were so busy upping the ante of their mutual indignation that she knew they sought her input only as a matter of courtesy.

“No doubt,” she said. She had no idea what she’d agreed with, but it didn’t matter. They required only an appreciative audience.

Her gaze shifted back to her husband. She could have tried begging off this reception when he’d called at the last minute like that. She had work of her own to finish, pulling together the bibliography on her master’s thesis, which was almost ready to be shipped back to her advisor at Georgetown, if only she could quit her nervous tinkering. If he thought it was ready to defend, she’d finally complete the program she’d abandoned six years earlier when her son was born. And then…well, first finish the thesis, she told herself. One step at a time.

The lowering clouds outside had added another disincentive to coming out this afternoon, plus the fact that she liked to be home when the embassy van brought Jonah home from kindergarten. In the end, though, she’d done what Drum asked, as she always did. After all, this was an important occasion for him and it wouldn’t kill her to be amiable.

Like all intelligence officials abroad, he operated under cover in a milieu where “Spot the Spook” was the favorite game of bored diplomats. Officials in the know sometimes referred to Drum archly as the post’s “resident intellectual,” but his cover story said he was a commercial counselor. As his wife, Carrie was required to maintain that charade, while at the same time taking special precautions not to compromise his position or station operations. Most of the carefully selected guests to this particular reception, of course, knew what his real function was, but she’d long since learned that the safest path in all situations was to neither confirm nor deny anything.

The delegation of American politicians had arrived in London that morning, their first stop on a whirlwind fact-finding tour in the latest round of the war on terrorism. Drum would be leading them through their briefings with his intelligence contacts in MI-5 and MI-6, as well as the Foreign and Prime Minister’s offices and the Ministry of Defense.

His present companion across the room was the head of the delegation. An overweight, blustering power-house from Arizona, Senator Watkins was obviously in lecture mode at the moment, but Carrie knew there was no need to worry about Drum. He’d lived his entire life among powerful movers and shakers. Not only had his father been a five-star general and member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but the MacNeil family had been wealthy and influential Virginia landowners, businessmen and community leaders for generations. Drum could hold his own with anyone.

His body language now, as he leaned a shoulder against a leaded glass window frame, told Carrie he was just waiting for the senator to run out of breath. His bespoke Savile Row suit, a soft, dove gray pinstripe, draped his tall, lean body beautifully. His shirt and silk tie were likewise understated but elegant. His silver hair was slightly tousled, as befits a busy man, but it gleamed in the glow of the dropped crystal chandeliers that lit the high-ceilinged reception room.

Carrie knew from old photographs that Drum’s hair had once been nearly blue-black, but he was twenty years her senior and it had already been more salt than pepper when they’d met. They’d married after a whirlwind courtship in East Africa, where she’d been working with the Peace Corps and he’d ostensibly been an embassy aid official. It was only after they were married that he’d confessed his real profession.

Would it have made a difference if she’d known before? Carrie often wondered. Hard to say. She’d been a different person then, and Drum had seemed to exude a self-confident, protective strength sorely needed in that difficult period of her life. She wasn’t that frightened young girl anymore, however.

Still, there was no question that he was still, at forty-nine, a very attractive man, with a high forehead, even features, and intense, cobalt-blue eyes that seemed to mesmerize men and women alike. Watching the hint of a smile playing at the corner of Drum’s lips, Carrie knew that Senator Watkins was about to feel the full force of that determined Southern charm. She almost pitied the man. Before the evening was over, the senator would be spouting the MacNeil view of the world as if it were gospel, and he wouldn’t even know he’d been co-opted.

Through the tall windows behind Drum and the senator, the lights of London were already beginning to twinkle, daylight driven out early by the dark, heavy-laden clouds that had loomed over the city all week. Taking care not to spill her wine, Carrie took a discreet peek at the thin platinum watch on her left wrist. Five-forty-five. Surely this would be winding up soon. The congressmen would want to go back to their hotels and freshen up before the cars came to take them to the residence for the ambassador’s working dinner.

It was hours since she’d grabbed a quick apple in lieu of lunch. She was tempted to lunge when a tray of hors d’oeuvres passed her way, but there was a special corollary to Murphy’s Law that went into effect whenever she found herself at one of these embassy receptions—if she grabbed one of the tempting canapés, it was a sure bet that someone would choose that exact moment to stick out a hand to introduce themselves. And then, there was always the risk of ending up wearing the thing when this dull, alcoholic Brit beside her decided to move in and try to get a little cozier, as he inevitably would if she didn’t escape his clutches soon.

