Part Twelve
Ten years earlier…
SOMEWHERE IN NORTH KOREA
Consciousness returned to him in slow, agonizing stages. The first sensation he became aware of was the dull, painful throbbing at the base of his skull. 'Rifle butt,' Clay thought dimly, remembering the shimmering image of the soldier reflected in the quiet water of the river only a split second before he had felt the explosion of pain and the darkness had taken him. This awareness was immediately followed by the fiery agony that radiated up and down his left leg, pulsing from a point midway along his upper thigh. 'Bullet wound,' he reminded himself and managed to crack a blood caked eyelid open enough to glance down at the wound, bound with a dirty scrap of cloth that had been his bandanna. Damn. That had been the good leg. On the other hand, he supposed he could try and look on the bright side: when he put it together with the scar from where Palmer had shot him, he'd at least have a matched pair.
The morbid thought caused a sour laugh to bubble out of him, and he instantly regretted it as it awakened a whole new barrage of agonies to be inventoried and assessed. Split cheekbone, missing molar, sprained ankle …and probably at least one broken rib. In short, he was a mess.
He achieved enough clarity to realize that he was sitting upright in a hard straight backed chair. He attempted to move and was immediately brought up short by battered muscles that screamed in protest from long, untold hours suspended in the awkward position. He sat still for a long moment, breathing shallowly through his nose and slowly took stock of the situation. He flexed his wrists and felt a fresh wave of pain slice through his flayed skin. They had bound him to the chair with plastic zip ties. He must have fought it, though he didn't remember. He was having a hard enough time remembering just how in the hell he had gotten into this situation in the first place.
'Kwan,' he thought bitterly. The little bastard had sold him out. He'd seen it in the man's eyes when they'd floated straight into the patrol. There had been no real surprise there. He'd reacted almost instantly, diving off the boat into the river, but he'd known even then that it had already been too late. The bullets had sliced the water like a storm of angry bees and he'd felt the impact as the 9-millimeter round had struck deep into his thigh. It had hampered his efforts as he'd struggled to dive deep into the filthy waters of the Tae-dong, but somehow, he had managed to make it to shore. To his credit, he had managed to lead them on a merry chase. Not bad, he thought, considering he was without supplies, wounded, half-drowned and had no idea where in the hell he was going. He'd managed to evade them for almost forty-eight hours before the weakness finally caught up to him. If it hadn't been for the bullet wound, he might have had a shot, but between the blood loss and the fever that had finally settled over him, he knew he was only buying time against the inevitable. Be it from the infected wound or a bullet from his captors, the outcome was going to be the same: He wasn't going to make it out.
There was Galindez, of course. Victor would have missed him by now. –How long had it been? –Two days? –Three? Galindez had to be harassing every contact from Beijing to Bangkok looking for him. Not that it was going to matter much. Galindez was only one man …and Webb was expendable. As soon as his capture was confirmed, the Agency would yank Galindez back so fast it would make his head spin. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, they'd bolt another star on the wall. Shit. He really hated doing that to Sarah.
Sarah. The random thought conjured her instantly in his mind and he wondered if they had told her yet. Probably not, he decided. They wouldn't until they were sure. He hoped they would at least have the decency to send Vic to do it. It would be better if it came from a friend. He closed his eyes and indulged himself for a moment, letting his thoughts travel back to that crazy little polychrome house on a quiet street in Alexandria. What would she be doing now? Probably playing with Penny in the back yard or splashing in the pool. Either that, he decided, or arguing with the contractors that were refurbishing the copper gutters on the house. If it were Saturday, she probably wouldn't be there at all. They'd both be at the farm, taking lunch with Mother and Harrison after a long, leisurely morning ride. God, what he wouldn't give to be there with them, just one more time.
He heard a rise of mingled voices from somewhere beyond the rusted iron grate that served for a window, and quickly packed all thoughts of home. He couldn't afford to think of any of that now. He had to keep his attention on the matter at hand. Obviously, the KPA had decided he'd had a long enough period of "softening up." The interrogation was about to begin.
A few minutes later he heard the screeching of a heavy door somewhere beyond his tiny chamber. Moments after that, the thick wooden door that secured the room was thrown back on protesting hinges. He stared dully at the floor until a pair of polished black boots crossed his line of vision and stopped, directly in front of him. He didn't look up. Frankly, he couldn't. The muscles in his neck seemed to have turned to jelly with the long hours strapped upright in the chair.
