3. Old Friends

"Beautiful isn't it?"

Tchéky jolted in surprise at the sound of the distorted artificial voice. He didn't bother to look round, knowing that the room behind him was still empty. The voice would be being piped in through a hidden speaker. No doubt he was being watched too. Hanging on the wall in front of him, lit from beneath by the soft yellow tinted glow of a pair of spot lamps, was a painting. It depicted a landscape – a mountain, the sky behind it a riot of burning red and orange. The subject matter should have been banal, but the artist had managed to capture something edgy – something uneasy – in his or her brushstrokes.

"'Sky Behind Mt. Sebacio'," the voice continued. "Milo Rambaldi was not primarily noted as a painter, but there is no denying his skill. Who knows what masterpieces of the canvas he might have produced had he not decided to channel his energies in . . . other directions."

Tchéky frowned, hesitating a moment to choose his words carefully. "You honour me. But why are you showing me this?" And he was being shown it, he thought. The painting didn't simply happen to be here as an afterthought.

"We recovered it just over a year ago from among the possessions of one Igor Sergei Valenko, after he was assassinated by the professional killer popularly known as the Snowman. We believe it was a personal gift to him. From 'The Man'."

A jolt passed up Tchéky's spine. The information that had just been revealed to him was immensely significant, he understood instinctively. And it had certainly not been revealed casually. From where he stood though, he understood none of it. All it did was obfuscate matters even further. "It is more than just a simple painting?"

"Oh, undoubtedly. With Rambaldi something rarely serves just a single purpose. But if you are asking if we have managed to decode anything from it . . .. The answer is, I'm afraid, no."

"The Snowman. Our . . . our new asset killed the Snowman." Tchéky felt like he was wading through treacle.

"Indeed. Indeed. The two of them were lovers, did you know?"

Tchéky's mouth worked a moment before shutting again, no words spoken. He had no idea what response was being sought, and filling silence simply because it was there was generally a mistake.

"So how is our . . . asset after her first mission? She should be congratulated. The Chebakov operation went well."

Well? Tchéky just about managed to keep his face expressionless.

The voice apparently managed to read the direction of his thoughts anyway. "Well, in terms of its result. And that is, in the end, the only measure that matters."

"Our asset is . . ." Tchéky's tongue flicked out to moisten lips that suddenly felt almost painfully dry. "Not to put to fine a point on it, out asset is bloody furious."

"Oh? Do tell." The apparent surprise sounded distinctly fake.

"Chebakov recognised her. Recognised her from an Alliance operation by the sound of it. Said she wore a blonde wig and blue latex dress, and inquired after her partner. A black man."

"Interesting," the voice responded blandly.

"She had a lot of questions. Bloody good questions. Questions that I'd want answering in her position too. Why the hell did we send her on a covert mission when there was a high risk of her being recognised and exposed? Why was their nothing on file about her previous contact with Chebakov? If we didn't know about that previous contact, then why didn't we know? Who the hell is this mysterious partner we neglected to tell us about? At the very least she now thinks we're borderline incompetent."

"It is unfortunate we don't have more comprehensive intelligence available on old Alliance operations. That would help us avoid such mishaps." Again the voice was a study in blandness. "An unfortunate coincidence. Nothing more. And her skills proved more than adequate to deal with the situation. You should be pleased."

Right. Tchéky said nothing. He knew instinctively that he'd just been lied to. That something was being hidden. But something is always being hidden.

"What answers did you give her?"

A grimace, and an uncomfortable flicker in his eyes. "I obfuscated. Span her a line of bull." He shook his head. "I told her that, as a senior field operations officer of high standing in the agency, she was often assigned to sensitive interagency work that we wouldn't ourselves hold records on."

"And she bought that?"

"Maybe. Though she did wonder why she was only being told this now." Tchéky shrugged, trying and failing to appear casual. "I gave her Torshin's name. His was the first that popped into my head. Told her that he acted as her interagency handler on occasion in the past, before his retirement."

"Indeed."

Tchéky found himself wishing that he could see the expression of the speaker then. Whether he or she was pleased or displeased. Or neither.

"Mr. Torshin is currently being briefed to expect a visit."

Tchéky grunted. Old news then. He wasn't entirely surprised.

