Decker had no brothers or sisters. He had never married, partly because he had refused to inflict his Spartan way of life on someone he loved, partly because that way of life prevented him from finding anyone with whom he felt free to fall in love. His only friends were fellow operatives, and now that he had resigned from intelligence work, the controversial circumstances behind that resignation would prompt those friends to feel inhibited around him, not certain about which topics would be safe to discuss.
Maybe I made a mistake, Decker thought, sipping more bourbon. Maybe I shouldn’t have resigned, he brooded, switching channels. Being an operative gave me a direction. It gave me an anchor.
It was killing you, Decker reminded himself, and it ruined for you every country where you ever had an assignment. The Greek islands, the Swiss Alps, the French Riviera, the Spanish Mediterranean—these were but a few of the glamorous areas where Decker had worked. But they were tainted by Decker’s experiences there, and he had no wish to go back and be reminded. In fact, now that he thought about it, he was struck by the irony that just as most people thought of those places as glamorous, so Decker’s former profession was often portrayed in fiction as being heroic, whereas Decker thought of it as no more than a wearying, stultifying, dangerous job. Hunting drug lords and terrorists might be noble, but the slime of the quarry rubbed off on the hunter. It certainly rubbed off on me, Decker thought. And as I found out, some of the bureaucrats I worked for weren’t all that slime-free, either.
What to do? Decker repeated to himself. Made sleepy by the bourbon, he peered through drooping eyelids at the television set and found himself frowning at something that he had just seen. Not understanding what it had been, oddly curious to find out, he roused himself and reversed channels, going back to one that he had just flicked past. As soon as he found the image that had intrigued him, he didn’t understand why it had intrigued him. All he knew was that something in it had subconsciously spoken to him.
He was looking at a documentary about a team of construction workers renovating an old house. The house was unusual, reminiscent of pueblo-style earthen dwellings he had come across in Mexico. But as he turned up the sound on the television, he learned that the house, astonishingly elegant regardless of its simple design, was in the United States, in New Mexico. It was made from adobe, the construction foreman explained, adding that the word adobe referred to large bricks made of straw and mud. These bricks, which resulted in an exceptionally solid, soundproof wall, were covered with a clay-colored stucco. The foreman went on to explain that an adobe house was flat-roofed, the roof slanted slightly so that water could drain off through spouts called canales. An adobe house had no sharp edges; every corner was rounded. Its entrance often had a column-supported overhang called a portal. The windows were recessed into thick walls.
Leaving the distinctive dwelling whose sandy texture and clay color blended wonderfully with the orange, red, and yellow of its high-desert surroundings, the announcer made some concluding comments about craft and heritage while the camera panned across the neighborhood. Amid mountain foothills, surrounded by junipers and pinion trees, there were adobe houses in every direction, each with an eccentric variation, so that the impression was one of amazing variety. But, as the announcer explained, in a sense, adobe houses were unusual in New Mexico, because they were present in force in only one city.
Decker found that he was leaning forward to hear the name of that city. He was told that it was one of the oldest settlements in the United States, dating back to the 1500s and the Spanish conquest, still retaining its Spanish character: the city whose name meant holy faith, these days nicknamed the “City Different,” Santa Fe.
2
Decker was right to be suspicious—two men were waiting for him in the lobby. The time was just after 8:00 A.M. He turned from the checkout counter, saw them, and knew that there wasn’t any point in trying to avoid them. They smiled as he crossed the busy lobby toward them. At least, the right men have been chosen for the assignment, Decker thought. Their controllers obviously hoped that he would let his guard down, since he knew both of them, having served with them, in military special operations.
“Steve, long time. How you been?” one of the men asked. He and his partner were close to Decker’s height and weight— six feet, 190 pounds. They were also around Decker’s age— forty. Because they had gone through the same physical training, they had a similar body type—narrow hips and a torso that broadened toward solid shoulders designed to provide the upper-body strength essential in special operations. But there, the resemblance with Decker ended. While Decker’s hair was sandy and slightly wavy, the man who had spoken had red hair cut close to his scalp. The other man had brown hair combed straight back. Both men had hard features and wary eyes that didn’t go with their smiles and their business suits.