A black gloved hand gripped his chin firmly between thumb and forefinger and forced his head up to meet the few thin rays of sunlight that filtered through the grate. The muscles in his neck screamed in agony and intensified the pounding headache that had settled at the back of his head. In spite of his best intentions to remain silent, a small moan escaped him. Prying open both eyelids he managed to look into the face of the man before him with what he hoped was an expression of blank confusion, even as he quickly studied his captor. He didn't even need to glance at the medals and insignia on the man's uniform to know that his inquisitor was an important man indeed. The face was enough. It was scattered through no less than thirteen different files back in the Seoul Station.
General Yi Song-gye, the Director of the State Security Department, the North Korean equivalent of the CIA.
Shit. It just didn't get any worse than this.
Yi's dark, obsidian eyes drilled into him with the precision of a drill bit, waiting for him to flinch. He supposed that he should. After all, it was what some scared shitless Dutch photographer named Anders Vandergraaf would probably do, and if he had a hope in hell of getting out of this alive, it was by sticking to the cover. But there was some inner sense, be it instinct or stubbornness, which made him hold that steady black look until he finally put his finger upon it. Looking into the eyes of Yi Song-gye was like staring a tiger in the face. If you matched his gaze, you were possibly an equal. If you blinked, you were prey.
He didn't blink.
Releasing his grip upon Webb's chin, Yi turned away in a sharp, dismissive gesture. He walked to the other side of the small metal table and took a seat in the chair directly across from the one in which Webb was bound. Flipping open the single manila file folder that was precisely positioned on the table before him, Yi studied the first page for a moment, then spoke in a short, sharp burst of Korean.
Clay sensed the movement from somewhere behind him, and tensed involuntarily. He couldn't quite suppress the sharp hiss of breath as the blade of the knife slid against his raw skin and sliced through the plastic ties that bound his wrists. Slowly, carefully, he pulled his arms from behind the chair and brought his hands to lay flat upon the table before him. His muscles twitched and tingled with the slow return of the blood flow, but he resisted the urge to rub them. It was all about appearances, this game. He couldn't afford to blink.
Instead, he took the opportunity to openly study his captor. Physically, Yi was not a particularly tall or brawny man, but there was an aura about him that exuded force and power and made him seem larger than he actually was. He looked to be perhaps in his late forties, but this too was an illusion, for the Agency files definitively pinned his age as sixty one, although there was some debate as to the exact place of his birth. It was his precision, Webb decided, which lent to Yi's aura of infallibility.
There was a boundless vigor to the man, but it was tightly controlled and channeled into such precise movements and mannerisms as to seem indestructible. It made him think of a munitions factory he'd once visited in West Germany, where powerful and highly concentrated jets of water were used to cut and machine high grade steel and titanium alloys into casings for missiles. Yi was like one of those water jets: smooth and fluid, yet focused and deadly sharp.
Yi looked up suddenly, snapping the folder shut. He spoke to Webb, another short, machine gun burst of Korean, and Webb silently cursed himself for not picking up more of the language. But then again, he really hadn't expected to actually be running a mission here. It was only supposed to be another housecleaning operation. --Find the leak and plug it. Hob-knobbing with the locals just hadn't been on the agenda …until the North Korean mouse decided to roar and everyone discovered the goddamned thing did have teeth after all …or at least nuclear missiles.
He forced himself to meet Yi's gaze and considered his options: Dutch or Thai? Which would fit better with his cover? It was possible, he decided, that Anders Vandergraaf, if he was any kind of a photojournalist, would speak both. He gave his name first in Dutch, and then, more haltingly, in Thai, asking to be put in touch with his embassy.
Yi regarded him impassively for a long moment. When he finally spoke, it was in smooth, flawless, impeccably cultured English that bore just the slightest trace of a Boston accent.
"Let us not waste time with pretense, Mr. Webb. It will only delay the inevitable."
Webb stared at him blankly. He didn't know what to say, and so he said nothing.
Yi opened the file once more and slowly began turning pages. "Your record is very impressive," Yi said as he slowly scanned the information. "A graduate of Harvard and the National Cryptographic School, a brief stint in the Army achieving the rank of Major, and currently listed as a Colonel in the reserves…" Yi flipped another page, "You've spent some time with the NSA before coming to the Central Intelligence Agency where you apparently rose quite rapidly through the ranks until for some reason you suddenly fell out of favor with your former Director…" Yi turned to the last page, "a brief recall to Washington and glory by the newly appointed DCI Kershaw …and then nothing. –Except, of course for a few scattered rumors…." Yi let the sentence trail off.
