The Genesis Plague

11

In a wide stance with his winter coat folded over a crooked arm, Agent Thomas Flaherty stood stage-left, patiently waiting for the last fans queued along the auditorium’s main aisle to have Professor Thompson autograph a copy of her latest book, Mesopotamia — Empires of Clay. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched the left-handed palaeolinguist grip the pen in a tight hook and press her face close to the page while scrawling personalized messages and a swooping autograph.

Flaherty carefully observed how she interacted with her admirers. A self-proclaimed master of character assessment — partly resultant from his undergrad psychology minor at Boston College — Flaherty decided that her endearing charm seemed genuine. No narcissism here. There was an air of innocence and vulnerability about her too, he decided.

Fifteen minutes later, the final fans dallied out from the auditorium and the professor sat back to flex the fingers on her left hand.

Flaherty moved in, saying, ‘And I thought the Middle East was all about oil.’

Brooke smiled courteously.

‘Really enjoyed your lecture,’ Flaherty said. ‘You know your stuff. And you actually make it interesting. Too bad I didn’t have more professors like you when I was at B-C.’

‘Ah, a fellow alumni. What year did you graduate?’

‘A couple years ahead of you. Ninety-five. Took an extra term, but got it done.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thanks. Made the parents proud.’

‘I’m sure you did.’

Sensing by her reserved expression that he was flirting with being pegged as creepy, he reached into his pocket for his credentials and skipped to the formal introduction: ‘Special Agent Thomas Flaherty, Global Security Corp.’ He flashed the ID. ‘I know this isn’t the best time, but I need to ask you some questions about your work in Iraq back in 2003.’

‘Let me see that,’ she said, motioning for his ID.

He gave it to her.

Brooke closely studied the laminated card: the data, the agency’s sleek holographic imprint, the not-so-flattering photo of Agent Flaherty before he’d shaved away an unruly goatee. Then she passed it back to him. ‘Never heard of Global Security Corporation.’

He kept it simple by replying, ‘We work for the Department of Defense.’

‘Sounds very official,’ she said. ‘So what can I do for you?’

‘Actually, this might take a while. Maybe I can buy you a coffee in the cafe downstairs?’

‘All right,’ she said. ‘But tea. Green tea.’