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But it would distract him, the physical pain diffusing other, much deeper kinds of misery.
    I n the end, he had failed his friends. He’d delivered his final report to the commander too late to save the soldiers that went on patrol, right into the trap set by the insurgency. Helped by police cadets who had joined the attackers, the insurgents blew up three cars carrying American and Iraqi military personnel and the two journalists that accompanied them on that fateful day. It didn’t really matter that his line of communication with headquarters had been sabotaged by an insider who managed to make sure Jon’s report never found its way to the commanding office. The bottom line was he didn’t warn them in time, and the preplanned destruction of the allies’ base was carried out right under their noses.
    One of his friends, Eric, died in that attack. Twenty-four and with a baby son back home in Florida, he had been blown to pieces, along with other unfortunate soldiers who happened to be in the convoy. Jon had gone to see Eric’s family, his heart heavy as he watched them struggle to make sense of the disaster. They didn’t blame him for acting too slow. They welcomed him into their home and hearts with a warmth and lack of reservation that only made things worse.
    They didn’t need to do anything. He blamed himself enough for all of them . The events of that fateful June day played out in his head over and over again. His leave of absence from the agency didn’t do much good either. If anything, it pushed him even deeper into the downward spiral of guilt and self-destruction. He needed to work to be able to breathe, so he’d asked Bernard to consider using him in part of a project. Any project would do, he’d begged, as long as he could be useful and fill his days with actual hope he could save another human being, no matter where and how.
    In the end, he went back to Iraq. At the time , he questioned his boss’s decision to put him back almost exactly where he failed, and he’d regretted his agreement to accept anything at all. In the long run, he had to admit Bernard seemed to know him even better than he knew himself. In his usual wry and non-sentimental way, the older man explained that until Jon finished a successful mission there, he’d never find peace again. Bernard was right, of course. Spending six months in the Euphrates and Tigris Valley turned his life around, for the better. Except for his engagement.
    Two months into his project, he had received that fateful letter . Daphne’s message left no space for doubts or second-guessing. She had gotten tired of waiting for him, she said. She was tired and bored of living by herself and seeing him via Skype once or twice a week. She couldn’t live like that for another four months, let alone consider him doing it later on as well. Which he would, she stated. His job with the agency was more than she should have agreed to when they first decided to get married. She had found someone else. Her choice added insult to injury. She was dating their building manager, a balding, unpleasant man she used to joke about as they moved into the solid, red brick townhouse. She’d nicknamed him “The Brick,” making fun of his expressionless face and slow speech. Apparently it didn’t bother her any longer, all things considered.
    He didn’t want to think of it. He had a job to do, and that was all that mattered. Peter Brunner was planning to assassinate the famous writer and publicist Daniel Spitieri. As a senior member of the Peace Brigade, an organization that claimed western civilization needed a revival through chaos and anarchy, Brunner was extremely well prepared to complete the task. Spitieri was the perfect target, even though his life’s work revolved around the constant search to improve human conditions and social justice. His books and programs called for fairness and changing the way wealth was spread throughout the world. His works pointed out the