Nothing? Webb thought wildly. Yi had almost everything except his fifth grade report card and the name of his dog laid out right there on the table in front of him. Where in the hell had he gotten it? Clay felt the knots begin to clench in the pit of his stomach. There was only one place he could have gotten it. God damn it! He'd known the leaks in the Seoul station were bad, but apparently they'd been even worse than he could have imagined.
It was common knowledge that the North Koreans had many well placed spies inside the South Korean government and intelligence community, but it had always been assumed that the U.S. intelligence placed there was impervious to infiltration. Webb had known damned well that that was not the case when Kershaw had sent him and Galindez in to "get their Asian house in order," but even he had not realized just how bad it really was. There had to be a mole inside the Seoul station. One that was still active. –One that Galindez was probably not yet aware of. Benny Kwan was probably just the tip of the iceberg.
"I'm honored," Clay said dryly, deciding that Yi was right about one thing: there was simply no point in keeping up the pretense. They obviously had him dead to rights. "I had no idea that your agency had taken such an interest in my career."
Yi shrugged. "I will admit that our interest is fairly recent, but we deemed you worthy of scrutiny nonetheless." He smiled a chilling tiger's smile. "It is not often that one has the opportunity to encounter a true Emperor's Hand."
"Emperor's Hand?" Clay frowned, not quite sure what Yi was getting at.
"A spy's spy, so to speak," Yi said, and arched one narrow black brow. Could it be that this barbarian imperialist had no idea of his own reputation? "It is an old Korean legend," he explained, "In the old days of the Imperial Dynasties, it was said that the Emperor often selected from among his most trusted warriors one man in whom he could place his supreme confidence. This man was both spy and assassin and vested with the full powers of the Emperor. His identity was unknown to anyone else, yet in the proper time and place he might speak with the Emperor's voice or slay with his hand --thus the term.'"
"Fascinating," Webb said, "But I'm not entirely certain what it has to do with me. My country was still a democracy last I checked."
"Your country, perhaps," Yi agreed, "But not the CIA. From all reports, your Mr. Kershaw has been running the Company with an iron fist since Mr. Watts' unfortunate dismissal. I understand that he has been 'getting the house in order?'"
Clay resisted the urge to grit his teeth. God damn it! That phrase had come word for word from one of Kershaw's internal agency memos. What the hell had they been doing down there in Seoul? Forwarding courtesy copies to the North Korean government in P'yŏngyang?
"And then of course, there are the stories," Yi continued. "No one seems to know exactly what it is you do, Mr. Webb, but one thing is agreed upon. Wherever you go, offices are reorganized. Information useful to our cause stops flowing. People are either transferred or…" Yi hesitated meaningfully, "…disappear…"
Webb said nothing, but something hardened in the green of his eyes, and Yi smiled again, knowing that it was a truth confirmed.
"You'll pardon my confusion, General," Clay said carefully, but I thought this was supposed to be an interrogation, not a recitation of my resume."
Yi raised his head, his eyes boring into Webb's, dark and earnest. "Oh, but this is not an interrogation, Mr. Webb. –Quite the contrary, in fact."
Yi rose from his chair and paced towards the small, high, grated window. His hands locked behind his back in an automatic gesture. Webb followed his movements from the corner of his eye. Not an interrogation? He used the tip of his tongue to gently probe at the raw, bleeding hole where his tooth had been. They could have fooled him.
"To be quite honest," Yi said as he gazed out the window, "there is no need to question you. I know who you are. I know what you have done. –I even know how you did it."
Yi let the import of his words sink in for a moment before turning back to Webb. "The only real question is what shall I do with you now?"
He unlaced his hands from behind his back and spread them before him in a gesture of exasperation. "Under normal circumstances, the answer would be quite obvious. I am perfectly within my rights to have you tried for espionage and executed. However, in light of your particular crime, the Supreme Leader is far more interested in seeing you turned over to the Chinese. It is a position I would normally agree with, considering that it was their airplane that you conspired to destroy."
