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  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Forester.

  “It might be useful,” said Lia. “Knowing about money issues that might have driven—”

  “There were no money issues in our marriage,” said Mrs.

  Forester frostily. “Jerry was the issue. And you won’t find that in our checkbook. When it came to providing, he did an adequate job.”

  “Did your husband like to travel a lot?” asked Dean.

  “Just for work.”

  “Did he ever go to Vietnam?” asked Lia.

  Mrs. Forester made a face and shook her head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I think I’d remember something like that.”

  “Did he know anyone who was Vietnamese?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Was his father in the Vietnam War?” Lia asked.

  “Not that I know.”

  “Could we see the other computers?” asked Dean, rising.

  Mrs. Forester’s tone immediately softened. “There’s only one more. In my bedroom.”

  “Let’s take a look then.”

  * * *

  “Why’d you get nasty?” Dean asked as soon as they were outside on the driveway.

  “I wasn’t nasty.”

  “You were a little rough, asking for her finances.”

  “Maybe there’s something in there.”

  “The Secret Service and the FBI would have checked that out.”

  “Why are you making excuses for her?”

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re going pretty easy on her.”

  “Her husband just died.”

  “She didn’t seem that broken up about it. My guess—” Dean cut her off by putting his hand in front of her, physically stopping her a few yards from the street. A teenager had stopped on the sidewalk nearby. He looked like a much younger version of Gerald Forester.

  Dean nodded in the boy’s direction, then began walking again. Lia stared to follow.

  “Hey, are you here about my dad?” asked the boy. His voice mixed bravado with anger; he was partly challenging them, and partly pleading for information.

  “We were just checking up on a few things,” said Dean.

  “He didn’t kill himself.”

  The young man held his arms straight down, fists clenched.

  For a moment Lia thought that he was going to leap at Dean and pummel him.

  “We’d like to prove you’re right,” said Dean. “Can you think of anything that would help us?” The question seemed to catch the kid in the stomach, a punch that grabbed his breath.

  Lia misinterpreted the reaction, thinking he had something he’d been wanting to point out but hadn’t until now. Before she realized that he was only trying to hide his grief, she asked if he knew of anyone who had threatened his dad. Tears began rolling from the corners of the young man’s eyes. He pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white. Then he bent his head forward and walked past them, his pace growing brisker until he reached the house.

  22

  Agent Forester’s computers were plain vanilla PCs running Windows XP, home version, and they were filled with the sorts of things one might find on perhaps 85 percent of the home computers in the United States — a word-pro cessing program, a Web surfer, home finances software, and an assortment of soft porn.

  The fact that the porn had been deleted made no difference to NSA computer expert Robert Gallo, whose computer tools allowed him not only to view the images but also to reconstruct “missing” parts of the files. More important, his software allowed him to search the files for encrypted messages.

  He found none.

  “Porn wasn’t even that interesting,” he told Johnny Bib.

  “Better stuff on MySpace.”

  “Who’s having the affair?” asked Johnny, pointing at one of the text blocks on Gallo’s machine.

  “Huh?”

  “The instant message.”

  Gallo moused over to the screen and brought up the files.

  The instant messages had been left from a cache several weeks before.

  U awake?

  Goin’ to bed. Jealous?

  Need to use yr computr tomorrw

  OK

  Hw’s yr Frnch?

  Francois?

  “Oh yeah. Account ID got ripped out when the file was deleted, but it’s gotta be the kid, no?” Johnny Bib picked up one of the printouts, leafed through, and showed it to Gallo. “Takes Spanish.”

  “Yeah, so that’s why he’s asking about the girl’s French. If it’s a girl.”

  Johnny Bib leaned over Gallo’s screen. “It’s from computer one.”

  “Yeah, but the kid used both. You think it’s important?” Johnny Bib answered by staring at Gallo, opening his eyes as wide as they could go, and then crossing them.

  “I guess that’s a ‘duh,’ ” said the analyst. He selected a software tool that constructed a “session profile” and used it to determine when the computer had been used and what else it had been used for during the IM session. There were plenty of gaps, as the tool relied primarily on cookies, saved and deleted files, and other bits of deleterious. Nonetheless, it showed that at roughly the same time the instant message had been saved, the checkbook program was running.

  “All right. Probably Agent Forester,” Gallo said. “But why would anyone need French?”

  “Ha!” said Johnny Bib. “Find out who was on the other end. And see what else you can recover.” thin as it was, the fact that Forester had been having an affair with another Secret Service agent was the first real evidence against the suicide that Rubens had seen. Men who were having affairs, especially with younger women, did not kill themselves.

  In his opinion. A prejudice, surely.

  Rubens dismissed Johnny Bib and placed a call to Jed Frey. The Secret Service director was not in his office, but his voice mail gave the number of his cell phone. Rubens punched the number in. Frey answered immediately.

  “Jed, this is Bill Rubens. I have some additional information about Agent Forester I wanted to share. It’s somewhat sensitive.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Gerald Forester was having an affair with another member of the Ser vice. We’ve recovered several suggestive IMs they sent.”

