I should never have left Rome the first time. But I did, and things spiraled off from there and now I'm back. If not for leaving the first time, I never would have met Spicer and found out what I was really good at. You know…my calling, and ended up back here, in Rome.

Once as a kid, I remember walking down this little path between a piece of undeveloped land and a set of houses that had this cyclone fence surrounding it. I was talking out loud to myself as it started to rain.  I immediately thought,

“How many more times in my life is it going to rain?”

Instantly, I came up with a number that didn't exist, like a trillion zillion.

I put it out of my mind and thought,

“It's gonna rain a lot in your life. Get used to it.  But don't worry, either.”

But how many more times? Which is a valid question. Just like:

How many more times will I get to stand under the hole in the roof of the Pantheon as it rains outside and watch it turn to mist as it hits the floor?

You know, in my life?

I guess that's a question I asked myself, and finally asked Spicer, and he answered by telling me that I could do all my work from a small apartment in Rome, if I wanted.

Which brings me back to my original theory.  How will I make the most of it, you know, the things I enjoy in life? 

Spicer says we met first in a bar near Campo de' Fiori, where my apartment is now. After that we went with a group of other students to a movie at the American theater in Trastevere.

I don't believe him.

I feel like I'd met him before, like before we were even in Rome.

After the first time I left.

Back in New York City.

But he says that we hadn't. 

The kids who were hanging out with us when we first met, or when he thinks we first met, were just a bunch of college kids. We were all studying at the American Art School.  Since I was out of college I was working here under the idea that I would attend the graduate school, but I needed time to get my work together.  Through the college's generosity I was trying to do that.  The building for all our classes was located in a place called the Palazzo Cenci Bolognetti, a short walk to Campo de Fiori. But as far as Spicer can remember that's when we met, on the night we went to see Wim Wenders' new movie, ‘">Paris, Texas'. At the time I was on a steady diet of Italian red wine and pasta with clams. The group that night was small, six of us, Spicer and me leading the pack that contained two girls and a couple of painters, Peter and Max. 

After the movie that night he and I went to a little restaurant near Piazza Navona. There wasn't much to the place, really, no more than four or five tables outside on the street, and a dozen or so inside half filled with late night customers.

“You want some wine?”

“Sure.”  I kept staring at Spicer as he looked over to the restaurant, looking inside. 

This is when I knew I'd met Spicer before I went to Rome the second time. Before we went to see ‘Paris, Texas'. He has this way of rubbing his thumb and forefinger together like he's holding something very thin between the two fingers. He did this, always, this motion with his fingers, using either hand. I left Rome the first time, after a short visit during my senior year in college. For a month I was studying with a painter, a quick course, the usual nonsense, meet every few days for a talk about my work and to look at the prints I'd made that week.  

After my stint with the painter I went back to New York City and I realized that I should never have left Rome. What I needed was something to do where I could practice, improve my talents.  I just wanted to do what I loved, all day, every day. I thought maybe, perhaps, there was a job for me in the Central Intelligence Agency, for someone with my skills.  Photography is like surveillance, which is more or less what the C.I.A. does.

This is when I met Spicer.

He doesn't know it. We didn't meet as much as I just saw him.

I don't forget faces. 

It was in the line to get into a federal building that house's a small office of the Central Intelligence Agency in downtown New York City.  I heard that you could go there and take a test to see if you were good enough to get into the Agency. I didn't pass, but later I found out that it didn't matter, it's what you were good at that counted.

That's what Spicer says anyway.

But like I said, I did leave Rome the first time. I did meet Spicer, not officially, looked at him really, standing there in line.  No handshakes or introductions. But according to Spicer we met when I was in Rome studying the second time at the bar in Campo, before the movie.

Okay, fine. Split hairs.  Back to dinner.

Well, it was great. Hanging out in the shadow of the Fountain of the Four Rivers, hearing the sounds of the water whispering in the distance, outdone only by the buzzing of the motor scooters. Like an old bonfire, Rome and its odors aren't temporary, they attach themselves to you, sometimes for years. Later, when you're traveling in another city, perhaps New York, you'd smell a perfume or hear the sounds of a muffler backfiring, or the casual shuffle of feet on a tiled floor, which would remind you instantly of Rome.  That's all it takes to come back here, something familiar.   

There's a pasta dish that I try to have at dinner. Clams and pasta. Simple right?

