“I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince, potentate, state, or sovereignty of whom or which I have heretofore been a subject or citizen; that I will support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform noncombatant service in the Armed Forces of the United States when required by the law; that I will perform work of national importance under civilian direction when required by the law; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; so help me God.”
Christine gave a polite golf-clap. “Nicely done, not a hitch.”
David Slaton set the oath of U.S. citizenship cheat sheet on his bedroom dresser. “You’re sure about this.” Half question, half statement.
“We’ve been married long enough, so it’s all above board. You qualify for citizenship.”
“It says I have to bear arms.”
“You’ve done that already.”
“True, but this says ‘when required by the law.’ The kind of things they ask me to do … not so much.”
“The kinds of things they ask you to do wouldn’t sound very good in an oath of citizenship. Anyway, I thought they’d come up with a workaround, some kind of presidential memorandum to make you legit.”
“I don’t think anything I’ve ever done for the CIA was approved by the legal department. That memorandum was about covering asses in Washington in case I screwed up.”
“Okay, fair enough. Let’s look at it another way. America is a nation of immigrants, and you’re a pretty damned good stonemason. We need expertise from all walks of life.”
He grinned and laid down on the bed next to her. Christine was comfortably propped back on pillows, her auburn hair showing the first streaks of summer, her long limbs relaxed. He’d begun to notice crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and somehow they made her more beautiful than ever. Five years of marriage or not, she still took his breath away. Slaton was about to say something along those lines when a clatter from the next room interrupted the moment. Their son, Davy, was shoveling through his box of Lego bricks, looking for the perfect piece for his latest project. Romance did get harder when you had a kid. And it was about to get harder yet.
Slaton put a hand on his wife’s belly, which was starting to show a bump. “Feel anything yet?”
“What, like kicking? Not likely at twelve weeks. But we might see some movement on the ultrasound tomorrow.”
“Gender?”
“We should get the results of the genetic testing any day now.”
“Is that one hundred percent accurate?”
“One hundred percent? That’s asking a lot.”
“Maybe we should stay in the dark. You know, come up with both boy and girl names.”
She was about to say something when his hand moved on her stomach. “There,” he said. “I felt something.”
Christine grinned. “Indigestion.”
He smiled back at her. “I like having a wife who’s a doctor. You can answer all my medical questions.”
“Yeah. And also patch you up every time you…” she checked what they both knew she was about say, and went with, “when you drop a ten-pound block of stone on your foot.”
He looked down at two black-and-blue toes, a minor incident from his latest backyard project, a staircase leading down to the creek behind the house. “Yeah, well, if that’s the worst that happens, then—”
His thought was cut off by the sound of the oven timer going off. Christine rolled to one side and got up. “Dinner in ten. But remember, tomorrow night you’re the cook.”
“Davy and I will come up with something.”
She rolled her eyes and disappeared.
Five minutes later Slaton was on the front porch, leaning on a support beam as the sun fell low toward the distant mountain.
As the evening coolness took hold, his eyes swept the open ground in front of their ranch-style house. He’d insisted on a hundred-meter clear area all around, a basic defensive precaution. There were, however, no cameras or motion detectors. Christine had drawn that line. Still, the elbow room was at least a small comfort. The wall of spruce and fir stood still in the evening air, and a patch of aspen on the nearby hill, catching the low western sun, shimmered with new growth. Somewhere in the surrounding forest, out of sight but ever-present, was their agency-issued security detail—a small but highly capable force, and part of the deal he’d made with the devil that was the CIA’s clandestine branch.
The job wasn’t one Slaton had sought. In truth, it wasn’t really a job at all. More an accommodation that fit everyone’s jagged needs. So far, though, it was working. Christine had recently mentioned that she felt increasingly secure on the ranch, and Slaton sensed it as well. He could never completely discount the possibility of an armed incursion, some settling of an old score from his past, yet the threat seemed increasingly distant. That impression, he knew, sourced from his surroundings. He had a deepening sense of familiarity with this place. The structures, the Northern Rockies, and of course, his family. Eighteen months and counting. It was the longest Slaton had ever lived anywhere. His childhood had been a fractious, vagabond existence. For too many years since, he had simply moved from one mission to another, from safe house to safe house. No chance for a life by any recognizable measure.
Then, in a chance encounter, Christine had saved his life. Perhaps in more ways than one. She was the perfect inverse to the profession that had been consuming him. No secrets, no lies, and from a woman who dedicated her own life to making others well. Now—
“David!” Her voice from inside.
“What’s up?” he called back.
“David … you need to see this.”
Something in her tone. He hurried into the house.
Christine was standing near the dining room table, motionless with a spatula in her hand. Her eyes were locked on something distant, and he followed them to the television on the far side of the room. A newscast was running, and he saw a jerky video playing in a loop. A helicopter crashing into a river. The TV’s volume was muted, but a banner scrolled across the bottom to give context.
MARINE ONE CRASHES INTO ANACOSTIA RIVER. PRESIDENT CLEVELAND ON BOARD.
Slaton moved slowly toward his wife, put an arm around her shoulder. They stood that way for a long time, neither saying a word.
It was Christine who finally broke the silence. “David, do you think…” Her voice faded to nothing, but the thought transmitted anyway.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But we’ll find out soon enough.”
The little Cessna touched down firmly, the tires squeaking to announce its arrival in rural Maryland. There was only one person on the ground to hear it.
The airfield was tiny by any standard. There was no control tower, and the runway had no lights. The lone windsock, knotted by a storm the previous year, had become home to a pair of nesting finches. The narrow runway, twelve hundred feet of ungroomed asphalt, bore a striking resemblance to the cart paths on the nearby golf course. There were two hangars, one of which sheltered not an airplane but the owner’s Class A RV. A mere three aircraft resided at the field, and all were tied down sleepily on the parking apron. One had a flat tire, and another was missing its engine. By any measure, it was one of the least busy airstrips in all of Maryland.
Which made it the perfect place for a touch-and-go.
Lazlo never bothered to exit the runway, simply bringing Cessna NUX52 to a stop near the midpoint. He left the engine running. Magda threw open the starboard door, got out, and their passenger appeared out of the nearby treeline. Without a word, the Manchurian clambered in back, shoving a rucksack through to the port-side rear seat.
Magda climbed back inside, and under cover of darkness Lazlo spun a one-eighty and taxied to the spot where they’d touched down. He pirouetted another half turn and, after less than four minutes on the ground, the little airplane lifted off and disappeared into a star-strewn night sky.