“I’m fine, Ben,” Decker told the red-haired man. “And you?”
“Can’t complain.”
“How about you, Hal?” Decker asked the other man.
“Can’t complain, either.”
No one offered to shake hands.
“I hope the two of you didn’t have to keep watch all night.”
“Only came on at seven. Easy duty,” Hal said. “Checking out?” He pointed toward Decker’s suitcase.
“Yeah, a last-minute change of plan.”
“Where you headed?”
“La Guardia,” Decker said.
“Why don’t we drive you?”
Decker tensed. “I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble. I’ll catch a taxi.”
“No trouble at all,” Hal said. “What kind of buddies would we be if, after all these years of not seeing you, we didn’t put ourselves out for you. This won’t take a minute.” Hal reached into his suit coat, pulled out a thin cellular phone, and pressed numbers. “You’ll never guess who we just bumped into,” he said into the telephone. “Yeah, we’re talking to him right now in the lobby. Good, we’ll be waiting.” Hal broke the transmission and put the phone away. “Need help with your suitcase?”
“I can manage.”
“Then why don’t we go outside and wait for the car?”
Outside, traffic was already dense, car horns blaring.
“See,” Ben said. “You might not have been able to get a taxi.” He noticed a uniformed doorman coming toward them. “Everything’s under control,” he told the man, motioning him away. He glanced toward the overcast sky. “Feels like it might rain.”
“It was forecast,” Hal said.
“The twinge in my left elbow is all the forecast I need. Here’s the car,” Ben said.
A gray Pontiac, whose driver wasn’t familiar to Decker, pulled up in front of the hotel. The car’s backseat had tinted windows that made it difficult to see in.
“What did I tell you?” Ben said. “Only a minute.” He opened the passenger door and gestured for Decker to get in.
Heart pounding, Decker glanced from Ben to Hal and didn’t move.
“Is there a problem?” Hal asked. “Don’t you think you’d better get in? You’ve got a plane to catch.”
“I was just wondering what to do about my suitcase.”
“We’ll put it in the trunk. Press the button that opens the trunk, will you?” Ben told the driver. A moment later, the back latch made a thunking sound. Ben took Decker’s suitcase, lifted the back lid, set the suitcase inside the trunk, and closed the lid. “There, that takes care of that. Ready?”
Decker hesitated another moment. His pulse racing faster, he nodded and got in the back of the Pontiac. His stomach felt cold.
Ben got in beside him while Hal took the passenger seat in front, turning to look back at Decker.
“Buckle up,” the thick-necked driver said.
“Yeah, safety first,” Ben said.
Metal clinked against metal as Decker secured his seat belt, the others doing the same.
The driver pressed a button that caused another thunking sound and locked all the doors. T
he Pontiac’s engine rumbling, he steered into traffic.
3
“A mutual acquaintance told me you said on the phone last night you were tired of flying,” Ben said.
“That’s right.” Decker glanced out the tinted windows toward pedestrians carrying briefcases, purses, rolled-up umbrellas, whatever, walking briskly to work. They seemed very far away.
“So why are you catching a plane?” Hal asked.
“A spur-of-the-moment decision.”
“Like your resignation.”
“That wasn’t spur-of-the-moment.”
“Our mutual acquaintance said it sure seemed like it.”
“He doesn’t know me very well.”
“He’s beginning to wonder if anybody does.”
Decker shrugged. “What else is he wondering?”
“Why you unplugged your phone.”
“I didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“And why you didn’t answer your door when one of the guys on the team knocked on it last night.”
“But I did answer the door. I just didn’t open it. I asked who it was. On the other side of the door, a man said, ‘Housekeeping.’ He told me he was there to turn down my bed. I told him I had turned down the bed myself. He told me he had fresh towels. I told him I didn’t need fresh towels. He told me he had mints for the bedside table. I told him to shove the mints up his ass.”
