A Time for War (29 page)

Eddie greeted Jack in the pilothouse with a volley of jumps, leaping up at him as though his tail were a spring and his legs were little pistons.

“Hey, boy!” Jack said, scooping the leaping toy poodle in his arms and letting him air-lick his face from cheek to cheek. “You like that Caribbean smell? A little spicy salt air?”

While Jack cradled the dog his eyes went to the blue-eyed blonde standing behind him. Maybe it was his overtired mind, but there was a dreamy quality to the young woman. She was wearing an NYU sweatshirt and jeans. She was barefoot. Her open face had a friendly, welcoming quality that put him instantly at ease; it wasn't until then that he realized how tense he still was.

“Dover,” he said. “Hi.”

“Hi, Jack.” Her smile was small but sincere. It occurred to him it was the first real smile he had seen since he left San Francisco. “I hope you don't mind, but I took a shower.”

“I don't mind.”

Her scent reached him then; something fruity. Apricot. Apricot and woman.

A
yip
from Eddie informed Jack that he had stopped scratching behind his ears without permission. Jack's fingers resumed their massage.

“Greedy little guy,” Jack explained.

“We just had a nice nap,” Dover told him. “Doc dropped him off and he fell asleep on my stomach. After a long belly scratch.”

“He lets you know what he wants,” Jack said. “Speaking of which—I need food. Did Bruno deliver?”

“Personally, with instructions on reheating each entree,” she said. “He was very particular.”

“His food is his art,” Jack said.

“Why don't you do whatever you need to,” Dover said. “The table is set in the main salon. The food's been sitting out for a while but I'm ready to microwave.”

“Food is actually a priority,” Jack said. “I didn't want to accept the hospitality of Hawke's cuisine on the plane. That would have been wrong, considering he probably bought it with foreign money.”

“Well, we can talk about that later,” she said. “Let's get you fed.”

Jack put Eddie down and, true to form, he deserted his master for the woman. Not that Jack blamed him. Considering everything she'd been through since waking up in Suitland, Maryland, her composure and alertness was remarkable.

There's a reason our intelligence community hires the people it does,
he reminded himself.
The people in the bullpen of intel-analysis had to be able to take mental, psychological, and bureaucratic punches and keep their wits about them.

Bruno had sent over Jack's personal favorites. Petrale sole with a light pomodoro sauce, roasted sliced potatoes, and sautéed broccolini from his ranch. Of course there was a monster order of pasta marinara with shrimp and, for Eddie, a grilled veal chop, no salt or pepper.

“Bruno said you would have the wines to go with—?”

“Actually, I'm going with a beer,” he said. “You?”

“Sure. Whatcha got?”

“Beck's, Pilsner Urquell, Corona.”

“No microbrews?”

He could see she was teasing. “No microbrews,” Jack grinned. “All too hoppy or sweet. I stick with hundreds of years of trial and error. Do you know the difference between the beers?”

“Haven't a clue.”

“Beck's is very tart. Pilsner Urquell is maybe the best beer in the world. It's very hoppy. Corona is kind of mild.”

“I'll take a Corona,” she said.

“You'll like it,” he said, heading for a small stainless steel cabinet. He squatted and opened the door. There was nothing but beer inside.

“You have a fridge just for beer?” Dover marveled as she went to the counter where Bruno had left the printed-out instructions.

“No beer lover has the right to call himself that unless he owns one,” Jack said. “Hey, you're a journalist. Have you ever come across a term for a beer lover?”

“You mean like ‘oenophile' is for wine lovers?”

“Exactly.”

“Other than hophead?”

“Yeah, something a little more elegant.” Jack placed her bottle on the counter where she was carefully draping the plates with cellophane wrap.

“I think the Latin for beer was
zythum,
or something like that,” she said. “So—zythumophile?”

