The Private Spy

chapter 1

T he roar of the jumbo jet’s powerful engines as it throttled back for its landing at Dulles startled Steele Wolfe from his fitful sleep. Steele jerked himself erect, glanced out the window to make sure they were landing upright, and grasped the chair arms tightly. An experienced traveler whose career took him to some of the strangest airports in the world, Steele had long ago adapted to the embarrassing fact that his body always tensed when his senses warned that his impossible chariot was approaching its earthbound objective. Suddenly, the wheels hit the earth with a loud, shrieking protest from the heavy tires, bounced once, and then settled down. The pilot reversed the engines and Steele relaxed, relieved to be home after what he hoped would be his final flight for a very long time.

He checked his watch. Ten PM. It was late, but he had no doubt about what he had to do next. Steele had arrived at a pivotal point in his life. Although privately proud of what he had accomplished over the past fifteen years, Steele after several months of internal debate had woken after a churning night in his downtown Athens garçonnière with a decision. Two weeks later he had impulsively surrendered his lease to a forty -year old Athenian playboy, who had been seeking a haven for his rotating afternoon sessions with one or the other of his many mistresses, and had booked his flight home without announcing his return to another soul, particularly Marty.

Steele assumed that Marty, Martha to her female friends, would be delighted. He privately and reluctantly admitted that he had selfishly allowed their ten-year relationship to wither. They had been involved as spirited lovers when the Tribune had dispatched the thirty-year old Steele on what had been assumed by Steele and his editor as a temporary assignment as an assistant to the elderly but highly respected correspondent who covered the volatile Middle East that stretched from North Africa through India. To everyone’s surprise, including Steele, Marty, the editor, and the older correspondent, fate intervened; the correspondent suffered an unanticipated heart attack; Steele had thrived in the temporary assignment, had astonished everyone with his spectacular early performance, and after six months had enthusiastically claimed the position as his own. Marty initially shared Steele’s delight at this unexpected development, particularly after he acquired his own byline. The shared prestige and the increased salary softened the romantic chill of the extended separation caused by Steele’s required move to Athens. The turbulence and strife of the volatile Middle East with its angry rebellions, factional disagreements, and physical violence required Steele’s constant attention.

As the years passed, the separation eroded the intimacy of their relationship. Steele concentrated on the challenge of his demanding career and surprised even himself with his rapid ascent to the top of his profession. Time on the other hand was not kind to Marty. She did not age gracefully; her chin sagged slightly and wrinkles became troublesome while boredom and solitude soured her disposition. Without their knowledge, time and distance transformed the two lovers into casual friends; only habit perpetuated the tenuous plan of marriage. Unfortunately, tri-annual visits did not cut it, particularly for Marty who after years of separation began to sprinkle her communications with whining complaints which Steele graciously ignored. Inevitably, their relationship deteriorated, but Marty had no options and the distracted Steele did not notice. He was comfortable with the notion that one day he would return to Washington, assume another eminent journalistic position, and resume his intimacy with Marty.

Gradually, the ten years of war and constant travel progressively turned tedious; ultimately, the accumulating disenchantment culminated in a dramatic decision. Following his most recent trip to the war zones of Afghanistan where he found himself treading in footprints he had planted on previous visits, he impulsively decided to call a time out on his career, to take a sabbatical, and to write that definitive book on the Middle East. Steele arbitrarily cancelled all work related travel plans, declared finis to his life in Athens, said goodbye to his Greek friends, and climbed on the airplane convinced it would be easier to discuss his decision in person with his seniors at the Trib than try to handle their objections from long distance. He had alerted his superior at the Trib with a heads-up, that’s all, no explanation. He also assumed that surprising Marty would be more fun than warning her with a phone call. Just the thought of seeing the excited expression on her face when he suddenly appeared at her door was appealing.

When the door on the plane opened, Steele, experienced traveler that he was, quickly made his way down the steps and rushed to the head of the returning citizen line. After clearing customs, he continued on to the baggage claim area and was surprised to find that all three of his bags were among the first to arrive. Shunning the assistance of a porter, he tucked the computer under one arm, the smaller suitcase under the other, and stubbornly wrestled the two larger cases to the taxi line. Normally, Steele made do with one bag and his computer, but this trip was a terminal one marking the end of his transient life. He stubbornly carried the only possessions he cared about into the future.

The trip from National Airport to Marty’s apartment on 16th Street, about a mile from Dupont Circle, was a quick one that surprised even Steele who knew the area well. Marty had lived in the same sixth floor apartment for the entire twelve years Steele had known her. In fact, during his elongated overseas tour, Marty’s apartment had mutated into his home base. Instead of buying Marty a ring, Steele had declared his love by jointly acquiring a mortgage on the apartment. As part of his homecoming celebration, Steele planned to convert his virtual fiancée into a bonafide spouse.

Steele, weary but in a state of near intoxication at the thought of sharing his plans with a surprised Marty, over-tipped the driver and eagerly shouldered his bags as he made his way to the elevator and the sixth floor. He paused outside the familiar apartment door, smiled as he dropped the heavy bags, and actually felt the weariness lift from his shoulders as he took the key from his pocket. He had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Informing Marty the details of his life-changing decision—she, of course, would be sharing its impact—was an occasion that would reside forever in his memory.

Steele took a deep breath, forced himself to relax, and slid the key into the lock. He grinned with pleasure when it turned easily, and he stealthily opened the door hoping to surprise but not frighten the unwary Marty.

He peeked in and was startled by the angry yap of a small dog with long, unruly white hair. The arrogant creature with sharp white teeth audaciously challenged Steele’s right to enter his own home.

This was a development he had not anticipated. Marty had never mentioned a dog; she knew he was not a canine person. Granted that two maybe three months had passed since her last letter, but that had not worried Steele. It was only natural that the passage of years combined with the distance between them to retard the frequency of their correspondence; both were preoccupied by the demands of their careers, and it was natural that after a decade each had attained a level of maturity wherein one comfortably took the other for granted.

