Clear and present danger - Tom Clancy [157]
He pulled into the driveway just before dinnertime, taking his soft two-suiter in through the kitchen to find the smells of a decent dinner. Sandy had been surprised too many times to overreact on the matter of how much food she'd prepared.
"Where have you been?" Sandy asked rhetorically, then went into her usual guessing game. "Not much work done on the tan. Someplace cold or cloudy?"
"Spent most of my time indoors," Clark replied honestly. Stuck with a couple of clowns in a damned comma van on a hilltop surrounded by jungle. Just like the bad old days. Almost. For all her intelligence, she almost never guessed where he'd been. But then, she wasn't supposed to.
"How long… ?"
"Only a couple of days, then I have to go out again. It's important."
"Anything to do with -" Her head jerked toward the kitchen TV.
Clark just smiled and shook his head.
"What do you think happened?"
"From what I see, the druggies got real lucky," he said lightly.
Sandy knew what her husband thought of druggies, and why. Everyone had a pet hate. That was his - and hers; she'd been a nurse too long, had too often seen the results of substance abuse, to think otherwise. It was the one thing he'd lectured the girls on, and though they were as rebellious as any pair of healthy adolescents, it was one line they didn't approach, much less cross.
"The President sounds angry."
"How would you feel? The FBI Director was his friend - as far as a politician has friends." Clark felt the need to qualify the statement. He was wary of political figures, even the ones he'd voted for.
"What is he going to do about it?"
"I don't know, Sandy." I haven't quite figured it out yet. "Where are the kids?"
"They went to Busch Gardens with their friends. There's a new coaster, and they're probably screaming their brains out."
"Do I have time to shower? I've been traveling all day."
"Dinner in thirty minutes."
"Fine." He kissed her again and headed for the bedroom with his bag. Before entering the bathroom, he emptied his dirty laundry into the hamper. Clark would give himself one restful day with the family before starting on his mission planning. There wasn't that much of a hurry. For missions of this sort, haste made death. He hoped the politicians would understand that.
Of course, they wouldn't, he told himself on the way to the shower. They never did.
"Don't feel bad," Moira told him. "You're tired. I'm sorry I've worn you out." She cradled his face to her chest. A man was not a machine, after all, and five times in just over one day's time… what could she fairly expect of her lover? He had to sleep, had to rest. As did she, Moira realized, drifting off herself.
Within minutes, Cortez gently disengaged himself, watching her slow, steady breathing, a dreamy smile on her placid face while he wondered what the hell he could do. If anything. Place a phone call - risk everything for a brief conversation on a non-secure line? The Colombian police or the Americans, or somebody had to have taps on all those phones. No, that was more dangerous than doing nothing at all.
His professionalism told him that the safest course of action was to do nothing. Cortez looked down at himself. Nothing was precisely what he had just accomplished. It was the first time that had happened in a very long time.
Team KNIFE, of course, was completely - if not blissfully - unaware of what had transpired the previous day. The jungle had no news service, and their radio was for official use only. That made the new message all the more surprising. Chavez and Vega were again on duty at the observation post, enduring