There wasn’t much to eat back at their flat, though. Grocery shopping had been on her list of things to do later that afternoon, before Drum had called and changed her plans. She’d left soup and peanut butter sandwiches for the housekeeper to give Jonah when the van brought him back from his kindergarten class at the American International School, but if Carrie wanted dinner, she was going to have to pick it up on the way home.

She was just debating how soon she could make her escape when she felt an arm slip around her shoulders and turned to find an old friend at her side.

“Tom!” she cried, genuinely delighted. “I didn’t know you were coming!’

She and Tom Bent exchanged kisses on either cheek. “Came to herd the senators,” he said, “though to be honest, it’s a bit like herding cats.” He leaned in closer and whispered in her ear, “I spotted you as soon as I walked in. You look beautiful, Carrie. You also look like you need rescuing, poor thing.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she whispered back, glancing at her two companions, who had abandoned their pontificating long enough to show an interest in the new arrival.

The Bostonian obviously knew him. “Tom! I wondered where you’d disappeared to after the ambassadors’ meeting.” He turned to the Brit beside him. “Nigel, this is Tom Bent, the CIA’s Director of Congressional Liaison. He’s the man who decides which secrets those nasty spooks will share with their political masters. Tom, Nigel St. John from the British Foreign Office.”

“Sin-jin,” the Brit corrected as he held out his hand. “How do you do?”

“I do wetly, thank you,” Bent said, shaking.

“Excuse me?”

“I snuck out for a quick run over to Harrod’s.”

He retrieved his hand and smoothed down his poker straight hair—unnecessarily, since it was perfectly gelled in place, as always. Despite the fact that Tom was Drum’s age, his hair was still nut brown, only his temples running a little to gray, lending just a hint of mature gravitas. Carrie suspected the color was maintained by an artful stylist, since Tom was very careful about his appearance—and, she suspected, a little vain about his thick head of hair.

It didn’t detract in the least from her affection for the man. Unlike most of her husband’s old crowd, Tom had welcomed her warmly right from the start after she and Drum had come home from Africa, and he’d always gone out of his way to be kind. Maybe it was because he, too, had come from humbler roots and “married up,” as Drum’s mother like to say. Whatever the reason, Tom was always a ray of sunshine for Carrie, and never more so than on this gloomy day.

“My wife made me promise to bring her back some Oxford marmalade,” Tom was saying, “orange, extra chunky. Swears only Harrod’s has the real McCoy, so off I went. The senators have such a tight schedule, I didn’t think I’d have another chance if I didn’t do it this afternoon. But Lord, it’s not a fit day for ducks out there!’

He had a pleasant, always-smiling face, with warm, coffee-colored eyes and an air of scrubbed earnestness, his cheeks flushed and glowing. Carrie knew it was mild rosacea and not the weather that put those blooms there. Regardless of the season, Tom always looked like he’d just come back from taking a brisk autumn constitutional in his impeccable Brooks Brothers finery.

Tom and Drum had been friends since their days at Yale, although Carrie had the impression that this hardworking West Virginian, a coal-miner’s son on a full scholarship, had never been the hell-raiser her husband was reputed to have been back then.

“You should have called me,” Carrie said. “I would have picked up whatever you needed.”

“Well, I would have, darlin’, but to be honest, I needed to get away from all this hot air, even if just for an hour.”

“Are you traveling with the delegation?” St. John asked.

“For my sins, alas, I am. Somebody needs to keep an eye on ’em, you see, make sure they don’t alienate our friends and give comfort to our enemies—and don’t you repeat that to your boss, young Daniel,” he added, shaking a finger at the aid to the senator from Massachusetts.

Daniel! Daniel Boone? No…Brown, that’s it, Carrie suddenly remembered.

As she glanced over toward the windows once more, she caught Drum watching them soberly. She gave him the smile he expected, and he cocked an eyebrow. She looped her hand through Tom’s arm.

“Would you excuse us?” she asked the other two.

“You’re abandoning us?” St. John asked plaintively.

“Sorry, Nigel. Duty calls. I think my husband would like to talk to his old friend, Tom, here.”

“Good to meet you, Nigel,” Tom added. “Dan, catch you later.”

“I wish I’d known you were coming,” Carrie said as they detached from the others and drifted across the floor.

“It was a last-minute decision. Things are incredibly hectic back in Washington, what with all the new anti-terrorism legislation on the table and the military situation dicey as it is right now. But the Oval Office wanted somebody along to keep an eye on these cowboys. I got drafted.”