Yi stopped a few feet short of his prisoner. "But by your very methods, Mr. Webb, you have denied me both of those most satisfying resolutions." He laced his hands behind his back. "I cannot execute you without risking the wrath of the Supreme Leader and jeopardizing my seat in the Political Bureau. –And I dare not allow you to be handed over to the Chinese for interrogation."
Webb allowed himself a small shrug, in spite of the pain that it cost him. "It is a bit of a quandary," he admitted, and risked a grim smirk. "So did you come here to ask me for my advice?"
A trace of anger flitted across Yi's features at the flippant tone, but it was quickly replaced by a bitter smile. "I think not," he said easily. "One in your position can hardly be objective about such a matter."
"The same could be said of you," Clay pointed out. He knew even as he said it that he probably should have kept his mouth shut. But in the end, he supposed it really didn't matter. Either way, silence wasn't going to buy him much. He might as well enjoy the sarcasm.
To his surprise, Yi's only response was a sharp bark of laughter. "So bold, even in the face of your own demise," the General paused. "Not many Asians would appreciate such audacity. --How fortunate for you that I am one of them."
"Undoubtedly a result of your impeccable Western education," Clay said dryly.
Yi nodded thoughtfully. "One must know one's enemy," he agreed, "which really brings us back to my original reason for conducting this little interview."
"Which was?" Webb prompted.
Yi smiled benignly. "Curiosity," he said at last, "…and a desire to know my enemy." His smile faded and the obsidian eyes grew dark and cold with barely contained fury. "I wanted to meet the man who convinced Yi ki-Chiang to betray his country. I wanted to meet the man who turned my son against me."
The Webb Residence
23:55 HRS EST
30 May, 2021
The soft jingle of dog tags and the low growl that emanated from somewhere just outside the guest room door pulled Sarah's attention away from the soft liquid glow of the laptop's monitor. Tilting her head towards the locked door, she held her breath and listened. The house was hushed with intense quiet, but gradually her ears were able to identify and discern the tiny ambient noises: the soft whisper of the central air, the hum of the ceiling fan above her head and the faint click of Jack's toenails on the polished hardwood floors as he paced restlessly down the length of the hallway. The old dog paused suddenly and whined. It was a small sound, carried low in the back of his throat. From somewhere beyond the hallway, she heard a soft thump and Jack growled again, louder this time. She sighed and pushed the laptop aside, folding down the monitor to conceal the document she really hadn't been reading.
It was going to be another one of those nights.
Swinging her feet to the floor, she slipped from the bed and reached for the robe she'd draped across the Stickley rocker. Pulling the garment on, she knotted the belt and crossed to the door, cursing when it didn't immediately open. She couldn't quite ignore the small twinge of guilt that assailed her as she twisted the lock. In all the years of their marriage, it was the one thing she had never done. She had never shut Clay out.
No matter what the disagreement, they'd always gone toe to toe and slugged it out until some sort of resolution –or truce—had been reached. She had never run from a fight –especially not with Clay. She wasn't entirely certain why she was running away from this one.
Yes you are, a small voice chided. You're a coward, Sarah Mackenzie-Webb. You ran to Russia when you were afraid to face Mic. You ran to the Sea Hawk when you were afraid to face Harm…and now you're running to your own damned guest room because you're afraid of what you'll find out if Clay really does break down and tell you the truth.
The fact of the matter was that she'd gone looking for the truth, and now she was finding that the closer she got, the less ready she was to hear it. It was leading her back to her own front door –to her own husband—and the more she discovered, the more she saw the fear growing in his eyes, the more frightened she became. Clay wasn't afraid of much, but he was afraid of this. And perhaps, she thought ruefully, that was more than enough to damn him.
She stepped into the hallway and looked down at Jack, who stood before her door looking tense and nervous. She paused to listen. Then, from the other end of the house, she heard it: a faint moan and a muffled thud. She sighed and spoke reassuringly to the old dog.
"It's all right, Jack. It's no burglar."
She almost wished it was. A burglar, at least, she knew how to handle.
The dog relaxed with a small sigh and sauntered back to his spot outside Penny's door. Turning on her heel, she moved down the hallway towards the source of the disturbance.
The soft glow from the fireplace cast long golden fingers of light about the room, lengthening the shadows and weaving them back and forth in a hypnotic dance of darkness and light. Threading her way around the couch and past an unlit floor lamp, she spotted the cat, tightly crouched in a huge orange ball beneath one corner of the coffee table. His bright golden eyes were wide open and studying the man in the wing chair with a fearful intensity.
