Chapter Five

WEBB RESIDENCE
ALEXANDRIA, VA

29 MAY, 2021

07:15 ZULU

            Sarah rolled to her side and waited until the softly glowing blue numbers of the clock radio changed. She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She'd had enough. It was pointless to lie there any longer. In fact, she'd have gotten up when she'd woken, thirty-five minutes ago, had it not been for fear of disturbing Victor.

She sighed as she reached for her robe and padded across the bedroom to the large master bath. Part of her dearly wanted to wring Clay's neck. She'd have slept better at the hospital. The hospital cot might have been small and uncomfortable, but at least it wouldn't have been their bed –too cold and empty without his familiar warmth to fill it. At least there when she had awoken, she could have looked over to see him and been reassured by the beeping of the monitors and the familiar sounds of his snoring. She wouldn't have suffered restless dreams about Paraguay, and Syria …and men in dark suits coming to her door.

It was chilly for May, and she drew the robe more tightly about her as she padded down the long hallway towards the kitchen. Coffee first, she decided, then shower and clothes. After that, she'd call the hospital and see how he was doing. Maybe by then Victor would be ready to leave and they could go get Clay's car, which was still probably at the club. Fortunately, the Athletic club had its own secure parking garage, so she shouldn't have to worry about whether or not the thing was still there. Clay would raise hell if something happened to his Mercedes.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee hit her like a wall as she entered the kitchen, and she looked up in surprise to see Victor, seated at the butcher-block island with a steaming mug as he read the morning copy of the Post. Tigger, a large orange tabby cat, was stretched out lazily on the financial section. His white tipped tail flicked gently across the page Victor was reading.

She glanced out the kitchen window on her way to the coffee maker, and saw the bounding figure of Jack, their golden retriever, investigating a rabbit hole in the yard. Victor must have let him out. God, he'd been quiet. She hadn't heard a thing.

"I thought you'd still be sleeping," she confessed as she took a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup. "How long have you been up?"

Galindez glanced up from the paper. His eyes flicked briefly to the clock on the microwave. "Half an hour or so," he shrugged slightly, "When you bounce around between time zones as much as I do, you learn to acclimate pretty fast." He paused to drink from his mug. "Did you get any sleep?"

"No," she said shortly as she raided the refrigerator for her box of vanilla cream. "I'd have felt better if I'd stayed with him."

Victor's brown eyes followed her with concern. "He's going to be all right," he reminded her.

She shrugged. "I know. I'll just feel better when he's home." She paused to test her coffee, frowned, and added another splash of cream. "When will we be ready to leave?"

"Whenever you want to go."

"I want to go now," she grumbled, "but we still have to get Clay's car, and I'm sure you'll have to be reporting in."

He consulted the clock above the stove. "I'll call Langley," he said. "They can probably spare me for an hour or so. Is that time enough?"

She nodded and he slipped off the stool and walked over to the phone to make the call. She focused on drinking a good measure of her coffee and reached out absently to stroke Tigger. The big cat bestirred himself enough to rise up off of the morning paper and rub himself affectionately against her. She stared at him blankly. It was out of character for the cat. He usually preferred Clay's company to hers, even though Clay adamantly insisted he was not a cat person and was forever complaining about the cat hair on his suits. She might have believed him if it weren't for the mornings she'd risen early enough to hear his voice coming softly from the kitchen and found him grumbling to the cat about some snippet he'd read in the morning paper while the animal nibbled contentedly at one of Clay's sausages. Lord knew it certainly wasn't her fault the cat weighed 22 pounds.

The orange tabby blinked at her expectantly. His pale yellow eyes were complacent, and nearly as arrogant as the man he favored.

"What?" she muttered, staring at him over the rim of her coffee cup. "I suppose you want food."

Tigger blinked again and began to purr. Sarah shot a glance to the cat food dish. It was nearly full of the low calorie, special diet dry cat food. "Sorry," she murmured, reaching out rub the animal under the chin. "No sausages for you this morning."

She drained the rest of her cup and stumbled back to the coffee pot for a second cup. "Come to think of it, maybe no more sausages for him, either," she muttered. She'd just been on to him last week about his diet. He tended to eat too much fast food and take out when things got hectic, and between work, training with Rachel and getting Penny back and forth between music and riding lessons, the last few weeks had been busier than usual. She considered having a word with Kennedy and his secretary about seeing to it that his lunch orders got changed from Polish hot dogs to soups and salads from here on out.

