The American. Andrew Britton

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      The note was apologetic, but Katie still found herself growing angrier each time she read it. How could he just take off without even saying good-bye? Over the past six months she had opened herself to him, shared so much, and in return he had revealed almost nothing of his past, except that he had briefly worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. It had taken a considerable degree of craftiness and charm to get that much out of him.

      She picked up a framed photograph of the two of them standing on a pier at Kittery Point, Ryan’s arm loose around her waist. She admired his dark Irish good looks, lean physique, and easy smile, then caught herself and slammed the picture down on the antique wooden cabinet, leaving a small mark in the lacquered surface. Tears welled in her eyes, and she wiped them away angrily as she stormed out of the house. Feeling suddenly childish, it occurred to her that he would probably be disappointed if he could see her now. She felt a rush of shame, which quickly turned to anger again as she drove away even faster than she had arrived, which was very fast indeed.

      CHAPTER 2

      WASHINGTON, D.C.

      To avoid the challenge of getting into Langley while listed as a visitor, Ryan had agreed to meet the person he spoke with on the telephone “off campus,” so to speak. He waited in a brightly lit café just off the George Washington Parkway, seated in a far corner of the room facing the door. The atmosphere was pleasant on a Friday afternoon, young professionals and college students busy making plans for the weekend, exchanging small talk and gossip, casting flirtatious glances across the crowded room. Many of these glances were aimed in Ryan’s direction, but he didn’t notice; sitting alone in the bustling atmosphere of the café, he could not help but feel old and out of place.

      After almost twenty minutes had passed, a cold gust of air swept through the room as the door was pulled open. The man who entered was so unremarkable in dress, height, and build that he immediately blended into the background. That kind of practiced anonymity was to be expected, though, as Jonathan Harper had nearly twenty years of field experience to draw from. He had begun his career as a young analyst working the Soviet desk, but it wasn’t long before the bland-featured, exceptionally intelligent young man had found his way into the Operations Directorate. By the mid-1980s he was running agents behind the Iron Curtain and making arrangements for those few defectors whose positions within the Committee for State Security made them valuable assets to the CIA. Now, at the pinnacle of his career, Harper had the number-three spot at Langley as the deputy director of operations. He lifted his hand slightly to acknowledge Ryan’s presence as the younger man stood up, coffee cup in hand, to follow Harper back out into the cold.

      “You look well, my friend. College life seems to agree with you,” Harper remarked as the two men strolled slowly along in the direction of the Mall. The sky was a pale gray, and the bite of the air seemed to promise an early snowfall. Ryan glanced to his left and guessed that the words were meant sincerely. Sometimes it was difficult to tell as Harper’s face never seemed to give anything away. With his hair carefully parted on the right, his conservative but expensive style of dress, and a solemn expression that seemed to be permanently etched into his features, Jonathan Harper, as Kealey had always thought, looked more like an aging minister or banker than an intelligence officer.

      “I can’t say I’m unhappy.”

      Harper took a moment to digest those words. It was the same way with Ryan every time.

      “Got СКАЧАТЬ