[FrotBoott]

As she watched him, Mrs. Gates was once again struck by the painful realization that there were things about her husband she would never understand. Gaps in his life she could never fill, leaps in his thinking she could not comprehend. She only knew that there were times when he felt a terrible pain and would not share it, when by sharing it he would lessen the burden on himself. Thirty-three years ago a passably attractive young woman of average wealth had married an extremely tall, gangling, brilliant but impoverished law school graduate whose anxiety and eagerness to please had turned off the major firms in those days of the cool, restrained late fifties. The veneer of sophistication and the pursuit of security were valued over a smoldering, wandering first-rate mind of unsure direction, especially a mind inside a head of unkempt hair and a body dressed in clothes that were cheap imitations of J. Press and Brooks Brothers, which appeared even worse because his bank account precluded any additional expenses for alterations and few discount stores carried his size. I don’t know, Alex. I just don’t think he should be alone with his nightmares, none of us should. That’s not psychiatry, it’s just common sense. There was one several years ago it’s overgrown by now. The construction crews used it to go down to the water. I’m sending over a couple of guards- I hear California checking in. The van swept past the first two buildings, then suddenly swerved into the curb and stopped in front of the last structure, nearly two hundred feet from the storefront, the building farthest from the Jackal’s telephone. The instant the vehicle came to a halt the rear door opened and four men jumped out, automatic weapons in their hands, two running to the street side, one racing down the pavement to the front, the last guard standing menacingly by the open doors, his MAC- ready to fire. A dull wash of yellow light appeared at the top of the brick steps the door had been opened and a man in a black raincoat came outside. He stood for a moment looking up and down the boulevard Lefebvre. The protesting chorus grew from all sections of the desperate crowd as the soldiers held firm, their bayonets unsheathed and affixed to their rifles. The colonel continued, his features contorted, his voice nearly matching the hysteria of his frenzied audience. I’ll go first said the Soviet. What are you talking about Back up, David, said St. Jacques, instinctively defensive. What do you mean who did I talk to All right, Aleksei said an agitated Krupkin, stepping forward. I’ve heard words and names that evoke certain unpleasant memories for me, at any rate, and I think it behooves me to ask a question or two-specifically one. Just who is this Ogilvie that concerns you so You’ve told us who he was in Saigon, but who is he now
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