Free The Parnell Affair by Seth James

“but the girl's didn't know their schedules yet.”
    “That close to classes beginning?” he asked.  “They can't have anything too crazy planned.  Anyway, they should make the effort: could be our last family vacation,” he said and froze in his dressing.  Quickly, he added: “Anna's determined to see her friends in Frankfurt next summer.  And then Lucy will be away at University and then we'll only likely see them at holidays.”
    And Lucy will be away at university, Sally thought, and we'll get divorced.  Joe hopped on his pajama bottoms.  Both swiveled under the covers and reached for a book.  Joe opened his and then immediately closed it and replaced it on his nightstand.
    “Actually, there's something we need to talk about,” he said, looking at her for a moment and then at the foot of the bed, gathering his thoughts.  She held her breath.  “Side tracked by curfews and things,” he mumbled, playing for time.  “You recall I had a meeting with the President and some of his staff last week,” he said.
    “Yes, I do,” she said, hiding her relief and suppressing her disappointment.  “You told me how well it went.”
    He smiled quickly at her and then returned to contemplating his feet through the duvet.  “I didn't tell quite everything that'd happened.  Apart from demanding I reverse myself on Niger's capacity or Iraq's overtures—”
    “Which still blows my mind,” she said.  “The facts are so plain—obvious!  It's like standing firm about the sun orbiting the earth.”
    “That's an apt way of putting it,” he said.  “After they made their demand and I refused it they—they threatened to expose your undercover status at CIA.”
    NOC officer Parnell straightened on her side of the bed.  “Why didn't you tell me this earlier?” she asked quietly.
    “Because if I had, you would have had to tell the Agency,” he said.  “Who's the DCI over there now?  Lodge?” he asked in an aside.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Good man, and capable of some subtly,” Joe said, “but he would have had to say something.  Apart from it being entirely illegal to reveal a covert operative's identity, he'd think of its effect on morale—and you.  And in saying something—even referring to an unrelated though similar matter or a hypothetical—the White House would interpret any counter-stroke as an attack.  Especially someone as stupidly vicious as Paul Kluister.”
    “You should have told me,” she said without anger.  “Tell me now,” she said, over Joe's attempted response.  “Tell me how this threat took place, word for word if you can.”
    Joe reiterated the Chief of Staff's pitch nearly verbatim, adding comments about body language, tone of voice, and the like at Sally's prompting.  Twenty years with State, Joe had been debriefed before.
    “I quite lost my temper, I admit,” Joe said.  “Stupid, unprofessional some would say, but hardly uncalled for.”
    “It sounds ugly enough,” Sally said, rising and walking to the thermostat on the wall to turn up the air conditioning.  “I wonder, though, if it was premeditated.  Look, they may have only seen my report the day before, somehow learning of my identity.  So it was on their minds.  Or on his mind, the Chief of Staff, Karl Kristiansen.  Why do I think his middle name begins with K?” she asked facetiously, leaning against the bureau next to the TV.
    “Probably something to do with the nasty parts of their campaign in the south, I expect,” Joe mumbled.
    “Well, they're not subtle people,” she said.  “Cunning?  Certainly, but not subtle.  My guess would be that my name was on his mind, he got angry when you refused—and probably by the way you refused: let me guess, you always spoke to the President?  Kristiansen would say something or ask you a question but you always looked and spoke to the President.”
    “I suppose I did,” Joe said.
    “He probably wanted to say something to ruffle your