“Sounds like a bacterium,” Jack said. “Let's stick with ‘hophead.'” He clinked the bottom of his Pilsner against her Corona. Then he checked his cell phone. It was dead. He went and got the power cord, plugged it in beside the coffeemaker, then sat heavily at the teak table. The microwave hummed busily behind him, then beeped. The sole was ready, followed quickly by the pasta, and the aromas took his mind off everything else. They ate in silence for quite some time, Dover evidently waiting on Jack's lead. He was too tired and hungry to do much of that, at first.

“This is damn good,” he said when he became aware of the silence.

“Very damn good,” she said.

He realized he had been staring at his plate. He looked at her. The world outside was dark, giving a strong sense of home to the golden light in the room. He thought of the sterility of Hawke's yacht and felt a deep sense of being grounded. He missed being on TV but he loved the scrappy life of a freelance, old-style journalist. He had a good life and he knew it.

“I really have to thank you for covering me,” Dover said. “I never imagined Hawke would be so
obvious.
”

“About booting you from his town? It was inevitable. Guys like that, who are surrounded by so many layers of yes-people, lose sight of anything that isn't ‘theirs.'”

“I don't understand. Then why did he let you
in
?”

“Power play,” Jack said. “Bring me all that way in a gilded cage to slap me around, send me home.”

“Did he really think that would work against you? I mean, you climbed the Golden Gate Bridge to kill a terrorist.”

“Physical risk, an adrenaline rush, those are different from putting fear on a man's radar, forcing him to watch everything and everyone more closely, think before he goes out, or speaks, or even turns out the light at night.”

“Terrorism,” Dover said. “Of course. Osama bin Laden didn't exactly invent that concept.”

“Anyway, you're welcome. We actually did Doc a favor.”

“Oh?”

“If he sits on the shelf more than a few days, without someone to rescue, he gets sarcastic. I'll bet he was in a good mood the whole time you were together.”

“Very.”

“You see?”

Jack finished his beer and went to get another. Dover was still working on hers and declined a second. He shot a disapproving look at Eddie, who was curled by her feet. The dog ignored him. Jack knew that Eddie was giving the lady some attention, as usual, but he was also guarding her. Jack and the poodle had that tendency in common.

He checked his recharging phone as he passed. There was a text from Doc.

Nothing from Abe. You?

Jack scrolled through his messages, wrote back:

Nada.

He sat back down.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Dover said after another lengthy silence.

“Shoot.”

“Who's number one on your speed dial?”

Jack stopped chewing. “Why? Did you hit it by accident?”

“No, no—before Doc left he told me he was number two. So I was just wondering. Not that it's any of my business. You don't have to tell me.
Obviously,
you don't have to tell me.”

Jack smiled. “It's my former wife.”

His face must have registered the discomfort he felt because Dover flushed slightly.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was stupid of me—”

“No, it wasn't,” he insisted. “It just was not a question I expected.”

“Please forget I asked it,” she said. She washed the statement down with the rest of her beer then went to get another.

“I'm not going to do that,” Jack said. He sat back, sipped his second beer. “My relationship with Rachel was—is—complicated.”

“
Please,
you don't have to tell me—”

“I want to,” he said. “Doc, Abe, all our friends—they're tired of hearing me be confused. You're a fresh canvas. And you're smart. And curious. And you analyze data. You may see something the rest of us have missed.”

She relaxed slightly.

“We were married for ten years. It ended two and a half years ago. It probably ended long before, but that's when we pulled the plug. She was a model, five foot nine, green eyes, black hair—a real night owl. We met while I was doing a segment for
The World of the Runway Model.
She segued from that to flipping houses. One of those planners who had a real estate license ‘just in case' her modeling career ended. She was—
is
—good at being prepared. Tastes change, anorexia is in, hips are out—you never know. Also, she would get bored with things real quick. She bagged college after six months, took up modeling, sold houses, studied nutrition so she had something else to do when the housing market collapsed. Always a step ahead. She's got a terrific practice now, training vegans in Tiburon—that's across the bay in Marin County.”

