"Cancer." Beth seemed to have trouble making her voice work. She took another sip from her drink and stared at the gla.s.s. "Ray had a mole on the back of his neck."

Decker waited.

"Last summer, it changed shape and color, but he wouldn't go to the doctor. Then it started to bleed. Turned out to be the worst kind of skin cancer-melanoma."

Decker kept waiting.

Beth's voice became strained. "Even though Ray had the mole cut out, he didn't do it soon enough to stop the cancer from spreading Radiation and chemotherapy didn't work. He died in January."

The mariachi band approached Decker's table, the music so loud that he could barely hear what Beth said. Urgent, he waved them away. When they saw the fierce expression in his eyes, they complied.

"So," Beth said. "I was lost. Still am. We had a house outside New York, in Westchester County. I couldn't stand living there any longer. Everything around me reminded me of Ray, of what I'd lost. People I thought were my friends felt awkward dealing with my grief and stayed away. I didn't think I could get more lonely." She glanced down at her hands. "A few days ago, I was at my psychiatrist's office when I came across a travel magazine in the waiting room. I think it was Conde Nast Traveler. It said that Santa Fe was one of the most popular tourist destinations in the world. I liked the photographs and the description of the city. On the spur of the moment..." Her voice trailed off.

A colorfully dressed waitress stopped at their table. "Are you ready to order now?"

"No," Beth said. "I'm afraid I've lost my appet.i.te."

"We need more time," Decker said.

He waited until the waitress was out of earshot. "I've made some spur-of-the moment decisions myself. As a matter of fact, coming to Santa Fe was one of them."

"And did it work out?"

"Even better than I hoped."

"G.o.d, I hope I'll be able to say the same for me." Beth traced a finger along the base of her gla.s.s.

"What did your psychiatrist say about your sudden decision?"

"I never told him. I never kept the appointment. I just set down the travel magazine and went home to pack. I bought a one-way ticket to Santa Fe."

Decker tried not to stare, struck by how parallel their experiences were.

"No regrets," Beth said firmly. "The future can't possibly be any worse than the last year."

5.

Decker parked his Jeep Cherokee in a carport at the rear of his house. He got out, almost turned on a light so he could see to unlock his back door, but decided instead to lean against the metal railing and look up at the stars. The streets in this part of town didn't have lights. Most people in the area went to sleep early. With almost no light pollution, he was able to gaze up past the pinon trees at unbelievably brilliant constellations. A three-quarter moon had begun to rise. The air was sweet and cool. What a beautiful night, he thought.

In the foothills, coyotes howled, reminding him that he had earlier mentioned them to Beth, making him wish that she was next to him, listening to them. He could still feel her hand on his. During their dinner, they had managed to avoid further depressing topics. Beth had made a deliberate attempt to be festive as he walked her the short distance to the Inn of the Anasazi. At the entrance, they had shaken hands.

Now, as Decker continued to gaze up at the stars, he imagined what it would have been like to drive her from the restaurant, past the darkened art galleries on Canyon Road, past the garden walls of the homes along Camino del Monte Sol, finally arriving at Camino Lindo and the house next to his.

His chest felt hollow. You certainly are messed up, he told himself.

Well, I haven't fallen in love for a very long time. He searched his memory and was amazed to realize that the last time he had felt this way had been in his late teens, before he entered the military. As he'd often told himself, military special operations and his subsequent career as an intelligence operative hadn't encouraged serious romantic involvement. Since coming to Santa Fe, he had met several women whom he had dated-nothing serious, just casual enjoyable evenings. With one of the women, he had had s.e.xual relations. Nothing permanent had come out of it, however. As much as he liked the woman, he realized that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with her. The feeling had evidently been mutual. The woman, a Realtor for another agency, was now seeing someone else.

But Decker's present emotions were so different from what he had felt toward that other woman that they unsettled him. He recalled having read that ancient philosophers considered love to be an illness, an unbalancing of mind and emotions. It sure is, he thought. But how on earth can it happen so fast? I always believed that love at first sight was a myth. He recalled having read about a subtle s.e.xual chemical signal that animals and humans gave off, called pheromones. You couldn't smell them. They were detected biologically rather than consciously. The right person could give off pheromones that drove a person wild. In this case, Decker thought, the right person is absolutely beautiful, and she definitely has my kind of pheromones.