Before the surprised Steele recovered sufficiently to admonish the angry creature, it advanced. Somewhat intimidated, Steele retreated and stared as the creature sniffed once before arrogantly raising his right rear leg and releasing a stream of defiant urine at Steele’s favorite suede, Westport loafer.

Stop that! A shocked and insulted Steele ordered.

What is it Ham? A deep masculine voice that Steele did not recognize asked.

The fearless animal did not respond to the query. Instead, it retreated two steps and defiantly blocked Steele’s access. Apparently satisfied with its devious, surprise attack, the creature hunkered down on its rear haunches and stared at Steele who stamped his foot trying to dislodge as much urine from his shoe as he could.

The door opened wider, but the dog did not waver.

A smiling male with an amused expression on his face curiously studied Steele. He wore an expensive dark suit. His white shirt was immaculate with the top button open and his maroon power tie pulled loose. He had long brown hair, slightly messed, over an unlined masculine face that Steele assumed most women would consider handsome. He stood two or three inches taller than Steele and his two hundred pounds were muscular, obviously the result of an exercise program.

May I help you? The man asked politely, now ignoring the insult the mutt had delivered to Steele’s shoe.

Who are you? Steele demanded.

Who is it? Marty called from the distance, presumably from the bedroom.

The man, still smiling, winked at Steele before turning his head in the direction of the bedroom. I suspect it’s a surprise for you, the man answered.

I like surprises, Marty laughed as she appeared in the bedroom doorway tying a belt around the almost indecent transparent robe that she wore; she without question was nude underneath.

Steele was astonished; his prim Marty considered such behavior shocking.

He stared, disbelief mixing with appreciation, pride, disapproval, and shock in his expression.

The alert dog glanced at the strange man, at Marty, and then back at Steele before growling again.

Where did he come from? Steele grumbled as he glanced first at the man and then the dog, obviously including both in his query while not being specific. He was irritated and embarrassed at the same time. He had planned on surprising a solitary Marty, not a nude stranger sharing intimacy with two watchers.

Steele, Marty said neutrally. She stood three steps from the bedroom and stared. The irritated surprise on her face was not the expression Steele had anticipated. The puckered brow signaled displeasure, not an enthusiastic welcome home.

Marty glanced at Steele and then at the strange man, obviously more concerned about his reaction than Steele’s.

The man grinned at Marty and turned to Steele. I’m Winthrop Montgomery, he said offering his hand. You must be Steele Wolfe. I’ve heard a lot about you.

Steele ungraciously ignored the polite comment and the extended hand and turned to retrieve his three bags which he unceremoniously slid into the room. The dog growled again.

Oh Hamilton, stop it, Marty ordered.

The dog turned and obediently rushed to Marty’s side. She leaned down and patted him on the head.

Is he yours? Steele asked as he closed the door behind him, deliberately keeping his question vague, letting Marty decide whether he was referring to Winthrop Montgomery or the animal named Hamilton.

He’s ours, Marty answered coolly from a distance, not offering Steele the effusive welcome he felt he deserved. Her odd, dispassionate response matched Steele’s ambiguity.

Ours? Do you know what he just did? What’s going on? Steele asked, not concealing his irritation.

Marty ignored Steele’s confrontational attitude and questions and smiled at Montgomery. Her demeanor continued to astonish Steele. She appeared amused and contrite when she should have been embarrassed and working to explain.

I think you two have something to discuss, Montgomery said politely.

Steele answered with a glare, and Marty again surprised Steele by responding with a saccharine, Thank you, dear.

The agreeable Montgomery nodded and addressed the rude dog like an old friend. Hamilton, let’s you and I take a walk.

The mutt responded with a series of yips and rose on his hind legs as he waved his forelegs at Montgomery.

With a familiarity that irritated Steele even more, Montgomery calmly grabbed a leash from the hall closet and started for the front door with the bouncing terrier charging ahead of him.

Hamilton is a stupid name, Steele spoke to Montgomery’s back, hoping the dog, too, understood from his tone his intent. It was a petty comment, but in his confused state it was the only thing that came to mind; he wanted Montgomery and friend to depart knowing who was in charge in this apartment. Steele’s name was on the lease jointly with Marty.

Hamilton Berger, Marty answered for the departing Montgomery who acknowledged only with a casual wave. Don’t you recognize it? Win thinks it’s cute.

Hamilton Berger, for a dog? Steele expressed his disapproval as the door closed behind the departing two.

Don’t you remember the prosecutor who served as Perry Mason’s foil? Marty asked.

Steele shook his head in disgust and petulantly dropped heavily onto the couch. His couch. He remembered buying it at Hecht’s as a present for Marty.

What in the hell is going on, Marty? And who is this Montgomery character? What’s he doing here?

What business is that of yours? Marty challenged, ignoring Steele’s questions as she dropped into the chair facing the couch. What are you doing here acting as if you owned something or somebody?

Steele silently shook his head, not knowing what to say. He had arrived with big plans for his and Marty’s future filling his head. A few brief seconds, a frontal attack by a dog named Hamilton Berger, Marty’s virtual nudity, and the presence of a stranger named Montgomery had changed everything.

Marty waited for Steele to answer her questions, but he did not. He sat in shocked silence and stared at the wall. Defiantly, she raised her left hand and displayed her ring finger.

He stared at the large diamond and the wedding ring that Marty aimed directly at him. He shook his head in disbelief. You’re married, Steele finally mumbled.

I’ve been intending to write you, Marty said softly. But I couldn’t find the right words to put on paper.

For how long?

An idyllic six months, now, Marty said.

You waited six months to find the right words to tell me you dumped me, a dumfounded Steele said. He shook his head in disbelief.

You are not making this easy, Marty snapped, acting as if Steele were the transgressor. You are so selfish, always thinking just about you and your damned career. Those are the only things that are important to you, you self-centered, arrogant shit.

What does my career have to do with the fact you married that guy? Steele said, doing his best to ignore the profane attack. He asked himself what happened to his Marty, the girl he loved and who loved him. He was deeply hurt and sincerely baffled.

Where have you been for the past ten years? Marty challenged. You left me here to stare at the four walls while you pranced all over the world with a grin on your face and a stick up your ass just because you had a by-line.