"You wish to say something else, Mr. Romatsev?" The voice sounded almost as if it was purring.

"No," he said at length, then gave a small shake of his head.

"Come now, Tchéky. I see the question in you face. Speak your mind. It is only rarely that I have someone killed for saying something that offends me."

He hesitated still.

"That was a joke, Tchéky."

Ha, bloody ha. Tchéky shrugged inwardly. He wasn't going to be allowed to evade he sensed, and to be honest biting his tongue had never been his style. "Why did we use her for the op? There was nothing involved in it that another agent couldn't have handled equally well. If it was simply a test of her ability, then it seems – forgive me – idiotic. A stupid waste of our investment. We know her capabilities well enough."

There was a distorted chuckle. "Perhaps another agent would not have handled her difficulty with Mr. Chebakov so . . .  neatly."

"Another agent would not have been recognised by Chebakov and compromised in the first place."

"Hindsight is a wonderful thing, eh Tchéky?"

Tchéky's cheeks coloured fractionally. "If you wanted Chebakov assassinated, why not pay an assassin? Like with Karpochev." That was simply fishing. He had no idea whether the person he was speaking to had really been involved in Karpochev's death. "Even taking the unfortunate coincidence aside it still seems a needless risk. We both know that Derevko has been making inquiries about her daughter's death. That witch is a sharp one, and her networks are not as scattered and powerless as some like to think. If we keep using our asset like this then word will get back to her. Is a war, especially now, something we can afford?"

For several long seconds there was silence, and Tchéky started to think that he'd been talking to himself these last few moments.

Then, making him jump: "The manuscript our asset recovered. There was a blank page. Interesting don't you think? The bullet that injured her pierced this page and stained it with a small amount of her blood. And do you know what Tchéky?"

Tchéky swallowed, a small flower of understanding suddenly blooming. "It revealed the page, didn't it? Her blood I mean . . ."

"Revealed a fragment of it," the voice agreed. "Our tech guys used one of the samples we took from her to uncover the remainder. The particularly interesting thing they discovered? Only blood that shared the same characteristics as hers – the unusual platelet levels to be precise – would have worked. Anything else would have ruined the page. They're still baffled by it, and we had no way of knowing otherwise that her blood could be used for this purpose. Do you understand now why I had to use her for this op Tchéky?"

He nodded, slightly stunned. "I understand."

"The Order has always sought to bring Rambaldi's writings to fruition. This is still our only true purpose. Remember that."

* * *

Svetlana stood and stared at the house through a veil of grey drizzle. She'd been standing like that for several minutes now, just watching the building, slowly getting soaked. What she was waiting for she wasn't entirely sure. Courage perhaps?

Shaking her head in effort to clear it – to bring some order to her thoughts – she looked around slowly. There was no visible sign of the two tails that had followed her from headquarters, although they were still there watching her, she was sure. She could have lost them easily enough – neither was particularly adept at his job – but that would have led to questions that she wasn't sure she wanted to answer.

Anyway, it's not as if I'm doing anything wrong.

Is it?

Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move forward. If she didn't move now she was simply going to stand there until her courage fled entirely and she turned and walked away. Wet gravel crunched quietly beneath her boots as she walked up the drive.

Beneath the porch, out of the rain, she hesitated again before the front door. Her finger hovered, poised above the doorbell, unmoving. She stared at her reflection, pale and distorted in the frosted glass, listening to the steady drip of water from the porch frame and the branches of an old yew tree. The entire world seemed deadened somehow. Unreal and empty.

She pressed the doorbell – heard a muffled chiming inside the house.

She waited – listened to the dripping water and waited. On the road a car drove past.

Had she walked all this way only for there to be nobody home? She pressed the doorbell a second time – was about to turn and walk away.

"Hold your horses. I'm coming. I'm coming."

The door opened. In front of her stood a grey cipher of a man, tall and gaunt and seeming to fade into the wallpaper behind him. He looked at her blankly. "Can I help you, Miss?"

He doesn't recognise me.

"Illya Torshin?"

"Yes. That's right. Who else would I be, eh?" He started a humourless, nasal sounding laugh, then tailed off abruptly, his eyes widening. "Svetlana? Svet? Is . . . is that you?"

After a moment she nodded, looking at his face and trying to judge his reaction. She still wasn't sure whether what she saw was recognition.