She added more cream to her coffee, then wandered back to the island and scooped up the cat, carrying him with her out onto the back deck. Jack barreled past her as she opened the door, storming into the kitchen in search of his dog food and Tigger arched his back and hissed. She bit back a soft curse as the cat's back claws bit through the heavy fabric of her robe. She closed the back door quickly behind her before depositing the animal unceremoniously at her feet. Tigger yowled his displeasure and then took a seat at her heels, clearly out of sorts with the world in general and her in particular.

She breathed deeply of the crisp morning air, letting it clear her head a bit as she absorbed the chirping of the birds and the distant sounds of the Washington traffic. It really was a lovely day, she decided as she studied their expansive back yard, complete with a formal garden, swimming pool and a small pool house.  It was too bad they were probably going to be spending most of it at the hospital.

She stared for a moment at the swimming pool, trying to recall if this was the day the pool man came. –Not that it really mattered, they'd get the bill in the mail whether anyone was home to greet him or not. She drank more of her coffee and shook her head. She hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about the pool, but she could tell that it had been a major selling point with Clay when they bought the house. --That, and the spacious three acres of walled and gated grounds that the house sat upon. She'd lived in apartments and barracks for most of her life. She didn't know what to do with a lawn and a garden, she'd told him. Neither had he, he'd told her, brushing aside her protests. That was what pool and lawn services were for.

But for all that the estate like grounds had intimidated her; she had fallen in love with the house. It wasn't one of the run-of-the-mill Federalist knock-offs that filled so many of the upper-echelon neighborhoods of Arlington and Alexandria.  It was simple, eclectic and almost utilitarian with its plain, hard lines, but it managed to blend well with the lush landscape and the tall oak trees that surrounded it. It was straightforward and well proportioned with no frills. –And yet, it held a stroke of audacity with the bold, polychrome colors of its smooth concrete walls, the bright tile roof, the copper gutters and brass fixtures. She'd thought that she and Clay would never find a house that they could agree upon, with his old money sensibilities and her trailer park upbringing, but this house had fit the bill. Clay had been crazy about the classic 1930's art-deco style, and she had felt comforted by the polished hardwood floors and the warm wood paneling that reminded her a little of Uncle Matt's cabin in Arizona. Moreover, she liked the way she felt as she stood in this house. It maintained a sense of elegance and power as one moved from room to room, and it bolstered her somewhat. She'd always felt a little like Katherine Hepburn or Myrna Loy or some other classic film diva when she donned an evening gown and presided over the occasional dinner parties that they hosted. In this place, in this house, she was the mistress of her domain and she had no trouble holding her own with the richest bitches on the Washington cocktail circuit.

Clay had liked the house because it had been an excellent real-estate investment. The fact that it was only five minutes from Capitol Hill made its location relatively convenient as he spent more and more time in Senate Budget hearings and White House briefings. And if they ever decided to move, he knew he'd have no trouble unloading it on some Congressman or Senator for a princely sum. Its classic architectural pedigree had appealed to him as well, having been designed and built by the renowned John Joseph Early in 1935. Personally, Sarah had never heard of the man, but whoever he was, the name alone had caused Clay to be suitably impressed.

The place had been in need of renovation, and they'd picked it up for a song at what she still considered to be a staggering sum of just under $800,000. Clay had been enthusiastic about restoring it. She'd had reservations about that as well, but somehow their relationship had survived the roofing, the re-wiring, the repainting, and even the remodeling of the kitchen and the bathrooms and now both their home and their marriage sat on a solid foundation.

She hoped.

She sighed as she pulled her robe more tightly about herself and sat down on the top step of the back deck beside the cat. Tigger wandered into her lap, and she stroked the animal distractedly as she took another sip of her coffee. Something had been weighing on her husband's mind as of late, and as per usual, she had no idea what it was.

Most of the time, she chalked it up to something at work and let it go, knowing that he would never be able to talk to her about it anyway. Her security clearance had been retired with her uniforms. Still, she hadn't spent twenty years in the Marine Corps and fifteen married to a spook without being able to put two and two together. Usually, all she had to do was turn on ZNN or read the International section of the Washington Post to get at least a vague idea of what it was that was causing her husband's strange moods and sleepless nights. But she sensed that this was different.

When it was something at work, she barely saw him. He left early and stayed late and when he did come home, he spent most of the time in his study with his eyes glued to his laptop as he focused on his latest head ache. When it was bad, he was irritable, arrogant, snide and downright rude, but he was always sufficiently apologetic and contrite later. She had a safe full of good jewelry and a passport full of cruises and exotic vacations to prove it. But when the tension was getting to him, there was no doubt that he could be an insufferable bastard.

