house? Had Soraya somehow got through to the Old Man, told him of her treachery? But no, Jamil was with him. Jamil would never let Soraya anywhere near CI headquarters, let alone allowing her access to the Old Man.
But what if... ?
Running purely on instinct now, she went to her dresser, opened the second drawer, scrabbled in it for the S&W she had returned to its customary hiding place when she'd returned home from the Northeast quadrant.
The bell rang downstairs, making her jump, even though she had been expecting it. Slipping the S&W into her waistband at the small of her back, she left her bedroom and descended the polished wood stairs to the front door. Through the diamonds of translucent yellow glass, she could see the silhouettes of the two men, both so important to her throughout her adult life.
With a slow exhalation of breath, she grabbed the brass handle, painted a smile on her face, opened the door.
"Hello, Anne." The Old Man seemed to reflect her own lacquered smile back at her. "I'm sorry to disturb you at home, but something rather pressing..." At this point he faltered.
"It's no bother at all," Anne replied. "I could use the company."
She stepped back, and they entered the small marble-floored vestibule. A spray of hothouse lilies rose from a slender cloisonne vase on a small oval table with delicate cabriolet legs. She led them into the living room with its facing silk-covered sofas on either side of a red-veined white-stone fireplace, above which was a wooden mantelpiece. Anne offered them a seat, but everyone seemed inclined to remain standing. The men did not take off their coats.
She dared not look at Jamil's face for fear of what she might find there. On the other hand, the Old Man's face was no bargain. It was drained of blood, the skin hanging loosely on the bones. When had he grown so old? she wondered. Where had the time gone? It seemed like just yesterday that she had been a wild child at college in London, with nothing ahead of her but a bright, endless future.
"I expect you'd like some tea," she said to his mummy's face. "And I have a tin of your favorite ginger biscuits in the larder." But her attempt to retain a degree of normalcy fell flat.
"Nothing, thank you, Anne," the DCI said. "For either of us." He looked truly pained now, as if he was fighting the effects of a kidney stone or a tumor. He took from his overcoat a rolled-up dossier. Spreading it out on one of the soft sofa backs, he said, "I'm afraid we've been presented with something of an unpleasant realization." His forefinger moved over the computer printout as if it were a Ouija board. "We know, Anne."
Anne felt as if she had been delivered a death blow. She could scarcely catch her breath. Nevertheless, she said in a perfectly normal voice, "Know what?"
"We know all about you." He could not yet bring himself to meet her eyes. "We know that you've been communicating with the enemy."
"What? I don't-"
At last, the DCI lifted his gaze, impaled her with his implacable eyes. She knew that terrifying look; she's seen it directed at others the Old Man had crossed off his list. She'd never seen or heard from any of them again.
"We know that you are the enemy." His voice was full of rage and loathing. She knew there was nothing he despised more than a traitor.
Automatically, her eyes went to Jamil. What was he thinking? Why wasn't he coming to her defense? And then, looking into his blank face, she understood everything-she understood how he had seduced her with both his physical presence and his philosophical manifesto. She understood how he had used her. She was cannon fodder, as expendable as anyone in his cadre.
The thing that upset her most was that she should have known-from the very beginning, she should have seen through him. But she had been so sure of herself, so willing to rebel against the fussy old-line aristocracy from which she was descended. He had seen how eager she was to throw a bag of shit in her parents' faces. He'd taken advantage of her zeal, as well as of her body. She had committed treason for him; so many people would lose their lives because of her complicity. My God, my God!
She turned to Jamil now, said, "Fucking me was the least of it, wasn't it?"