"Come in. Come in." He was afraid, she thought. It was well hidden – deeply buried – but the fear was definitely there. "You've changed so much since last time I saw you, Svet. I'm sorry. I . . . I didn't recognise you."

"Kazimits Chebakov didn't seem to share the same difficulty."

She saw him swallow before he turned his back on her. She followed him inside. "Sorry Svet. You took me unawares. I have to admit you were the last person in the world I expecting to show up on my doorstep. I heard about what happened to you. The accident I mean. I prayed for you. Is it true . . . That you have amnesia? You can't remember anything?"

"Yes. It's true," she said quietly.

"Yet you remember enough to come and see me though, eh?" In the living room he gestured for her to take a seat – folded himself wearily into a high backed leather armchair.

She shook her head. "No. No I didn't remember. Agent Romatsev mentioned you to me."

He made a snorting sound. "Ah, Agent Romatsev. Tchéky. How is he? Still the same as always?"

Svetlana touched the side of her head with one finger. "I don't really have anything in here to compare against, you know."

"Sorry. Sorry. Of course not."

"He seems well enough. As far as I can tell."

"You want a drink Svet? I'll get you a drink." He got up and walked across to a glass-fronted drinks cabinet.

She shook her head. "Not for me, thanks."

"Mind if I get myself one? My nerves are a touch frazzled."

She managed a small smile. "No. Of course not. I'm sorry I startled you Mr. Torshin. I should have called ahead."

His hand shook badly as he pored himself a shot of whisky into a tumbler. "Illya. Illya, please. It's not as though we're strangers, right?" There was a slightly wry smile on his lips as he turned back to her.

"You live here alone . . . Illya?" His name felt uncomfortable on her tongue.

"My wife's away visiting her sister at the moment. Good thing too. I don't have to explain to her why I have a beautiful young woman visiting me unexpectedly."

They shared a slightly awkward smile.

"But you did not come here to ask me about my family." Illya took a sip from his glass. His hand was still shaking. "You mentioned that shit, Chebakov. I take it that wasn't just a casual reference."

"He's dead."

Illya snorted. "You killed him?"

"To be entirely accurate about it, he was shot by one of his own bodyguards."

He just nodded. He didn't seem overly curious though, which surprised her for reasons she couldn't quite pinpoint.. "Let me guess. Those idiots at the taskforce sent you on a covert op against him eh? And surprise, surprise. He recognised you. Almost compromised you."

She studied his expression carefully, but Illya seemed to have regained his composure now and wasn't giving much away. "That's about the size of it."

"Svet, I retired. One and a half years ago. I retired."

"I'm sorry Illya. I just need to talk. Please?"

He sighed. "I can't. Not about this." He shook his head – knocked back the remainder of the whisky in a single shot. "You want to know about the interagency work you did. The stuff the taskforce hasn't been able to fill you in on because they don't have access to the files. The stuff that almost just got you killed."

"Yes."

Again he shook his head. "I'm truly sorry Svet. But I can't tell you anything. FSB classified those files, and since your accident you no longer have the requisite level of security clearance. If I tell you anything I'm committing a crime. When I was younger, maybe . . . but I'm too old for prison."

"You can't be serious."

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

"But I was on those missions. It's information I should already be party to." She tapped the side of her head. Hazel-green eyes flashed with a combination of anger and incredulous frustration. "If not for this, I would already know what was in those files. It's . . . it's ridiculous. Don't do this to me Illya."

He paused, before speaking slowly and carefully, holding her gaze levelly. "I said I retired Svet. I didn't lie when I said that, but you have to know that no one ever leaves entirely. Once you're in you never escape from their attention. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

At length she nodded. He was saying they were being listened to. That his house was bugged, and their conversation was not private.

She sighed, seeing in his eyes that he wasn't going to break the trust he'd been given. Not today, anyway. "And what if my memories come back, Illya? I'm told it is likely they will at some point, though that may be just a doctor's panacea. What happen then? Will I by prosecuted for mishandling classified information all of a sudden?" She couldn't manage to keep the tinge of bitterness out of her voice.

"Then well and good. I'm sure everyone involved will be . . . intelligent about it."

Silence. After a time Illya cleared his throat. "So. Who is your director in the taskforce? I haven't been keeping track like I once did."

