The Edge

“CIA has no jurisdiction on American soil. And if we deploy an army of FBI the press will start to pry and word will get out. Then our enemies could see us as weakened and themselves emboldened. Jenny Silkwell might very well have been killed because of something having absolutely nothing to do with her status with CIA. If so, we want to go in stealth and stay that way if the facts on the ground allow. So right now you, Devine, are the ‘army.’”

“And if my ‘rock-solid’ cover gets blown?”

“We never heard of you.”

Chapter 3

A light drizzle was falling as Devine pulled through the open gates of Clare Robards’s mansion in Kalorama in northwest DC. It was one of the most expensive areas in the capital city, with the median price of a home well north of seven figures. Kalorama, Devine had learned, was Greek for “beautiful view.” And it was

beautiful, if one had the hefty entrance fee.

Embassy Row was on nearby Massachusetts Avenue, and the Dutch and French ambassadors’ official residences were in the vicinity, along with thirty foreign embassies. Jeff Bezos also had a home nearby that he had laid out twenty-three million for, and then bought the place next door for another five mil. Billionaires apparently needed a lot of room, or else a healthy buffer from the merely rich, Devine thought.

At that level it’s just Monopoly money anyway.

The Robards’s mansion was substantial, made of stone and large rustic timbers with small windows and cone-topped metal turrets. The property had wide, sloping lawns, and mature trees and plantings. No money spared and no detail overlooked to create a display of subdued, old money wealth that judiciously managed not to overwhelm with inflated grandiosity.

He had phoned ahead, so the well-dressed professional-looking woman who answered the door led Devine directly down a long marble-floored hall to a set of imposing solid oak doors.

She knocked and a woman’s cultured voice from inside the room said authoritatively, “Come in.”

And so Devine stepped into, perhaps, the Lioness’s Den.

Clare Robards was perched regally on a settee in a room that was lined with shelves, which were, in turn, filled with leatherbound books. Against one wall a small bar was set up. Was it his imagination or did Robards’s gaze slide toward it?

The lady’s light green dress was exquisitely tailored to her thin, petite frame. She had allowed her shoulder-length hair to turn an elegant white.

She fiddled with a strand of small lustrous pearls and looked everywhere except at Devine. The woman was clearly uncomfortable with his presence here. She wore little makeup, and the dark circles under her reddened eyes spoke of long bouts of crying.

Maybe she thinks if she ignores me, her eldest daughter wouldn’t be dead.

“Ms. Robards, I’m Travis Devine with Homeland Security.”

“Yes, I know, Mr. Devine,” she said in a low voice. “Please sit.”

She finally looked at him — resignedly, Devine concluded.

“Would you like something hot to drink? It’s quite chilly today.”

“No thank you, I’m fine.” He settled into a wingchair opposite her. “And I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She twitched at his words, and closed her eyes for a moment. “We all thought Jenny was indomitable, a survivor. She had survived... much, until this ugly, ugly business.”

“She had a stellar career, and a brilliant future in serving her country.”

“That goddamned job cost my daughter her life,” she barked. Then she quickly let the regal mask slide back down over her features. “I’m sorry,” she said in a hushed voice.

“No reason to be.” He glanced around. “Is your husband here?”

“Vernon is in Thailand, at least I think so. Business,” she added with a touch of bitterness. “Apparently, for some people business and making money trumps all, even the murder of one’s stepdaughter.” She glanced at her lap and let her fingers intertwine as though she suddenly felt the need to hold on to herself. “It’s funny, Mr. Devine.”

“What is?”

“When I married Curt, he was already a war hero. This big strong marine that no enemy could defeat. And he was gone all the time, too. Not to make money, but to serve his country, like Jenny did. He survived that. And then he got into politics. Worked his way up and eventually ran for the Senate and won. And he was gone all the time, again, not for the money but to serve. And here’s the funny thing.” She paused and seemed to collect herself, running her fingers delicately along her expensive pearls. “The funny thing is, for the people left behind, the motivation doesn’t matter. The result is the same: one is alone.”

“I can see that.”

She looked around at the tastefully decorated room in the luxurious mansion in the pricey, sought-after neighborhood with beautiful views. “And in case you’re wondering, as so many have, no, the grass is not always greener.”