The phone rang. He snatched it up. “What?”

The voice on the other end said, “Sadly, that does not sound like the voice of someone who just got laid.”

Hugh’s grip tightened on the receiver. “I’m busy, Kyle. What do you want?”

There was a brief silence. “Okay, let’s start over. This is Kyle Chase, your oldest, bestest friend from when you were in diapers. Lilah and the kids are fine, thanks.”

No way was Hugh going to let Kyle lay any guilt on him. “I know that, I played horse with Eli and crazy eights with Gloria this weekend, not to mention ate large of Lilah’s pot roast.”

“It was my pot roast, actually. Lilah can’t cook worth a damn. Only bad thing I can say about her.”

Hugh didn’t say anything.

Kyle sighed. “So, did you miss her? I didn’t think her trial had finished up when I sent you over there.”

“It hadn’t. She was finishing up her testimony when I walked in.”

Kyle’s voice brightened. “So you did see her?”

Hugh hesitated.

“I knew it, I knew all you had to do was see each other and you’d both be toast. So tell me all about it and, please, don’t omit one shocking or salacious detail. I’m here for you, buddy. Go ahead. Share.”

Some of the tension went out of Hugh’s shoulders at Kyle’s determinedly sophomoric banter, and he swiveled to put his feet up on the desk and stare out the window at the aspens crowding the edge of the perfectly manicured lawn. “She had a room. We went back there. I spent the night. Next morning when I woke up, she was deja vu.” The sheets hadn’t even been warm next to him.

A long silence, and then a respectful whistle. “Man. I gotta hand it to her, that’s really cold.”

Hugh half smiled. “You don’t have to sound so admiring.”

“Yeah, but it’s got style, you know? Can’t fault our Sara for not making an impact.”

“Tell me about it.” Hugh paused. “She was happy to see me. She was at first, anyway. I don’t know what she was feeling when she woke up.”

It sounded like Kyle was rubbing his hand over his face. “How long you been married now, buddy?”

“Ten years. Like you weren’t there.”

“And how many of those years have you and Sara spent in the same town?”

“Cumulatively? About a year, total.”

“How many times you actually answered the same phone when you were home?”

This was cutting to the heart of things with a vengeance. “Twice.”

“And that probably includes that sleezy little motel down the road from the academy. Or do I mean that skanky town house in Alexandria when you were going for your doctorate and she was at Georgetown going for her master’s? The one where the roaches were bigger than the rats?”

Hugh was counting on his fingers. “No, wait, there was that apartment in D.C. Three times.”

A pause, then a sigh. “What I’m saying. You want things to change, start there.”

“What about my job?” Hugh said.

“What about hers?” Kyle said. “She always wanted the Coast Guard, ever since we were kids. Hell, she bucked both parents to get into the academy, and you followed right along, even got into Harvard so you’d be in driving distance while you were both in school. Time was you admired her guts and her determination.”

“Time was I wasn’t married to her.”

“And,” Kyle said, unheeding, “she was never going to be satisfied with shore duty. You knew going in she was going for her own ship as fast as she could, and you barely got through graduation before you married her anyway.”

The silence stretched out. “Hugh?”

Hugh sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I knew.”

“Besides, it’s not like you aren’t a fart in a skillet your own damn self, always going three different directions at once in your job.”

“Yeah, Kyle, I think I’m going to let you go as my marriage counselor, you’re not exactly inspiring me with hope here.”

Kyle said simply, “Who else you got?”

Kyle Chase and Hugh Rincon had been two of a trio of friends born in a coastal village in south-central Alaska. The third was Sara Lange. All three of them were children of successful fishermen, and all three of them had been expected to follow in their fathers’ footsteps on the decks of their respective family vessels. All three sets of parents had been vastly disappointed, and if a childhood of getting into as much trouble as humanly possible hadn’t formed an unbreakable bond, then the joint sufferance of massive parental disapproval certainly had. Hugh laughed shortly. “No one. Apparently.”

“Not true. You’ve got me, and you’ve got Sara. You’ll always have me. Question is, will you always have Sara?”

“I’m not sure I’ve got her now.”

“Be good to find out.”

Hugh looked at his desk, piled high. “I’ve got to get back to work, Kyle.”

“Yeah. You might want to think some about that, too.”

“Tell Lilah and the kids hi.”

“Will do. And Hugh? All you have to do is figure what’s more important. Sara? Or your job?”

Kyle hung up, which was all right, because Hugh didn’t have an answer for him. His assistant, plump, perky, bright-eyed Marie, stuck her head in the door. “We ordering out for lunch, boss?”

He looked at the clock to discover that four hours had passed. “Oh. I guess.”

“The usual?” When he clearly couldn’t remember what the usual was she elaborated. “Turkey and cranberry sauce on sourdough, side salad with blue cheese, chips, and a bottle of water.”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” But Marie lingered.

He looked up. “What?”

Marie’s look admonished him for his abrupt tone. “Are you going to see her or not? She’s been waiting all morning.”

“Who’s been waiting all morning?”

“Arlene Harte.”

Hugh sat up straight. “Arlene’s here?”

Marie huffed out an impatient breath. “I left you a note.”

Hugh picked up the soapstone bear. The note, stained with coffee, was stuck to the bottom. Arlene Harte here requesting an audience with His Nibs. Marie’s neat handwriting had even made a note of the date and time, that morning, 7:55 a.m.

“Shit,” he said, and got to his feet.

Arlene was sitting in an anonymous anteroom just off of one of Langley’s equally anonymous hallways. Hugh had long thought that the idea behind the decor or lack thereof was that if the barbarians ever got inside the gates they would be incapable of finding their way through this much bland to any worthwhile target.

“I’m sorry as hell, Arlene,” he said. “I missed seeing your note until now.”

She smiled and stood up. “No problem. Finished the Sunday New York Times crossword while I was waiting.”

He took it from her. “So you did, and in ink at that, you slimeball.” They shook hands warmly. “Come on in. Coffee? Tea? Wait a minute.” He stuck his head back out the door. “Marie, make that lunch for two.”

“Gotcha, boss.”

Arlene settled herself in the chair across from his desk. “Thanks for seeing me without an appointment.”

“Anytime, Arlene, you know that.” He smiled at her. Bad mood or not, he was always very nice to Arlene. A comfortably sized blond in jeans and blazer over a white turtleneck, she looked like someone’s youthful grandmother. In truth she was anything but. Retired from the Associated Press after a thirty-year career reporting every global conflict from Vietnam on, she was spending what was commonly referred to as her golden years as a monthly columnist for Travel + Leisure. She was unmarried, without children, made her home in a one-bedroom walk-up in Georgetown, and seemed comfortable with the choices she had made in her life. She spoke French to the Paris-born and was famous for never missing three square meals a day in any war zone. It wasn’t a bad resume in the spy biz. “How’s the job?”

“They pay me to travel around the world and write about it. What’s not to like?”

He laughed. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

“So do I.”

“What brings you home, Arlene?”