"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 b.u.t.ton 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 pa.s.senger 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 b.u.t.ton that caused another thunking sound and locked all the doors. The 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 a.s.s."

"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 a.s.sume that's the point of this conversation. You can go back and a.s.sure our mutual acquaintance that I'm not indignant enough to share my indignation with anybody-I'm just d.a.m.ned tired. I'm not interested in exposes 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. h.e.l.l, 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 pa.s.senger 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 att.i.tude 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 twenty 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 p.r.o.nounced. "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 pinon 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 pa.s.senger 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 alt.i.tude, but that was to be expected. After all, he had been trained to think nothing of high-alt.i.tude 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.

Madrid, which Decker had to keep reminding himself was p.r.o.nounced with an accent on the first syllable, was a village of shacks and frame houses, most of which were occupied by what appeared to be survivors of the sixties counterculture. The community stretched along a narrow wooded hollow bordered on the right by a slope covered with coal, the reason the town had been founded at the turn of the century. The Mineshaft Tavern, a rickety two-story wooden structure in need of paint, was about the largest building in town and easy to find, directly to the right at the bottom of the curving slope into town.

Decker parked and locked the Intrepid. He studied a group of leather-jacketed motorcyclists going by. They stopped at a house down the road, unstrapped folded-down easels and half-completed paintings on canvases, and carried them into the house. With a grin, Decker climbed the steps to the tavern's enclosed porch. His footsteps caused a hollow rumbling sound beneath him as he opened a squeaky screen door that led him into a miniature version of a turn-of-the-century saloon complete with a stage. Currency from all over the world was tacked to the wall behind the bar.

The shadowy place was half-full and noisy with spirited conversation. Sitting at an empty table, Decker gathered the impression of cowboy hats, tattoos, and beaded necklaces. In contrast with the efficiency of the Albuquerque airport, it took a long time before a ponytailed man wearing an ap.r.o.n and holding a tray ambled over. Don't be impatient, Decker told himself. Think of this as a kind of decompression chamber. The knees of the waiter's jeans were ripped out. "Someone told me you've got the best margaritas in the world," Decker said. "Surely that isn't true."