you, too. And maybe even for Geoffrey.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will when you’ve heard the Berlin police report.”
“Is there something else?”
“Yes. It’s about the circumstances of your husband’s death.”
“But you said it was an accident.”
“I said it looked like an accident.” He watched her carefully while he spoke, as if afraid to miss any change in her face, any flicker of her eye. “When I spoke to Mr. Corrigan a few hours ago, there had been a new development. During a routine investigation of the fire, the debris from the room was examined. When they sifted through the mattress remains, they found a bullet.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “A bullet?” she said. “You mean…”
He nodded. “They think it was murder.”
SARAH STARTED TO speak, but her voice refused to work. Like a statue, she sat frozen in her chair, unable to move, unable to do anything but stare at him.
“I thought you should know,” said Nick. “I had to tell you in any event, because now we’ll need your help. The Berlin police want information about your husband’s activities, his enemies…why he might have been killed.”
She shook her head numbly. “I can’t think of… I mean I just don’t know…. My God!” she whispered.
The gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder made Sarah flinch. She looked up and saw the concern in his eyes. He’s worried I’ll faint, she thought. He’s worried I’ll get sick all over his nice thick carpet and embarrass us both. With sudden irritation she shook off his hand. She didn’t need anyone’s rehearsed sympathy. She needed to be alone—away from bureaucrats and their impersonal file folders. She rose unsteadily to her feet. No, she was not going to faint, not in front of this man.
Nick reached for her arm and nudged her gently back into the chair. “Please, Mrs. Fontaine. Another minute, that’s all I need.”
“Let me go.”
“Mrs. Fontaine—”
“Let me go.”
The sharpness of her voice seemed to shock him. He released her but did not back away. As she sat there, she was acutely aware of various aspects of his presence—the faint smell of after-shave and fatigue, the dull gleam of his belt buckle, the wrinkled shirt sleeves.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to crowd you. I was just worried that…well…”
“Yes?” She looked up into those slate eyes. Something she saw there—a steadiness, a strength—made her suddenly, and against all instinct, want to trust him. “I’m not going to faint, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “Please, I’d like to go home now.”
“Yes, of course. But I have just a few more questions.”
“I don’t have any answers. Don’t you understand?”
He was silent for a moment. “Then I’ll contact you later,” he said at last. “We have to talk about the arrangements for the body.”
“Oh. Yes, the body.” She stood up, blinking back a new wave of tears.
“I’ll have the car take you home now, Mrs. Fontaine.” He moved toward her slowly, as if afraid of scaring her. “I’m sorry about your husband. Truly sorry. Feel free to call me if you have any questions.”
She knew none of those words came from the heart, that none of them held any genuine sympathy. Nicholas O’Hara was a diplomat, saying what he’d been taught to say. Whatever the catastrophe, the U.S. State Department always had the right words ready. He’d probably said the same thing to a hundred other widows.
Now he was waiting for her response, so she did what was expected of any widow. She pulled herself together. Reaching out, she shook his hand and thanked him. Then she turned and walked out the door.
* * *
“DO YOU THINK she knows?”
Nick stared at the door that had just closed behind Sarah Fontaine’s retreating figure. He turned and glanced at Tim Greenstein. “Knows what?”
“That her husband was a spook?”
“Hell, we don’t even know that.”
“Nick my man, this whole thing reeks of espionage. Geoffrey Fontaine was a total nonentity till a year ago. Then his name shows up on a wedding license, he has a brand new Social Security number, a passport and what have you. The FBI doesn’t seem to know a damn thing. But intelligence—they’ve got the guy’s file under classified! Am I dumb or what?”
“Maybe I’m the dumb one,” grunted Nick. He walked to his desk and dropped into the chair. Then he scowled at the Fontaine file. Tim was right, of course. The case stank to high heaven of funny business. Espionage? International crime? An ex-federal witness, hiding from the mob?
Who the hell was Geoffrey Fontaine?
Nick slouched down and threw his head back against the chair. Damn, he was tired. But he couldn’t get Geoffrey Fontaine out of his head. Or Sarah Fontaine, for that matter.
He’d been surprised when she walked into the office; he’d been expecting someone with a little more sophistication. Her husband had been a world-class traveler, a guy who’d whisked through London and Berlin and Amsterdam. A man like that should have a wife who was sleek and elegant. Instead, in had walked this skinny, awkward creature who was almost, but not quite, pretty. Her face had been too full of angles: high, sharp cheeks, a narrow nose, a square forehead softened only by a gentle widow’s peak. Her long hair had been a rich, coppery color; even tied back in a ponytail, it had been beautiful. Her horn-rimmed glasses had somehow amused him. They had framed two wide, amber-colored eyes—her best feature. With no makeup and with that pale, delicate complexion, she’d seemed much younger than the thirty or so years she must be.
No, she was not quite pretty. But throughout the interview Nick had found himself staring at her face and wondering about her marriage. And about her.
Tim rose. “Hey, all this grief is making me hungry. Let’s hit the cafeteria.”
“Not the cafeteria. Let’s go out. I’ve been sitting in this building all morning, and I’m going stir-crazy.” Nick pulled on his jacket, and together they walked out past Angie’s desk and headed for the stairs.
Outside a brisk spring wind blew in their faces as they strode down the sidewalk. The buds were just starting to swell on the cherry trees. In another week the whole city would be awash in pink and white flowers. It was Nick’s first D.C. springtime in eight years—he’d forgotten how pretty it could be, walking through the trees. He thrust his hands in his pockets
