it was a real marriage? You had…relations?”
She flushed. “Yes. Like any normal couple. Do you want to know how often? When?”
“I’m not playing games. I’m sticking my neck out for you. If you don’t like my approach, perhaps you’d prefer the way the Company handles it.”
“Then you haven’t told the CIA?”
“No.” His chin came up in an unintended gesture of stubbornness. “I don’t care much for the way they do things. I may get slapped down for this, but then again, I may not.”
“So why are you putting yourself on the line?”
He shrugged. “Curiosity. Maybe a chance to see what I can do on my own.”
“Ambition?”
“That’s part of it, I guess. Plus…” He glanced at her, and their eyes met. Suddenly he fell silent.
“Plus what?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
The rain was coming down in sheets and streamed across the windshield. Nick left the freeway and edged into city-bound traffic. Driving through D.C. rush hour usually made Sarah nervous; today, though, she took it calmly. Something about the way Nick O’Hara drove made her feel safe. In fact, everything about him spoke of safety—the steadiness of his hands on the wheel, the warmth of his car, the low timbre of his voice. Just sitting beside him, she felt secure. She could imagine how safe a woman might feel in his arms.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you can see we’ve got a lot of unanswered questions. You might have some of the answers, whether you know it or not.”
“I don’t have any answers.”
“Let’s start off with what you do know.”
She shook her head, bewildered. “I was married to him and I can’t even tell you his real name!”
“Everyone, Sarah, even the best spy, slips up. He must’ve let his guard down for a moment. Maybe he talked in his sleep. Maybe he said things you can’t explain. Think.”
She bit her lip, suddenly thinking not about Geoffrey, but about Nick. He’d called her by her first name. Sarah. “Even if there were things,” she said, “little things—I might not have considered them significant.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, he might have—he might have called me Evie once or twice. But he always apologized right away. He said she was an old girlfriend.”
“What about family? Friends? Didn’t he talk about them?”
“He said he was born in Vermont, then raised in London. His parents were theater people. They’re dead. He never talked about any other relatives. He always seemed so…self-sufficient. He didn’t have any close friends, not even from work. At least, none he introduced me to.”
“Oh, yes. His work. I’ve been checking on that. It seems he was listed on the Bank of London payroll. He had a desk in some back office. But no one remembers quite what he did.”
“Then even that part wasn’t real.”
“So it seems.”
Sarah sank deeper into the seat. Each thing this man told her left another slash in the fabric of her life. Her marriage was dissolving away to nothing. It had been all shadow and no substance. Reality was here and now, the rain hitting the car, the windshield wipers beating back and forth. Most of all, reality was the man sitting silently beside her. He was not an illusion. She scarcely knew him, and yet he’d become the only reality she could cling to.
She wondered about Nick O’Hara. She didn’t think he was married. Despite his aloofness she found him attractive enough; any woman would have. But there was more than just the physical attraction. She sensed his need. Something told her he was lonely, troubled. Vague shadows of unhappiness surrounded his eyes, creating a feeling of restlessness; it was the look of a man without a home. He probably had none. The foreign service was a career for nomads, not for people who craved a house in the suburbs. Nick O’Hara was definitely not the suburban type.
Shivering, she longed desperately to be back in her apartment, drinking that cup of tea with Abby. It won’t be long, she thought as the streets became more and more familiar. Connecticut Avenue glistened in the rain. The downpour had already stripped the cherry trees of half their blossoms; the first rush of spring had been short-lived.
They pulled up in front of her apartment, and Nick dashed around the car to open her door. It was a funny little gesture, the sort of thing Geoffrey used to do, gallant and sweetly impractical. By the time they stamped into the lobby they were both soaked. The rain had plastered his hair in dark curls against his forehead.
“I suppose you have more questions.” She sighed as they headed toward the stairs leading to the second floor.
“If you mean do I want to come up, the answer is yes.”
“For tea or interrogation?”
He smiled and brushed away the water dripping down his cheek. “A little of both. I’ve had so much trouble getting hold of you, I’d better ask all my questions now.”
They reached the top of the stairs. She was just about to say something when the hallway came into view. What she saw made her freeze.
The door to her apartment was hanging open. Someone had broken in.
Instinctively Sarah retreated, terrified of whatever lay beyond the door. She fell back against Nick and found herself wordlessly clutching his arm. He stared at the open door, his face suddenly tense. Except for the pounding of her own heart, she heard nothing. The apartment was absolutely silent.
Light spilled into the hall through the open doorway. Nick motioned her to stay where she was, then cautiously approached the door. Sarah started to follow him, but he gave her such a dark look of warning that she shrank back at once.
He nudged the door open, and the arc of light widened and spilled across his face. For a few seconds, he stood in the doorway, staring at the room beyond. Then he entered the apartment.
In the hall Sarah waited, frightened by the absolute silence. What was happening inside? A shadow flickered in the doorway, and panic began to overtake her as she watched the outline grow larger. Then, to her relief, Nick poked his head out.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” he said. “There’s no one here.”
She ran past him into the apartment. In the living room, she paused, surprised by what she saw. She had expected to find her possessions gone, to find only empty shelves where her TV and stereo had always sat. But nothing had been touched. Even the antique clock was in its place, ticking softly on the bookshelf.
She turned and ran into the bedroom with Nick close behind. He watched from the doorway as she went directly to the jewelry box on her dresser. There, on red velvet, was her string of pearls, right where it should be. Slamming the box shut, she turned and quickly surveyed the room, taking in the king-size bed, the nightstand with its china lamp, the closet. In confusion she looked back at Nick.
“What’s