“How’s Lorraine?”

Tom had been married for twenty-five years to the daughter of the Right Reverend Arthur Merriam, Episcopal Bishop of Washington, based at the Cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, also known as the National Cathedral.

“She’s just fine,” Tom said. “Helping her mother most of the time, running one committee or another.”

“Her mother must be getting on.”

“She’ll be seventy-six in August, but don’t let her hear you suggest she’s elderly. The women in Lorraine’s family live to a ripe old age. Her grandmother lasted to ninety-one and was still playing bridge three times a week. Liked her gin and tonics right up to the end, too.”

“Ah, well, that’s the secret ingredient, I guess.”

Tom rolled his eyes. “Must be. God knows, Lorraine and her mother swear by them.” He stopped and turned to Carrie. “How about you and Drum, darlin’? How are things?”

“All right. We’re going home this summer, you know.”

“Yes, I heard. Drum’s being promoted. That’s great.”

“I guess,” Carrie said.

“You’re not pleased about it?”

“I’m happy for him. It’s what he wants. It’s a little tough for Jonah, though. Drum’s hardly around now, and I can only imagine he’ll be even busier once he takes on the Deputy Director’s job. Like you said, these are crazy times. Plus, poor Jonah has to give up the friends he’s made here.”

“And how is my godson? I mustn’t forget, by the way, Lorraine sent along some little goodies for him. I’ve got them in my suitcase back at the hotel.”

Carrie smiled. “I hope you get a chance to come over and see him while you’re here, Tom. He’s a great little guy. He’s just bloomed in kindergarten this year. Absolutely loves school. Our flat is covered with his paintings and drawings.”

“An artist, like his mom. But kindergarten? Already? Seems to me he was just taking his first steps.”

“I know. I can hardly believe it myself. Come September, my baby’s going to be in first grade.”

“Big changes. And what about you, Carrie? Are you okay? It’s not easy, I know, being a diplomatic dependant in a strange city.”

“It’s a great city, though. Impossible to be bored. Mind you, I’m a little tied down by Jonah’s half-day schedule. He’s at school from one to four each afternoon, and I try to help out there whenever they need an extra pair of hands, so it doesn’t leave a lot of time for gallivanting. Still,” she added brightly, “I have been busy this past winter. I re-registered at Georgetown for a remote study program, and I’ve gone back to the thesis I abandoned after Drum and I got married.”

“No kidding. That’s great. How’s it going?”

“Pretty well, I think. I hope. It’s kind of hard to tell. Can’t see the forest for the trees and all that. But I’d already done a good chunk of the first draft, and I had a lot of original research from when I was with the Peace Corps. My advisor seemed to think I’d be able to pull it together.”

“You were running some kind of a gallery out there in Africa, weren’t you?”

She nodded. “We helped local artists set up a cooperative to market their sculptures and paintings to tourists. My thesis dealt with marketing art from the Third World, so I had really good primary source material. It needed to be updated, of course. New trends emerge in seven years. But Oxfam here in London has been promoting developing country art and handicrafts for some time now, and they’ve been really helpful.”

“So you’ve been able to finish?”

“Well, you know what they say, a thesis is never really finished, only abandoned. But I’m working up the courage to send it to my advisor. If he thinks it’s ready for prime time, I should be able to defend it when we get back to D.C.”

“Carrie, that’s great. Drum must be so proud of you.”

“Oh, I guess so…” She glanced over to the window where Drum stood watching them expectantly. “I think we’re being beckoned.”

Drum reached out to her as they approached. Senator Watkins, spotting the movement, broke off in mid-sentence, his face opening up into the guileless smile seen in countless election year posters. Drum drew Carrie close into the circle of his free arm. He was just over six feet tall, so that she tucked neatly into his side, as a good accessory should.

“Sweetheart, I’d like to introduce Senator Paul Watkins. Senator, this is my wife, Carrie. And of course, you know Tom Bent. Tom, we were just about to send out a search party.”

“Well, it’s a wild, wet day out there, but I can safely report that Harrod’s managed to relieve me of a sizeable chunk of change and my marital shopping obligations have been successfully discharged.”

Watkins’s huge, fleshy hand swallowed Carrie’s. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. MacNeil.” His face was flushed, his bald head perspiring. He nodded at Tom, then turned back to give her a long, appraising once-over before shooting a mischievous wink at Drum. “Aren’t you the lucky man, Mr. MacNeil?”

