and Davis uncorked the champagne, provided courtesy of Uncle Sam, and they toasted one another and the future. They even sang a few Christmas carols; then Davis played ragtime tunes into the wee hours.
* * *
On Valentine’s Day, when Adam thought Archer was in Rome attending a midlevel diplomatic conference on global warming, she was in El Salvador, collecting intelligence on a guerrilla group in the mountains after the military’s assassination of Archbishop Romero. When her six months of training ended in March, Archer stayed on. She spent Easter in Baghdad, observing the movements of one Mohamed Al Jahad for future targeting if necessary. Memorial Day found her in Israel, learning advanced scope shooting and escape options.
Peter Bennett showed up monthly to give a pep talk and observe the day’s maneuvers. Although he never made notes, Archer knew he was sorting them, evaluating them, planning their futures for them. Still, when Bennett grabbed a long-range sniper rife to illustrate the optimal stance for executing a shot from a vertical position, strong wind at the shooter’s back, Archer was impressed. Not just a suit, then.
Archer saw Adam once every six weeks or so, in New York City. Her work and home phones were rigged to forward calls to a line in Syracuse, where the home phone rang in Archer’s barrack room and the work phone went to an office at the main training building, where it was answered, “Justice Department.” Archer felt bad about the deception but rationalized it as a short-term expedient.
When Adam suggested visiting her in Washington, she protested that New York was the only city in the world worth living in, and she wanted to be there. It was a schizophrenic existence. While she was in New York with Adam, her other life seemed preposterous and unreal. She ate in restaurants on Fifth Avenue, wore clothes from Barney’s, and laughed with Adam’s friends, drinking beer at a brasserie. Then, when she was back in Syracuse or on assignment, New York was barely a memory.
* * *
Archer got out at the end of her year. She’d never had to do a hit, but could. When she told Peter Bennett of her decision, took his glasses off and rubbed his forehead.
“ Archer, Archer. You don’t know what you’re saying. All the reports I’ve had on you have been superb. Everything I’ve seen has been as close to perfect as it gets,” he said as he flipped through a manila file on his desk. “Look at this,” he said, stabbing at the page with his finger. “You’re the number one shot in your class. Think about it: number one. Better than every guy from West Point and Annapolis. My instructor says there are two Marines who can match you in the right conditions, but still, it’s nothing short of remarkable . . . and priceless.”
He got up and walked over to the big freestanding globe. “Christ, Archer, you can’t possibly find more important work than what you’re doing now, here, for us. After two years you’ll have a fantastic start on financial security, at the age of twenty-three or -four. And you want to quit—have you lost all reason ? What‘s the matter with you, girl?”
“ What happened to ‘It’s your choice; we’re not the Mafia’?” she asked coolly.
He gave the globe a spin. “Of course it’s your choice, Archer, but no one leaves. No one wants to leave,” Peter sounded uncharacteristically angry, dismissive.
“ Look, Peter, I finished the training—did the full year and then some. I gave a lot of thought to this, but this is someone else’s agenda, someone else’s decisions about what’s fair, who lives, who dies. And they may be well qualified to make those decisions, but I’m not in on them. I’m just doing someone else’s wet work, with no explanation. It’s not for me, Peter.”
Stopping the globe with his hand, he looked at her and said, “Bullshit, Archer. All you need to know is that someone else further up—someone imminently qualified—decided it
* * *
On Valentine’s Day, when Adam thought Archer was in Rome attending a midlevel diplomatic conference on global warming, she was in El Salvador, collecting intelligence on a guerrilla group in the mountains after the military’s assassination of Archbishop Romero. When her six months of training ended in March, Archer stayed on. She spent Easter in Baghdad, observing the movements of one Mohamed Al Jahad for future targeting if necessary. Memorial Day found her in Israel, learning advanced scope shooting and escape options.
Peter Bennett showed up monthly to give a pep talk and observe the day’s maneuvers. Although he never made notes, Archer knew he was sorting them, evaluating them, planning their futures for them. Still, when Bennett grabbed a long-range sniper rife to illustrate the optimal stance for executing a shot from a vertical position, strong wind at the shooter’s back, Archer was impressed. Not just a suit, then.
Archer saw Adam once every six weeks or so, in New York City. Her work and home phones were rigged to forward calls to a line in Syracuse, where the home phone rang in Archer’s barrack room and the work phone went to an office at the main training building, where it was answered, “Justice Department.” Archer felt bad about the deception but rationalized it as a short-term expedient.
When Adam suggested visiting her in Washington, she protested that New York was the only city in the world worth living in, and she wanted to be there. It was a schizophrenic existence. While she was in New York with Adam, her other life seemed preposterous and unreal. She ate in restaurants on Fifth Avenue, wore clothes from Barney’s, and laughed with Adam’s friends, drinking beer at a brasserie. Then, when she was back in Syracuse or on assignment, New York was barely a memory.
* * *
Archer got out at the end of her year. She’d never had to do a hit, but could. When she told Peter Bennett of her decision, took his glasses off and rubbed his forehead.
“ Archer, Archer. You don’t know what you’re saying. All the reports I’ve had on you have been superb. Everything I’ve seen has been as close to perfect as it gets,” he said as he flipped through a manila file on his desk. “Look at this,” he said, stabbing at the page with his finger. “You’re the number one shot in your class. Think about it: number one. Better than every guy from West Point and Annapolis. My instructor says there are two Marines who can match you in the right conditions, but still, it’s nothing short of remarkable . . . and priceless.”
He got up and walked over to the big freestanding globe. “Christ, Archer, you can’t possibly find more important work than what you’re doing now, here, for us. After two years you’ll have a fantastic start on financial security, at the age of twenty-three or -four. And you want to quit—have you lost all reason ? What‘s the matter with you, girl?”
“ What happened to ‘It’s your choice; we’re not the Mafia’?” she asked coolly.
He gave the globe a spin. “Of course it’s your choice, Archer, but no one leaves. No one wants to leave,” Peter sounded uncharacteristically angry, dismissive.
“ Look, Peter, I finished the training—did the full year and then some. I gave a lot of thought to this, but this is someone else’s agenda, someone else’s decisions about what’s fair, who lives, who dies. And they may be well qualified to make those decisions, but I’m not in on them. I’m just doing someone else’s wet work, with no explanation. It’s not for me, Peter.”
Stopping the globe with his hand, he looked at her and said, “Bullshit, Archer. All you need to know is that someone else further up—someone imminently qualified—decided it
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