The cat scurried away as she drew near, beating a strategic retreat to the shadowed refuge between the couch and the wall. He half-settled there, curling his tail about his feet, but she could tell from the nervous shifting of his paws and the wide yellow eyes that focused upon her intently that he was still spooked. She couldn't blame him. Clay's nightmares –when they were really bad—were enough to scare anyone.
Wrapping her robe more tightly about herself, she took a reluctant seat on the corner of the coffee table and studied her sleeping husband. Angry as she was at him, she still hated seeing him like this. She paused for a moment, watching as he jerked convulsively at some unknown terror. There was a part of her that couldn't help but be struck by the irony of the situation.
Usually, she loved to watch him sleep. It was only in those moments of unguarded slumber that the lines of care and worry eased from his face. It was only then that she could find the last traces of that little boy who smiled at her so sweetly from the yellowing pages of Porter's old photo album. There had been many a lazy Sunday morning she had lain in bed and watched him and wondered what their own son might have looked like. The doctors had said there could be no more children after Penny, but if Clay had regretted the lack of an heir to the Webb family name, he had never allowed it to show. Penny was their miracle, he had told her, and as far as he could see, one miracle per lifetime was as much as any man could hope for. Still, there was a part of her that always yearned for that little boy, and so she contented herself with lying quietly in bed on a Sunday morning and searching for the child she could not have in the face of the man that she loved.
Clay muttered incoherently and thrashed restlessly in his chair, his face screwed up in an expression of extreme distress. She sighed and leaned towards him, noting the nervous darting of his eyes behind the closed lids, and the small beads of sweat that had dampened his forehead. She frowned. If the respite of peaceful sleep erased the years from his face, the torment of the nightmares aged him. The lines of tension were deeply carved around his eyes and mouth and he always seemed to shrink in upon himself, becoming smaller, thinner and more fragile. It was in these dark moments that she was suddenly struck by the gray in his hair and the weariness in his eyes and always wondered when he had become so old.
He shifted again and muttered something. It sounded like "yee," but it didn't make much sense. She shook her head in exasperation. He was always so worried about talking in his sleep, afraid he'd reveal something classified, but he had no reason for concern. When he did murmur his dreams aloud, it never was anything coherent.
She leaned a little closer. "Clay," she called softly. His brow furrowed. He stirred, but didn't wake.
"Clay," she called again, her tone more insistent. She knew better than to touch him. Like any combat veteran, he was bound to come up swinging. She called his name a third time, barking it like a Marine D.I. and he sprang suddenly back to wakefulness with a loud, gasping breath. His eyes, wide and unfocused, darted wildly about the darkened room, seeking his unseen enemy. His slim, tapered fingers clenched the arms of the chair in a white knuckled grip. His gaze fell upon her, and he flinched back instinctively.
"It's all right, Clay," she said softly, "You were dreaming."
He expelled the breath he had been holding in a long, ragged sigh and leaned forward, bracing his elbows upon his knees and burying his face in his palms.
"Yeah," he said gruffly. The word was muffled in his trembling hands.
When a long moment passed and he still did not raise his eyes to hers, she rose from the coffee table and came to stand in front of him. She reached out a tentative hand and stroked the locks of sweaty hair back from his forehead. He was still shaking.
"It must have been a bad one," she said quietly.
He didn't answer, but the arms that shot out and pulled her to him confirmed the observation. His hands gripped hard at her hips and he pressed his forehead tightly against her middle. He drew a long, shuddering breath, inhaling deeply of her scent. Both of her hands were in his hair now. Slowly, she traced her fingers along his temples and behind his ears, caressing down the back of his neck until she finally felt the tension begin to drain from his body.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He laughed sharply. It was short, petulant sound. "No."
So, she thought grimly, the smart ass was back.
She pulled back and his hands fell from her hips as if she had burned him. He rubbed his hands across his haggard features, raking his fingers through his hair. Then, with a sudden, powerful movement, he lunged from the chair and stalked across the room to stand before the fireplace. He stared hard for a moment at the parade of small, framed photographs that strung along the mantel, but she knew that he wasn't really seeing any of them.
She folded her arms across her chest. "So is it classified? –Or just 'need to know?'"