So what are you going to do? he asked himself. Obviously, there are problems. She's recently widowed. If you start behaving romantically toward her, she'll find you threatening. She'll resent you for trying to make her disloyal to the memory of her dead husband. Then it won't matter if she lives next door-she'll treat you as if she's living in the next state. Take it one day at a time, he told himself. You can't go wrong if you act truly as her friend.

6.

"Steve, there's someone to see you," the office receptionist said on the intercom.

"I'll be right out."

"No need," another voice said on the intercom, surprising him-a woman's voice, whose sensuous resonance Decker instantly identified. "I know the way."

Heart beating faster, Decker stood. A few seconds later, Beth entered the office. In contrast with the dark suit she had worn yesterday, she now wore linen slacks and a matching tan jacket that brought out the color of her auburn hair. She looked even more gorgeous.

"How are you?" Decker asked.

"Excited. It's moving day."

Decker didn't know what she meant.

"Last night, I decided I couldn't wait to move in," Beth said. "The house is already furnished. It seems a shame to leave it empty. So I telephoned the owner and asked if I could rent the house until the paperwork was done and I could buy it."

"And he agreed?"

"He couldn't have been nicer. He said I could get the key from you."

"You most certainly can. In fact, I'll drive you there."

On the busy street outside his office, Decker opened his Cherokee's pa.s.senger door for her.

"I tossed and turned all night, wondering if I was doing the right thing," Beth said.

"Sounds like me when I first came to town."

"And how did you get over it?"

"I asked myself what my alternative was."

"And?"

"I didn't have one," Decker said. "At least not one that didn't mean the same as surrendering to what was wearing me down."

Beth searched his eyes. "I know what you mean."

As Decker got in the car, he glanced across the street and felt something tighten inside him. A stationary man among a crowd of strolling tourists made Decker's protective instincts come to attention. What aroused his suspicion was that the man, who had been staring at Decker, turned immediately away as Decker noticed him. The man now stood with his back to the street, pretending to be interested in a window display of southwestern jewelry, but his gaze was forward rather than down-turned, indicating that what he was really doing was studying the reflection in the window. Decker checked his rearview mirror and saw the man turn to look in his direction as he drove away. Medium-length hair, average height and weight, mid-thirties, undistinguishable features, unremarkable clothes, muted colors. In Decker's experience, that kind of anonymity didn't happen by accident. The man's only distinguishing characteristic was the bulk of his shoulders, which his loose-fitting shirt didn't manage to conceal. He wasn't a tourist.

Decker frowned. So is it review time? he asked himself. Have they decided to watch me to see how I'm behaving, whether I've been naughty or nice, whether I'm any threat? Beth was saying something about the opera.

Decker tried to catch up. "Yes?"

"I like it very much."

"I'm a jazz fanatic myself."

"Then you don't want to go? I hear the Santa Fe Opera is one of the best."

Decker finally realized what she was talking about. "You're asking me to go to the opera with you?"

Beth chuckled. "You weren't this slow yesterday."

"What opera is it?"

"Tosca."

"Well, in that case," Decker said. "Since it's Puccini. If it was Wagner, I wouldn't go."

"Smart guy."

Decker made himself look amused while he turned a corner and checked his rearview mirror to see if he was being followed. He didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. Maybe I'm wrong about that man watching me.

Like h.e.l.l.

7.

The opera house was a five-minute drive north of town, to the left, off the highway to Taos. Decker followed a string of cars along an upward-winding road, their lights on as sunset began to fade.

"What a beautiful setting." Beth glanced at the low, shadowy pinon-covered hills on both sides of the car. She was even more impressed after they reached the top of a bluff, parked the car in twilight, and strolled to the amphitheater built down into the far side of the bluff. She was intrigued by the appearance of the people around her. "I can't tell if I'm underdressed or overdressed." She herself wore a lace shawl over a thin-strapped black dress that was highlighted by a pearl necklace. "Some of these people are wearing tuxedos and evening gowns. But some of them look like they're on a camping expedition. They've got hiking boots, jeans, wool shirts. That woman over there is carrying a knap-sack and a parka. I'm having a reality problem. Are we all going to the same place?"