“That wasn’t very sociable.”
“I needed time alone to think.”
Ben took over the questioning. “To think about what?”
As the Pontiac stopped at a light, Decker glanced to the left, toward the red-haired man. “Life.”
“Big subject. Did you figure it out?”
“I decided that it’s the essence of life for things to change.”
“That’s what this is all about? You’re going through a change of life?” Hal asked.
Decker glanced ahead toward the brown-haired man in the front seat. The Pontiac had resumed motion, proceeding through the intersection.
“That’s right,” Decker said. “A change of life.”
“And that’s why you’re taking this trip?”
“Right again.”
“To where exactly?”
“Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
“Never been there. What’s it like?”
“I’m not sure. It looks nice, though.”
“Looks nice?”
“Last night, I watched a TV show about some construction workers fixing up an adobe house there.”
The Pontiac headed through another intersection.
“And that made you decide to go there?” Ben interrupted.
Decker turned to him in the backseat. “Yep.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. In fact, I’m thinking about settling there.”
“Just like that. You know, that’s what has our mutual acquaintance concerned, these sudden changes. How do you suppose he’s going to react when we tell him that on the spur of the moment you decided to move to Santa Fe, New Mexico, because you saw an old house there being fixed up on television?”
“An adobe house.”
“Right. How do you suppose that’ll make him think about the maturity with which you made other snap decisions?” Decker’s muscles hardened. “I told you, my resignation wasn’t a snap decision. I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while.”
“You never mentioned it to anybody.”
“I didn’t figure it was anybody’s business.”
“It was a lot of people’s business. So what made the difference? What pushed you into making the decision? This incident in Rome?”
Decker didn’t answer.
Raindrops beaded the windshield.
“See, I told you it was going to rain,” Ben said.
The rain fell more heavily, causing a hollow pelting sound on the Pontiac’s roof. Pedestrians put up umbrellas or ran for doorways. The tinted backseat windows made the darkening streets seem even darker.
“Talk to us about Rome,” Ben said.
“I don’t intend to talk to anybody about Rome.” Decker strained to keep his breathing steady. “I assume that’s the point of this conversation. You can go back and assure our mutual acquaintance that I’m not indignant enough to share my indignation with anybody—I’m just damned tired. I’m not interested in exposés and causing a commotion. The opposite—all I want is peace and quiet.”
“In Santa Fe, a place you’ve never been.”
Again Decker didn’t answer.
“You know,” Hal said, “when you mentioned Santa Fe, the first thought that popped into my mind was, there are a lot of top-secret installations in the area—the Sandia weapons-testing lab in Albuquerque, the nuclear lab at Los Alamos. The second thought that popped into my head was Edward Lee Howard.”
Decker felt a weight in his chest. Howard had been a CIA operative who sold top-level details about the Agency’s Moscow operation to the Soviets. After a failed lie-detector test aroused the Agency’s suspicions, he had been fired. While the FBI investigated him, he had moved to New Mexico, had eluded his surveillance teams, and had managed to escape to the Soviet Union. The city where he had been living was Santa Fe.
“You’re suggesting a parallel?” Decker sat straighter. “You’re suggesting I’d do something to hurt my country?” This time, Decker didn’t bother trying to control his breathing. “You tell our mutual acquaintance to reread my file and try to find anything that suggests I suddenly forgot the meaning of honor.”
“People go through changes, as you’ve been pointing out.”
“And these days, most people go through at least three careers.”
“I’m having trouble following you, Decker.”
“I had my military career. I had my government career. Now it’s time for my third.”
“And what’s it going to be?”
“I don’t know yet. I wouldn't want to make any spur-of-the-moment decisions. Where are you taking me?”
Hal didn’t answer.
“I asked you a question,” Decker said.
Hal still didn’t answer.
“It better not be the Agency’s rehabilitation clinic in Virginia,” Decker said.