How hard is it to pull off? Some garlic, you know, a little fresh bread on the side.  Have that several times a week and you'll wonder how you've lived without it for so long.

That was all I needed to remember. Keep that thought in my mind. The good things, they're important. How many times in your life will you get to enjoy a meal at a sidewalk café on the streets of Rome?

The great part about dinner was Spicer and I talking about things.  Stuff I did, he did, and those gray areas that you don't always talk about with everyone you meet.  We questioned each other, not interrogation, but you know, finding out about one another.

“Worst thing you ever did?” Spicer rubbed his fingers together as he asked this.

“Worst?”

“Sure.”

Sitting up in my seat, looking for an answer. “Got arrested when I was eighteen.”

“For what?”

“Stupid shit.”

“How stupid?”

“I stole a case of beer from a restaurant I was working at.”

“That's it?” Spicer asked.

“Spicer. Yeah, well...” I focused on his name. What kind of name is Spicer?

Rubbing his fingers together again. “And?”

“Speeding. Reckless driving. I got my license suspended for two years when I got out of high school.”

“That'll usually do it.”

“Okay. Since we're asking. What's the worse thing you've done?”

He answers quickly. “Stole the Jerry Lewis Telethon money.”  Spicer looked over my shoulder as he said this.

I haven't heard of this. Jerry Lewis. The actor? “What?”

“Yeah. You know, during the telethon on Memorial Day weekend, you go out with a cup and stand in front of your local supermarket and ask for donations for Jerry's Kids. Then take the money and spend it on whatever you want, candy, hot dogs or pizza, things like that.”

This was genius.  “So you basically lied to people, took their money and split with it. Never giving a cent towards Mr. Jerry Lewis or the crippled kids.”

“That's right.” Sounding assured, like there was no other way to live his life, Spicer stopped rubbing fingers together and took a last sip of wine from his glass.  

“Let's split. Come on.” Spicer motioned to me to follow him. We left our finished dinners and walked back through the restaurant. The tables inside were empty and the restaurant was vacant.  The kitchen in the back that we were now walking towards seemed almost deserted. There was an old couple that Spicer gave a slight nod to when we passed them; they sat at a table covered by a red and white-checkered tablecloth with a candle burning slowly in an empty topless tuna can. 

These people looked tired.

You saw that right away.

The man seemed to be asleep, a cigarette burning casually between his fingers.  His own weight held him stiffly in his chair. He may never leave that spot, he looked almost frozen. The woman's expression seemed practiced, patient. She held her hands in her lap, folded neatly, her legs crossed at the ankles. I noticed her apron was covered with smudges, and the short sleeves of her blouse sprouting out from underneath either apron strap revealing a small pattern of roses. 

“Where is everyone?”  I looked around as I followed Spicer.

“And are we running out on the check?” I waved over my shoulder, pointing to the dinning room behind us as Spicer climbed a few steps in front of a door that opened out when he turned the knob. He stopped on the other side of the threshold looking back to me standing next to the stove in the kitchen.

“Come on. I'm like a son to these people.  Follow me.”

Outside there seemed to be a fine mist in the air.  The streets were crowded that night and I don't think Spicer really cared whether we got wet or not. The rain had just started and the sound of tires on wet cobblestones was the only sound that signaled to me that it was raining. Spicer stopped in his tracks and allowed a group of young men to pass him.

Turning to me with a smile. “Let's go to the Pantheon. Have you been there when it rains?” I shook my head, as I got wetter from the rain. “No. Sure, let's go.” I didn't care, it was further away from the school than I wanted to go at this time of night, in this weather, but I felt like Spicer was going to show me something that I might not see again. That's what made him interesting.  He always made it sound urgent; he acted with a will of his own. If it was dinner, he wanted to pick the place because he knew the people who owned the restaurant, like tonight. Or the Pantheon, or going to see ‘Paris, Texas' because of the way he described Wim Wenders and the movies he's directed. Spicer was someone who made it impossible to ignore what he's talking about.  If you didn't do what he had in mind, something awful would happen, or at the very least you wouldn't enjoy yourself if you didn't follow him, whatever the plan was.

Inside the Pantheon it was cool and dark.  “The rain evaporates as it hits the floor, see?” He pointed to the hole in the ceiling and I could see the rain as it fell through the opening.

All around us the floor seemed moist but not wet. The other people standing around us were couples, men and women kissing one another and embracing.

