Sea of Fire

Chapter Forty-One

Paul Hood could not sleep.

Dressed in Calvin Kleins and an old L.A. Rams T-shirt that had been given to him by former quarterback Roman Gabriel, Hood lay on his back in the queen-size bed of his two-bedroom apartment. He stared at the ceiling, watching for the occasional cone of light as a car drove past or an airplane flew by. The window was open a crack, and the blinds were raised. He had moved from a nearby hotel four months ago, but he had not gotten around to putting up shades. At least he was remembering to stock the essentials. The first night he'd had no toilet paper. He had to use the Washington Post.

The view was to the west, so Hood did not get the rising sun. Not that it mattered. He was usually awake before the sky was light. He had probably witnessed more sunrises than a generation of roosters. And he probably spent less time in the sun than anyone else in Washington.

The new, five-story-tall building was called The New-port. It was located on Tyburn Court in Camp Springs, Maryland, a short drive from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had a corner apartment on the top floor. That gave him access to a sundeck on the roof, though he had never been to it. Whenever the kids stayed over, Alexander slept on a sofa bed in the living room, and Harleigh had the second bedroom. To ease the blow for Alexander of not having his own room, the living room was where Hood kept the PlayStation 2 video games.

The room was quiet. It was not noise that kept Hood up. Nor was it the situation in Australia. Hood had been through more than a dozen crises over the past ten years. He had learned how to ride them out by focusing on the upside. Civilization would survive. It was simply a matter of the cost. That did not make a crisis pleasant, only manageable. Besides, this problem was in the hands of very capable people. If they needed him, they knew how to reach him.

What troubled Hood, the more that he thought about it, was the extent to which he was needed. Not at Op-Center but in his personal life. Like the splashes of light above him, the patterns of Paul Hood's life changed less and less as the days wore on.

There was dust on the game console. He had noticed it tonight when he walked past the TV. The kids had not stayed with him in over three weeks. It had not seemed that long. Hood was not angry or disappointed. It was not even a question of his being at the house more. Teenagers grew up. They got involved in activities. They dated. Harleigh had two sessions with a psychiatrist each week. The girl was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following her hostage ordeal at the United Nations. She had gotten over the initial phase, when all she wanted to do was stay in her room and see no one. Now she was back at school and beginning to play the violin again. She still went through frequent periods of lethargy and depression. She was also suffering from occasional headaches and psychosomatic stomach ailments. All of that was being taken care of slowly and carefully. Some of it was being addressed through psychiatry, some by Hood and Sharon. Most, however, seemed to be happening because she was hanging out with her friends. Perhaps that was to be expected.

Teenagers were like the cars and planes outside, Hood thought. They pulled away and threw less and less light on their parents. That was to be expected and accepted.

What bothered Hood was that he had come up with nothing to fill the empty places. Now that he thought of it, maybe losing those activities made him realize that there were other holes. Perhaps Op-Center was part of that problem. He had built an effective team, and he had not set new goals.

Maybe he should run for the Senate, he thought half-heartedly. He had enjoyed campaigning and giving speeches when he ran for mayor of Los Angeles. Maybe he should win an election, have himself appointed to the CIOC, and work on the other side of the intelligence fence. That would be a challenge. Especially if Mike Rodgers were named to replace him.

It was something to consider. Especially since Hood was one of the public heroes of the United Nations hostage crisis. He had saved children, including his own daughter. Voters would respond to that.

The more Hood thought about that, the more the idea appealed to him. Maybe he could even run for president. A few spy agency alumni had managed to reach the Oval Office.

The real question was how much he truly wanted that. Or the Senate. Or anything else.

And then late-night common sense poked him in the ribs and whispered in his ear. The hollowness is not about whether you are needed, it told him. It was not about what he did for a living. It was about how Hood was living. His former wife was dating. She was working and meeting new people. Not Paul Hood. Traffic patterns had changed, but he had not. He was waiting for the kids to come to him. He was waiting for crises and crisis managers at Op-Center to come to him. When they did not, he found himself lamenting how dull his life was. How sparse the lights on the ceiling were.

Running for office again was not a bad idea, Hood had to admit. But it was not a decision that should be made in the small hours of the night. Not with a head as clouded as his heart was empty. Not when there were smaller steps Hood could take first.

Such as? he asked himself.

Such as calling Daphne Connors back and asking her on a second date, he told himself as he shut his eyes and replayed the pleasures of the first date on the insides of his eyelids.