  “IMs?”

  “Instant messages. Her name is Amanda Rauci. I wonder if that’s come up.”

  “It hasn’t,” said Frey.

  “I’d like to have someone talk to her,” said Rubens.

  “Fine. We’ll tell her to be available.”

  “It occurs to me that she might be a target herself,” said Rubens. “If Agent Forester’s death wasn’t a suicide.” Forester didn’t answer.

  “Jed?”

  “You’re right,” said Frey. His voice sounded as if he were coming from quite a distance away. He was thinking about Forester, Rubens guessed. “We’ll protect her.” There were two things that interested Rubens. One was his admittedly optimistic thought that someone who was having an affair wouldn’t kill himself, assuming the affair was still continuing. And the second was the fact that French was often used in Vietnam.

  Rubens called down to the Art Room and told Marie Telach that he had changed his mind about the assignment for Vietnam. He wanted Lia to talk to Amanda Rauci.

  “I believe she may have an easier time connecting with her than Ambassador Jackson,” said Rubens. “Though he, too, can go along.”

  “Lia is supposed to be going to Vietnam with Charlie.”

  “Have Tommy Karr meet him there instead.”

  “He is on vacation.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Karr will understand.”

  23

  Kjartan “Tommy” Magnor-Karr reached across the table and poured the last of the wine into his girlfriend’s glass.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk, mister?” said Deidre Clancy.

  “Nah. Just tipsy.”

  Deidre smiled at him. Tommy Karr realized he was the one who was tipsy, though not on
the wine.

  “So tomorrow, we go to Disneyland Paris?” he said, picking up his glass.

  “You came all the way to Paris to go to Disneyland?”

  “I came all the way to Paris to see you,” said Karr. “Everything else is bonus.”

  “You flatterer.”

  Deidre told him in French that he was a sweet-talking foreigner whom she knew she must be careful of; Karr’s limited French allowed him to pick out every third word — the good ones, of course.

  “How about the Louvre tomorrow?” she asked in English.

  “With a picnic lunch in the Luxembourg Gardens?”

  “Disney Thursday?”

  “Disney Thursday.”

  “Deal.”

  As the word left Karr’s mouth, his sat phone began to vibrate.

  “Uh-oh,” he said.

  Deidre heard the buzzing. “I don’t suppose you could not answer it,” she said.

  “I could ignore it. But then they’d send someone to chase me down. Which might be kinda fun.”

  “You better answer it,” said Deidre.

  Karr took the phone from his pocket and slid up the antenna.

  “O’Brien’s Real Italian Delicatessen,” he said. “Mao Ze-dong speaking.”

  “Tommy, it’s always fun to hear your voice,” said Marie Telach. “Can you talk freely?”

  “Hey, Mom. Not really.”

  “Good. I know you’re on vacation, but Mr. Rubens needs you to cut it short.”

  “Gee, that sucks,” said Karr. He looked over at Deidre, who already wore a disappointed frown. “Right away?”

  “Yes. We need you to meet Charlie in Tokyo tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow? Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact you do. Would you prefer to fly on Aeroflot or Air France?”

  24

  Amanda Rauci clutched her fingers together, trying to stave off the urge to put another mint Life Saver in her mouth.

  They were a dead giveaway that she had been drinking in the middle of the day.

  Bloodshot eyes weren’t exactly camouflage, either, but there was nothing she could do about those.

  “The director will see you now,” said the secretary.

  Amanda nodded, and rose from her seat. Despite her earlier resolution, she reached into her bag and took out a mint, popping it into her mouth before entering Frey’s office.

  “Please sit down,” said Frey.

  The icy tone told her everything. She forced a smile to her face as she pushed one of the modernistic seats up close to the director’s desk. The chair felt uncomfortable, oversized; Amanda’s feet didn’t reach the floor. She bit the candy she’d just put in her mouth, swallowing the tiny pieces in a single gulp.

  “I can’t believe you would hinder an investigation by withholding important information,” said Frey. “I can’t believe it.”

  Amanda said nothing.

  “Why? Why didn’t you say anything? Surely you knew Jerry was dead.”

  “What was there to say?”

  “When did you last see him?” Frey asked.

  “A few nights before he died.”

  “During your vacation?”

  “Before my vacation started.”

  “Was he depressed?”

  Amanda shook her head.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” asked Frey again. “Didn’t you think it was relevant?”

  Because if she said anything, then it would be real. Then he would be gone, really, utterly, truly gone. And she was gone as well.

  “Where were you the night Jerry died?”

  “I was at a hotel, waiting for him.”

  “Waiting for him? Where?”

  “A few miles from… I guess… where…” She had to stop to control the sobs. How much was she going to tell Frey? Everything? Or just part?

  Part. What ever she could get out before despair took over.

  “We spoke,” Amanda said. “He told me to wait. I was in the bar awhile. I was there, I guess, when he—” Sobs erupted from her chest so violently that she shook and couldn’t continue.