“A few years ago I took a tour of the Pantheon with an architect who is a Rome expert, you know, like this guy knows it all and he used to be able to get us on the roof and we could lay down and stick our heads over the edge and look down through the hole.”

Interrupting Spicer's enthusiasm, “You weren't afraid of falling?”

“No, he had a rope tied to our ankles. But it felt like you were floating.”

“Can you still get that tour?”

“No. He got banned from the roof once the school found out about it. Safety of the students.”

“Who was this guy who gave you this tour?”

“He's Norman Rockwell's son.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. That same day he took us on a tour of all of Bernini's sculptures in the city. It was great.”

“I'll bet.”

“Yep.” Spicer stuck his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared up at the ceiling of the Pantheon and closed his eyes letting the mist settle on his face. 

Spicer wandered around in a circle for a while longer as I watched him. I wondered how long he had been coming to Rome. But he interrupted me before I got the chance to ask.

“I've never seen you before tonight. You know, hanging out.”

“I'm working at the American School. Tonight I thought I'd go out for a drink. Not my usual routine.”  Spicer took his hands out of his pockets and slid them under his armpits, crossing on his chest, focusing a stern gaze on me.  

“You can't work all the time. Think about it.” Spicer said as he stood there with his arms wrapped around himself. Still looking at me with modest curiosity.

“I didn't have to think about it; I didn't hang out with anyone.  And I could work all the time. “No, I spend the days working. Taking pictures. At nights I work in the darkroom.” 

“Like Bernini.”

“In what way?” I liked the comparison. I just didn't see it.

“He worked all the time. Never let up. Started when he was twelve. Never really stopped until he died.”

“That's true.” Spicer was right; Bernini was devoted.

“So you're trying to become something. No?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I was. Spicer seemed to be calling it like he saw it.

“What about friends?”

“What's the point?”

“I don't know. Socialization. Human contact.” Spicer wondered aloud.

“Sure.  What would you call a friend?”

“That's a good question.” The mist had stopped as I followed Spicer out into the piazza. He looked up as we stepped into the open air. The rain had stopped.

“I consider someone a friend if you're proud to call them one.” 

I was surprised to hear Spicer talk like this; maybe it was the bottle of wine we drank at dinner.

“In the end, it's friends that keep you going. And ultimately you may only have one or two of them, if you're lucky, in your entire life.”  Spicer said this as he began to walk out of the piazza.

After a short walk we found some seats outside at a tiny candy store near the Pantheon. Spicer ordered a large cappuccino; he seemed drunk but I couldn't tell. Over the next few hours he talked to me about the future, about places in the world that were dangerous and how Rome was at one time a place of great danger. That now, in this day and age, he would consider this place a wonderfully safe environment to live in, raise a family. He mentioned that his sister and her husband, a lawyer, lived in Trastevere, and that they just had their first child, a son. Spicer impressed me with his knowledge of the city, although mine dwarfed his. But I didn't tell him that. I took pictures all day; I walked from one end of the city to the other before lunch.  I asked him what his plans were after his time here was finished.

“I'm doing research for the government, economic forecasts, compiling data on shopping patterns in European nations, real banal stuff.  It's sort of pre-government.  College stuff. Not the real thing. But I'm also taking a photography class which should help spice things up.” Fiddling with his empty cappuccino cup and rubbing his fingers on both hands together softly. “Someday we'll work together.  Would you like that?” Spicer said.

“Work together how?” I wondered.

“I'm not sure yet. Keep me in mind, ok?”

“Spicer. Sure. I don't know what you're talking about, but yeah, sure.”

At the time I had no idea that he would be able help me get what I wanted most in life.  With the American School's help I managed to land a job in : Vatican City making prints for tourists at a one-hour photo lab. It wasn't perfect, but it kept me busy and enabled me to make my work.

The first night after we saw Paris, Texas, I bumped into him in the darkroom at the top of the Cenci, where our studios were located.  I watched him work the enlarger and then the chemistry in the sinks. He was a shit photographer; his negatives were thin, and his focus soft. He didn't need to hear it from me; his printing abilities were the least of his dwindled talents. He seemed impressed with my work; I was on a twenty-roll-a-day pace, shooting three times; morning, noon and night. I had just gotten back from train station where I usually spent at least part of my days. The negatives from the morning had dried and I was making a print of one that grabbed my attention.  So if you're as bad at photography as Spicer obviously was, then why come to the American Art School, where everyone was wildly talented?