“Alone?”

He grew wistful. “She's living with a big-shot tax attorney. I resent him.”

“Because—?”

“I wish I knew,” Jack admitted. “He treats her well, he makes her laugh, he's been cordial to me the two times we've met—even if it's this ‘I'm-a-Harvard-grad' noblesse oblige, like he's just a little bit better than me. Anyway, what about you?”

“I dated in college, a lot. There were trust-fund kids, bad boys, scholars. I date in Suitland. Career military, career diplomats, career bureaucrats. I always got along best with the guys who can put their work aside and concentrate on me. Do you ever use number one on speed dial?”

“Never have,” Jack said, “but it's the only human connection I've got left with her.” He stood suddenly. “Let's take our beers on deck. I want to see if I can learn this relaxing thing.”

He wasn't sure if that was a “move” or if his guard was just way down. Whichever it was, Dover rose and smiled and seemed happy to follow his lead. Maybe she was just tired, too.

They went out onto the flybridge, followed by Eddie. It was chilly and Jack offered her a blanket. She said she was used to the cold, actually enjoyed it. He showed her to the helm seats but she remained standing. So did Jack.

“I'm not sure it's working,” he said. “All I am is tired. But my brain's still working.”

“Look up,” she said.

Jack turned astern to view the stars. They were unusually bright and he realized why. It was past four
A.M.
He wasn't usually out at this hour. The lights of the city did not throw as much light in the sky as he was accustomed to.

“Does that relax you?” Dover asked.

“Frankly, it bores me,” he said.

“Hmm. That's not what we're going for.”

“I don't get philosophical about the stars, eternity, the cosmos. I tend not to think about the things I can't impact.”

“So what do you think about?”

“When I'm not thinking about work?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “That's the drill.”

He looked across the water. “I think about now and a little beyond. Don't get me wrong. I
enjoy
things, like wine and beer and good company. And I can appreciate the dynamics of what's going on around me—like the harbor and the life that's under it or on it or above it. I like interaction, sparks, surprise. I guess that's why I don't think past the moment. I've learned we don't have a whole lot of control beyond that. I can plan for a TV show and—
bang.
I'm suddenly off the air. I can plan to walk down a street and—
bang,
literally. A car bomb goes off. I can be infatuated with a woman and she's gone. I can be angry at all women and then one shows up who makes me forget that I was mad. I live in the moment because that's all I'm guaranteed.”

“That's fair,” she said. “A little grim, but fair.”

Dover was watching him with eyes that sparkled with reflected lights from the city, from other boats. There was a moment he liked. They were far more interesting to him than the stars.

“What about you?” Jack asked. “What do you think about?”

“I'm still optimistic enough to look ahead,” she said. “I think about the big things. The usual, I guess. Eventually having a relationship, a family.” She laughed. “I guess I'll also have to think about a new job, a new career.”

“I'm not convinced of that,” Jack said. “I still think there's something big we can pin on that—”

“Uh-uh,” Dover said. “That's not relaxing. That's work.”

“Sorry,” Jack said. “It's involuntary. We were talking about you—”

She drank a little beer, leaned with her back against the rail. She was a dark silhouette against the darker waters.

“I also find myself thinking about how hopeless things seem at times,” she said. “The world, I mean. Some of the reports I see, about atrocities, genocide, tribal warfare—it's enough to make me want to find a Tibetan mountaintop or South Pacific atoll to retire to. But that's not me, either. So I guess I kind of punt. I get reactive instead of proactive.”

“Until you didn't with this whole Squarebeam thing,” Jack pointed out.

“Until I didn't,” she agreed. “And it got me thrown into a maelstrom.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Ask me again when we find out what happens next.”

“What do you want to happen next?” he asked.

That did not come out the way it had sounded in his head. Spoken, it was less a question than an invitation. The time between his asking and her answering seemed uncomfortably long.