His jaw clenched and he darted a small, dirty look in her direction. But he didn't speak. She could see the slight stiffening of his posture --could feel the walls coming up between them and silently cursed her own temper. She should have known better than to bait him. Clay always clammed up when he was on the defensive. If she'd taken a softer tact, she might have gotten through. But she'd blown it. Now she'd never be able to get past the arrogant asshole to reach the man who was hurting inside. ---The man who was hurting her.
She forced herself to tamp down her frustration. If they were going to talk, they needed to do it now. The opportunity had finally presented itself, and there wouldn't be time tomorrow.
"I'm sorry," she said at last. "I didn't mean to accuse you."
He stared moodily into the fire. "Yes you did," he said simply. "You wouldn't have said it if you didn't."
He pushed away from the mantel and turned to face her. His eyes were dark and unreadable in the firelight.
"You knew what you were getting into when we got married. I warned you that it would be this way." He paused for words, and a small muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. "I am sorry that it has to be like this, but I am not going to apologize for who I am or what I do."
"Does it have to be like this?" she asked softly. She shook her head. "We've been through rough patches before, Clay. Even when there were things you couldn't tell me –which was all the time—you never shut me out completely. Why are you doing it now? Why is this different?"
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his robe, balling them into fists. "I can't tell you why, Sarah. –It just is." His eyes darted away from hers. "You're going to have to take my word for that."
She eyed him for a long moment. "I wish I could," she said, and sank back down onto the coffee table.
The silence stretched out between them. She studied her folded hands, noting the way the firelight played across her wedding rings and sparked across her diamond solitaire. It was an icy winter white. Not as large as the first one he'd given her, but flawless and of the finest clarity and cut. As she stared at the stone, she suddenly recalled the voice of Agent VanDien, the diamond expert, accented and gravelly and soft as a whisper in the back of her mind.
"Diamonds are like people, Colonel. Sometimes, the flaws are hidden."
She looked thoughtfully at Clay. Perhaps truer words were never spoken. Clay was very much like a diamond. In the right setting, he was hard, sharp, brilliant and cutting, but he also had his flaws. He was very good at hiding them. He kept them buried deep beneath the sparkle of his wit, disguised them with the polish of his wealth and power, but they were there just the same. It was only when he was under pressure or close scrutiny that they could be discerned, but she knew what to look for –in diamonds, and in men.
He was just standing there now, watching her quietly. --Waiting, no doubt, for her to make the next gambit in this little chess game. She considered him carefully. He obviously was not going to talk. All right, then. Perhaps he would listen.
"I'm so tired of this, Clay," she said softly.
"Tired of what?"
Typical Webb, she thought. She knew he wasn't trying to play dumb. He was simply asking for specifics. She sighed and waved a hand as she searched for the appropriate description. The firelight caught on her ring, a tiny spark in the darkness between them.
"This….this gulf between us," she said finally. "I don't know where it came from, or why it's there, and I'm tired of not knowing that, either."
She drew her legs up to her chest and hugged them close, resting her chin upon her knees as she contemplated the steady flames of the fire. "I know there's something wrong between us," she said finally, "but I don't know what –and you won't tell me, so I can't fix it." She shook her head angrily. "It's like you think I'm just supposed to know, but I don't know!"
He sighed heavily. "No, sweetheart," he said softly, "you're not supposed to know. That's the whole trouble."
Her head shot up quickly, her eyes brimming with outrage and disbelief. "Just what in the hell are you saying?" She hissed. "—I'm not supposed to know? I'm not supposed to know what's wrong with you? –I'm not supposed to know what's wrong with us? I'm your wife for God's sake!"
Clay groaned in frustration. He should have known better than to get into this kind of discussion with her tonight. He was tired and rattled. He wasn't thinking clearly about what he was saying, and now he had one very pissed off retired Marine on his hands.
"Sarah," he said soothingly, as he frantically searched for the words to placate her, but she was having none of it. She jumped to her feet and stalked towards him, her brown eyes snapping.
"No!" She said sharply, pushing him back with the force of her anger. "No, Clay! Don't you dare try and tell me to calm down! I can't believe you actually said that! Is that really your solution? Just keep me in the dark and hope I'll play the good little wife and forget all about it? If it is, I've got news for you. I'm tired of the fencing, but that doesn't mean I'm going to stop. Sooner or later, you're going to have to stop trying to protect me and tell me just what in the hell is going on."
