Chapter 4 Ingrid
Ingrid
“You really haven’t changed,” said Rodrigo.
Ingrid laughed. “And you’re still a shameless liar.”
They were sitting at a corner table in the hotel bar, which was now packed with conference attendees.
Wine had flowed freely at the reception, but for this crowd, there was always time for another drink, another anecdote, another hand to shake.
In a noisy room where people stood shoulder to shoulder at the bar, no one would notice the couple seated in the dim corner, nursing their nightcaps.
Rodrigo looked at her over the rim of his whisky glass. “I’m serious. Twenty-eight years later, and I see the same Ingrid.”
She snorted. “Aside from the gray hair and the ten extra pounds.”
“On you, it all looks good. When it comes to the essentials, you’re still the same.”
“The essentials?”
“The old gleam in your eye. The wheels in that mind always turning.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “Our team was never the same after you transferred to Rome.”
“Rome was a better fit for me. A fresh start.”
“Away from me, you mean.”
“I loved Italy. So did Lloyd.”
“And has it all been marital bliss?”
“You sound skeptical.”
“Call it the bitter voice of experience.”
“How many wives have you gone through now?”
“I’m between number three and number four.”
“Who’s number four?”
“I haven’t chosen her yet.” He winked and lifted his whisky glass to her.
He had the same devilish grin that had disarmed so many other conquests, but the years had left their wear on his features: the silver streaks in his hair, his face more deeply engraved with laugh lines.
On Rodrigo, those changes were flattering. “I’m always looking.”
She shook her head. “That’s your problem. You never stop looking. It keeps you from seeing what’s right in front of you.”
“You’re right, of course. I should have appreciated what was there in front of me. Those other women, they never really meant anything to me. I’ve matured since then.”
“I doubt it.”
“And this marital bliss thing. Is it real, or just a myth?”
She stared down at her whisky, uneasy about the direction of their conversation. “Why are you here, Rodrigo?”
“I’m only asking if you’re happy. It’s an innocent question.”
“Is it?”
“Because I often wonder what could have been. Don’t you ever think about that?”
“No. Because I know what would have been.”
“You have to admit, it wouldn’t have been boring.”
“That may be true.”
He leaned toward her, his eyes as black as volcanic glass.
“You know it’s true. Instead, you chose this?
” He gestured to the other attendees in the lounge, sipping drinks, engaged in loud conversation.
“Granted, this little town seems charming enough. What do you people do here in the winter, anyway?”
“We eat moss and hibernate.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously, it’s the perfect place for me.
There’s plenty here to keep me intellectually occupied.
It may be a small town, but we have a unique community of retirees.
Ex–State Department, diplomats. And probably more than a few from our old line of work, although we’re all cagey about it.
That’s how the Stone Coast Conference got its start forty years ago. ”
“I heard a few old spooks got bored and decided to host a get-together.”
“And it just kept growing. Turned into this annual global affairs conference, with speakers from around the world. So you see, there’s plenty to keep me busy.”
“And personally? Are you happy here?”
“I have my husband. And some very good friends.”
“Ah yes, your husband.” He took a sip of whisky and gave her a dubious smile. “Lloyd seems pleasant enough.”
She set down her glass with a thump. “All right. Let’s cut through the bullshit. What are you really doing in Purity?”
“Attending your conference.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“It gave me a chance to catch up with you.”
“But you didn’t come all this way just to see me.”
He gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m also here to do a little scouting for Argus. You might have heard of it.”
“The company you founded. You chose an interesting name.”
He nodded. “I named it after the mythical Argus Panoptes. The giant with a hundred eyes. It’s an apt description for what we do.”
“Private intelligence, you mean?”
“I just couldn’t seem to walk away from it.
I tried to retire. After I left the Agency, I played a lot of golf, climbed a few mountains, stretched out on a few beaches.
And I got utterly, miserably bored. So I jumped back into the business.
The private sector, it turns out, pays much better.
” He waved to the cocktail waitress, pointed to his empty glass, then refocused on Ingrid. “Much better,” he repeated.
“Who are your clients?”
“Our list is confidential, but let’s just say it includes large corporations, law firms. The occasional government agency.”
“Including our own?”
He paused, looking down at his empty glass.
“I don’t have to tell you the world has changed, Ingrid.
This new leadership has turned things upside down, undermined everything we once believed in.
There are people in the Agency—good people, patriots—who aren’t happy that we’ve turned our backs on tried-and-true allies.
That we’re now cozying up with our old enemies.
More than a few old friends have been purged from the Agency, and now they’re working for Argus.
These are experienced, well-connected people in key places.
We have intelligence collectors in thirty-three countries, with more joining us. ”
“The hundred eyes of Argus.”
“I’d like it to be a hundred and one eyes.
That’s one of the reasons I’m here.” He paused as the waitress returned with a refill of their whiskies.
Ingrid had already had enough to drink, but now that a fresh glass was sitting in front of her, she automatically lifted it to her lips, if only to steady herself for what she knew was coming.
“I need people with deep backgrounds in intelligence,” he said. “Especially people with operational experience.”
“Operational? You’ve moved beyond just intelligence gathering?”
“Yes, we now have an operational wing. It’s become necessary, given current circumstances.
The Agency is paralyzed. Everyone’s looking over their shoulders, afraid that they’ll get booted out if they make the wrong moves.
So no one makes any moves at all, and nothing gets done.
