In Switzerland, Jean said, "Well—?"
"I'm ready to go home," I told her.
"America, you mean?"
"Where else?"
"I've been alone," she said, "and thinking. I've gone back to Sunset and Pacific Coast Highway and traced it all forward from there. And I don't think America's your home."
Very cool her voice, very tense her face. I smiled at her.
She didn't smile in return. "Fred—we're married."
"I'm glad," I said. "Aren't you?"
"It's no time for the light touch." Tears in her eyes. "Fred, are you a—a Russian spy?"
I shook my head.