Then why should she be so understanding? She kept coming back to the same question and the same answer. Mitch lived a different life. Secrets were part of his existence, and what made this worse was that Anna was a reporter. She had an overwhelming need to find things out, to dig, to uncover the hidden, the forgotten, and the neglected. She wanted to know things, while Mitch was content with just being there. One of his favorite lines was that talking is overrated. She'd asked him about his previous lovers one night, and he had steadfastly avoided the discussion. She had finally said, "Don't you want to know about the men I've dated?" and Rapp had claimed that he didn't. This only served to arouse her curiosity more. There was no past with the man. It was an aspect of Mitch that drew her in and drove her nuts. He only wanted to talk about the present, and the future.
As the cab neared his house, the house that just a few days earlier she'd thought of as theirs, she felt butterflies in her stomach that rivaled the ones she'd had on her first live remote. Out of nervousness she hoped he wasn't home, and out of hope she wished he were. The coward in her wanted to grab her stuff and leave. Not give him the satisfaction of showing that she cared enough to talk about it. She could sneak in, grab her stuff and avoid any confrontation whatsoever. There was another voice from within, though not quite as strong as the first, that was telling her she had overreacted. Telling her that she could trust Mitch, and that whatever had happened in Milan could be explained.
When the cab pulled into the driveway, Rielly spotted her car parked next to the garage and noticed that the front light was on as well as one upstairs. She paid the cabbie and stood in the rain as he got her bag from the trunk. After a moment of indecision she wheeled her bag over to her car and hefted it into the trunk. Then standing under the narrow eave in front of the garage she peered through the small square window. Mitch's car wasn't there. Her heart fell and after a moment of melancholy thoughts she decided to go inside and see if there was a note.
Anna unlocked the front door and punched in the code for the alarm. The first thing she saw was Mitch's large Travel Pro black wheeled suitcase. The same one he'd taken to Milan. It was on the floor and open. He was home, or at least he'd been home. She closed the front door and went into the kitchen. The breakfast bar was bare and again she felt her heart shrink a little. This was the spot where he would have left a note. There was none. Next she checked the answering machine. All she got for her trouble was a red zero telling her she'd again come up empty. She felt a brief sense of panic.
Snatching the handset from the cradle she called her apartment and checked her messages. The first one was from the phone company, asking her if she'd like to take advantage of a new long distance calling plan. That was it. With a lump in her throat she called her work number and quickly skipped through five messages, none of which were from Mitch. She slammed the handset down and started for the stairs. The first tear trickled down her cheek as she reached the bedroom, their bedroom.
The bed was unmade. She tried to remember if it was that way when they'd left for Italy. It wasn't. She clearly remembered it had been made. In frustration she grabbed one of the pillows and threw it against the wall. Not even a note. It was bad enough that he didn't leave her one in their hotel room, but this was inexcusable. She'd misjudged him. With salty tears streaming down her face she went into the bathroom to gather her things. If he could be this cold and impersonal after all they'd been through, then so could she.
Washington, D. C. Sunday morning
Senator Clark was in the kitchen of his mansion on Foxhall Road in the Wesley Heights neighborhood of Washington. The large chateau style home was the senator's castle. The front of the house was covered with ivy that looked like it had been there for a century or more and the double front door looked big enough to drive a small car through. Four stone chimneys jutted above the hipped slate roof, two at each end. The 9,000-square-foot home sat on three perfectly landscaped acres, and was surrounded by an eight foot, black wrought iron fence.
On Sundays the help was off so he was on his own for breakfast. After popping an English muffin into the toaster he poured' himself a tall glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and took several gulps before heading out to get the papers. In slippers and a silk robe he dared the November morning chill and walked the almost 200 feet from his front door to the large black wrought iron gate that kept unwanted visitors out. Caesar and Brutus, the senator's golden retrievers, joined him on the walk.
It promised to be a good morning. His two regular Sunday papers, the New York Times and the Washington Post, were waiting for him in plastic bags. Clark returned to the house in time to hear the bell on the toaster announce that his muffin was done. He dropped the papers on the table and grabbed the muffin. He put raspberry jam on one half and peanut butter on the other. It was the same thing every Sunday, orange juice and a muffin first and then coffee with the paper. Rituals were a good thing.
Wife number three was never involved in this little ritual because she never got out of bed before ten on Sundays. And he doubted that he'd see her before noon today. She didn't just have one too many glasses of wine last night; she'd had one too many bottles. He was going to have to talk to her about laying off the booze. The campaign for the presidency would be in full swing about a year from now, and it wouldn't do to have her stumbling around making an ass out of herself. As he took a bite of the peanut butter-covered muffin, he asked himself what he was thinking when he married her. Unfortunately he knew the answer. She was very attractive, and in politics it never hurt to have a good-looking lady on your arm. If the boozing didn't get better, though, he'd have to figure something out. Again he contemplated the idea of her having a little accident. It might drum up the sympathy vote. No, Clark decided, as tempting as it was they always blamed the husband when there was foul play.
He finished his breakfast and headed into his study with his coffee and two newspapers. The study was located in the southern wing of the house and was decorated in the style of his home state. It was filled with expensive Western art and antiques. Balanced on two pegs above the fireplace mantel was an 1886 Winchester .45-70 lever action rifle. Every time Clark looked at the weapon he was reminded of Peter Cameron, the man he had hired to kill Mitch Rapp. Whenever Cameron had visited the study he had drooled over the unique weapon. It had been presented to President Grover Cleveland as a wedding present, and was the first of a limited number produced. The historical significance of the piece and the perfect condition it was in made it very valuable. On top of the mantel were two Frederic Remington sculptures. The Bronco Buster on one side and The Buffalo on the other. And above it all was one of Albert Bierstadt's breathtaking originals depicting a group of Indians on horseback riding across the plain. Across the room in a glass bookcase was a complete set of signed first editions by Ernest Hemingway.
Clark was unusually excited this morning and it wasn't because the Redskins were playing the Cowboys. It was because Albert Rudin was appearing live on Meet the Press. Clark checked to make sure a fresh tape was in the VCR and then sat down in his worn leather chair. He turned on the TV and placed the thick copy of the Times on the footstool. There were five more minutes before show time so he scanned the famously liberal editorial page, for a few laughs.