Spicer was just a tourist.

“So. When did you take that picture?” But at least he was curious.

“This?” I used the tongs to slide it around in the wash bin.  Spicer watched closely.

“Yeah. It looks really early. Where is it?”

“Campo.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I get up at seven A.M. The first light is usually the best. This was taken at the back of the square.”

Spicer was instantly magnetized to me. I could feel it, and he looked at me longer than people do, normally. “So you don't know these guys, in the picture?” I instantly felt the warmth coming off of Spicer, not heat but something else.

“No.”

“You're really close to them.”

“In this picture, the main characters are the little boy and the older man. So I wanted to shoot them, yeah. But the things around them are really interesting: the fire they've built, the sunrise that's still creeping over the houses of Campo and into the square. The detail that I didn't see until now is the skateboard between them on the cobblestones. It belongs to the boy, and the man is holding his hand out to absorb the heat of the fire, the boy is looking down at the fire as well, but the skateboard looks like it's levitating and in his hand he holds some power over this object.  Like a magician.”

“So you didn't see that when you took the picture?” Spicer points to the print in the wash bin.

“No.”

“What were you looking at?”

“I was watching this guy to see if he was going to step my way and knock the camera out of my hands. I felt really threatened, but I stood there and got the picture I wanted.”

“You're close to this, aren't you?”

“What?”

“This type of photography.”

Thinking for a moment, what is he asking?  “How do you mean?”

“You're into it. You take a lot of pictures. You're good at it you have ability. You know?” Spicer stepped away from the sink back to his enlarger. The red light filled the room. Spicer smiled at me and then looked back at his own easel.

“Sure, I guess.”  Why did I say that?

“Modest too. That's appealing.” Spicer said, talking over his shoulder.

I didn't know what to say.

I had no idea why Spicer was wasting his time on photography. It was probably to find an excuse to use his camera, which he carried around his neck all the time. This class wouldn't help him. I went back to work while Spicer struggled with his enlarger, making one bad print after another. I didn't have the patience to help him. Photography is funny, you either get it or you don't. There is no in-between. 

The meeting starts at nine A.M. I watch as the second hand sweeps around the round face of the clock that hangs over the reception desk, located in a small office on the seventy-fifth floor of Tower One at the World Trade Center. A sharply dressed woman of indeterminable age, pale complexion, and whose height I couldn't figure is sitting behind a raised counter top.  Her head is the only part visible to me.

She looks up.

“Mr. Spicer. The director will see you now.” A buzzer sound fills the room for a moment; a blast of noise, gone as quickly as it came and the large door next to her desk pops open. I took this to mean I was to walk through it.  

Closing the door behind me I find myself in another room, smaller than the one I was just in. It, too, is windowless and had one other door in it. 

Suddenly it opens, and standing in the doorframe is the Director.

“Mr. Spicer.” He extends his hand to me. I felt his grip, which is firm and solid, nothing overwhelming, or memorable. His suit, black, with a dark blue tie standing out from the white dress shirt behind it, doesn't distract me from the fact that he is completely bald. The Director is someone you saw only when there was a decision to be made. Earlier that week, he had phoned me at my desk and wanted to know where I thought the next threat was coming from?

Where the next threat was coming from?

Was he serious?

How would I know?

I didn't ask him that, but I did wonder if he was asking me, and if so, then who was running the show?

“We need someone in your theater. Think of it as a placement situation.”

The Director's voice always surprised me.

Maybe it's the sharp tone of the words as they roll off his tongue and the sound of silence between his sentences, which all seem prepared or canned, like someone had written him a script of his daily mutterings.  Then the implication that “in your theater” was the only place in the entire world where a “threat” could be coming from was just preposterous. Sure, the Mediterranean Sea, and Morocco beyond that, were launching points for any number of potential threat cells, but to think that Rome, the birth place of Art as I knew it, was actually a coven brimming with trouble makers was just plain wrong.

Was this job validation?

The windows of his office open out on a staggering view of downtown and the rest of the island of Manhattan, which at this height seems like a sea of triangles, squares, and rectangles, shapes of buildings that resemble a huge matte painting. Beyond this window lay limitless minutiae, details to be pored over through hours of endless daydreaming. The Director's desk is turned away from this view; he keeps his back to it. 

Sitting down in the only other chair in the office, I notice that it's a few inches lower in height than the Director's high backed seat.