Svetlana blinked. "Karpuchin."

"Ah." Illya shook his head. "I was going to suggest you ask him or her to put some pressure in the . . . appropriate place, but . . ." He shook his head again.

"But what?"

He hesitated. "Karpuchin is competent enough, but she is very much a woman of her age." He looked at her, as if waiting for something, then shrugged and went on. "She had to work hard to get where she has in a man's world. She's grown cautious. Plays it scrupulously by the book, and covers her backside at all times. Doesn't take risks where there isn't a good chance of a big payoff."

"So she won't help me?"

He grunted. "She may attempt to help. But she won't put everything she's worked for on the line for your sake. She'll take no for an answer without a real fight." Again he shook his head. "Like I said . . ."

"You're sorry. Don't worry about it." Looking at him she could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, and the way he grasped the empty whisky tumbler – a fractional tightness about the mouth. The fear was still there she saw, and she knew that he wanted her gone. At the first available opportunity. She rose from her chair, forcing a smile she didn't feel. Suddenly she wanted to be gone too. "I'm sorry too. I'll leave you in peace Illya."

"Wait." He half rose to follow her, but she waved him back. "I'm not trying to chase you away Svet. And I am glad to see you again. It's just . . ." He made a fly swatting gesture. "We could talk about other things. Maybe that would help?"

"No, I should go. I have work . . .. I do understand Illya, honestly. You're retired. It wasn't fair of me to come here." She turned away from him and headed towards the door. "Don't get up. I'll see myself out."

As she left the house, though,  she kept coming back to one thing. One detail she just couldn't get past.

He didn't recognise me.

He didn't recognise me.

* * *

The woman stood, silhouetted against the window, looking down at the firing range. She was tall and athletic, dressed in a black suit, long black hair falling unbound halfway down her back.

She watched, rapt, as below her Svetlana – also dressed in black, hair pulled up in a bun and wearing ear protectors and goggles – shot series after series after series. Each time the target sheet whirred up the range for inspection it showed a tight grouping of shots directly at its centre, not a single bullet gone even fractionally astray. Her concentration was something else to behold: obsessive, iron hard, to the point of desperation – to the point of insanity.

Behind the woman a door opened, but she didn't look round, continuing to watch Svetlana shoot. She heard footsteps cross the room until their owner stood behind her shoulder. Still she gave no hint of acknowledgement, although she knew the person was waiting for her to do so. A trace of a smile curved across sensually full lips.

"You were told to stay away from her, Anna." Tchéky said eventually, cracking first.

Anna Espinosa just laughed. "I don't know what amuses me more, Tchéky. Seeing her like this. Or seeing all the effort we've put into building this pantomime around her. Are we trying to make ourselves SD-6, so that poor little Sydney doesn't feel homesick?"

"Her name is Svetlana Borushka. She is only ever to be referred to as Svetlana Borushka, even in private. No other name for her exists."

Again Anna laughed. "Tell me honestly that this doesn't strike you as totally ridiculous."

"It is felt – by those whose wisdom I know better than to question – that her conditioning will take better if her surroundings are a familiar shape. Her subconscious mind is less likely to rebel if it feels comfortable that things are as they have always been."

Anna snorted. "A lot of effort to little purpose. She brings us nothing that we don't already have. What can she do for us that we can't already achieve easily enough through other means?"

"What can she do that you can't, you mean Anna?"

"Well you said it." She turned around to face him, fixing him levelly with her coolly piercing gaze. Tchéky had to catch himself from backing off a couple of steps. Down below Svetlana started to shoot another series.

"Did you happen to see her test scores? She beat you in every single category, unless I'm mistaken."

Anna's eyes hardened. "I set those scores straight out of the academy, without the benefit of eight years field experience. Let me take the tests again now Tchéky and I'd beat her out of sight."

"Why of course," he smirked.

"Anyway, it is not all about scores. She is too softhearted. Not ruthless enough. Lacks that killer instinct."

"I think Mr. Chebakov might disagree with that assessment." Tchéky's smile didn't fade. "What you mean is that, unlike certain others I could name, she is not a psychopath."

The corner of Anna's mouth turned up contemptuously.

"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before Anna. I like it. It suits you."