Decker, who wore a sport coat and slacks, chuckled. "The amphitheater has open sides as well as an open roof. Once the sun is down, the desert gets cool, sometimes as low as forty-five. If a wind picks up, that lady in the evening dress is going to wish she had the parka you mentioned. During intermission, there'll be a lot of people buying blankets from the concession booth. That's why I brought this lap robe I've got tucked under my arm. We might need it."

They surrendered their tickets, crossed a welcoming open courtyard, and followed the ticket taker's directions, mingling with a crowd that went up stairs to a row of wide wooden doors that led to various sections of the upper tier of seats.

"This door is ours," Decker said. He gestured for Beth to go ahead of him, and as she did, he took advantage of that natural-seeming moment to glance back over his shoulder, scanning the courtyard below to discover if he was still under surveillance. It was a reversion to old habits, he realized with some bitterness. Why did he allow himself to care? The surveillance was pointless. What possible compromising activity would his former employer think he was up to at the opera? His precaution told him nothing; there was no evidence of anyone below who showed more interest in him than in getting into the opera house.

Careful not to reveal his preoccupation, Decker sat with Beth to the right on an upper tier. They didn't have the best seats in the house, he noted, but they certainly couldn't complain. For one thing, their section of the amphitheater wasn't open to the sky, so while they had a partial view of the stars through the open s.p.a.ce above the middle seats, their seats in the back didn't expose them as much to the cool night air.

"That opening in the middle of the roof," Beth said. "What happens when it rains? Does the performance stop?"

"No. The singers are protected."

"But what about the audience in the middle seats?"

"They get wet."

"Stranger and stranger."

"There's more. Next year, you'll have to go to the opening of the opera season in early July. The audience has a tailgate party in the parking lot."

"Tailgate party? You mean like at football games?"

"Except in this case, they drink champagne and wear tuxedos."

Beth burst out laughing. Her amus.e.m.e.nt was contagious. Decker was pleased to discover that the surveillance on him was forgotten, that he was laughing with her.

The lights dimmed. Tosca began. It was a good performance. The first act-about a political prisoner hiding in a church-was appropriately threatening and moody, and if no one could equal Maria Callas's legendary performances of the t.i.tle role, the evening's soprano gave it an excellent try. When the first act ended, Decker applauded enthusiastically.

But as he glanced toward the lower level, toward a refreshment area to the left of the middle seats, he suddenly froze. "What's the matter?" Beth asked.

Decker didn't respond. He kept peering toward the refreshment area.

"Steve?"

Feeling pressure behind his ears, Decker finally answered. "What makes you think something's the matter?"

"The look on your face. It's like you saw a ghost."

"Not a ghost. A business a.s.sociate who broke an agreement." Decker had seen the man who had been watching him earlier in the day. The man, wearing a nondescript sport coat, stood near the refreshment area down there, ignoring the activity around him, staring up in Decker's direction. He wants to see if I remain up here or go back through those doors and outside, Decker thought. If I leave, he's probably got a lapel mike that allows him to tell a partner with an earphone that I'm headed in the other man's direction. "Forget him. I won't let him spoil our evening," Decker said. "Come on, would you like some hot chocolate?"

They went back to the doors through which they had entered, walked along a balcony, and descended stairs to the crowded courtyard. Surrounded by people, Decker couldn't determine who else might be watching him as he guided her around the left side of the opera house and toward the refreshment area, where he had seen the man.

But the man wasn't there any longer.

8.

Throughout the intermission, Decker managed to make small talk, finally escorting Beth back to their seats. She gave no indication that she suspected his tension. When Tosca's second act began, the burden of not spoiling Beth's evening was temporarily removed from him, and now he could concentrate his full attention on what the h.e.l.l was happening.

He thought that from one point of view, the situation made sense-the Agency was still concerned about his outraged reaction to the disastrous Rome operation, and they wanted to make sure he hadn't vented his emotions by finding a way to betray them, selling information about secret operations. One indication of whether he was being paid for information would be how hard he worked as a real estate broker and whether he spent more money than was commensurate with his income level.