Not officially, anyway. But unofficially, things can get done, and they turn to Argus to do it.
That’s why I’m recruiting people with experience in the field.
People I trust and respect.” He took a sip. “That would be you.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m retired.”
“So was I.”
“I’m not bored.”
“Which surprises me.” He looked at the people gathered at the bar. “Is this really enough for you?”
“Why do you keep doubting me?”
“Because I know that mind of yours never stops working. It needs stimulation. This job would take you all over the world again. We have offices in London, Geneva, and DC. If a client wants a dossier on a French presidential candidate, off you’ll go to Paris.
It’s the same work we did before, but in so many ways it’s easier.
We can operate in the gray zone, with no artificial divide between foreign and domestic, and without any bureaucratic bullshit.
Now tell me the truth. You do miss it, don’t you? ”
“That work was for our country.”
“Well, our country has drastically altered course. And you know as well as I do that patriotism hardly pays.”
“And you feel good about this? Doing it for the money?”
He looked down at his whisky and for a moment considered her question. “Do you remember Sophie Benoit?” he asked quietly.
The mention of Sophie’s name made her go momentarily silent. She felt an ache in her chest, like an old wound that refused to heal. “Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think of her,” she said quietly. “And Gordon. And Simon.”
“I never stop thinking about them either. Simon’s widow never remarried. Gordon’s wife, at least, was able to move on. Vicky married a nice fellow from Omaha. Had another child. A daughter.”
“Why are you bringing them up now?”
“Because of why they all died. Gordon and Simon, because of patriotism. And Sophie, because she had a conscience and she tried to do the right thing. Tried to help us bring down that syndicate. Those three people, they all did the right thing, and they paid the ultimate price.”
“Are you saying it’s not worth it? Doing the right thing?”
“Oh, it sounds so noble, dying for our country. For the good of the world. But think of the people you leave behind. How many other twelve-year-old boys will suffer, like Gordon’s son did, because his father was a patriot?
” He took a gulp of whisky and stared at the glass.
“I still hear from Vicky from time to time. She says their son never really got over his father’s death. ”
“I can’t imagine any boy would.”
“And when they heard how he died—”
“They were told?”
“She wanted to know if he suffered. She demanded to know. HQS finally relented and allowed her to see the autopsy report.”
Ingrid thought of that hot and windy day in the valley of lavender.
She remembered Gordon lying on his back outside the stone guardhouse, his blood seeping into the soil.
And she thought of the stiletto in his eye, its tip buried deep in his brain.
“Oh God,” she murmured. “They learned the details?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Which probably made the loss all the worse for them. Knowing how he was killed.”
Even now, the circumstances of Gordon’s death still shook her, and she cupped the whisky glass with both hands, as if it could steady her. Anchor her.
“He paid the ultimate price. So did his wife. So did his son,” said Rodrigo. “And what did they get for it? A pension, a lifetime of grief. And Gordon got a pretty star on the memorial wall.”
“So you think patriotism isn’t enough.”
“I’m saying there should be tangible rewards for doing this work. We have skills honed by years in the field. That’s worth something in the private sector.”
“You’re offering me a job?”
“We made a good team once and we could do it again. And on this particular issue, you’d be perfect.”
“What issue is that?”
“It’s another reason I came to this conference. Our client is focused on the possibility of biological warfare. They’d like to know which bacterial or viral agents might be used by the enemy, and how to respond to it.”
“Is this client one of those governmental agencies you mentioned?”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“If you worked for Argus, I’d be able to. What I can tell you is my client wants to know which bioweapons might be currently in development. Since Dr. Maslov’s one of the few scientists who’s actually worked in a Russian biolab, I wanted to meet him.”
“Has he agreed to speak with you?”
“Not yet. I want to approach him in just the right way. As a Russian defector, he’s probably skittish. Looking over his shoulder, wondering if Moscow will come after him with an umbrella dart.”
“It’s been eighteen years since he defected. At some point, everyone gets tired of looking over their shoulder.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“He accepted our invitation, didn’t he?”
“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me. Assure him that I am who I say I am.”
“And that’s all you want from me?”
“I would like to ask for more.” He smiled. “But I doubt Lloyd would approve.”
She looked down at her glass and saw to her surprise that she had finished all the whisky.
That was the Rodrigo effect. He had a way of making her do heedless things, take heedless risks.
“I’ll consider it,” she said, and set down the empty glass.
“Now I need to get some sleep. It’s been good catching up. ”
“That’s it, then?”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Really, I just wanted to see you again. While I still could.”
“You make it sound like time’s running out.”
“It is, isn’t it? For both of us. Year after year we just forge ahead, until one day, it all comes to an end. I’m thinking about that more and more. All the things I want to do, things I need to do. And one of those things was to see you again.”
They stared at each other, and the buzz of conversation around them seemed to fade away.
For a moment—just a moment—she was young again, in Paris, and they were coiled around each other in bed.
Then her cell phone dinged with a text message and the memory evaporated.
Once again, she was sitting in this dim hotel lounge with the man she’d always known would never make her happy.
The man she’d been wise enough to walk away from.
She looked at the text message. “I have to go,” she said.
“Something serious?”
“No. Just a small problem with tomorrow’s schedule.” She started to rise, but he reached for her hand.
“Then stay, Ingrid,” he said quietly. “Please.”
Again, there was a long look between them. Again, that wisp of a memory floated through her head. Paris. A bed. His arms wrapped around her.
She pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”