And this Montgomery was just too good an opportunity to pass up, Steele said, realizing how weak his response was.

You didn’t warn me that you planned to leave me alone for a lifetime, Marty said. I was such a fool. I didn’t even rate a once-a-week one-night stand. Twice a year was enough for poor dumb Marty."

What does that guy tell you?

If you are referring to my husband, it is none of your business what he tells me. But I’ll indulge you this once. He tells me every day how much he loves me and that he begrudges every minute he spends away from me.

What is he? A little rich boy who doesn’t have to work for a living?

He’s not an Ivy League know-nothing, not even the Potted Ivy League. He graduated from the University of South Carolina magna cum laude and earned everything he’s got.

And what’s that?

What’s that? Marty threw Steele’s words back at him. He’s got me, and, if that means nothing to you, which it obviously doesn’t, he’s a senior advisor to the Vice President.

What Vice President?

The one who works on Pennsylvania Avenue. Winthrop is the Vice President’s National Security Advisor.

Steele didn’t know how to denigrate that, and he retreated to safer ground. So, you fell in love at first glance and couldn’t bring yourself to do the right thing, to tell me.

Something like that, Marty said. Look, let’s discuss this like reasonable adults. You made it perfectly clear where I ranked in your list of priorities. Making me wait ten years for nothing… Marty hesitated. This is getting us nowhere. I once cared deeply for you; I wrote several letters, but I never sent them because I wanted to tell you in person. You’re the one who’s so busy with your career you couldn’t find time to visit me for six lousy months.

Steele nodded, not knowing how to respond. Unfortunately, Marty was right. I wanted to, but events kept happening.

I know and that obviously is the way the rest of my life would have gone. I got tired of waiting for you and started thinking about myself not you.

But I’m here now, Steele said weakly. And I …

And you’ll be getting on another airplane tomorrow for some other crisis.

That’s not true, Steele blurted. Tomorrow, I’m going into the office to tell them I’m quitting.

Marty frowned her disbelief. This is getting us nowhere.

I’m leaving the newspaper, and I’m going to write a book, Steele said weakly. Marty’s expression told him he had lost.

I don’t believe you, and I don’t care, Marty said firmly. Besides, even if it’s true, you’re too late, ten years too late. I’m married, and I love my husband.

But I’m serious, Steele pleaded. I came home to marry you.

Even if that were true, and I frankly don’t believe you, you’re too late. Now, just pretend to be a nice person and leave, Marty said, as she pointed at the door.

Steele glanced at his three bags and computer piled in a jumble where he had dropped them. What about my other things? He asked as the front door opened. He referred to his clothes and other possessions that he kept in the apartment.

The arrogant mutt pranced into the room, glanced at the suitcases, giving Steele the impression that the damned rude creature was considering attacking them, and then sat down between the luggage and the door. From that threatening position, he stared at Steele, obviously challenging him.

If Marty will call you a taxi, I’ll help you get your bags and other stuff to the curb, Montgomery, who waited near the open door, tried to politely move Steele along.

He knows the situation, Marty declared firmly.

Damned right I do, belatedly, Steele, now angry, glared first at Marty and then at her husband.

I can deal with my own stuff. I got everything here, and I can get it out without help, Steele said. I certainly don’t want to inconvenience anybody, particularly not newlyweds. I’m sure you have other things on your mind. He glanced meaningfully at the open bedroom door.

Don’t be an ass, Marty said. Winthrop is a gentleman just trying to help in a difficult situation.

Steele thought about replying to that comment by asking what kind of gentleman steals another man’s fiancée, but he did not. Instead, he frowned and asked, Where are my clothes, my books, all the things that I left here when I mistakenly thought it was my home. Steele was about to ask Marty if his name were still on the lease. He was damned if he was going to help pay the mortgage for them.

No problem, Montgomery spoke before Steele could continue. We have everything all packed up and stored in the basement.

You can leave your shit in the storage room until you find some place to stay, Marty said firmly.

I’ll be busy tomorrow, Steele said weakly. I have to tell them at the office that I’m taking a leave of absence, or quitting, or something.

Montgomery glanced at his wife to see how she had taken that announcement.

That’s fine, Marty said, demonstrating who was in charge. Take a couple of days if you need them, but please call and arrange to pick the boxes up soon. We need the space for Winthrop’s things.

We’re still combining our two apartments, Montgomery explained.

Steele nodded sourly. He was beginning to wonder if Montgomery was as big a wimp as he appeared. The idea rather appealed to him. Let Marty compare her Winthrop with a real man, himself.

If you don’t object, I will use our…the phone to call a taxi, Steele spoke directly to Marty, deliberately ignoring Montgomery.

I’ll do it for you, Montgomery answered before Marty could rise to the provocation.

While Montgomery managed the phone call, the implacable dog, Marty, and Steele radiated hostility while pretending to ignore each other.

chapter 2

W hen the taxi deposited Steele at the entrance to the Willard Hotel, the disgruntled passenger’s burden had grown by four medium sized boxes, debris from the storage room of the Montgomery’s apartment, formerly known as Marty and Steele’s. As the laconic bellhop loaded his trolley, Steele sourly contemplated the ironic fact that his triumphant return had not unfolded exactly as planned.

After tipping the bellhop, Steele, needing distraction and a stiff drink, retreated to the bar. Given the late hour, the place was almost deserted. A single customer propped on one elbow was staring into his drink while chatting with the attractive bartender who was dutifully polishing a glass. Uninvited, Steele joined them.

Quickly, quickly, quickly, please, a triple Jack on the rocks, forthwith; a desperate man, that’s me, needs refreshment and solace, Steele said.

The bartender smiled, nodded, and reached for the Jack Daniels behind her. You’ve found the right place, she said. We specialize in Jack and solace.

Good, Steele said, admiring her butt. To save time, pour a backup.

The bartender glanced at Steele’s image in the mirror as she reached for a second glass.

Christ, Wolfe, slow down! Rushing will only make matters worse. I know, trust me. The solitary patron on Steele’s right surprised him.

