want you to find someone wonderful and be happy.”
“I did find someone wonderful, Susan.” The damned lump in his throat made it difficult for him to speak. “And do you know what happened? I lost her.”
“If you’re going to do this, I won’t call you again.”
He was filled with sudden panic. “Don’t say that. Please.” She was his lifeline. He could not bear the thought of never speaking to her again. He tried to sound cheerful. “I’m going to go out and find some luscious blonde and screw us both to death.”
“I want you to find someone.”
“I promise.”
“I’m concerned about you, darling.”
“No need. I’m really fine.” He almost gagged on his lie. If she only knew the truth. But it was nothing he could bring himself to discuss with anyone. Especially Susan. He could not bear the thought of her pity.
“I’ll telephone you from Brazil,” Susan said.
There was a long silence. They could not let go of each other because there was too much to say, too many things that were better left unsaid, that had to be left unsaid.
“I have to go now, Robert.”
“Susan?”
“Yes?”
“I love you, baby. I always will.”
“I know. I love you too, Robert.”
And that was the bittersweet irony of it. They still loved each other so much.
You two have the perfect marriage, all their friends used to say. What had gone wrong?
Commander Robert Bellamy got out of bed and walked through the silent living room in his bare feet. The room screamed out Susan’s absence. There were dozens of photographs of Susan and himself scattered around, frozen moments in time. The two of them fishing in the Highlands of Scotland, standing in front of a Buddha near a Thai klong, riding a carriage in the rain through the Borghese gardens in Rome. And in each picture, they were smiling and hugging, two people wildly in love.
He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15 A.M. He hesitated a moment, then dialed a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker’s voice at the other end of the line. “Hello.”
“Admiral—”
“Yes?”
“It’s Robert. I’m terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency.”
“The NSA? What did they want?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been ordered to report to General Hilliard at oh six hundred.”
There was a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps you’re being transferred there.”
“I can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they—?”
“It’s obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don’t you give me a call after the meeting?”
“I will. Thank you.”
The connection was broken. I shouldn’t have bothered the old man, Robert thought. The admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumor was that as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert’s mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought wearily. Maybe I just don’t know when to let go.
The coffee was ready. It tasted bitter. He wondered whether the beans came from Brazil.
He carried the coffee cup into the bathroom and studied his image in the mirror. He was looking at a man in his early forties, tall and lean and physically fit with a craggy face, a strong chin, black hair, and intelligent, probing dark eyes. There was a long, deep scar on his chest, a souvenir from the plane crash. But that was yesterday. That was Susan. This was today. Without Susan. He shaved and showered and walked over to his clothes closet. What do I wear, he wondered, Navy uniform or civilian clothes? And on the other hand, who gives a damn? He put on a charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray silk tie. He knew very little about the National Security Agency, only that the Puzzle Palace, as it was nicknamed, superseded all other American intelligence agencies and was the most secretive of them all. What do they want with me? I’ll soon find out.
The National Security Agency is hidden discreetly away on eighty-two rambling acres at Fort Meade, Maryland, in two buildings that together are twice the size of the CIA complex in Langley, Virginia. The agency, created to give technical support to protect United States communications and acquire worldwide electronic intelligence data, employs thousands of people, and so much information is generated by its operations that it shreds more than forty tons of documents every day.
It was still dark when Commander Robert Bellamy arrived at the first gate. He drove up to an eight-foot-high Cyclone fence with a topping of barbed wire. There was a sentry booth there, manned by two armed guards. One of them stayed in the booth watching as the other approached the car. “Can I help you?”
“Commander Bellamy to see General Hilliard.”
“May I see your identification, Commander?”
Robert Bellamy pulled out his wallet and removed his 17th District Naval Intelligence ID card. The guard studied it carefully and returned it. “Thank you, Commander.”
He nodded to the guard in the booth, and the gate swung open. The guard inside picked up a telephone. “Commander Bellamy is on his way.”
A minute later, Robert Bellamy drove up to a closed, electrified gate.
An armed guard approached the car. “Commander Bellamy?”
“Yes.”
“May I see your identification, please?”
He started to protest and then he thought, What the hell. It’s their zoo. He took out his wallet again and showed his identification to the guard.
“Thank you, Commander.” The guard gave some invisible sign, and the gate opened.
As Robert Bellamy drove ahead, he saw a third Cyclone fence ahead of him. My God, he thought, I’m in the Land of Oz.
Another uniformed guard walked up to the car.
