1 Chapter 1
1
The spring of 2003 marked my tenth year of officially working for the CIA. Of course, unofficially, I’d done various jobs for them for from the time I’d graduated from Harvard in ’87 until I returned to the States for my master’s degree in Political Science in 1990.
Ten years.
Duty to country had been bred into my bones, and I’d enjoyed my work, but lately I was becoming frustrated with the way things were going with the Company. I still had a sour taste in my mouth from the events of the past two years. Between getting shot by a rogue CIA officer, being kidnapped by the madman who ran Prinzip and left by the CIA to twist in the breeze, and finally having Edward Holmes send me on countless useless missions, I was afraid I was on the point of burning out.
The thought of resigning crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. How could I walk away when my father hadn’t? Nothing had hindered the performance of his job, not the era of McCarthyism, the disaster that was the Vietnam War, or the Watergate scandal.
I wasn’t my father, but I soldiered on. However, Father did have Mother to support him, and I? I had brief affairs, restrained and decorous, that lasted for a few weeks or a few months, and while they were pleasurable, when they ended, we parted with no regrets or recriminations.
But now I had the weekends and Mark Vincent, my lover, to look forward to, and I smiled, recalling the past weekend, which we’d spent together after he returned from an assignment out of town. I’d made him dinner on Friday evening, we’d spent Saturday morning in bed, and in the afternoon he’d said, “Get dressed. We’re going to the movies.”
Usually we’d take in a show after dinner, but if he wanted to go to the movies now….
“What are we going to see?” I asked as he drove his Dodge to the same theater that had shown The Scorpion Kinglast year.
“The Quiet Man. It’s kind of appropriate, since Monday is St. Patrick’s Day.” Although he was watching the road, I could still see his grin.
“I was in Ireland some years ago.”
“Inishfree Island, wasn’t it?”
“No, that visit was a short time after I’d joined the Company.” I’d become used to Mark knowing so much about me. It was… flattering. “I’m talking about Tullamore.”
He gave me a blank look.
“Didn’t you know?”
“Sure I... uh... no. How the hell didn’t I know?” he muttered softly, his gaze on the road again. I still heard him.
“Never mind. Was there a reason you brought up the day?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I know this Irish pub that makes the best corned beef. I thought we could go there for dinner.”
“I’d like that.” I thought of the pubs I’d visited when I’d been in Ireland. They’d been charming. This was going to be an enjoyable evening.
“I hoped you would.” He found a parking space and we got out and walked to the theater.
I bought the tickets, and Mark bought the snacks, a huge tub of popcorn covered in an artificial butter topping—one day I’d have to make him popcorn with real butter—and two large sodas.
The lights had dimmed and the previews were just finishing.
“Let’s sit in the back,” he said. “After you, but watch your step.” And we climbed the steps to the rear of the theater.
I took a seat and made myself comfortable, setting my soda into the cup holder to my right.
“Hold this, all right, babe?” Mark handed me the popcorn. I set it on my lap, took a handful of popcorn, and then reached for one of the napkins Mark had brought from the concession stand.
Before I could wipe the butter from my palm, he caught my hand.
“Mark?”
His eyes gleamed in the darkness, and he brought my palm to his mouth and licked it clean.
“Mark,” I said again.
“Shh. The movie’s starting.”
We sat back and began to watch.
After the movie finished, after Sean Thornton and his Mary Kate settled into married life and “Red” Will Danaher began courting the Widow Tillane, Mark took me to the pub he’d mentioned—the Dungarvan, on H Street.
The Dungarvan was filled with a mixed crowd, young and old. It was a Saturday evening, and they were there to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, albeit a couple of days early.
“I usually come here every St. Patrick’s Day,” Mark murmured as he led me to a table off to the side, about a dozen paces from the front door. I wasn’t surprised. He wouldn’t be Mark Vincent if he wasn’t aware of the nearest exit.