Steele turned and recognized the speaker. Trenton Harvey, a former CIA Chief of Station, now discredited in some quarters of the establishment, was one of the last persons Steele expected to encounter in Washington. Steele over the years had considered him a marginal contact in several countries on his beat, but, now, Harvey was a marked man. Harvey’s public png, after being caught with a hand in another country’s bag of secrets, had made headlines in the world media. Exposure had ended his usefulness, and the Agency had as matter of routine sidetracked Harvey’s career. Steele had heard that a disgruntled Harvey, a senior CIA officer who had been a Director’s favorite, had retired to join a long line of disgruntled peers who existed in the shadows of public disgrace.

Steele had never trusted Harvey.

Hi Trent, Steele nodded, letting his lack of enthusiasm show.

Sounds like you’ve had a bad day, Harvey ignored Steele’s reaction. What happened? Did one of the rag heads feed you some bad shit and your editor smacked your wrist? Sorry I missed it.

Steele, not interested in sharing his tale of Marty’s betrayal, hesitated.

Harvey demonstrated his disinterest in Steele’s belated response by turning his eyes back to the melting ice in his empty glass.

Something like that, Steele stalled as he reached for one of the two glasses that the bartender deposited in front of him.

Harvey turned and watched without comment as Steele drained half his drink. Harvey nodded approval.

I’ll have another of these, Harvey pointed at his own glass.

And put another replacement soldier in my line, Steele said as he finished his first triple with a second gulp. He slammed the empty glass on the bar.

The bartender dispassionately turned to fill the two orders. Morose customers sharing their woes were nothing new to her. Harvey was a regular and Steele Wolfe a repeat guest. Bored, she hoped this conversation might amuse her until closing time in half an hour.

This isn’t your beat. What are you really doing here? Something I should know about? Harvey asked.

Steele ignored the question as he moved the empty to the side and studied his second glass. His problems were personal and none of Harvey’s business. Harvey had served in several Middle Eastern countries on Steele’s beat and had always treated Steele with condescension. Harvey was one of those station chiefs who ignored the media. Steele had considered Harvey an arrogant shit who treated visiting correspondents like Steele as transient, uninformed parasites not worthy of his lofty attention. Steele had been amused when the media had feasted on Harvey’s misstep which ultimately led to his retirement with his reputation in shreds. In Steele’s opinion it had been an instance in which arrogance had been aptly rewarded.

The bartender served the requested drinks.

This one is on me, Harvey announced.

I can pay for my own booze, Steele said as he reached for his second glass, a justifiable move now the backup was in place.

I know, Harvey laughed. But let me do what I do best.

Steele, recognizing that Harvey was inviting the obvious question, what’s that, ignored it as he sipped his drink. He wanted to consider the disaster his life had become without making small talk with the likes of Harvey. Marty’s betrayal had made a shambles of his plans, undermined everything, and Steele had to decide what to do tomorrow.

Harvey raised his glass in salute.

The two men sat silently, pretending their conversation was over, but both were aware it had just started. Harvey’s lurking presence finally proved too much for Steele to ignore.

I’ve decided to move on, Steele admitted, not turning, speaking to Harvey’s image in the mirror.

Thought it might be something minor like that, Harvey replied to the mirror, even though the two men sat side by side.

Why? Steele demanded curtly, letting his irritation show. Talking to the former spy’s image created the illusion of space between them, rendering Harvey less intrusive.

Reading people is my business, Harvey replied, adopting a serious mien.

Wrong tense, Steele corrected. Was your business. The pettiness of his quibbling amused him.

That’s what people are supposed to think, Harvey said.

Don’t tell me you are still playing spy, Steele said.

OK, I won’t, Harvey responded cryptically.

Steele shook his head indifferently, trying to convey the impression that Harvey’s pretenses bored him.

Where or what are you moving on to? Harvey retreated back to Steele’s abrupt comment.

Not sure, Steele, sorry he had volunteered anything about his plans, tried to end the discussion of his situation.

It happens to all of us, Harvey said.

Meaning what?

Nothing personal. We have similar backgrounds, birds of a feather, so to speak. We both are in the information collecting business, and we face similar pitfalls. Inevitably, our jealous masters resent our independence and decide to demonstrate their authority by declaring we have grown stale, spent too much time in one place, gone local, compromised our sources, or erred in some specious way. In reality they just want to show that they are the ones in charge, the ones who deserve the praise and rewards.

Assuming that the ex-spy was amusing himself by priming the pump and tempting Steele to reveal his plans after Steele had declined to do so, Steele did not comment.

Don’t let them tell you that you have lost your objectivity, Harvey ignored Steele’s non-response. I read all of your columns. You have good sources, the ability to process what you’ve been told, and to report without prejudice. You would have made a good intelligence officer.

Hardly, Steele laughed at Harvey’s transparent game. I’m not devious enough.

Me neither, Harvey smiled. Those damned spies just use people, unconscionably.

I should know better, Steele said as he turned to confront the man beside him not his image. Images could dematerialize; men could not. I never bullshit a bullshitter.

So where is it they are sending you that you don’t want to go? Harvey pressed.

The decision is all mine, Steele admitted. I’m taking some time off to write a book.

I knew it. About the Middle East. You’re going to set the world straight and get rich in the process.

Something like that.

"What do your masters at the Tribune think about your grand plan?"

They don’t know it yet.

Good idea. Don’t tell them you are in town. Let them continue to send your checks to the bank until they realize that you aren’t providing them any more of your insightful reports. How long do you think you can get away with it?

Tomorrow morning, Steele laughed.

And you are drinking alone trying to figure out if you are making a mistake, Harvey said as he signaled for the bartender to produce two more of the same.

Sometimes, Harvey, you can be a royal pain in the ass, Steele said without turning down the replacement soldier.

Not just sometimes, Harvey chuckled. I have to work at it, and I must assure you in confidence that it is not an easy task to be consistently disagreeable.

But you do it so fluently, Steele said, pleased with the sense he had won that exchange.

