59

LINCOLN FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH, WASHINGTON, D.C. —30 NOVEMBER

It was the first time Marcus had set foot in the building in two weeks.

He had missed all of the memorial services for those killed in the shooting on the sixteenth, having been overseas or in Colorado, and he regretted this, given all that his church family had done to support him when Elena and Lars had died. Still, after what Maya had said to him, it was probably better that he had stayed away for a bit. He hoped that with the passage of some time, Maya would reconsider. He could bear her reproach if he had to, but he certainly didn’t want to. He looked for her as he arrived at the service but didn’t see her. It was possible, he thought, that she was still in the hospital or recovering at home. It felt odd not knowing or being able to ask her directly.

He headed for a pew in the back, thinking about Elena and Lars, and soon found himself recalling the conversation he’d had with Oleg the other night and the pointed question the Russian had asked him.

“Do you think you’ll ever remarry?”

At first, Marcus had been angry at his friend for even broaching a subject so personal and so painful. He realized Oleg was lonely and missing his own wife and son back in Russia, yet the question was insensitive and over the line. Still, he’d promised to answer any question Oleg asked.

“No,” Marcus had finally said. “That door is shut to me. Elena was the only girl I have ever loved. I gave her my heart —forever —and that was that. It’s not possible to find a woman who could ever come close to her, so getting married isn’t worth thinking about. Period. End of story.”

Oleg had been skeptical at first. He had pressed Marcus with many follow-up questions. But in the end he had accepted Marcus’s answer, however reluctantly.

Yet on the plane back to Washington, Marcus had become increasingly uncomfortable with what he had said. By the time he’d landed at Reagan, he’d been forced to admit, if only to himself, that the issue wasn’t so cut-and-dried. Merely contemplating the concept of remarrying seemed like a betrayal of Elena. He felt guilty even thinking about it, much less discussing it. Yet he knew in principle it was not wrong.

Weren’t the Scriptures clear? Wasn’t a man whose wife had died free to marry again? One was not wed forever, after all, only “till death do us part.” Wasn’t that the vow he and Elena had taken so many years before? And hadn’t God himself said, “It is not good for man to be alone”?

There were times since Elena’s death that the loneliness he felt was nearly unbearable. And he was still a young man. It was possible he could live another forty or fifty years. Was he really going to rule out the possibility that the Lord could bring a godly woman into his heart that he could love and cherish for the second half of his life?

Yes, he conceded, it was possible. He could never replace Elena. Nor would he want to. But that didn’t mean God couldn’t or wouldn’t provide someone new, someone different, to fill the wrenching void in his heart.

And yet how could he ever marry again if it meant putting his new wife —whoever she might be —at risk because of the life he led? Was that fair to any woman? And if he gave up this life and career to be with her, to care for her and keep her safe, what then would he do? Could he ever be happy in a job less interesting, where the stakes were so much lower?

The worship band began to play, and this snapped Marcus back to the present. He noticed the sanctuary was standing room only, and he was struck by all the media covering the service. A gaggle of reporters and a bank of video cameras mounted on tripods were set up in the back. Marcus couldn’t help but think of Commander Massoud, killed in 2001 by a bomb hidden inside a TV camera. There were no magnetometers or X-ray machines screening people coming into the church. Could what had just happened in London happen here?

A new private security company had been hired by the church to keep everyone safe. Marcus had counted no fewer than a dozen uniformed and armed guards on the premises that morning, including two standing outside the front door and two in the vestibule, and there were likely others he was not seeing. In addition to the rent-a-cops, the D.C. Metro Police had positioned two squad cars out front and two near the parking lot in back. One officer was directing traffic, and several others were gathered on the front steps, keeping an eye on everyone coming in and serving, Marcus hoped, as a deterrent.

As he found a seat, his phone buzzed. It was Kailea, calling from London.

“Hey,” he said in a whisper.

“Hey, old man,” she replied. “Am I catching you at a bad time? What, are you at a bingo parlor or something?”

Marcus smiled, glad to hear she was regaining her strength and sense of humor.

“Hey, young lady, I’m fine. How about you?”

“They just released me from the hospital —Geoff, too.”

“So you’re coming back?”

“No, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Why —what’s up?”

“The director wants us to help with the investigation.”

“You sure you’re up for it?”

“Honestly? No. But that’s the job, right?”

“How long will you be?”

“As long as it takes to figure out who’s responsible for this mess and put a bullet in their heads —I mean, you know, arrest them and bring them in.”

“Right,” Marcus said, just as someone began playing the organ. “I’ve got to go. But keep me up to speed on what you guys find.”

“Will do, geezer. Curtis out.”

The line went dead.

The service continued without a hitch, but Marcus struggled to concentrate, so consumed were his thoughts with Kairos and what they were plotting next. After the service, though, he was grateful to see so many people he knew. One by one, the men shook his hand and slapped him on the back. The women hugged him and a few kissed his cheek. All of them thanked him for saving their lives. Some cried on his shoulder. But he never saw Maya.

What floored him were the two people standing on the sidewalk as he exited the church —Robert Dayton and Annie Stewart.

“Good morning, Marcus,” said the senator, tipping his fedora.

“Senator, Annie —what a pleasant surprise,” he replied, shaking their hands. “I thought the Senate was out of session this week.”

“It is,” Dayton said.

“Then what brings you back to the swamp so early?”

“Something has come up. We wondered if we could talk.”

“Must be serious for an atheist to show up at church.”

“I’m here on Annie’s Baptist credentials,” Dayton conceded. “But yes, it’s pretty important. You free for lunch?”

“Now?”

“Nothing fancy —how about Manny’s?”

“That’d be fine,” said Marcus. “My car or yours?”

“Could we walk?” Annie asked. “It’s the first nice day in weeks.”

As they crossed the street, Marcus whispered to Annie, “I thought you were a Methodist.”

She laughed. “I am —he doesn’t know the difference.”

Soon, the three had hung up their coats and taken a booth.

“So, Marcus,” Annie began after the waitress took their orders and stepped away.

“So, Annie,” he replied.

“The three of us have known each other a long time, and we have a lot of history together.”

“True.”

“But the senator finds himself in an unusual position and not entirely sure how to proceed. I suggested he come to you, and after thinking about it for several days, he decided to fly back to D.C. last night.”

“I’m happy to help you and the senator if I can, Annie. I consider you both friends, and I don’t take that for granted.”

“Thank you —and I trust that what we discuss will remain here, unless we come to an agreement on others to bring into the loop?”

“What is this, Las Vegas?” Marcus said, smiling.

Annie smiled back. It was easy to see why Pete Hwang was so infatuated with her, Marcus thought. They’d all met during one of his combat tours in the Marines. Annie had been a young press aide for the senator, fresh out of graduate school and no more than twenty-four or twenty-five years old. He could still remember her dazzling green eyes and short, blonde shag haircut. And that smile. That was well over a decade ago. Yet somehow, she looked better now. She was wearing a navy-blue dress with white trim at the collar. Her hair was longer now, below the shoulders with side-swept bangs. It was still blonde, but there were a few wisps of gray. And she wore glasses —black, narrow, flattop Ray-Bans that gave her a studious look —along with small, silver hoop earrings and a stylish black-and-gold watch.

“The topic,” she said, suddenly growing serious, “is Saudi Arabia.”