“Who said anything about Virginia?” Hal seemed to make a choice. “We’re taking you where you wanted us to take you—La Guardia.”
4
Decker bought a one-way ticket. During the six-hour flight, which included a stopover in Chicago, he had plenty of time to think about what he was doing. His behavior was bizarre enough that he could understand why his former superiors were troubled. Hell, he himself was troubled by his behavior. His entire professional life had been based on control, but now he had surrendered to whimsy.
Santa Fe’s airport was too small for large passenger jets. The nearest major airport was in Albuquerque, and as the American Airlines MD-80 circled for a landing, Decker was appalled by the bleak sunbaked yellow landscape below him, sand and rocks stretching off toward barren mountains. What else did you expect? he told himself. New Mexico’s a desert.
At least, Albuquerque’s compact four-level terminal had charm, its interior decorated with colorful Native American designs. The airport was also remarkably efficient. In a quick ten minutes, Decker had his suitcase and was standing at the Avis counter, renting a Dodge Intrepid. The car’s name appealed to him.
“What’s the best way to get to Santa Fe?” he asked the young woman behind the counter.
She was Hispanic and had a bright smile that enhanced the expressiveness of her dark eyes. “That depends on whether you want the quick route or the scenic one.”
“Is the scenic route worth it?”
“Absolutely. If you’ve got the time.”
“I’ve got nothing but time.”
“Then you’ve got the right attitude for a New Mexican vacation. Follow this map,” she said. “Go north a couple of miles on Interstate Twenty-five. Turn east on Forty. After about twent
y miles, turn north on the Turquoise Trail.” The clerk used a felt-tip pen to highlight the map. “Do you like margaritas?”
“Love them.”
“Stop in a town called Madrid.” She emphasized the first syllable, as if distinguishing it from the way the capital of Spain was pronounced. “Thirty years ago, it was almost a ghost town. Now it’s an artists’ colony. There’s a beat-up old place called the Mineshaft Tavern that brags it has the best margaritas in the world.”
“And are they?”
The woman merely flashed her engaging smile and handed him the car keys.
As Decker drove past a metal silhouette of two racehorses outside the airport and followed the clerk’s directions, he noticed that Albuquerque’s buildings seemed no different from those in any other part of the country. Now and then, he saw a flat-roofed stuccoed structure that looked something like the adobe he had seen on television, but mostly he saw peaked roofs and brick or wood siding. It worried him that the television program might have exaggerated, that Santa Fe would turn out to be like everywhere else.
Interstate 40 led him past a hulking jagged line of mountains. Then he turned north onto the Turquoise Trail, and things began to change. Isolated log cabins and A-frames now seemed the architectural norm. In a while, there weren’t any buildings at all. There was more vegetation—jumpers and piñon trees, various types of low-growing cacti, and a sagebrush like shrub that grew as high as six feet. The narrow road wound around the back side of the mountains that he had seen from Albuquerque. It angled upward, and Decker recalled that a flight attendant on the MD-80 had made a comment to him about Albuquerque’s being a mile-high city, just over five thousand feet above sea level, the same as Denver was, but that Santa Fe was even higher, seven thousand feet, so it was a climb to get there. For the first few days, visitors might feel slow and out of breath, the flight attendant had told him. She had joked that a passenger once asked her if Santa Fe was seven thousand feet above sea level all year round.
Decker didn’t notice any physical reaction to the altitude, but that was to be expected. After all, he had been trained to think nothing of high-altitude low-opening parachute jumps that began at twenty thousand feet. What he did notice was how remarkably clear the air had become, how blue the sky, how bright the sun, and he understood why a poster at the airport had called New Mexico “the land of the dancing sun.” He reached a plateau, and the view was breathtaking. As he peered to the left, he saw a rolling desert vista that seemed to go on for hundreds of miles to the north and south, the western view bordered by faraway mountains that looked higher and broader than those near Albuquerque. The road’s gradual climb took him through sharp curves, at many of which the vistas were even more spectacular. Decker felt as if he were on top of the world.
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