“So.”

Folding his hands in this lap and crossing his left leg over his right. His face is tan and lean. I don't see a smile or a frown. He seems focused on me, intently, more than I am on him.  I know nothing about this man. He knows more about me, but then, it's his job to know.

“Yes, Sir.”

Smiling quickly, then taking his hands out of their folded position, he begins playing with the silver fountain pen on his vacant desk blotter. Taking in the entire room in quickly, as I did before I sat down, I notice that it's practically empty. The director sees my blank stare, which accompanies my quick but clumsy surveying skills.

“Mr. Spicer, I don't do formalities very well. So skip it.” He raises his voice on the “skip it” part, which sent a flare of panic through my stomach.

“Fine with me.” I couldn't think of any other response. My own brow was beginning to get moist with perspiration. My suit, unlike his, isn't sharp, doesn't have a perfectly fit body inside of it, and I feel like an out of shape load of shit in comparison. I had just passed my physical by the skin of my teeth, and during the training I finished last in the two-mile run, just barely in the time allotted. The Director knew this. I could tell. His tone wasn't collegial; it didn't have a happy ring to it.  But then again, it didn't have to.

“We need a man in Italy, near the Mediterranean, preferably in Rome. Can you find me someone good? Do you know anyone?”

I couldn't think. Rome. What's in Rome?

“What's the objective?”

“Never mind. Do you have a man or not?”

I could move this one direction or the other, simple. It wasn't up to the Director, but to me. This was easy, almost textbook. The higher up you get here at this company the easier it is to operate out of the manual.

“I need to know the objective before I can suggest a candidate.” Keeping my voice as steady as possible. Non-condescending.

“Okay. Surveillance. Detailed, devoted and disciplined.”

The Director's three D's. He's famous for them. He uses them in his speech to new candidates every year and I remember the speech when I heard it for the first time.

“If you're devoted to the details, then it's easy to remain disciplined.” The Director seems to me like a man void of any other enjoyments. This job and the duties it required of him were all he could do. All he would ever do. I retraced my steps through Italy and quickly my mind raced to Rome.

“Sure. I have a guy.”

“Give me the biography. The Cliffs Notes version.” The Director smiled. This was my part of the grid, the gateway to the rest of the free world.

Rome.

“He's a wash out. Never passed the entrance exam. Failed math and science, couldn't spell worth a damn. But his common sense and reasoning are incredible. His situational problem solving is off the charts. Observation and technical skill a huge asset, nothing short of genius. He was in Rome, briefly, on a study program at the American School. Then he returned to New York for a short period, took the test.  I met him after that while I was in Rome on a surveillance trip. At the American School while I was taking a photography class.”

“Your “scholarly” year abroad?”

The Director should know of this program. He'd developed it.

“Yes. Identifying young students in American schools abroad to determine and observe them as possible future valued assets.”

“And you know this man?”

“Yes.”

“How well?”

“He's perfect.”

“How perfect?”

“I suspect he thinks I'm a clumsy artist wanna-be. My cover in Rome was unshakeable. This man never suspected me for a minute. I don't think he knows what I do, exactly.  He knows I work for the government, in research. Other than that, he's clueless.  And I don't think he would care if I worked for the Nazis.  Although he did offer to help me if I needed it. He seems to be game for just about anything.”

“An artist?”

“Well. No. Sure.” I always do that. Followed an outright “no” with a positive.

“Which is it?”

“He's technically advanced and proficient. His work is seamless, almost, well, an extension of himself, like a hand or a foot. It's as if he's done this type of work his entire life and I must admit, he's a master. He also loves praise and flattery.”

“Good. Do it. Set it up.”

I knew I had someone who could do exactly what I wanted. Follow direction to the letter and carry out what I needed to be done. My asset was already working in Rome at a photo lab near the Vatican, processing tourist pictures.

“I'll contact you in the next month after you've gotten this up and running. I want your asset to follow the only child of the Minister of the Interior. He's vulnerable through his son.  I want leverage. Get it for me.”

“What's the life span of this assignment?”

We always needed to know when it would run out. Where would these people go? What happened when this was over?

“Self-determining.  Go over there. Set this up. Get it rolling. You can monitor it from here. Go on site every few weeks.”

Okay. The Director didn't care. Or he did, and would erase the equation from the imaginary black board we were working on any time he wanted.

“Meaning?”

