Biowar

67

Sandra Marshall lived in what passed for a modest condominium development in suburban Virginia — though anywhere else it would have seemed opulent indeed. Green marble slabs, walnut-stained wainscoting, embossed wallpaper, and two-tone paint on the walls; chandeliers and recessed lighting; cool Italian marble and elaborate oak inlays on the floor — the materials alone would have paid several government workers’ pensions for a lifetime. Rubens, who had grown up with wealth, wasn’t impressed by the setting, but he was somewhat surprised when Marshall greeted him in an apron. It wasn’t for show, either — there were some light stains, and her face was flushed from working over the stove.

“I’m glad you could come,” said Marshall, taking his arm. Her perfume wafted through the air as they walked through the corridor past the library and parlor, down toward the kitchen.

“My pleasure.”

“I thought we’d eat in the kitchen,” she said. “If that’s okay? The dining room is too formal, and it’s just the two of us. All right?”

“Of course,” said Rubens.

So she really was in love with him, he realized. He’d been trying to fight off the idea — banish the possibility — the whole way over. Perhaps he’d been trying to fight it off from the moment they first met.

Rubens ordinarily did not trust love. It made one vulnerable. Oh, far worse than that. Far, far worse.

“Cocktails first, or should we start with wine?”

“I don’t like to drink too much,” he said.

“I agree.” She went to the island in the kitchen, which stood under a collection of enough copper pots that the Treasury could tap her supply for a year if the Mint ran short of pennies. She produced a bottle of cabernet. It was Chester Valley — an inexpensive and not very well-known label that Rubens himself had come across only recently.

He dismissed this as a coincidence, though a very promising one. He sipped the wine as Marshall presented an amusegueule, a mini-appetizer in this case made of foie gras and caviar served with poached pheasant eggs.

From there, dinner got involved; Marshall even flamed the beef medallions with a touch of port. Rubens ate well when he ate, but rarely had he tasted a dinner like this — and surely no one had cooked one for him under such circumstances.

She was in love.

And he?

“What a dinner,” he said as he finished.

“I thought the meat slightly overdone,” she fretted.

That was obviously a put-on, but Rubens couldn’t ignore his cue.

“Nonsense. Perfect,” he said.

“Really?”

Her voice was sincere. The poor creature was actually insecure.

“You could open up a restaurant, I assure you,” said Rubens.

She got up, pulling the plates away.

She was in love, but he wasn’t, he decided. And his duty was to reject the Internet biometric DNA proposal.

“So. You wanted to discuss business?” he asked.

“Oh, we can put that off.”

“I really have to get back to my office,” Rubens told her.

Marshall reached behind her back for her apron. For a second Rubens thought she was going to pull off her skirt as well.

“Let’s have a little cognac in the library, shall we? It’s so much more comfortable.”

“I can’t really drink much.”

“A small glass? You only had half a glass of the wine.”

It was true, and Rubens did like cognac. He got up and went inside, even though he knew he should leave. He was torturing her, really — he had to say no.

Actually, he was torturing himself. She might not be a knockout beauty, but she was attractive. She was a good cook, much smarter and deeper than he had thought…

Rubens slid into one of the leather club seats. Marshall presented him with a tray and two small cognac glasses.

“To Homeland Security,” he offered.

As the words escaped his mouth, he realized that if he wasn’t in love he was at least in trouble. Never in his life had he said something so lame and ridiculous.

She smiled and clinked his glass gently.

Rubens took a sip. At the first taste, he knew he had been had.

The cognac was clearly Luc Ugni, the distinctive product of a tiny chateau in the heart of the region. The bottle would have been one of 300 the tiny vintner allowed on the market each year — a fact Rubens knew because his family was allotted two.

Son of a bitch! I’m being played like a violin. What a fool I am!

“Do you like the cognac?” she asked, playing the unsure hostess again.

“Of course I do,” he said. “And I can’t support the ID proposal under any circumstances. It’s not a good idea.”

“Oh, you don’t think that’s why I invited you, do you?” She started to laugh.

Rubens did his best to smile back.

“Well, your support would be useful,” she said: “But that’s all right.”

He waited, watching her.

“On the other hand, if you decided to actually oppose it…”

She let the sentence hang there.

“I’ve already expressed my views, and will if asked,” he told her.

“As a cabinet member—”

“I’m not a cabinet member.”

“I was referring to myself,” she said. “I would be in a position to push for your elevation. You do want State, don’t you?”

Finally she had dropped all pretense. They were two animals confronting each other in the jungle, tiger and tigress. Rubens felt himself relax. This was so much easier to deal with than love.

“If I were offered the position to serve our country in that capacity, I would certainly welcome it,” he said.

“I can guarantee you’ll be offered it,” she said. “Unless you’re my enemy.”

“And I’d be the enemy if I spoke out loudly in opposition of the study?”

“Would you like more cognac?”