I continued to stare after him as he went to the liquor cabinet. I swallowed. “Yes, I think I could do with a drink.”
He came back with two glasses and a bottle of fifteen-year-old Glenfiddich. “Y’know what? Let’s get plastered. We can call in sick tomorrow.”
“Mark Vincent, taking a sick day?”
“Sure, why not?” He poured three fingers of Scotch into a glass and handed it to me, then poured the same in his glass, which he raised. “‘Here’s to you, here’s to me, and here’s to the space between us. One of us has to go.’” He met my eyes, a crooked grin on his lips. “‘Not you. Not me. But the space between us.’”
* * * *
January passed into February. Mark no longer was sent out of the country on various operations, although occasionally, he would visit any number of WBIS affiliates. That was
