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yellow. The color provided good contrast for black ink, making it easier to read her notes later, and told her at a glance the material needed to be stored in the safe. The notes themselves were classified. She had completed a conversation transcript as best as she could recreate it and was working now on her observations.
    Sergey is retired; therefore this isn’t Russian sponsored, but using Russian assets? The Russian Mafia might be able to exert the kind of pressure to push Sergey into something like this.
    Sergey’s apology just before he pulled the knife is the strongest indication that it had been arranged by someone else and was not his decision.
    If Ramon Santigo’s family is behind this hit, how did they get to Sergey? And if it were Santigo’s family, was it a coincidence the attempt happened the same evening two agents were killed?
    Why did Sergey make a point of showing me the picture of his daughter and granddaughter? He does nothing without thinking it through beforehand. Were they threatened?
    Why was he late to the meeting?
    She paused and stared at the page as distress rolled over her. “He tried to save my life,” she whispered, stunned.
    Sam looked up from his book. “What?”
    “Sergey was late. He’s never late. He was trying to save my life.”
    Sam lowered the book. “He would have expected you to leave before the meeting.”
    “Yes. I put him in an untenable position by staying.” She winced as she realized something else. “Sergey circled his finger to warn me he thought others were watching. If I had read the situation better, I would’ve understood the risk better.”
    What was coming? She racked her memory for the significance of September 9, but nothing obvious came to mind. They needed to reconstruct Sergey’s movements over the last six months and figure out whom Sergey had seen and how he had entered the U.S. They had to get ahead of this intelligence curve. Something she knew or had done was critical to this.
    She tossed the notepad aside. “I hate days like this.” She had a feeling Sam handled being under threat of a bullet better than she did.
    “Why don’t you close your eyes and get some sleep?”
    “I should.” There were certain times in life where God’s blessing was very clear. Sam being there to help her tonight was one of them. She picked up one of the pillows that had fallen and settled it behind her. “I’m too old for this job. I should have stayed retired.”
    He studied her for a moment, then pitched a nickel toward his empty coffee cup. “You don’t retire in your business or in mine. You just start drawing a smaller paycheck. We make enemies. If you’re good in your job, you make a lot of them.”
    “A reverse incentive for being the best.” She grinned at him, realizing the nickels were hitting the center of the cup without his looking at what he was doing. “I wish someone had warned me sooner.”
    He leaned over and picked up the corner of his jacket on the side seat. He tugged a small medallion from the inside pocket and tossed it in her lap. “The best should be rewarded. You earned it tonight.”
    She picked up a medallion of a wolf head. “It’s pretty.”
    “They were giving them out at the wedding because Wolf is Tom’s call sign. So how long have you been in the spy business?”
    “I started in the field two years and two days before the Berlin Wall came down.”
    “I’d say you don’t look old enough to be a cold war player, but instead I’ll compliment you on aging very gracefully. You’ve seen some history.”
    “Some.” The memories were rich and deep, but it was a conversation for another day and time. “What about you, Sam? How do you like being a SEAL?”
    “I love the life. I entered the Navy right out of high school and applied to the SEALs as soon as I could. It sure beats being landlocked in a small town in South Dakota.”
    Her smile widened as he spoke.
    “What?”
    She held back her amusement. “Nothing.”