The two men, sharing a near stupor caused by the fast and bountiful input of alcohol, sipped their drinks in silence. Steele assumed that Harvey was deliberately using his well-honed tradecraft to lower the interpersonal barriers between them, but, given his present mood and relaxed condition, he did not care. Time and geography had distanced him from a coterie of friends in the Washington area, and the last one, Marty, had just viciously turned on him. Steele rejected the urge to discuss his personal problems with someone like Harvey, but chatting about professional issues had the potential for diverting him while he let the shocks encountered on his return dissipate somewhat.

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Steele turned to Harvey. Tell me, Trenton, Steele used Harvey’s first name to signal his change of mood. How did you cope with the transition from chief to outsider?

Who said I made such a transition? Harvey asked.

It’s no secret that you were told that it was time to retire. They handed you a subpoena not a gold watch. Steele referred to the media coverage of Harvey’s high profile departure from the government. He had been charged with lying under oath to a congressional committee and threatened with a felony conviction that meant a prison term. Somehow, Harvey had escaped with his reputation sullied, his retirement still intact, but no longer employed by the federal government.

Involuntary terminations are not pleasant, Steele said. It must have caused some trauma.

The government is paying me what it promised, what it owes me after thirty-five years of hard labor, but I’m not sure that the word ‘retired’ applies to my current status, Harvey said.

Steele stared at Harvey waiting for him to elaborate, but he did not.

That’s a very fine hair you’re splitting. Certainly, you’re not telling me you are still spying for the Agency, Steele let his surprise show. I don’t think Congress and the media would look kindly on that. I thought your choice was retire or face a felony conviction.

One can retire and still work. I did not say I didn’t retire from the government. You are a better listener than that, Harvey said.

Are you spying for another government? Steele asked, his voice louder than he intended.

Of course not. I remain a loyal American citizen and consider such an accusation slanderous no matter how intended. Publish that and be sued.

You’ve found a new career, Steele chuckled. Just what is an ex-spy equipped to do that isn’t a crime?

This isn’t really the kind of conversation I’m comfortable with, particularly given the fact that you are a distinguished journalist, Harvey said.

You brought up the subject. I didn’t, Steele didn’t back off. Besides, this conversation is strictly off the record.

I would hope so. Our conversation is private, off the record, not for publication.

I just said that. Must I repeat it?

Just admit that you are the one who brought up the subject of my alleged retirement in the context of discussing your current problems. Harvey pointed at the bartender who stood several feet away. Ask Agnes. She hears and remembers everything, and she is my witness.

The bartender winked and turned her back on her two almost inebriated customers.

Don’t take offense, Agnes, Steele called to her back. You are too lovely to let someone like Harvey here upset you.

Agnes replied by moving to the far end of the bar.

Now see what you’ve done, Wolfe, Harvey smiled. Now you are going to have to double her tip.

No problem, Steele said as he took his wallet from his pocket, selected a twenty- dollar bill, and tossed it on the bar. That’s for Agnes.

That’s all it is, Trent said. Wait until you see the bill for the drinks.

I’ll leave that to you, Steele said.

OK, but triple Agnes’ tip.

Done, Steele agreed and tossed two more twenties on the bar.

You’re not as cheap as I thought you were, Harvey said. Now, tell me what your real problem is. It’s personal, not professional, isn’t it? You can’t lie to me. I’m a trained observer.

Steele did not reply.

Oh well, I’ll just have to conclude that that your anguish is caused by turmoil created by a member of the opposite sex.

Steele ignored him.

You aren’t gay are you? Harvey did not let up.

Oh shit, Harvey don’t you have any self-respect? Even if I had a personal problem, and I am not admitting that I do, I wouldn’t discuss it with you.

Then you are gay. That really surprises me. I’ve heard lots of things about you but never that.

It’s none of your business, but I’m not gay. I’m disgustingly normal, Steele snapped.

You’re right, Harvey said. I apologize. I was just trying to figure out what was bothering you. Something is, obviously, and old habits die hard.

Good, so let it drop.

It has to be a woman. I heard that your long time girl friend, that pretty lobbyist, got married a few months ago. I’ll wager she didn’t tell you about it, and you just learned. Things like that happen in our businesses.

Christ, Harvey, don’t you ever let up? Steele blurted.

I surrender, Harvey said, his tone indicating that surrender was a meaningless word to him. Tell me, who is taking over your beat, your contacts?

What contacts? Steele seized on the abrupt switch from a discussion of his personal problems.

Particularly those in Greece, Libya, Egypt, Syria, the Mediterranean countries with manifold problems, Harvey ignored Steele’s question.

The subject has not come up, yet. I told you I intend to discuss such matters tomorrow. Why do you ask about the Mediterranean countries and not Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan?

The wars are ending, and Iran is an insignificant problem grossly inflated by the Iranians and ourselves as a ploy to divert attention away from more important, unmanageable situations, Harvey said.

A nuclear Iran is not important? Steele understood what Harvey was implying but tried to keep Harvey’s attention diverted away from Steele himself.

If it ever came to fruition, Harvey chuckled. But you know as well as I do that neither ourselves nor the Israelis will ever let the Iranians acquire the bomb. I happen to be one of those who believe the Iranians are more talk than action and will probably screw up the manufacture of an actual bomb even if they are able to hire someone to come in and seriously build one for them.

But if they get their hands on one? Steele continued.

The public will learn about it the morning they wake up to the news that missiles have vaporized the locations where the Iranian nuclear centers are located, local populations and all, Harvey said. Now tell me something. Where are you going to live after tomorrow?

Probably here, Steele glanced at the ceiling of the bar.

And two days after that? Harvey laughed.

Steele shrugged.

Working stiffs like you and me don’t spend more than a couple of nights in places like this, Harvey said. Would I be right if I predicted that you will find yourself a nice little cabin in the Blue Ridge where you can write your definitive tome on the Middle East? Someplace comfortable with electricity for your new desktop, which you have yet to buy, but close enough to Washington and the Library of Congress where you can research the little details that may have slipped your mind.

You’ve got it exactly right, Steele laughed. Why do you ask where am I going to live?