  Frey offered no sympathy. “That’s it?” She nodded. Clearly if she told him she’d been there—

  God, if she told him she’d been there, he’d have her charged with murder.

  “You still have vacation days left?” asked the director.

  Amanda formed her fingers into fists, then ground them into her cheeks to stop the tears and sobs. “Yes,” she managed.

  “Then take them. Hand in your credentials, and your weapon. Leave them here.”

  “I’m suspended?”

  “What do you think?”

  25

  Lia and Dean stopped at a small family-style restaurant not far from the Foresters’ house for an early dinner. Lia immediately regretted it. The restroom was filthy, in her experience never a good sign. But Dean had already ordered for both of them by the time she got to the table.

  “You really think you know what I want?” she asked him.

  “Turkey wrap.”

  “Maybe I wanted a hamburger.”

  “That would be a first.”

  It wasn’t so much that he was right as the fact that he was smug about it — quietly smug, of course — that annoyed her.

  “I felt bad for the kid,” said Dean.

  “Yeah.”

  “I’d hate to see that happen to my son.”

  “What son?”

  “If I had one.”

  Lia, confused, said nothing until the waitress came with their drinks — seltzer for Dean, iced tea for her.

  “You knew I wanted iced tea, too, huh?” Dean nodded.

  “I’m that predictable?”

  “Only about food.”

  “Do you have a son, Charlie Dean?”

  Dean stared at her. The words had blurted from her mouth, almost of their own volition. She’d stopped being Lia DeFrancesca, Desk Three op. She was just… herself.

  “I don’t have any children,” said Dean. “You know that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What I meant was, when I have kids, I wouldn’t want them to think I killed myself.”

  Lia didn’t hear the rest of what Dean said. When I have kids.

  When.

  With her?

  Was that his plan? Was it her plan? Did she want kids?

  After her week at Tina’s, children were even further than usual from Lia’s thoughts.

  But did she want kids?

  The question was too much to think about right now. Lia forced her attention back to what Dean was saying. She’d missed the transition, but he was talking about Mrs. Forester.

  “Maybe she’s right,” said Dean. “He might have told people at the Secret Service that he wanted custody of the kids, but that might have been bull.”

  “Why do you say that?” Lia asked.

  “Because of what he did. Because if he really loved the kids, he wouldn’t have killed himself.”

  “I don’t think it was suicide,” said Lia. “And neither does Rubens — that’s why we’re going to Vietnam. Whoever tried to kill McSweeney killed Forester first.” Dean didn’t say anything, which usually meant he disagreed.

  “I doubt she bought those NASCAR tickets,” said Lia.

  “He must’ve loved the kids.”

  “Taking somebody to a car race doesn’t mean you love them,” said Dean.

  “How would you know?”

  Dean frowned — then changed the subject. “How was your friend?”

  “Still pregnant. How was your hunting?”

  “OK. I missed.”

  “You missed?”

  “The lion came out of the brush at less than ten yards. I had a point-blank shot. I missed.”

  “It surprised you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “It jumped on me. I rolled around. Finally I shot it.”

  “Charlie.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t k
now why the hell I missed.” The waitress came over with the food. The turkey wrap was excellent, though Lia was loath to admit it.

  “Let’s say you’re right and Forester was killed and it’s all related,” Dean told her, returning to their mission. “Why kill him? What did he know? The Secret Service had no information. If they had, they would have prevented the assassination attempt.”

  “That’s what we have to find out. Duh.”

  “What if there’s nothing there?”

  “Won’t be the first time,” said Lia, digging into her sandwich.

  * * *

  Desk Three Operations Personnel Director Kevin Montblanc met them as they stepped off the elevator near the Art Room about an hour later.

  “Uh-oh,” said Lia. “What’s wrong?” Montblanc laughed. His moustache helped make him look a bit like a walrus, dressed in a soft sport coat cut in a way that made him look like an English gentleman from the 1920s.

  “Do I always signify a problem?” Montblanc asked.

  “Always,” said Lia.

  “There’s been an assignment change is all. Charlie, you’re to meet with Ms. Telach as planned. Lia, you’re going to work with the Secret Service and FBI. Mr. Rubens wishes to speak with you himself. He’s in his office.”

  “I’m not going to Vietnam with Charlie?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “OK.”

  Lia turned to Dean, sorry now that she hadn’t continued the conversation they’d started and then aborted in the restaurant about kids. Foolishly she’d thought they’d have plenty of time to talk about it.

  She wanted to tell Dean that she would miss him, and to take care of himself, and to miss her — but she felt awkward in front of Montblanc.

  “See you around, Charlie.”

  “Yeah,” said Dean.

  She spent the entire trip up to Rubens’s office trying to decipher the meaning of that “yeah,” before concluding it meant nothing more than “yes.”

  26

  Marie Telach went over the mission with Dean in a small conference room on the secure level of the Desk Three opera-tional center. The room was spartan; there was no massive video screen, no high-tech sound system. The furniture looked a half step above what one might find on sale at Wal-Mart.