his body could no longer function as efficiently as his special-operations duties required—in Decker’s case, when he was thirty, after a broken leg, three broken ribs, and two bullet wounds suffered in various classified missions. Of course, even though Decker was no longer physically superior enough to belong to his counterterrorist unit, he was still in better condition than most civilians.
His investments had increased to the point that his net worth was $300,000. In addition, he planned to withdraw the fifty thousand dollars that he had contributed to his government pension. But despite his relative financial freedom, he felt trapped in other ways. With the whole world to choose from, he had narrowed his choices to this hotel room. If his parents had still been alive (and briefly he fantasized that they were), he would have paid them a long-postponed visit. As things were, his mother had died in a car accident three years earlier and his father from a heart attack a few months afterward, both while he was on assignment. The last time he had seen his father alive was at his mother’s funeral.
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
His investments had increased to the point that his net worth was $300,000. In addition, he planned to withdraw the fifty thousand dollars that he had contributed to his government pension. But despite his relative financial freedom, he felt trapped in other ways. With the whole world to choose from, he had narrowed his choices to this hotel room. If his parents had still been alive (and briefly he fantasized that they were), he would have paid them a long-postponed visit. As things were, his mother had died in a car accident three years earlier and his father from a heart attack a few months afterward, both while he was on assignment. The last time he had seen his father alive was at his mother’s funeral.
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
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