Changing the subject was the first sign of guilt. He knew because he did it all the time. "I've been working on something." Rapp pointed at the legal pad on his knee. "What's in the bag?"

"Did you forget that we had a meeting tonight with Philip?"

Philip was their interior designer. A confused expression fell across Rapp's face. "I didn't know we had a meeting tonight." Even as he said it he began to have a faint recollection of some such thing.

She put her hands on her hips. "For a spy you're a terrible liar."

Rapp felt the table being turned. "Anna, I'm not lying. I didn't know."

"Don't say you didn't know. It's on the calendar," she pointed to the kitchen. "I told you before I left this morning, and I left you a message on your phone an hour before the meeting."

Now he remembered. "Oh, that meeting."

She gave him the look.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. They were building a house in Virginia, just outside the beltway on two very private acres, and it had become a full-time job that he didn't have the time for. "What did I miss?"

"Carpet selections. That's what's in the bag, by the way."

Rapp stood. "Sorry." His instincts had failed him. He walked over and gave her a kiss. "You know I'm not very good at that stuff. I trust you. Whatever you and Philip think is best, I'll go along with it."

She gave him a doubtful look. "Like the tile in the bathroom you hated, and the paint color for the dining room that you said reminded you of vomit."

Rapp looked up at the ceiling as if the whole thing sounded very unfamiliar to him.

"You don't need to say anything. As your loving wife I'm going to tell you how we're going to proceed. You are going to open a bottle of wine for us, because I need a drink something fierce. Then we are going to go through the carpet samples, and you are going to help me make a decision, and then we're going to sit down in front of the fireplace and you're going to rub my shoulders."

Rapp put his hands on her shoulders and said with a mischievous look, "And then we're going to have wild sex."

She shook her head. "I am tired…my feet hurt…I feel gross…I have to get up at five, and I'm not so sure I should reward your forgetful behavior."

"I'll make it up to you." He started kissing her neck.

"We'll see. Now go get my glass of wine."

Rapp continued to work on her lovely neck until she pushed him away, laughing. He grabbed a bottle of cabernet from the wine rack and began opening it. As he looked up he saw his wife standing in front of the fireplace holding his legal pad. Her expression was intent as she tried to make sense of his notes. He'd have to start writing in Arabic. That would drive her nuts. He calmly walked back into the living room and yanked the notepad from her hands.

"I was reading that," she said in an indignant voice.

"Really…did you ever think it's none of your business?"

Anna smiled. "But we're married, darling. We're not supposed to keep secrets from each other."

"You are so full of it." Rapp tore off the top sheet and threw it in the fire. "When was the last time you let me look at your notes for a story? You're in the wrong line of work. You should have been a spy."

"Really," she said in a hopeful tone. "There's still time for a career change. I'm young."

Rapp went back into the kitchen and finished pulling the cork from the bottle. He poured two glasses. "You'd hate it. You'd never be able to handle the scrutiny from those jackals in the press."

"They're real bastards, aren't they?"

"The worst." Rapp handed her the glass of wine.

Anna swatted him in the butt, and said, "You're bad. Now go get those carpet samples and get to work."

"Only if it means I get a little love later."

"You're on probation for the evening. Don't push it."

Rapp walked to the closet, dreading the mundane task that lay ahead. His thoughts were already returning to his notes. There were a lot of things to consider. In a perfect world it would have been nice to bounce a few things off Anna, but it just wasn't an option. Especially this stuff. Operations like this were designed to never see the light of day. That's why they were called black ops. The Freedom of Information Act would have no effect on them. No records would be kept, and the men and women who were involved would go to their graves silent to their very last breath.

Erich Abel drove his brand-new silver SL 55 AMG Mercedes up the switchback road with a heavy foot. Abel had been eyeing the car for sometime. It was not that he couldn't afford it, it was just that, financially, he was an exceptionally conservative man. His BMW Series 7 had been only two years old and he had decided to wait another year before trading it in. In his mind, delaying gratification was in many ways the ultimate form of self-discipline. His recent contract with the bereaved Saudi father, though, had changed all that, and after all, he spent a fair amount of time in his car driving back and forth between Zurich and Vienna.

While in Riyadh, Abel had made precisely seven phone calls. Ten million dollars in cash, while it was very appealing to the eye, presented certain problems that Abel did not want to deal with. He instead told Saeed Ahmed Abdullah that he would prefer the funds wired to five separate banks in Switzerland. Abel wrote down the instructions and called his contact at each institution telling them to let him know as soon as the funds were received. Within an hour all five men had confirmed that Abel now had ten million dollars in very liquid assets to add to $1.4 million in cash he had strategically placed at various institutions around the world. There was another two million in real estate and securities, but in Abel's line of work one always needed a stash to draw from in the event one needed to disappear for a while.

The sixth call was made to the Mercedes dealership in Zurich. He did not bother to haggle with them over the $125,000 price tag of the world's top performance sedan. Abel told them he would be in to get the car the next afternoon. The seventh, and last call, was to someone for whom he had great respect. Dimitri Petrov still lived in Moscow and still smoked two packs a day of his stinky Russian cigarettes. The smoking habit was the only thing Abel didn't like about the man. Petrov was a prince among thieves. A true professional who garnered respect from friend and foe alike, and in all likelihood the only fellow professional who Abel would talk to about his new business opportunity.

It was noon in Moscow by the time he called his old KGB friend, and the Russian's voice sounded as if he'd awoken him from a dead sleep. The two exchanged pleasantries for less than thirty seconds, which for them meant they insulted each other. Abel used a more deft approach, while Petrov initiated a full-on assault that eventually ended in a stream of creatively linked obscenities. The brief discussion reminded Abel of how much he missed his old friend. Getting down to business, Abel told Petrov he needed to see him immediately. When Petrov hesitated, Abel assured him he would be plied with fine food, expensive wine, excellent cigars, and $10,000 for his time. Intrigue alone would have more than likely induced him to make the trip, but Abel was hungry to complete his task. There wasn't a day to be wasted. He sweetened the pot by suggesting they meet at his Alpine house near Bludenz, a little over an hour from Zurich just across the Swiss border in Austria. Petrov loved its majestic views and solitude. The Russian mumbled something about his expenses, Abel assured him they would be covered, and told him to catch the first flight out in the morning.