Usually, she put up with it for about three days, and then she'd give him hell. They'd pick some petty, inconsequential thing to argue about and then they'd go at it hammer and tongs. About the time she would be ready to haul off and hit him, they'd be standing there nose to nose, yelling at each other. –And then suddenly they'd be lips to lips with all thoughts of shouting completely gone from their minds. If they were lucky, they might actually make it back to the bedroom in time.

As often as not, they didn't. She smiled as she thought of the butcher-block island in the kitchen. It hadn't been part of the original plans for the kitchen remodeling. They'd had to put it in after one of their more spectacular disagreements. The antique trestle table that had preceded it had not survived the strain. She doubted she would ever forget Clay, panicked and disheveled, as he rushed to haul out the wreckage out to the garage before the housekeeper arrived. They'd both picked splinters out of their rumps for a week. The only saving grace was that Penny had been away at summer camp. They'd have been hard pressed to explain that one on such short notice.

Inevitably, their little go rounds would serve to diffuse some of the tension that was plaguing him, and while he couldn't tell her much of what was on his mind, he often would tell her a great deal of what was in his heart. He would share his feelings with her, his insecurities and his worries that this time he might not be good enough to get the job done. She grounded him in those moments, lending her strength and support and love, and no matter how bad the things he could not tell her might get, she somehow managed to pull him through with his soul and his humanity intact. Even at his worst, she found it easy to forgive him. As much of an arrogant, annoying pain in the ass that he might be, he clung to her in those times, and that was what made it all worthwhile.

If he'd been working late, if he'd been grouchy and sarcastic or even whiny, she'd just have chalked it up to business as usual. But it wasn't that way at all. Indeed, he'd been home earlier these last few weeks. A quieter world political situation and a lighter workload had left him with an unprecedented amount of free time. So much so, that he was actually using some of it to help Rachel train for the Olympic tryouts in between going to horse shows with Penny and attending social functions with Sarah. She'd actually gotten used to having him home on weekends. –Which was why she had started to notice his unusual behavior.

He had been quieter lately. There had been none of his usual sarcasm or the sniping banter and sharp humor that she loved to hone her wits upon. In fact, he'd been polite, deferential and actually rather sweet. –Too sweet for the smart-assed intellectual that she'd married.

She hadn't missed the looks, either. More and more in the past few weeks, she would catch him looking at her or Penny, his hazel eyes shuttered and his expression completely unreadable. It made her wonder what was going on in that wonderful, conniving, intensely secretive head of his, and it bothered her that for the first time in a long time, she didn't really know. At any rate, it was enough to spark the sneaking suspicion that whatever was going on with him had nothing to do with work.

She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was exactly, except to say that he was somehow out of character. He put on a good show, and almost no one had noticed –not even Penny—but it seemed to Sarah that he wasn't quite himself. The dissonance would strike him at odd moments, too. Last weekend had been a perfect example.

They'd been trying to reconcile their calendars with their social engagements, and failing miserably. In the midst of a spirited debate as to whether they should attend her charity benefit for a local women's shelter, or his reception at the Dutch embassy, he'd dropped the stack of invitations and the card for Jimmy Roberts's graduation had fallen out onto the counter. Sarah had barely managed to suppress a groan. She had completely forgotten, though Bud had reminded her at least three times that week alone.

"I suppose we could manage to stop in for at least a few minutes," she had sighed.

Clay had looked at her strangely, and then stared back down at the card a moment longer, an odd –almost stricken—expression upon his face. When he finally spoke, his voice had been uncharacteristically hard, and she had been surprised by his answer.

"No," he said firmly. "We'll go to this. The hell with everything else."

She must have stared at him as if he'd suddenly grown a second head, because he'd shifted uneasily.

"What?" he'd demanded, his tone was defensive.

"Nothing," she murmured. "I'm just surprised you suggested it."

He shrugged. "This is important. Bud and Harriet are our friends. –Not like the rest of those Washington sycophants."

She'd raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Now that's certainly not the explanation I would have expected from you. My God, Clay, are you going soft on me?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I simply saw it as the best compromise. I give up the reception, you give up the benefit, and we go to the Roberts' instead. It gets us out of two boring social functions and makes me look good with my wife."

"You always look good to me," she had told him lightly as she kissed him on the lips. But he hadn't responded with quite his usual enthusiasm, and she got the niggling feeling that there was something else he wasn't saying.

