******

You're back at the desk on Monday, starched collar and straightbacked chair and a perfectly even expression.  You flip through a stack of files and ignore a stack of pink phone-message slips, at least after you flick through them to make certain there are no phone calls from your wife (ex-wife) or anyone named Brad.  You hate the name Brad. 

A thought tugs at your conscience, that nagging voice in your head that wonders if her infidelities were truly worse than yours; if seven-hour "business meetings" and quickies in the boardroom and furtive dinners in tiny suburbs are any worse than bold-faced lies in daytime, public promises to have and hold when you knew you couldn't keep them, pledges to love when you still weren't ready. 

But you shut this voice off, like you always do, and remember that she lives in a lovely starter-mansion with Brad the Wonderful and that when you get home at night you have to push Donovan off the couch before you can collapse there for a few hours sleep. 

You finish with the message slips and rifle through the day's mail, not looking for anything in particular and just hoping nothing will disturb the comfortable, pleasantly uneventful rhythm that you like to call Monday.  One envelope has no return address, a detail that might disturb you if this place weren't equipped with every sort of scanner known to man.  You slit the bulky envelope with the marble-handled letter opener your wife gave you for your birthday (that should have been your first clue) and slide the contents onto your desk.

It's a computer memory stick.

******

She finds you at your Tuesday night movie, and you hate her for this.  It's the one place you have to yourself, the one time you're not being called to fly halfway across the world to recover yet another computer disk or Rambaldi gizmo and the only time you're not putting up with kind smiles and gentle eyes and "so how are you doing?" and "hey, let's go for a beer.  You okay?"  and "why don't we catch a hockey game -- are you up to it?" all the other pseudo-kind things that don't help nearly as much as watching Brando in The Godfather.  So every Tuesday, you settle in with greasy popcorn and an oversize soda and watch some stereotypical guy movie while you try to forget the woman you left and the one who left you.

But tonight, the woman you left is sitting behind you.  She settles in just after the wedding scene and takes a seat one row behind you and two seats over.  You catch the whiff of her hand lotion and those rolling, feather-light steps and nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.  You wipe butter-greased fingers on your jeans, hiding your sloppy appearance like a guilty teenager, because she's used to seeing you dressed and pressed, even when she was used to seeing you without much at all. 

She waits to speak for a few scenes, when a burst of action full of bullets and screams masks her voice, hiding your conversation from the few people in the theater. 

"You may have some incorrect information." 

You ignore her bait.  She's invaded your privacy, and you're not giving her what she wants.  At least, not right away.

"Thanks for the hard drive." 

You can almost hear the hair flick over her shoulder.  "I don't know what you mean."

The denial is flat, unbelievable.  She doesn't expect you to believe her, just wants you to know how the game goes.  She's not ready to admit she's playing.   She gives you just enough time for this to sink in, then you both keep quiet, a lull in the action leaving the theater too quiet even for your hushed voices. 

Another few minutes, another burst of gunfire, and she leans ever so slightly forward. 

"You may have some incorrect information."

"You said that."

"You're in possession of a list of names that Sloane altered before copying the files.  All of the European contacts have been replaced with shell accounts that will trace back to Sloane himself.  Don't attempt to use them."

"Is the rest of the list clean?"

"As far as we know."

You have a hundred questions to ask her, most of all why you should trust her and what should make you think she's not just using you to vet the other half of the list.  But there's another burst of gunfire onscreen and another light whoosh of air behind you and then you know she's gone.  Again.