She stepped past him, deliberately barging against his shoulder and making him stagger. At the door she turned back briefly for a parting shot. "I think I'll enjoy watching when she works out what's been done to her. Enjoy watching as she guts you , Tchéky." She smiled brightly. "Of course, if you ask me very nicely I might be persuaded to save your worthless hide and kill her for you."

Anna started to turn away again, but Tchéky brought her up short. "Kill her Anna? What makes you think that's even within your capabilities?"

Her eyes were dangerous, but Tchéky went on regardless.

"I've read the reports. Eduardo Benegas's Auto museum in Madrid. Now, who was it that successfully recovered the case containing the Rambaldi code? Was it you? I don't quite recall . . .. Or how about the church in Malaga. One of you gets away with the Sol d'Oro. The other is left handcuffed to a pew. Ouch. Now that must have been humiliating." He smiled blandly at her taut expression. "And then there was the engineering department at Oxford University. Do you recall what happened there too? Oh, and lets not leave out the clock maker in Positano, Italy. Not exactly a resounding success – from your point of view at least."

"I beat her when it mattered. In Argentina. I recovered the journal pages."

"But even then you couldn't manage to kill her, could you? And she took the pages back in Es-Sekhira, in any case. After which point K-Directorate pretty much ceased to exist as a force."

Anna shrugged. "As did SD-6 and the Alliance not that long afterwards. All to our advantage."

"Because she was working for the CIA the whole time, and to a large extent brought about their demise." Another bland smile. "I'm not a betting man Anna, but if I was then . . . let's just say I know who I would be putting my money on."

For a long time she held his gaze, seemingly impassive. Then she said quietly: "I'll remember this conversation well, Tchéky."

Before he could blink she was gone. Tchéky let out a long breath of pent up tension, a shudder passing the length of his spine.

Briefly he wondered, as he turned to watch Svetlana shooting, what the hell he'd been trying to achieve.

* * *

"Did you find what you wanted?"

Tchéky and Svetlana stood side-by-side, leaning against her old bronze coloured Toyota Landcruiser and gazing out across the river Neva. In the distance the Hermitage dominated the horizon, a beautiful beacon against the night sky.

She shook her. "Apparently my own memories are classified information that I don't have the correct security clearance for." She decided not to mention the other suspicions lurking in her head. He had, after all, been the one to direct her to him.

"Ah."

"You don't seem surprised." She looked round at his profile, shadowy and angular in the yellow glow from the streetlights.

"He always was too timid, that one." He looked round too and their eyes met briefly. "And I always have been a cynical bastard. That way, I find, I never get surprised in a negative fashion."

She looked back out across the river. "I'm not sure if I can do this."

"What do you mean?"

"This job. Not like this, with this huge black hole in my head. If every time I speak to someone I don't know for certain whether I've met them before – if they might recognise me or not. Last night was almost a disaster. I got lucky, but next time it might not just be myself I end up getting killed."

"But there's always that risk, to a greater or lesser degree. Someone who might remember you who you have no recollection of. Even for those of us who memories are supposed to be intact." He shrugged. "Besides, Chebakov was a paranoiac. I doubt I could recognise the woman from last night in the person standing beside me now."

"Tchéky, everyone in this business is a paranoiac. If you're not paranoid then it's because you're already dead."

"So maybe you're right."

She looked round at him, slightly startled. "Tchéky?"

Suddenly he seemed a fraction hesitant – uncomfortable. "I'm just saying, do you really have to be a field agent? Is it really worth it? I mean, if you really think it's an unsafe risk. I'm the last person to want to see you get hurt. You've got a sharp mind. Heck, by any measure you're a bona fide genius. Put in for reassignment to analysis. They'll welcome you with open arms."

Svetlana studied his face, trying to work out if he was being serious. He looked serious. She remembered the way she'd felt last night though. That this was something she was good at. A natural even. This was what she had been born to do. The thought of giving it up again, just as she'd rediscovered it  . . . She shook her head.

"Svet?" His voice held concern.

"That's another thing. My memories. Don't you think it's odd?"

"What's odd?" His gaze was curious. And also slightly worried, she thought.

She took a deep breath. "That every single personal memory I have from before the accident is gone. But I can remember other stuff just fine. How to read, write. How to drive. Facts too. I mean, I knew who Premier Putin is. That George W. Bush is president of the USA. What the SVA and FSB are. I knew about the political situation in Chechnya without having to be told too, but I can't remember that my husband died there. I can't remember my husband at all."