That had bothered her more than she cared to admit, for it violated one of the tenets of their relationship. With his career being what it was, it had been understood that there would always be secrets between them.  Over the years, however, they had managed to compensate for it by sharing nearly everything else. Whether it was a bed, a toothbrush, a checkbook, or their innermost thoughts, there was almost nothing of a personal nature that they withheld from each other. But she sensed that he was keeping something from her now, and she didn't like it one bit.

Tigger kneaded his claws into her thigh, and she gently lifted his paws and squeezed them, toying with the sharp needles of his claws.  The cat purred contentedly and regarded her with knowing, yellow eyes.

"He probably told you what's bothering him, didn't he?" she accused, glaring at the cat. Tigger's purr rumbled louder. She took it as an affirmative.

Just the other night, she had awoken to an empty bed and had stumbled down the hallway in search of him. She had found him seated in front of the gas fireplace with a glass of sherry in one hand, while the other absently stroked the cat firmly ensconced in his lap.

"I thought you weren't a cat person," she had teased.

"I'm not," he'd returned, but he and the animal had traded such a look of intimate understanding that she was almost jealous.

Nor had he shoved Tigger off his lap to make room for her, as he usually did on nights when sleep evaded him. She couldn't help but feel a little hurt by the lapse, and her unease had grown when she'd ruffled his hair and kissed his cheek and gotten no more of a response than a small smile and the gentle squeeze of his hand upon her arm as she'd gone back to bed. She could feel him pulling away from her, drawing in upon himself, and she hated it. In sixteen years of marriage, he'd never done that before, and frankly, it was starting to worry her.

More and more often over the past few weeks, she had felt the silence growing between them. She had no idea how to breach it, nor did she really know its cause. As difficult as it was to admit, there were times when he seemed almost a stranger to her. In spite of all the fear and worry, last night had been the first glimpse she'd seen in a while of the old Clay, the man she that she knew and loved. She understood now that that had been the real reason she hadn't wanted to leave the hospital. For a few brief hours she'd had her sharp, passionate, smart-aleck of a husband back and she'd realized how much she'd missed him. She was afraid to let him go for fear that when she returned he'd once more be replaced by the withdrawn, troubled imposter that had haunted her bed these last few weeks.

Lord only knew what she'd find when she went back this morning. She wasn't entirely certain if he'd talk to her or not. Yesterday's events had scared the hell out of him, and it was likely that that, combined with the variety of drugs they'd given him, had loosed some of his inhibitions. By now he would have had time to recover, time to reconstruct his carefully guarded defenses.

It crossed her mind that perhaps this all might be tied to his heart attack somehow. She knew enough about it to know that these things did not just happen out of the blue. The medical journals and newsletters were always printing all sorts of information about how to spot the early warning signs. Maybe he had been experiencing them for a while now. Maybe he had just been afraid to tell her, for fear of worrying her and Penny. She scowled into her coffee cup. Even that wasn't like him. He'd never kept any worries about his health from her before. What in the hell was happening to them?

She finished the coffee and pushed the cat off her lap. No matter, she decided as she got to her feet. She would just come right out and ask him as soon as the opportunity presented itself and her chances of that were fairly good. For once, she had him as a captive audience. They might as well talk. There wasn't going to be a heck of a lot else he could do for a while.

She heard the soft snick of the door closing behind her and turned to see Victor, now dressed in a light, pinstriped shirt and dark slacks. A red silk tie was draped carelessly around his neck and his stocking feet were shoved into polished black loafers.

"Kennedy will be here in forty-five to drop off Penny. Is that enough time for you to get ready?"

She nodded, and he gave her an odd, questioning look as he began to knot his tie. "You look like you're about ready to launch the entire 1st Marine Division on somebody's six," he commented. "Is something wrong?"

"I'm starting to wonder," she said slowly. She reached out automatically, and straightened the knot. It was an ingrained, wifely habit that she could not quite suppress. She smoothed the tie for him and let her hand drop back to her side, her dark brown gaze locking with his. "I've gotten the feeling lately that there's something he's not telling me."

Galindez allowed his mouth to pull back in a lopsided smile. "Oh, there are lots of things he's not telling you," he agreed. "You know that."

She scowled at him, "That's not what I mean," she said irritably. "If it was just work, I'd know it. This is something else."

He looked at her for a long moment, sweeping her with what she could only describe as his "cop" stare. It was the one he'd always used when interviewing witnesses and evaluating their statements. There was nothing cold, or unkind about it, but it was firm, assessing and the kind of gaze that seemed to gauge everything you were saying –and all of the things that you weren't.  His eyes were serious now, his voice quiet as he spoke.

"Are you two having problems?" he asked gently.