He snorted. "I'm not trying to protect you, Sarah. Believe me, I know better."
"Then who are you protecting?" she demanded.
He managed to hold her eyes, but he didn't answer.
She turned away. "It's not like I'm asking for the moon here, Clay. I know that there are things that you can't tell me. I've always known that. I understand it and I accept it –even if I don't always like it."
She wrapped her arms tightly about herself to suppress the sudden chill that was stealing over her. "But lately I've gotten the feeling that you're not being honest with me –and that I can't accept." She shook her head. "I remember very well what you told me when we got married. –And I also remember what I told you: I can handle the secrets, Clay …but I can't take the lies."
She waited a long time for his response. When he spoke, it was in a voice more tired and weary than she had ever heard.
"Neither can I."
She didn't know what she had expected him to say, but that wasn't it. She turned back to him, and found that he was no longer standing behind her. He had broken the rules of his own paranoia and crossed to the large bank of windows that looked out into the spacious wooded grounds of their front lawn. He was staring blankly out into the night, searching for the demons that lay hidden in the darkness.
"Do you really think I like this job? Do you think I like what it's made of me?"
He shook his head grimly. "I hate it," he said fiercely. "I hate what I've become. Playing with people's lives like it was a game of chess …and for what? Does it really make a difference? Is the world really any safer? –Or is it worse, because in the end, maybe all we did was stir the pot?"
He laughed bitterly. "When you and I were kids, the worst thing we had to worry about was whether Fidel and the Russians were going to drop a bomb on us. At least then we knew what to be afraid of. Now we don't even have that luxury. Do you know that every time Penny brings home a permission slip to go on some class trip or another, it scares the hell out of me to sign it? I keep thinking of all the possibilities. A suicide bomber could hijack her bus, some damned terrorist could set off a canister of Ebola or Anthrax in a museum ventilation system …or fly a god damned plane into one of the monuments she's visiting –and that's just a tenth of the scary shit that flies across my desk every day." He drew a ragged breath. "But it's the world I've left my daughter. –Some difference I've made."
She frowned at him. "You can't blame yourself for all of that, Clay. It took more people than just you to get the world in the mess it is today. One man can't do it all."
"Maybe not," he conceded, "but I certainly played my part, didn't I?" He stared vacantly out into the night.
"Do you know how many people I've killed, Sarah?"
She felt an icy chill race down her spine at the eerie, toneless quality of his voice. "No," she said quietly.
"Neither do I," he whispered. "I've lost count."
He bit back a harsh laugh, tinged with hysteria. "Some of them didn't even die for a good reason. They were just some poor dumb bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time who saw too much. –Do you know how many men I've tortured and broken, getting them to talk? –Atef was the worst. I thought I was going to have to kill the son of a bitch."
He was wild and rambling now. It was as if a dam had burst inside of him, and it frightened her.
"Clay, stop."
But he didn't stop. He couldn't. He plunged on, his eyes locked fiercely on the window and she suddenly realized that he wasn't looking through the glass, but at it. It wasn't the monsters outside in the darkness he was searching for, it was the one reflected in the darkened glass …the one inside himself.
"We shocked him," there was no emotion in his voice. It was as if he had shut off a switch somewhere inside of himself. "Just like Fahd did to me, but we were a little more sophisticated about it. We used a defibrillator from the Medical Bay. …No burns. …No evidence."
"Clay…"
"—And you know what the worst part is?" He pulled back from the window and rounded upon her. His eyes were wild and dark and haunted.
"I liked it, Sarah," he said hoarsely. "God help me, but on some level I actually liked it."
He seemed to come back to himself then. He fell silent for a moment, his eyes scanning her wide, dark eyes and bloodless face. He expelled a long, slow breath. His cheeks puffed out slightly with the effort.
"You're right," he said at last. "I have been dishonest with you. I've lied... I've killed people. I've put men and women through such living hell that they've begged me for mercy. –And I didn't give it to them. I couldn't. Not until they gave me what I wanted. –And sometimes they couldn't give it to me …because they never had it to begin with."
His eyes were old, and tired, and infinitely sad. He laughed ruefully. "--And you want me to let you in. –Can you really blame me for wanting to keep you out?"