“When it stops being useful, it stops. You decide. If you have trouble with that, I'll decide for you.  The target is a teenage kid. He's a fuck up. Have your man track this kid. Then we'll have what we need and this will be over.”

So I went back to Rome, found my asset, and got him going in the right direction.  My job became a series of mundane realities. Setting up daily surveillance, getting weekly reports over e-mail, getting my asset into an apartment that would allow him to work freely and without distraction.  I found a place in Campo de' Fiori  that already had a darkroom and turned out to have a small apartment attached to it. My asset would come in handy for just about anything that I needed.   Ultimately, I did have to level with my asset; he did need to know what he was doing, and why I was asking him to do it. After I gave him a job that offered some relief from the dreary day-to-day mindless work of printing tourists pictures, he was thrilled.  Somehow he didn't seem to care that this was sensitive work. He wanted it, to take pictures, and that was all.  From that point on it was all routine surveillance. My asset worked and I collected the data, making sure it made sense, created effective reports for the Director and dealt it up the food chain. For this, I admired my asset.  By doing his job, he helped me do mine. I trusted him. Gave him lots of room to move and took him for granted all at the same time.

For the first time in twenty-five years in Rome, it snowed on Christmas Eve. My plane touched down just after seven A.M. and the white snowdrifts had begun to pile up on the edge of the runway. My sister, Danielle, met me at the terminal.

“You look like you haven't slept a wink,” she says with a smile as she throws her arms around me.

“I haven't. The flight was rough.”

“Your e-mail said you'd be here for a week.”

“Yes.” I didn't know how long this would take. On the flight I spent most of my time wondering if this entire situation would sort itself out. If it were at all possible to get around this, forget it and just move on. But I was here to end this assignment.  Terminate the surveillance. 

But could I just let sleeping dogs lie?

I didn't think I could; why else would I be here?

Danielle and her husband Rick have a son named Jackson. I felt a tiny pang of excitement as we approached the car in the short term parking outside the airport. I looked forward to seeing her son. The last time I was here he was just a boy.  Danielle and her family live in Trastevere in an apartment that Rick's law firm provided them.  Danielle and Rick had moved here ten years ago when Rick took a job as the head of a small international law firm based in New York City.  Rick volunteered to get the firm relocated here in Rome when the level of their business began to grow and finally they closed the New York City office and focused all of their operations here in Italy. Rick is a pleasant man that takes good care of my sister.

The pictures that I'd been looking at on the flight were disturbing. My asset had finished with his assignment and moved onto to other people of his choosing. Government officials are fairly casual with their opulence and like to show the rest of the city the luxuries that their positions afford. So it is not uncommon to find these officials in one hundred thousand dollar cars, spending their summers in Sorrento, and dining at the finest restaurants. The pictures of these people didn't disturb me. We'd gotten our leverage on the Minister of the Interior.  My government used it and the topic was dropped from all conversations. 

Near the soccer stadium on the river is a clay court tennis club that Rick belongs to. The last pictures are from the locker room of that club, the women's locker room. I haven't seen my sister naked since we were kids. Danielle and Rick have become a fixation of my asset here in Rome. He's doing it to taunt me, show me that nothing is safe.

Parking the car was a trick unto itself, but Danielle was a master at finding a spot. She knew the patterns of all the people who lived in the surrounding buildings and could find a vacant spot to park the car quicker than I thought possible. Her apartment building overlooked a series of smaller houses and apartments that eventually wound down to the main drag, Viale Di Trastevere, where I could hear motor scooters whipping through the intersection and taking the steep incline up the hill towards their apartment building.

The echo of the front door closing in the lobby startled me. Riding in the elevator, a sudden chill came over me and I looked down at the passing floors through the panes of glass in the elevator doors. Danielle lives on the top floor of the building with a patio balcony that stretches around the outside of the apartment. I expected a flood of excitement as we entered the apartment but then realized that this was a weekday morning and Rick would be at work and Jackson would be at school. Danielle gave me a look like she was going to ask me something.

“Coffee?”

“I should probably try to stay up, right?”

“Yeah. The jet lag will be a killer. Live like it never happened.”

Looking around the living room I could see that Danielle and Rick hadn't changed very much, the television still sat in the corner under a blanket and the Christmas tree next to it was out of place.

“You guys still doing both holidays?”

Danielle was already in the kitchen preparing the coffee. “Sure. Jackson loves it, you know, presents from both sides of the family.”

