Blue Warrior

28

Altis Belém Hotel

Lisbon, Portugal

^{21 August}

The sun warmed Pearce’s face as he savored the last sip of vintage Porto on the terrace after dinner. He normally didn’t take sweet liquor, but the waiter swore it was from the finest Port house in the country from the best grapes and choice aguardente. It was a nice way to watch the sunset as fingers of light glinted through the sails of the yachts anchored across the promenade. It was his first trip to Portugal, so he indulged in the local menu as was his custom. Dinner consisted of caldo verde soup and a plate of char-grilled sardines, fresh from the Atlantic.

The meeting with the Irishman had gone well. It would be a lucrative contract with a UN-certified NGO, a first for his company. Pearce wanted to build up the non-security side of his business, and this was the next logical step in that direction. Aerial survey work over Indonesia would be relatively easy and virtually riskless. Both the Indonesian government and UN climate-change scientists were interested in cataloguing biomass burnings and drought conditions on the island of Sumatra. It would be a five-year renewable contract, with additional drone flight training and supervisory services fees tacked on for a bonus.

“Troy?”

Pearce turned around. He couldn’t believe it. He stood.

“Cella.”

Her face broke into a brilliant smile. She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. Pearce hesitated. The last time he’d seen her was six years ago in Milan, bolting angrily out the door. His joy at seeing her now overwhelmed the bitter memory. He hugged her back.

“You’re alive,” she whispered in his ear. She finally let go, and held him at arm’s length. “It’s so good to see you.” She touched the side of his face. “No beard. Good. You have such a nice face.” She squinted. “A few more scars, I see. But small.”

“Please, sit,” Pearce said, gesturing at his table.

A waiter appeared. “Vodka martini, stirred, straight up with a lime twist,” Cella ordered with a smile.

“Right away.” The waiter glanced at Pearce’s empty glass. “You, sir?”

“Make it two. And make it doubles.”

“Very good, sir.”

Cella grasped his hand. “I can’t believe you’re here. What are you doing in Lisbon?” Her large blue eyes sparkled intently. Pearce’s heart raced. She still had the same effect on him, six years later. She hadn’t aged a day. In fact, she looked more beautiful than ever. She wore a simple silk blouse, gray slacks, and flats. Stunning.

“Business. You?”

She looked him up and down. Slacks, shirt, sport coat. “Very stylish. You actually look like a businessman.” Her tone suggested conspiracy.

He laughed. “I really am a businessman.”

She frowned, incredulous. She’d only known him as a CIA operative. Thought he’d never leave the agency. “What kind of business do you do these days?”

Pearce shrugged. “Nothing interesting, I promise. But what about you? What brings you to Lisbon?”

She hesitated. The drinks arrived. They lifted glasses. The last rays of sunlight danced in the vodka.

“To… ?” Cella asked. It was a loaded question.

“To now.”

They touched glasses. Took sips. Cella set her glass down.

“I’m here at a UN conference for medical relief workers. I run a small women’s clinic in Libya. I was asked to speak about the role of women in the medical professions in the Middle East. And networking, of course.” She took another sip. So did Pearce.

“That’s great to hear. How long are you in Lisbon?”

“I leave tomorrow. You?”

“Same.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their martinis, watching the sailboats in their docks, bobbing in the gentle current of the Tagus River, flowing into the great Atlantic. They were both lost in memories of each other, though neither would admit it. Their glasses drained. The waiter appeared, as if on cue.

“Another round?” he asked.

Pearce looked at Cella. There was nothing holding her here, was there?

“Sure.”

“Very good, sir.” He left.

Cella’s eyes teared up. “I thought you were dead.”

“Why?”

“Because I never heard from you. No letters. No calls. I used to dream that you would come and visit me, at least.”

Pearce was confused. “I thought you made it pretty clear that you never wanted to see me again.”

Cella jerked, as if shocked by an electrical current. “Why would you say that?”

“Oh, I dunno. Telling me to go to hell seemed like a pretty good clue.” He softened his sarcasm with a smile.

She laughed. “You don’t know women, do you? Or maybe it’s just Italian women you don’t know. I was scared, that was all. Scared for you. Scared for me. What we had…”

She laid her hand on the table. Pearce laid his hand on hers.

“I guess I’m an idiot.”

“There’s no guessing about it.”

Pearce felt the heat on his face.

So did she.

The waiter returned five minutes later with the drinks. There was a hundred-euro note tucked under one of the empty glasses. The American and his woman were gone.

Pearce’s suite overlooked the Targus. The modernist design featured black woods, white marble, and gleaming fixtures. From the king-sized bed he watched a sailboat tack into the early-morning wind. Cella did, too, as Troy ran his fingers through her thick, lustrous hair. They were both naked beneath the white linens. Happy, exhausted.

They had picked up where they left off six years earlier. Incredibly, it was more intense. Years of nurtured memories had created an insatiable longing. Now they found each other again. And then there was the ticking clock. Only one night to be together. They hardly slept, stealing brief moments of rest until one of them revived, and starting all over again.

And again.

And again.

“What time is your flight?” he asked. The digital clock flashed 5:22 a.m.

“Not until ten. You?”

“Eleven thirty. We have time for coffee. I’ll order room service.”

Cella shook her head. “Not yet,” she said as she crawled on top and pulled him inside of her again.

They lounged in reclining chairs on the south-facing balcony in sumptuous bathrobes, finishing off a pot of strong black Brazilian coffee and a tray of chocolate biscotti and fresh fruit. They both stared at the river, mesmerized by the morning sunlight dappling the water.

“Don’t leave,” Troy said.

She laughed. “You can’t be serious. Even you must be exhausted by now.”

“No. I mean, stay with me.”

“I can’t. I have work to do. A life to go back to. So do you.”

Pearce crossed over to her chair and sat in it. He took her by the hands. “What do you want me to say? I screwed up. Maybe I should’ve stayed with you before, but I didn’t. I thought about finding you later—like, a million times I thought about it. But the way you ended it—”

“The way I ended it? No, my love. I offered you everything. You turned me down. You ended it.”

“But you know why I had to leave.”

“Yes, I remember well. You said you had a duty. Well, now, so do I.” She sat up and kissed him on the cheek. “This time together was a wonderful gift, but it ends here. You made your choice years ago, and then I made mine.” She stood.

“Do you love someone else?”

She looked at him, puzzled, as if he’d asked her a question in Urdu. “I loved you from the moment I set eyes on you. I know I sound like a silly schoolgirl, but it’s true.”

“Then why not stay with me?”

“Life is more than love, Troy. You taught me that. You made your commitments then, now I’ve made mine. I’m sorry.”

She bent over and kissed him again. They held each other’s face in their hands, kissing gently, without lust.

Gently, good-bye.