I’ll tell you if it becomes important, Harvey said.

As a friend, why don’t you stop the spook games? Steele asked.

We’re not friends, at least not yet, Harvey smiled. But that situation could change. It all depends on you.

You asked about my contacts, particularly in Greece, Libya, Egypt, and Syria, Steele proved he was still cogent. Are you telling me you really are back in the spook business?

I’m not really telling you anything, Harvey said, amiably.

You are full of it in your maturity, Harvey. I suspect you are just finding it difficult to give up the old game. Besides, I know that you couldn’t touch me for help if you were still in the spy game. The directive against using American media still stands.

Didn’t you just tell me that you are going private? Last I heard authors who write best-selling books, fiction or nonfiction, are self-employed private citizens.

I suggest you are involved in a dangerous game, Harvey. If you are playing boy spy as a private citizen, you had better start behaving, or you are going to land in jail. You came close the first time around.

Retired life is dull, my almost friend. Some of us need excitement to survive. What would you have old spies do? They can’t even write their memoirs, at least none with real secrets in them.

Old spies, like old soldiers, should politely fade into oblivion. Sometimes, life isn’t fair, Steele said as he drained his glass and pushed away from the bar.

Good luck, my notional friend, Harvey waved casually. "Have a good day tomorrow saying goodbye to your jealous competitors at the Trib and hurry about looking for a good deal on a car and finding that cabin in the mountains. Watch out for the car salesmen; their deals are seldom what they seem. I predict you’ll find a realtor with several nice mountain vacation homes whose owners will be delighted to rent them to you at any price over the winter months. September is a good time to go leasing."

Have a comfortable retirement if you can stay out of jail, Steele said as he turned for the door.

"I look forward to chatting with you right here tomorrow night. The details of your day’s adventures should be interesting, particularly the account of your meetings at the Tribune, Harvey said. Don’t expect them to regret your departure. Success always has it downside."

Steele paused in mid-stride. Cynicism becomes you. How do you know I will be here tomorrow night?

I’m an expert on saying goodbye. Where else is there for you to go?

Steele shrugged and headed for the front desk to retrieve his key.

chapter 3

S teele ate breakfast in his room and sipped his coffee while studying the Washington Post’s real estate section looking for a mountain retreat he could rent for a year at an unbelievably low price. He failed to find one. He did identify a Toyota dealer in Arlington whose add featured the new Prius. Steele, who stood on the threshold of an extended period of unemployment, was attracted by the promise of fifty miles a gallon mileage, even though the price was somewhat beyond what he wanted to pay. Sometimes saving money cost more. Steele decided to visit the dealer as soon as he finished at the Trib. With transportation in hand by evening, he could check out of the hotel the next morning and drive to the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia about fifty miles to the west where he might find a realtor with a dream deal just waiting for him to appear.

At nine-thirty, Steele closed the door of his room behind him and took the elevator to the lobby. The smiling doorman waved to the next taxi in line, held the door for Steele with an open palm at his side, and frowned when Steele, experienced traveler that he was, slipped him two bucks. The grim doorman slammed the taxi door behind Steele and recreated his false smile to greet the next departing guest. Two bucks for opening a car door wasn’t bad, just disappointing, because the Willard deserved a higher quality guest.

"The Tribune offices at 7th and H Streets," Steele said.

This taxi only go airport, the immigrant behind the wheel grumbled in heavily accented English while he stared straight ahead.

I know better than that, Mustapha, Steele said as he studied the man’s license attached to the back of his seat. I have a good friend who works at the INS. Would you like me ask him to confirm my opinion for you?

The driver ignored Steele’s question and jabbed at the accelerator with his foot. The taxi lurched forward, jarring Steele against the back of the worn seat. He didn’t blame the driver for being upset at his luck in drawing a fare going only a few blocks instead of one destined for the more distant Dulles Airport, but Steele did not trouble to offer his commiseration. Much of life was ruled by chance.

The driver ignored his passenger as he honked and forced his way up Pennsylvania Avenue.

Fucking tourists, the driver muttered to himself, not clarifying whether he referred to Steele or the out of area cars searching the avenue for parking spaces.

Why did you leave Iran? Steele decided to torment the man.

Fucking mullahs, the driver grumbled.

Steele waited for the usual diatribe, but the man said nothing more. Steele, pleasantly surprised that the unhappy man at least knew where he was going, opted to leave him in peace with his misery. Driving a taxi is a miserable job.

Ten minutes later the driver skidded to a stop at the front entrance to the Tribune building.

Five dollars, the driver held up a palm without turning.

Steele opened the door, got safely out, and then handed the man six bucks. Steele quickly stepped back; the driver glanced at the money, ignored the rear view mirror, and stamped on the accelerator, forcing his way back into traffic without a uttering a simple khoda hafez. Steele smiled as he assumed he knew what word the driver was using to silently describe him. Steele joined the rushing workers who were crowding into and out of the building. The Trib was an afternoon paper, and a deadline loomed. Steele knew what that meant. He had worked out of this very building for five years.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor without encountering a familiar face. He caught two women staring at him before they looked away, and he assumed they recognized his face from the picture that always accompanied his column. He grinned even though he did not recognize them; modest fame engendered reticent pride. As he was ambling down the corridor towards the office that housed Foreign Editor Richard McPherson and his small foreign affairs staff, which had shrunk under the economic pressures that troubled all newspapers, Steele finally met a colleague he knew.

Hi Bev, Steele spoke first.

Steele, Beverley Gonzales reacted with a lukewarm smile.

Steele and Beverley had started at the Trib at the same time. Although they had never been intimates, they had always been somewhat cordial, as fellow rookies are. Competition tends to inhibit friendship. Steele had moved on to foreign affairs while Beverley had remained mired in the cesspool that was local reporting. They had eventually stopped sharing a casual coffee in the snack bar and exchanging the recent rumors about internal Trib politics, and Steele understood. Beverley had inevitably grown a little jealous of Steele’s steady advancement.

What are you doing here? Beverley asked.

