“You can do that.” His wife sounded somewhere between jealous and resentful. Even when she got the chance, she couldn’t nap for hell, not unless she was really sick.

He kissed her hard before they both headed out the door. He didn’t want to let her go. A quickie right then would have been wonderful. He thought so, anyway. She plainly didn’t. He made sure the door was locked before they went down the stairs.

“See you tonight,” she said.

“Love you, hon,” he answered. Her car was under the building, his out on the street. He looked back at her once before she got to the stairway down to the parked cars. She didn’t look at him. She was already thinking about the work ahead, or else just running on automatic pilot.

Up to campus he went, and walked into the department offices as they were opening. When he turned in his grade sheet, the department chair’s administrative assistant exclaimed, “Good Lord! Did you sleep at all last night?” (The department chair herself wasn’t here yet, of course, and probably wouldn’t be for another couple of hours.)

“Little bit,” Jerry answered, shrugging.

“Well, you can enjoy the break now, anyway,” the AA said.

“Thanks, Marcia. See you next quarter.” Jerry didn’t stick around. He’d done what he had to do. Now he could go back to the apartment and do nothing for a while.

The southbound drive was slow. Because he’d gone up so early, he was still in the middle of rush hour on the way down. As he had driving to UCLA, he listened to KNX in hopes of hearing more about what Jack Anderson had had to say.

Naturally, the news station talked about everything else. And then, when Jerry was almost down to the airport and thinking about sliding over so he could get off the freeway at El Segundo, the newsman said, “RAND Corporation executive Stephen H. Dole was shot and killed outside his Santa Monica home last night a little past eight. Police are investigating the crime as a botched robbery—the killer, perhaps alarmed at the sound of the gunshot, fled without taking anything of value from the victim. No description of a suspect is available.”

“Oh, sweet fucking Jesus Christ!” Jerry said. He hadn’t wanted to believe these days would really come. But he also didn’t believe Steve Dole had died in a botched robbery: not for a second, he didn’t. Which meant they were bound to be looking for him, too. They wouldn’t give him a big kiss when they found him, either.

Which meant … He’d thought about what he might do if these days came. Now he had to try to do it. He feared the odds were stacked against him. He had to try just the same. It wasn’t as if he owed the CIA anything anymore.