Call After Midnight

“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 and hunched over a little as the wind bit through his wool jacket.

Vaguely he wondered whether Sarah Fontaine had reached her apartment yet, whether she was lying across her bed now, sobbing her eyes out. He knew he’d been rough on her. It had bothered him, hounding her like that, but someone had to break through all of her denial. She had to understand the facts. It was the only way she’d ever really recover from her grief.

“Where we going, Nick?” asked Tim.

“How about Mary Jo’s?”

“That salad place? What, are you on a diet or something?”

“No, but it’s quiet there. I’m not into loud conversation right now.”

After two more blocks, they turned into the restaurant and sat down at a table. Fifteen minutes later the waitress brought their salads, which were cloaked in homemade mayonnaise and tarragon. Tim looked at the lettuce and arugula on his fork and sighed.

“This is rabbit food. Give me a greasy burger any day.” He stuffed a forkful of the salad into his mouth and looked across the table at Nick. “So what’s bugging you? The new post got you down already?”

“It’s a damned slap in the face, that’s what it is,” said Nick. He drained his cup of coffee and motioned to the waitress for another. “To go straight from being number two man in London to shuffling papers in D.C.”

“So why didn’t you resign?”

“I just might. Since that fiasco in London, my career’s been shot. And now I’ve got to put up with this bastard, Ambrose.”

“Is he still out of town?”

“One more week. Till then I can do the job my way. Without all that bureaucratic nonsense. Hell, if he rewrites any more of my reports to make ’em ‘conform to administration policy,’ I’m going to puke.” Nick put his fork down and scowled at the salad. The mention of his boss had just ruined his appetite. From the very first day, Nick and Ambrose had rubbed each other the wrong way. Charles Ambrose reveled in the bureaucratic merry-go-round, whereas Nick always insisted on getting straight to the point, however unpleasant. The clash had been inevitable.

“Your trouble, Nick, is that even though you’re an egghead, you don’t talk gobbledegook like all the others. You’ve got ’em all confused. They don’t like guys they can understand. Plus you’re a bleeding-heart liberal.”

“So? You are, too.”

“But I’m also a certified nerd. They make allowances for nerds. If they don’t, I shut down their computers.”

Nick laughed, suddenly glad for the company of his old buddy, Tim. Four years of being college roommates had left strong bonds. Even after eight years abroad, Nick had come home to find Tim Greenstein just as bushy and likable as ever.

He picked up his fork and finished off the salad.

“So what’re you going to do with this Fontaine case?” Tim asked over dessert.

“I’m going to do my job and look into it.”

“You gonna tell Ambrose? He’ll want to hear about it. So will the guys at the Company, if they don’t already know.”

“Let ’em find out on their own. It’s my case.”

“It sounds like espionage to me, Nick. That’s not exactly a consular affair.”

But Nick didn’t like the idea of turning Sarah Fontaine over to some CIA case officer. She seemed too fragile, too vulnerable. “It’s my case,” he repeated.

Tim grinned. “Ah, the widow Fontaine. Could it be she’s your type? Though I can’t quite see the attraction. What I really can’t see is how she hooked that husband. Blond Adonis, wasn’t he? Not the kind of guy to go for a woman in horn-rimmed glasses. My deduction is that he married her for reasons other than the usual.”

“The usual? You mean love?”

“Naw. Sex.”

“Just what the hell are you getting at?”

“Hmm. Touchy. You liked her, didn’t you?”