Steele’s initial reaction was to share the truth, which was bound to spread like wildfire through the thinning reportorial ranks as soon as his pending discussion with McPherson ended. Steele was vain enough to prefer his peers know that the decision had been his not his superiors. He decided against sharing because he knew that Beverley would repeat his words to the next person she met in the hallway, and he did not want to chance having McPherson hear of his decision from someone else first.

Routine visit, that’s all, Steele dissembled. What’s new with you?

Big shootout in Northeast last night. Two dead teenagers. No arrests, Bev smiled.

Nothing changes, Steele said. Dealers contesting for the same territory.

Bev grimaced.

Have a cup with me later and bring me up to date on what’s going on around here, Steele suggested.

It’s a date, Bev nodded. The obligatory consultation with McPherson? Bev glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the foreign editor’s office.

Exactly, Steele said.

Bev looked carefully at Steele before continuing, obviously debating with herself. Finally, she decided. Have you had many dealings with that guy? She lowered her voice.

Steele shook his head negatively. McPherson had taken over the foreign editor’s job three months ago. He had moved to the Trib from the LA Times. We’ve chatted on the phone and exchanged the usual e-mail nonsense, but I’ve never met him in person. Is he a problem?

Bev took a deep breath. He’s cleaning house with a big broom. I hope you and he haven’t had any disagreements.

Why do you say that?

McPherson is a kid who runs a tight ship. He expects everyone to march in lockstep to his cadence, and he’s systematically taking advantage of the cutbacks to bring in his own team of yes-men, all younger than him. Bev looked meaningfully at Steele, waiting for him to comment.

Steele assumed that Bev was telling him that McPherson already had a protégé lined up to replace him.

Thanks for the heads-up, Bev, Steele said. We’ll have that coffee soon.

Good luck, Steele, it’s been good chatting, Bev said as she turned and continued down the hall. Her demeanor told Steele that she did not expect him to keep his word with peons like herself.

Steele entered McPherson’s office and found himself facing a pretty young secretary he had not met before.

Good morning, Elaine, Steele picked up her name from the plaque on her desk. My name’s Wolfe, and I believe we have chatted briefly on the phone.

Yes, Mr. Wolfe, I know. You have an appointment with Mr. McPherson at ten. She glanced at the clock and then at the empty chairs that lined the wall to the left of her desk.

I’m in from Athens, Steele said, just in case the girl did not know he was a returning correspondent. Steele, accustomed to receiving the Very Important Visitor treatment in this office, did not like being told to have a seat. Have you been here long? Steele asked, attempting to put the girl in her place.

I moved here six months ago from LA with Mr. McPherson, Elaine answered coldly. She again glanced at the closed door to McPherson’s office and then at the empty chairs.

Steele turned abruptly, walked quickly to the closed door, and opened it, ignoring Elaine’s loud protest. Sir, you can’t go in there. Mr. McPherson is in conference.

Steele closed the door behind him and paused to survey the office. A handsome young man with overlong hair that looked like it received frequent professional grooming sat behind the desk in his shirtsleeves. He wore a maroon power tie dangling loosely below his unbuttoned collar. He appeared younger than his alleged thirty-five years, more a kid than a man. Sitting in a chair facing the desk was another youth, who Steele assumed was an intern.

The door behind Steele burst open, and Elaine charged into the room. Richard, I am so sorry. I asked Mr. Wolfe to have a seat, but he ignored me and just barged in. Elaine glared at Steele who said nothing.

McPherson deliberately studied his watch, nodded, and replied to his secretary. It’s alright, Elaine, Mr. Wolfe is accustomed to being treated like royalty and doesn’t know that we have a new modus operandi here.

Yes, sir, Elaine answered. She frowned once more at Steele and then departed.

Steele approached the desk and offered his hand to the still seated foreign news editor. Good to meet you in person, finally, Steele said.

McPherson glanced at Steele, hesitated a few seconds, and then, still seated, reached across the desk and casually brushed Steele’s palm in a very passive, almost effeminate greeting. Yes, McPherson said limiting his response.

Without being asked, Steele sat down in the second chair facing the desk. He casually looked around the room. The pictures on the walls had changed, but that is all. Years ago, Steele had spent many hours in this room, usually occupying the chair that the silent youth now filled. Steele glanced at him, forcing McPherson to make the introduction.

Steele, this is Harold Andrew Pottinger III, McPherson said, smiling at the youth. I have asked him to join us for this meeting.

Steele glanced at Pottinger and then McPherson, letting his silence convey his indifference. Steele was not interested in discussing his personal plans with a third person present. It was insulting enough that he had to justify himself to a youthful McPherson, let alone one of his supporting cast of near adolescents. While he waited for McPherson to capitulate, Steele evaluated his own behavior. The Middle East had obviously hardened him as well as aged him prematurely. He was acting like an arrogant veteran expecting those who had not had the opportunity to season at the front to pay the homage such experience deserved. The thought embarrassed him a little, but it did not change his demeanor. He was too accustomed to living and working independently to resume the role of an employee expected to be subservient to his superiors, particularly a relative adolescent who had not been seasoned by the pressure of acquiring concealed information in dangerous environments controlled by bonafide lunatics. McPherson didn’t seem to understand that those front-page bylines accompanied by his picture made him a target. He didn’t sit in a nice office writing rumor based stories about misbehaving politicians and then go home at the end of the day to a comfortable suburban house where he was idolized by a loving wife and two relatively civilized children.

Harold is one of our rising stars, McPherson, who was neither surprised nor intimidated by Wolfe’s attitude, concealed his irritation with the absence of bureaucratic deference by ignoring it and praising his visitor’s youthful, inexperienced successor. I have asked Harold to join us because I have selected him to fill in for you in Athens. His quite extensive linguistic skills should assist him in reaching sources and stories quite beyond us mere mortals.

Good, Steele replied, resisting the temptation to belittle McPherson’s adolescent acolyte with double-edged questions. That relieves me of the need to bore young Harold with tedious background on some of our trouble spots.