She didn't speak, just stared at him as he read the swiftly churning emotions in her eyes. It didn't take a mind reader to know what she was thinking. He'd seen that look on her face once before, years ago, on dusty track of abandoned road in Paraguay. He'd forced himself to look upon that expression, so filled with horror and fury and revulsion. She had pinned him with the weight of those furious brown eyes, and he had felt his control begin to crumble …just as it was crumbling now. He turned away quickly. He couldn't bear to see that look on her face and know that he was the cause of it.
The hand that settled upon his shoulder was firm and insistent as it drew him back to her. He closed his eyes tightly, unable to meet her gaze. Her fingers crept over him, smoothing along the column of his neck to caress his jaw and cup his cheek. He swallowed hard at the contact. His breathing was faster now, shallow and raspy and he was fighting hard to control it. Slowly, she brought her other hand up, framing his face between her palms. Stroking her thumbs across his cheekbones, she tilted his head down to hers and pressed her forehead to his. They stood that way for a long moment, each absorbing comfort from the other.
"Why is it you always try to scare me off?" she whispered. "You should know by now that it doesn't work."
He opened his eyes to look at her and she smiled wryly at him. "I'm not naïve, Clay. I know exactly what your work involves. –I've seen it firsthand, remember?"
He nodded. "And you hated it." He pulled away and looked down at her, his hazel eyes unreadable. "I'll never forget the look on your face after I shot that driver in Paraguay. You were horrified."
"You're right," she said simply. "I was. –By the act, Clay. By the necessity of it, --not by you."
He laughed grimly and turned back to the window. "Now who's the liar, Sarah? You were ready to punch my lights out, remember?"
"Because you weren't leveling with me," she shot back. "Just like you're not doing now."
More silence. He clenched his teeth tightly with the effort of maintaining it. He was so damned tired of this secret. He wanted to tell her –more than she knew. But he also knew that he couldn't. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the cool pane of the window. He'd already said too much tonight. More than he should have. –More than was sanctioned. And he couldn't stop thinking of that look in her eyes –the same look she'd given him when he'd shot Alvaro all those years ago. He swallowed hard. Shit. The things he'd let slip tonight were just the tip of the iceberg. What would she say if he did tell her all of it? What would she do if he did tell her what really happened to Rabb?
'She'd leave you.'
He felt her touch again, this time between his shoulder blades as she stroked soothingly down the length of his back. He inhaled sharply, in a desperate effort to keep it all inside. He couldn't tell her. He couldn't.
She moved to stand beside him at the window. She didn't look at him; somehow she knew that he could not bear it. Instead, she gazed out into the darkness, seeking the lights of the city that somehow managed to twinkle through the heavy canopy of ancient oaks.
"You know what the worst part of this is?" She asked quietly.
"What?"
"You're standing right here beside me, but you might as well be on the other side of the world."
He risked a small glance at her face and his breath caught as he saw the silvery thin trail of a tear tracking its way down her cheek.
"I miss you, Clay." She said softly. "I miss my husband."
He reached out and cupped her cheek, brushing the dampness away with his thumb. He looked at her for a long moment, his green eyes dark and unreadable.
"I miss my wife," he said simply.
She stepped into his arms then, and he held her tightly, desperately to him.
"I wish you would talk to me," she whispered.
He drew a ragged breath and stepped back. "I can't," he said firmly, hating the strain that was evident in his voice.
"Because it's classified?" She pressed, knowing that she had him on the edge.
"No," he said softly, closing his eyes. He couldn't do it. He couldn't lie to her again.
"Then why?" she demanded. "Why can't you tell me?"
The truth, he thought dimly. He had to tell her the truth.
"Because I love you."
This time, the silence was hers. He found that he could not stand it, not with the way she looked at him, her eyes dark and searching and completely unrevealing of her thoughts.
"Say something," he said at last.
She held the silence a moment more. "You love me?" she said, her voice ringing with disbelief. "You lie to me and keep things from me and that's all that you have to say for yourself? –That you love me?"
"Sarah…"
She shook her head slowly. "I'm sorry, Clay. That's just not good enough."
He reached for her, but she sidestepped him neatly and stalked away into the darkness. He thought of going after her, but he didn't know what to say. By the time he did think of something, she was already gone. The guestroom door closed softly enough, but the turning of the lock was an audible sound in the stillness of the night. The sense of self-loathing washed over him, stronger now than ever. He turned once again to the window and stared back into the eyes of the monster within.