“What does an assistant… whatever that title is… do?”
“At the top is the director of Central Intelligence,” she said. “Under her are the two principal deputy directors: one for Intelligence, one for Operations. The Directorate of Intelligence deals with analysis-many, many analysts working on information from all over the world. The Directorate of Operations runs spies all over the world.”
“Are you supposed to be telling me this stuff? Because, if you’re not… Oh the hell with it, keep talking.”
“I haven’t told you anything that the brochure for the Agency won’t tell you.”
“So, you’re a spy?”
“I’m trained to be, but essentially I’m an administrator.”
“That’s not what your title says. It says you’re the assistant head spy.”
“One of a few assistant deputy directors. I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell you how many.”
“I’m not sure I want to know. You did say you were trained to be a spy?”
“There’s a place, Fort Peary, in Virginia, commonly called the Farm, where prospective officers are sent for a considerable period of time and punished in all sorts of ways, not to mention trained in all sorts of ways.”
“May one ask about the punishment and the training?”
“One is punished with long runs over difficult terrain and physical training of all kinds, especially self-defense.”
“Killing with a single blow? Like that?”
“Like that.”
“And the other training?”
“One may not know about that.” She took his empty glass. “Can I get you a Scotch?”
“I think I’ll have another bourbon.”
“It’s the patriotic thing to do,” she said.
8
Holly started the risotto, then handed Josh the wooden spoon. “Now you work,” she said. “Just keep pouring in the stock, a little at a time, and constantly stir until the rice absorbs it all, then add more stock, et cetera, et cetera, until it’s all gone.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to set the table, then watch you, to see if you have any stamina at all. I guess risotto must be the most physically demanding of all cooking chores.”
“I have stamina,” he said.
“Don’t tell me; show me.” She set the table and got out her good Baccarat wineglasses, then returned to the kitchen. “How are you doing?”
“I’m doing just great,” he said, “but I’m getting a blister between my thumb and forefinger.”
“Chef’s hazard; switch hands.”
He did so. “This better be delicious when it’s done,” he said.
“It will be delicious after I add the final ingredients,” she said, going to the refrigerator to fetch them.
“You used to be chief of police in Orchid Beach, didn’t you?”
“That’s right.”