streaming onto his shoulders in buckets. He wore a no-nonsense snap-brim hat and a gray canvas raincoat that made him look like the stolid, solid operative he had been for years.
He really does look like something out of an American TV show, Simon thought as he regarded him. “Jonathan Weiss: CIA.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” he said.
“Well, hello to you too, you limey bastard,” Jonathan growled, though he couldn’t keep himself from cracking a smile.
Simon grinned in response. “Shut up and come in.” Jonathan stepped forward and they embraced like the old friends they were. They had been roommates in college, close friends ever since. It was an unlikely friendship, but it had survived time and distance better than most marriages.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said into his friend’s shoulder. “You know that.”
“I know. I know.”
They finally let each other go and walked down the hall together toward the cozy sitting room.
“Welcome back, Mr. Weiss,” the disembodied voice said.
“Thank you, Fae,” Jonathan said.
“Shut up, Fae,” Simon said. He half-whispered to his friend: “I hate that machine, you know.”
Jonathan couldn’t keep himself from grinning. “She’s not a machine, Simon; she’s a fully sentient artificial intelligence. And if you hate her so much, why don’t you just turn her off?”
“What, and miss all the fun?”
“Indeed,” Fae said as they entered the sitting room. “Who would make all the decisions around here?”
“Who would make my life a living hell?”
“Exactly.”
“God, you two. Like an old married couple.”
Jake was waiting for them on the overstuffed couch; he greeted Jonathan like his own long-lost brother, and Simon was happy to indulge the two of them in a well-deserved reunion. Only then did Simon notice the carefully applied bandages on both of Jonathan’s hands.
“What happened there?” He nodded at Jonathan’s stiff, white-wrapped fingers.
“Frostbite,” Jonathan said shortly. “Not as bad as it looks.”
“Ah. I bet there’s a story behind that.”
Jonathan didn’t look at him. “I bet there is.”
Simon smiled and shrugged. He had heard answers like that from his old friend for years. After all, Jonathan had been working for intelligence agencies—first the CIA, now UNED—for most of his adult life. There were plenty of stories he couldn’t share, and Simon had accepted that long ago. He moved his exercise bag off the armchair and took a seat himself, stretching his long legs out in front as he waited.
Jake was finally content to share the huge leather couch with his companion, and Jonathan settled down, his hand on the dog’s side, idly stroking his brindle coat as the old friends chatted about the trip, their work, even the awful weather. After a few minutes, Simon stood and crossed to the decanter of ancient and wonderful scotch, poured a neat one for his best friend and topped off his own as well. It was one of the many things they shared: a deep love of the single malts, the older and mellower the better.
Jonathan winced as his damaged hand wrapped around the glass. They both chose to ignore it. Then he took a long, slow sip of the liquor and smiled as if the gods had blessed him. “My god, that’s good,” he said. “Really.”
Simon found himself wondering how long it had been since he had actually seen Jonathan in person. Eight months? Ten? The handsome guy hadn’t changed a bit, at least not externally: the short dark hair, the eyes so brown they were almost black, the square jaw and full mouth that made him look like an American hero to many, many women. But there was something about him—a weariness, a tendency to react just a half-second later than he should have—that was different. Different and disturbing.
“You better get to it,” Simon heard himself saying.
Jonathan pretended not to understand. “Get to what?”
Simon sighed. “It’s 2039, Jonathan. Amazing technology at