Tom gave Carrie’s arm a gentle squeeze, and when Carrie risked a glance at him, she saw his eyes roll subtly. She felt better, knowing she had at least one ally here. Tom knew what some people said about her improbable marriage to Drummond MacNeil and he was sympathetic.

And maybe the senator didn’t mean to imply anything, anyway. Maybe she was just overly sensitive—although, in point of fact, she’d actually heard the words “trophy wife” whispered behind her back on more than one occasion. It was one of the hazards of marrying a much older man. Everyone presumed you were the bimbo he’d dumped his long-suffering first wife for. And Drum had, in fact, been married before, but he’d been widowed two years when Carrie had met him in Africa. It didn’t matter. To anyone who didn’t know her, she was just the young airhead who decorated his arm and who’d given him the heir his first wife hadn’t.

Nor did it help now that Drum suddenly took it into his head to kiss her far more warmly than their surroundings warranted, letting his gaze linger on her in the kind of long, wistful glance she’d rarely seen since they’d left Africa—and virtually never in the last couple of years. What was that all about?

Drum turned back to the senator with a sigh and an uncharacteristically silly smile on his face. “You’re right, Senator. I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

Carrie didn’t dare risk glancing over at Tom Bent to see what he made of that.

It was approaching six when the senators finally began to gather up their coats to return to their hotel and freshen up before the ambassador’s dinner. After Tom Bent had herded them all out to their waiting cars, Drum accompanied Carrie down the elevator to the embassy’s main floor and out through the solid steel door that divided the secure area from the public lobby.

As he held up her buff-colored Burberry raincoat for her to slip her arms into, the smoked glass lobby windows rattled under an ominous peal of deep, rolling thunder.

“Are those the shoes you came in?” Drum asked.

Carrie gave her Manolos a rueful glance. “Yes. I’m an idiot. I’ve been sloshing around for the past two hours.”

“Well, make sure you grab a cab. Don’t try to walk in this weather.”

She nodded, tucking her hair inside a dark chocolate-colored beret and slipping her hands into soft brown kid-skin gloves. “Do you know what time you’ll be home?”

“Pretty late, I imagine. Don’t wait up for me.”

“The story of my life,” Carrie said, with no real trace of bitterness.

She was long past questioning his late nights, and complaining was a waste of time. Drum said it was a hazard of his profession. Generally speaking, that was probably true. Generally, but not always. At this point, Carrie had given up trying to reconcile his work with the lingering scents that sometimes accompanied him when he slipped into bed late at night—scents of passion Carrie hadn’t shared and perfume she didn’t own, scents a shower couldn’t quite mask. Lately, he’d been gone more and more, caught up in crisis after crisis as terrorist threats continued to mount. He could make Carrie feel positively un-American for questioning anything he did. She no longer bothered.

She reached up to offer the kind of perfunctory peck on the cheek that was habitual by now, but he held her close, once again giving her a more lingering kiss than a public venue and seven years of marriage normally inspired. His arms stayed around her as he studied her.

“What?” she asked, resisting the urge to squirm out of his grasp.

“Nothing. I just wanted to look at you. You’re really something, you know that?”

She frowned. “Drum, are you all right?”

He smiled and kissed her once more, lightly, then released her. “I’m fine. I’d better get back upstairs and get a little work done before I have to go baby-sit those visiting clowns. I’ll see you at home.”

“Right. See you later.”

Carrie watched him walk back to the heavy steel door, where he slipped his hand under the keypad cover and entered the four-digit security combination. The lock clicked and he wrenched the handle open, pausing briefly to give her a last look and a wave before disappearing back into the secure womb of the building.

Exhaling wearily, she slipped her handbag over her arm and headed for the front doors, but before she’d gone a few steps on the marble tile, a muffled voice called her name. Carrie looked around for the source of the hail and saw a familiar figure waving her over to the reception window.

At this hour, with the embassy closed for the day, the civilian receptionist had left and the Gunny was alone on duty behind the bullet-proof glass. A Marine corporal stood by the front doors, opening them and then re-locking them behind staff leaving the building.

The last public straggler was still at the window with the Gunny. A young woman, she was hunched over at the counter, madly writing on a white file card. Her wet umbrella was propped against the wall, while her coat dripped water on the gold-streaked marble tiles.

“Hey, Gunny,” Carrie said, smiling as she walked gingerly over to the booth, taking care to avoid the death-trap puddles on the slippery floor. “What’s up?”