Steele had worried that McPherson would want him to escort his temporary replacement on an introductory tour, introducing him to Steele’s more reliable and sensitive sources. Most of his local relationships were personal and extremely discreet, and they had taken considerable time and effort to build. Not one of them was interested in having their names flagged as sources of an American newsman; public disclosure would make them immediate targets of hostile lunatics.

I’m pleased you understand, McPherson said. I plan to have Harold expand our coverage beyond that you have reported for the past ten years. You have quite adequately informed our readers on political developments, as you perceived them. I’m sure you agree that the time has come for us to intensify the human, the sensitive, and the cultural aspects that political and military pressures have forced you to ignore. Even war after time loses its edge.

I’m sure you are right, Steele smiled thinly, a little regretful that he was not going to be present to observe Harold’s reaction when the first AK-47 opened fire directly at him. Steele glanced at the innocent Harold who was staring with unabashed awe at McPherson, his mentor, and nodding his head enthusiastically. Those of us in the front lines sometimes lose our perspective, Steele added.

I’m glad you understand, McPherson said. We all get stale, even the best of us under the worst of conditions. Fresh blood always brings new insights.

The reference to blood amused Steele.

I look forward to following Harold’s reactions, Steele said.

McPherson hesitated, studying Steele, apparently trying to determine if he was being sincere or sarcastic. Steele, only interested in terminating this tedious meeting as quickly as possible with his options open, responded with as much bland as he could muster.

McPherson, who wanted to terminate this awkward meeting without a temper outburst from the volatile Wolfe which would quickly escalate the discussion to the office of the editor in chief who was one of the correspondent’s ardent supporters, pushed on.

Following our last e-mail exchange, I persuaded our masters to grant you a one year leave of absence. Believe me, I had to work hard to get agreement. After one year, we can regroup. Until then you are on your own. That makes you a free lancer with direct access to all of us, of course. We all eagerly look forward to reading your opus.

Steele nodded, resisted the urge to declaim bullshit, and stood up.

This will, of course, be an independent sabbatical without pay, McPherson said quickly. He glanced at his acolyte Harold, who nodded, obviously prepared to witness the qualification. "We can discuss your new relationship with the Tribune if and when you decide to rejoin us.

Of course, Steele said, smiling at the naive Harold who was glowing with enthusiasm. "I look forward to reading the Tribune’s objective reviews of my meager, unsubsidized effort as an independent researcher."

Of course, of course, McPherson said. I can’t guarantee what the reviewer will say—journalistic integrity will rule—but I am sure you will not disappoint your vast reading public.

Steele stood up, recognizing that his days with the Tribune were over. He nodded at the eager Pottinger, paused to say, Good luck young man, and departed without another word to McPherson.

As he closed the door behind him, he heard McPherson say, I think that went well, exactly what I wanted.

chapter 4

S teele took a taxi directly to the Arlington Toyota dealership and walked into the showroom where he stopped at the desk nearest the door.

Are you a salesperson? Steele asked the young lady who greeted him with a smile.

Yes, sir. May I assist you? She answered pertly.

Her response surprised Steele who had assumed that she was a secretary. He immediately decided this might be easier and less stressful than he had anticipated. He wanted transportation immediately at a reasonable cost and with a minimum of negotiation.

Do you have any of the new Prius station wagons on the lot? The Prius V’s, Steele asked.

Yes, sir, the young lady said as she rose from her chair. Would you like to test drive one?

Steele nodded and followed the young lady out of the showroom, admiring her short skirt and muscular, firm legs. Inevitably, he compared the display with Marty and decided maybe his recent breakup was not all bad news; clearly, Marty had aged somewhat over the years.

My name is Sally, the pert salesperson informed him with an engaging smile. Do you have any preferences?

White, Steele answered. He knew nothing about the Prius’s equipment, so he did not reveal his ignorance by elaborating.

Steele followed the girl down a line of shining vehicles until they came to the end of the row where she halted and waited. This one is very popular, a best seller. The external design has been updated, a decided improvement on the traditional Prius styling. It is six inches longer, four inches higher, two inches wider, very comfortable with lots of room.

Steele walked to the back of the attractive car, noted the typical station wagon back, almost square styling, a decided improvement over the standard, awkward rear of the Prius’s he had seen abroad, and was impressed.

It comes with leather seats, a redesigned dash with keyless starting and locks, top of the line with the latest technology, the car of the future, the young lady smiled as she opened the driver side door. Please have a look.

Steele obediently sat behind the wheel, accepted the electronic key, and pressed the starter button. He heard nothing, not a sound, but watched the dashboard light up. The extras included a backup camera, satellite navigation, cruise control, and a lot of gadgets.

Would you like to take it for a trial run? His salesperson asked, obviously expecting a positive answer.

No, Steele decided. I’ll take the car.

The girl looked at him in surprise. Do you have a trade-in? She asked.

No, Steele answered, now anxious to get back to his hotel, recover his luggage and boxes, and begin his new life by escaping Washington. Just give me a good deal.

I can do that, sir, she answered, her tone indicating she thought she was close to the easiest sale of her young career.

There is just one caveat, Steele declared and watched the excitement ebb from her attractive face. I have to be on the road within the hour.

No problem, Sally recovered. I guarantee the car will be yours in sixty minutes. We have just a few administrative details to handle, but we’ll give you the car with a huge discount if we can’t meet your requirements.

Lead the way, Steele said as he climbed out of the car.

Sally turned and hurried back to her showroom office. Sixty-five minutes later after a bout with forms, questions, an interview with Sally’s supervisor and his phone call to Steele’s bank, Sally handed him a stack of documents and escorted him to his freshly washed car which she had parked directly in front of the lot door to ensure that Steele did not exhaust himself with a lengthy walk. Sally smiled broadly and waved when Steele departed marveling at his hybrid’s silent performance.

Steele drove directly to the Willard where he settled his account, retrieved his three bags, four boxes, and computer, and turned his new toy towards Charles Town in the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia, some seventy miles distant. A fresh-faced, firm-bodied female acquaintance had introduced the wide-eyed, eager Steele, a young man fresh out of Cornell, to the Panhandle soon after his virgin arrival in Washington. The trip had fascinated him so much that he had repeated the weekend with