"Honestly, Svet? The whole thing seems odd to me. Scary odd." He made vague waving gesture. "But then I'm no neuroscientist. Perhaps different types of knowledge are stored in different parts of the brain?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe there's a part of it is psychological."

She looked around at him sharply. "So what? Are you saying I've gone mad?"

His face bore the look of someone who knows they've just opened their mouth and inserted their foot up to the ankle – someone who is now praying for the ground to open up and swallow them. He gave a strained and uneasy chuckle. "Show me someone who's sane, Svet. Walk along the street and find one person – any person – who is actually sane. Go on. I dare you. And in this business . . .. What you said, right? You have to be paranoid. You have to be mad to even consider it. Hell, I know I'm nuts. Why should you be any different?" He smiled at her. "Sanity's overrated anyway. Terribly dull I'd imagine."

Despite herself Svetlana found herself laughing. His smile broadened, taking in the whole of his face.

After the laughter died and silence fell between them a slight shiver passed up her spine. The air had turned slightly chill.

Tchéky looked at her, unspeaking. After a moment's pause he tentatively – and somewhat awkwardly – put an arm around her shoulder. At first she remained rigid – almost resistant to the contact. Then finally, with a long exhalation of breath, she allowed herself to relax against his side. Several seconds later she gave in entirely, letting her head rest lightly against his shoulder.

"Thank you Tchéky," she said quietly, her voice muffled.

"Hey, you don't have to thank me for anything. I'm your friend, remember?"

Eventually she nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you know, I think I am starting to remember that."

For a long time they just stood like that, listening to the sounds of the river, looking out at the city lights. Eventually Tchéky cleared his throat. "Svet?"

"Tchéky?"

"I was just wondering. Since the accident have you done anything . . ." He seemed to be groping for the correct words. " . . . done anything just for fun? Just for your own enjoyment. For your own leisure and entertainment."

"For fun?"

"Er . . ." He scratched the tip of his nose. "Don't say I have to explain the concept of fun, Svet, please. It's just that all I've seen you do is work. Work and train and study."

"So you're saying I should have some fun."

"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I mean, I'm not asking you out on a date or anything," he hastened. "I'm not saying you should do it, whatever it turns out to be, with me. In fact it's probably best that you don't. Just do something that you enjoy. Go to the pictures; an art gallery; the ballet. Whatever. The what part doesn't really matter. But something that has nothing whatsoever to do with work."

She was silent.

"I think you used to quite like the ice hockey," he said after a moment, perhaps reading the reason for her hesitation.

"Ice hockey?" She raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly.

"I think SKA are playing at the Sport Palace this weekend. Against Lada Togliatti." He shrugged. "It's not really my thing."

"You know, I can't believe that – as a good Moscow girl – I could possibly have been a SKA supporter."

He smiled back at her and, after a moment, she nodded. "Maybe you're right Tchéky. Maybe I'll try and check out the ice hockey. I'll see if I can pick up a ticket."

"I guarantee, division can secure you a ticket."

She nodded again. There was another period of silence, this time slightly uncomfortable. Svetlana glanced down at her watch. "I should go Tchéky."

She was expecting him to protest, but he surprised her by just nodding. "You still thinking that you should quit fieldwork?"

She shrugged helplessly. That was the question, wasn't it?

"If it makes it easier I can speak to the Director for you. Recommend that you be transferred to analysis. In fact the more I think about it the more it seems the sensible option. The safe option." He started to turn away.

She caught his arm. "Tchéky? I'm good at what I do, right?"

After a slight pause he gave a single emphatic nod. "The best I've seen. Heard of too, for that matter. You know how Director Karpuchin said she was glad to have you back? That counted as absolutely ecstatic by her standards. She does not say that to just anyone, believe me."

She digested this. "Don't say anything about a transfer just yet, please Tchéky. I'll sleep on it. See what I feel in the morning."

"Whatever you want, Svet."

"You want a lift?"

He shook his head. "Nah. I'm just five minutes away. The walk will clear my head." So saying he started to stride away, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his jacket.

For a time she watched after him. Then, when he had disappeared from view, she turned and got into her car.