His voice crackled back at her through the speaker set into the glass. “I heard you were going to be in the building, but I was on the phone when you came in. I been working on the team rosters for the kids’ softball league. Is Jonah gonna go out for Pee Wees?” The Gunny’s son Connor was Jonah’s best buddy and the two boys often slept over at each other’s flats.

“He wants to,” Carrie said, “but you know we’re going home this summer?”

“Yeah. Connor’s really bummed about that.”

She sighed. “That’s the worst thing about this life, isn’t it? The poor kids have to keep making new friends.”

People who married into the business knew what they were getting into, Carrie thought—theoretically, at least. But the kids had no choice in the matter. Drum had been an Army brat himself, but he was philosophical about it. The tough ones survived it just fine, he always said, and the weaklings were going to stumble whether or not they stayed in one place all their lives. Carrie wasn’t sure about that, but she had noticed that relationships in Drum’s life all seemed vaguely disposable. Was it the impermanence of his childhood friendships that made him always seem to be holding something back even now?

The Gunny held up a finger for her to wait while he dealt with the girl at the window. She’d straightened and seemed to have finished what she was writing. Carrie peeked over her shoulder. It looked like a consular registration form.

“All done?” the Gunny asked.

“I think so,” the girl said, sliding the white card into the metal drawer under the triple-paned window that separated her from the Marine.

The Gunny pulled a lever and the drawer slid back to his side of the glass. “Looks good,” he said, picking out the form. “I’ll leave it for the consular section to file tomorrow. They’re all gone for the day now.”

“Thanks a lot for letting me in.” The girl slipped her pen back into the bag slung over her shoulder. “It took me longer to get over here than I thought it would, but I promised my parents I’d do this.”

“No problem. We wouldn’t want you to have to tramp back over here again tomorrow.”

“Is it supposed to rain again?” she asked, buttoning up her tan raincoat.

“That’s what I hear. Welcome to jolly old England.”

“Rats. I guess we’ll have to do some museums.”

The Gunny’s buzzed head gave a nod. “You don’t wanna lose that umbrella. You’ll be needing it.”

Watching the girl tuck a few loose hairs into her knit tam, Carrie felt a sudden plunge in the pit of her stomach. They were about the same height, and although their coloring up close was different, dressed in rain gear as they were, they would be almost indistinguishable from a distance.

It gave Carrie the sort of brief shock she got every time her own reflection surprised her in passing a mirror or window. She’d had an identical twin sister once. When they were small, they were always dressed in matching frilly outfits, to be cooed at and admired in their tandem stroller.

“It made me so proud,” her mother used to say with a sigh. “My two little Strawberry Shortcakes—identical and perfect.”

As if anything less than a matched pair fell somehow short of the mark, Carrie had felt ever since.

Isabel, her twin, had died when they were eighteen—about this girl’s age, by the look of her. But even now, more than a decade later, the pain of losing her other half could still overwhelm her unexpectedly, like the phantom ache of a severed limb.

The girl in the lobby smiled shyly at the Gunny and Carrie in turn. “Well, thanks again. Bye.”

Carrie returned her smile and the Gunny gave a brief salute. As the young corporal at the front door unlocked it to let the girl out, Carrie turned back to the window.

“Anyway, Gunny, on the softball thing, I guess it depends how long the commitment is. We’ll be here till the end of the school year, for sure. I will, anyway. Drum says he may have to head back to Washington earlier. But if it means Jonah can be on a team with Connor, I’d try to hang in as long as possible and let him do that.”

“That should work out okay. We’re going to set up the schedule so the games are all done by the end of June. A lot of people are in the same boat, what with transfers and summer vacations. It makes for a pretty short season, but at least the kids get to play.”

“That would be great.” It was one last thing she could do to help Jonah through the transition they were about to make, Carrie thought—one that might turn out to be even more disruptive than a move from London back to Washington, if she followed through on her growing resolve to make some real changes in her life. “Put Jonah down then. He’ll be so happy when I tell him.”

The Gunny grinned and started to reply, but just then, a sharp bang shattered the hollow stillness of the empty lobby. Three or four more ear-splitting cracks followed in rapid succession. To Carrie’s ears, it sounded like firecrackers exploding outside, but to the two Marines in the lobby, it obviously meant something else altogether.

“Weapons fire!” The Gunny’s sidearm was already out of its holster. “What’s going on out there?” he hollered to the corporal at the door.