God, she couldn't believe she was actually having this conversation with Victor Galindez, of all people. On the other hand, she really couldn't imagine talking to anybody else about it. Harriet would have fifty suggestions for how to fix the situation, and Bobbie …well, she and Bobbie had always been more comfortable talking shop than sharing personal woes. What's more, Victor knew Clay –probably better than anyone, aside from herself.

She sighed heavily. "I'm not sure." She lifted one shoulder in a slight gesture. "He just seems so distant lately, and I can't seem to reach him. He's keeping me at arm's length, Victor, and I don't know why."

She stared hard at Galindez, her dark eyes filled with worry. "What is it he's not telling me?"

Galindez dropped his chin and contemplated the polished toes of his black loafers for a moment. Damn. He hadn't imagined it. He had thought he sensed a certain tension between them the last time he and Paulina had dined with them, just before he'd left for Israel. He'd tried to brush it off as too much work and not enough play, but even then, he'd known better.

She was right, he thought. Something was up with Webb. He'd known the man for nearly twenty years –had been partnered with him for nine of them—and he'd come to recognize the shifting subtleties of that complex personality as well as anyone. Even if he did know what it might be, he couldn't tell her. It wasn't his place.

Victor Galindez clenched his jaw, not liking what his intuition was telling him, yet sensing the truth of it just the same. They had been through hell together, he and Webb. Air strikes, riots, torture and terrorist attacks –it didn't seem to matter—nothing ever seemed to phase the impenetrable armor that Webb girded himself with. Nothing ever seemed to crack that iron clad self control. –Except one thing. Fear. And as far as Victor Galindez knew, there was only one thing Clayton Webb was truly scared of: losing Sarah.

He could feel the muscle in his cheek beginning to twitch and tried to force his features to relax into a bland expression, lest he betray to her some glimpse of the thoughts racing through his head. If Webb was scared, then he must have reason. He must have done something, Galindez realized, something terrible. –Something that he feared would turn her from him.

"Damn you, Clay," Victor thought viciously, "what have you done to hurt her now? What is it you're hiding from her? Another woman?"

Even as the thought occurred to him, he recoiled from it. As far as he could tell, Clay hadn't so much as looked at another woman. The only one he'd ever had eyes for was Sarah. Besides, Clayton Webb was one of the smartest men he'd ever met. He just couldn't see him being that stupid. You didn't run around chasing tail when you had a woman like Sarah Mackenzie waiting for you at home. Still, Victor thought uneasily, there must be something, or else it wouldn't be coming between them now.

He could feel the weight of her gaze pressing down upon him, and he knew that she was expecting some kind of response. He didn't know what to say to her. He couldn't tell her what he really thought, what he suspected. Perhaps she would settle for what he knew to be true.

In a gesture that mirrored the man who had been his mentor, he thrust his hands into his pants pockets and gazed out over the low masonry wall of the back terrace to stare into the turquoise depths of the pool. "Permission to speak freely?" he asked at last, feeling as uncertain of her now as he had back in the days when she'd been a Colonel and he a Gunnery Sergeant.

"Please do," she said firmly.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and leaned upon the wall, bracing his elbows upon the smooth terracotta tiles inset into the wide ledge. Clasping his hands, he studied the rippling waters intently, as if the right words would somehow swim up from their crystalline depths.

"Sarah, I can't tell you what's going on with him. Most of the time, I don't know any more than you do. He's spent more than half his life dealing in secrets, compartmentalizing his feelings from his actions. Sometimes I wonder if he even knows what's going on inside of him. But I do know one thing. It may be the only thing I really do know about him, and I know it like I know the sun will rise in the East and set in the West." He paused and tilted his head to look her squarely in the eye. "I know that he loves you."

He heard her soft intake of breath and wondered if perhaps she'd doubted it lately. He smiled faintly, wondering how it was that two people who were so in love with each other could somehow lose site of something that was so obvious to everyone else. Unless…

"Do you still love him?" he asked quietly, his smile fading. Maybe that was what it was. Clay was nothing if not a perceptive son of a bitch.

"Yes," she replied in an exhalation that sounded too much like a sob and he was relieved.

"Good." He said firmly, pinning her with his gaze. "You want my advice? --Don't stop. Get angry with him if you have to. –Hell, half the time he has it coming. But whatever you do, don't stop loving him, and don't stop showing him that you do. He'll come around sooner or later."
            "Are you sure about that?"
            He nodded firmly. "I am. He needs you, Sarah. He always has. …He always will."
            Stepping up to him, she brushed a quick kiss across his cheek. "Thank you, Victor."