Free All the Old Knives by Olen Steinhauer Page B

wants to get his mind off of himself, and I see no reason to disappoint him. “It’s complicated. Neither of us is the committing type.”
    He smiles, finally looking at me. “That’s spooks for you. Always thinking of the angles. Protecting themselves to the point of exclusion. I’m trying to remember one example of two field agents who ended up in a successful relationship—or as successful as any relationships are these days. I can’t.”
    This, I realize, is a significant statement. He’s been in the business since I was in diapers.
    â€œDon’t take it as criticism, Cee. It’s not like the rest do much better. Most couples just take longer to split up. That doesn’t make what everyone else has any richer or more rewarding. Just longer.”
    He’s failing, as anyone overcome with self-pity does. His attempt to divert himself with my romantic life simply draws him back to himself. So I offer more. “We’ve been at it over a year, but I sometimes feel like I don’t know him any better than when we first met. Not that that’s a bad thing. The mystery is still there for both of us. But that’s the catch, isn’t it? You start to wonder if this false sense of mystery is the only thing keeping it going.”
    He settles his chin on his hand and watches me with sympathy, so I go on.
    â€œAnd I think—this is usually at night, when I’m depressed—that we’ve both become too jaded about the human race. We believe that once we get past the mystery, it’ll be the same drudgery and psychic scars and childhood storm clouds that everyone has. Nothing special. Nothing worth devoting your entire life to.”
    â€œWell,” he says, leaning back. “That’s pretty bleak, isn’t it?”
    â€œIs it? I thought it was pragmatic. I thought I was being an adult.”
    A smile, then, which I realize is his first of the day, but before he can open his mouth to reply his cell phone bleeps for his attention. A full second later, mine does as well. We’ve received the same message, from the same source:
    RED
    The smile is gone now, and I suspect I won’t see it again for a long while. He waves for the waiter as I go to collect our coats from the front. When I look back, he’s shoveling euros into the waiter’s hands, then patting him on the shoulder, receiving genial nods in reply. “They’re going to deliver it,” he tells me as he takes his coat from me.
    Keeping a brisk pace back to Boltzmanngasse, he says, “You should allow yourself to fail.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œPeople are defined less by their achievements than by the failures that brought them to where they are.”
    â€œNo risk, no gain.”
    He shakes his head, then pauses at a streetlamp to give me his full attention. “No. No risk, no failure . And without failure you’re not really human. You’re just skating on the surface of life.”
    I understand him, of course, but I still feel like I need a little more. The light changes, though, and he’s already walking briskly ahead. I have to jog to catch up.

 
    5
    Amman, just as TRIPWIRE said. Austria or Germany—Austria, it turns out. And, as announced in the hijackers’ calls to the control tower and to ORF, the national radio and television outlet, they are indeed members of Aslim Taslam. “They’ve already killed a stewardess,” Vick tells us. “Her name’s Raniyah Haddadin.”
    It’s a Royal Jordanian flight, number 127. An Airbus 319, which seats a hundred and thirty-eight—this day, it carries a hundred and twenty passengers and crew. Departed Amman at 10:35 A.M. and landed in Vienna at 1:25 P.M. without a hitch. According to the Austrians—based on the passenger manifest and the pilot’s narrative before the cockpit was taken over—the four hijackers didn’t cause any problems during the