The young Marine had his nose to the glass, but he ducked back and pasted himself against the interior marble wall, his eyes huge. “We got a shooter, Gunny! It looks like at least one civilian’s down.”

“Oh, shit!” The Gunny grabbed the phone beside him and started yelling for backup.

Karen Ann Hermann had just left the embassy grounds, rounding the concrete barriers at the perimeter. She was running very late, but at the zebra crossing, she hesitated, confused by the glare of lights on the wet pavement and by the honking cars whizzing by on the rain-slickened road, all of them coming from the wrong direction.

She was getting her bearings, trying to remember the layout of the map in her guidebook in order to plan her route to Leicester Square, when she heard someone call her name. She glanced around. A black London cab slowed as it approached her from the left, its passenger side window down.

How could a cab driver know her name? She must have misheard. Unless maybe he had Kristina and Caitlin with him? Had they decided to come and get her? She ducked low to peek into the back seat of the cab. It looked empty, but the driver was staring at her expectantly.

Had she imagined it, hearing her name called? She must have. There was no way the other girls would have splurged on a taxi, and neither would Karen, rain or no rain. A luxury like that wasn’t in any of their budgets. Theater tickets and souvenirs for her parents were the only big-ticket items she’d bargained on, but a taxi would set her back a bundle.

Head shaking, she waved the driver on, but instead of pulling back out into the line of traffic, the squat little car pulled up closer until it stood directly in front of her.

She shook her head again. “No, thanks anyway! I don’t need—”

Before she could finish the sentence, the inside of the cab exploded in a flash of light. Karen felt a stinging slap to her throat and her head kicked back. A split second later, before she even had time to reach a hand up to feel what had stung her neck, a double smack to the chest sent her flying back as if she’d been kicked by a horse.

It was only as she hit the pavement that her ears finally registered the loud retorts. Her head bounced on the cobblestones, and then she lay on her back, the wind knocked out of her, heavy rain soaking her face and smearing the lights in her eyes. She felt an icy splash on her legs as the taxi sped away.

It was cold on the ground. Her sprawled arms and legs were wet and chilled, but across her chest, she felt a spreading pool of warmth. When she was finally able to catch her breath a little, it came in ragged gasps.

Faces appeared above her, a man and a couple of women, then two soldiers. No, not soldiers. Marines. She’d spoken to the cute one when she’d arrived. He’d been manning the sentry box at the front gate. At first, he’d said she’d have to come back the next day, but when she told him she just wanted to fill out a consular registration form, he’d called and gotten permission for her to go in. On her way out, when she’d stopped to thank him, he’d told her about a club near Piccadilly that he and the other Marines liked to go to. Maybe they could meet up there later?

Karen had promised to ask her friends. Then, she’d headed for the zebra crossing. That was when the cab had pulled up and the driver had called her name.

The Marines were standing over her now, guns drawn, looking nervously from the street and down to her, then back to the street again. She saw their mouths move, but her ears were still ringing from the crack of the thunder that had exploded in her face and she couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of the women was crying.

“I’m okay,” Karen told her. Or tried to, except no sound came out.

She rolled onto her side, her hand reaching for her throat. Her neck felt mushy and wet, like soggy oatmeal, and she was feeling so dizzy she thought she might fall off the earth. But she had to get moving. She was going to be so late. She was supposed to be…somewhere.

Where was she supposed to be?

Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to remember, cold rain mixing with the warmth running down her cheeks and with that other warmth that covered her front now. Bright lights swam around her. She wasn’t sure where she was anymore. All she really knew was that she wanted to go home. She was tired…so tired.

She curled herself up into a ball, nestling into the cobblestones, her lower arm tucking into her side. Her hand curled up beside her face, the movement instinctive. She had no awareness of her thumb settling instinctively on her chin, nor of her fingers waving laxly.

Feet shuffled around her, and worried faces swam in and out of her line of sight, lips moving soundlessly. She strained to make out their fading features, but none of these was the face she wanted to see. Her thumb was still on her chin, her four fingers waggling limply as she called out in her primal language. To the confused faces, it was probably just random fluttering, but for Karen, it was her first word, rising out of the deepest recesses of her fear and sadness and intense loneliness—Mommy.

She signed it over and over, a silent cry from long ago, a small child calling mutely in the only language her mother could recognize. But this time, there were no comforting arms to take the little girl up and hold her close to let her know she was safe.

Then, Karen Ann Hermann’s eyes closed for the last time, and her fluttering hand fell still on the wet, hard cobblestones, silenced for all time.

The sky wept.