“A double dose.” Smiling at Danielle who wasn't there to see it. “Speaking of, why's he in school today?”

“They exchange presents today. The classes get out at lunchtime. I have to go over there to pick him up. You're welcome to come along if you want.  And Rick's family insists on sending Hanukkah presents. So we go through the ritual.”

Stepping up to the large window that overlooks several other buildings slightly smaller in height, I look at the patio and see the snow piling up on the railing. 

“No. That's okay, I have a meeting today around that time.”

Her voice is drowned out by the sounds of running water. “Coffee will be ready in a few minutes.” She reappeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on her pants. My sister's beauty is very subtle. Her body is filled with warmth that comes off as a sort of magnetizing charm. She smiles through her long brown hair and slides her hand over my shoulder as I return my attention to the view out the window.

“You didn't say why you were here.”

“No, I didn't.” I stopped right there. Danielle knew the silence meant she wouldn't need to know what I was doing in Rome. Telling people what you're doing is not important if they don't need to be involved.

“Less knowledge means less mess.” The Director's words rang in my head. I'd been hearing that a lot lately. His voice, his words of encouragement, or motivation. “Perform your duties in an urgent manner. The project in Rome is over. Your asset is expendable. Clean this up.”

“Whatever it is, will you be able to have dinner with us?” Danielle asked. Breaking me from my trance, which afforded me a smile that I thought I'd left in New York.

“Sure. Of course.” My day revolved around one visit.  It was all I could think about. Everything else became fiction. As long as I visited my asset it didn't matter what I did.

“Okay. Jackson will be thrilled to see you. The last time you were here you read to him at night, and helped him with the constellations on the ceiling. You remember?”

Sure, I remembered. “Yeah. He fell right to sleep.”

“He talks about it once in a while. ‘Uncle Spicer. When will we see him again?'  The usual kid questions.” Danielle's voice trailed off again as I could see my smile fading in the reflection of the sliding glass door window.

“Coffee is ready.” Her voice bounced back towards me from the kitchen. Walking back towards the dining room from the living room, I looked down the hallway back towards the apartments front door as a shiver of paranoia caught my breath, a flash in my stomach. Turning to the kitchen I could see Danielle holding her hands under the running water of the sink, washing a bundle of green beans. Her hair fell off her face slightly as the window over her head filled slowly with snowflakes.  Taking my coffee to the guest bedroom, I took a sip and felt the strong taste of Italian espresso shock my tongue. After closing the door behind me, I opened my suitcase on the bed and found my pistol between two pairs of pants, wrapped in a kitchen towel. No one at the airport in either Rome or New York said a word to me about this blatant infraction. I'd checked the bag in New York knowing full well that I could explain this to either the American or Italian authorities just by showing my credentials. Ccompany policy forbids this kind of activity, but I had to handle this one myself, so I hoped they'd make an exception if I was caught. The Director sent me in to clean up my own mess, which was nice of him.

Sliding the pistol barrel side down behind my back and into my belt. My sports coat would cover the bulge. Danielle would never suspect a thing. Taking the last sip of my coffee I noticed it had cooled down some, so I gulped down the remains.

Back in the kitchen I set the empty cup back down on the counter next to the sink.

“Listen. I'm going to go for a walk. I'll be back around lunch time.”

Looking up from the sink. “Are you sure? You're not too tired?” She tossed her head back and to the left to rid herself of her hair.

“Yeah. Some fresh air will do me good.”

“It's snowing - be careful.”

Forgetting for a moment about the snow, “Right.” Looking out the window over her head. “It looks like it's letting up.” I looked back to her as I put my overcoat on over my sports jacket.

Her body had reacted well to having a baby. At five-foot seven she still had her girlish looks and was still a looker at thirty-seven. Her figure suggested that she might still have a supple shape, and the clothes she wore hinted at a proud sense of sexuality. Her hair and chest are her calling cards and her smile and pleasant outlook made her very approachable. An image of her in the showers at her tennis club shot through my mind and I stopped thinking about it immediately. Those are things you shouldn't ever have to think about. 

As I rode in the elevator, watching the floors pass the small window on the door, I decided that I was doing nothing more than what was expected of me.  When I signed on to this job I knew that times like this were waiting for me, and that eventually this day would come.  You were foolish to take this job without this in mind.  

It's a day like today that you have to be prepared for.

I don't care who you are; everyone has a day like this.