For Herbert, the psychological resources he needed to deal with death were highly refined. Whenever he learned of the demise of enemies of his country-or when it had been necessary, early in his intelligence career, to participate in some of those killings-he never had any problems. The life and security of his country came before any other considerations. As Herbert had put it so many times, "The deeds are dirty but my conscience is clean."

But this was different.

Although Herbert's wife, Yvonne, had been killed nearly sixteen years ago in the terrorist bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Beirut, he was still mourning her death. The loss still seemed fresh. Too fresh, he thought almost every night since the attack. Restaurants, movie theaters, and even a park bench they had frequented became shrines to him. Each night he lay in bed gazing at her photograph on his night table. Some nights the framed picture was moonlit, some nights it was just a dark shape. But bright or dark, seen or remembered, for better or for worse, Yvonne never left his bedside. And she never left his thoughts. Herbert had long ago adjusted to having lost his legs in the Beirut explosion. Actually, he'd more than adjusted. His wheelchair and all its electronic conveniences now seemed an integral part of his body. But he had never adjusted to losing Yvonne.

Yvonne had been a fellow CIA agent-a formidable enemy, a devoted friend, and the wittiest person he'd ever known. She had been his life and his lover. When they were together, even on the job, the physical boundaries of the universe seemed very small. It was defined by her eyes and by the curve of her neck, by the warmth of her fingers and the playfulness of her toes. But what a rich and full universe that had been. So rich that there were still mornings when, half-awake, Herbert would reach his hand under her pillow and search for hers. Not finding it, he'd squeeze her lumpy pillow in his empty fingers and silently curse the killers who'd taken her from him. Killers who had gone unpunished. Who were still permitted to enjoy their own lives, their own loves.

Now Herbert had to mourn the loss of Martha Mackall. He felt guilty. Part of him was pleased that he wasn't the only one grieving now. Mourning could be an oppressively lonely place to be. Less guiltily, Herbert also wasn't willing to laud the dead just because they were dead, and he was going to have to listen to plenty of that over the next few days and weeks. Some of the praise would be valid. But only some of it.