All the Old Knives Read Online Free PDF

Flughafen disaster.”
    She blinks, straightens, then relaxes again before speaking. “Langley’s asking?”
    I shake my head and begin my lie. “Some new hotshot at Interpol is raising a stink. He thinks we have some serious soul-searching to do.”
    I’ve turned Langley into Interpol so that it won’t feel quite so serious. So that she can still feel as if she’s out of our reach. Yet the mere mention of the Flughafen is enough to bleed the humor out of her face. I can see this in the angle of her mouth, the crinkle at the corner of her right eye. “I’d say we did some pretty serious soul-searching back then,” she says. “You remember?”
    I nod.
    â€œIt was a witch-hunt.”
    I can’t disagree with her.
    â€œWe barely got out of that with our lives, Henry, and now you’re telling me some idiot from Lyon has decided to start it up again?”
    â€œHe fancies himself a historian. He’s searching for inconsistencies.”
    â€œHistory is full of inconsistencies. How old is he?”
    â€œYoung. And yes, point taken. He hasn’t outgrown his hatred of human contradictions.”
    â€œI didn’t say that.”
    â€œWell, I did. But he’ll learn. For the time being, it’s been decided that I should give him a rococo analysis of failures and successes. A little bit of everything. And since I’m here, I might as well ask for your perspective. You mind?”
    She straightens again, but doesn’t relax afterward. “Is this an interview ?”
    â€œI’m buying you dinner, Celia. I was in Santa Cruz, and seeing you was an opportunity I didn’t want to miss. I also happen to be trying to close the book on this, because I don’t want anyone to open it again. None of us do. To that end, I’ve been talking to as many people as I can. Stuff the report full of perspectives. Be definitive. Make Interpol’s head spin.”
    She glances across the restaurant. The old couple is digging quietly into appetizers; the tables around us are empty. Against the corner of the bar, our waitress is chatting with the bartender. Staring in that direction, Celia says, “Did you talk to Bill?”
    â€œYeah, I talked to Bill. He wasn’t happy about dredging it up, either.”
    â€œI don’t seem happy?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œWell, I am,” she says, producing the broadest and least convincing smile I’ve ever seen. Her hands stretch across the table and squeeze the fingers of my left hand. “I’ve got my bestest lover here, and we’re talking about things that no longer exist for me. It’s like discussing dreams we’ve had.”
    â€œLike you do with your therapist?”
    She hesitates in midbreath, rethinking whatever quick response is lying inside that deft mouth of hers. She withdraws her hands. “Have you been investigating me, Henry?”
    â€œYou live in California. You’ve seen some things. It was a shot in the dark.”
    Again, she hesitates. Does she believe me? Probably not. Or maybe, I think hopefully, five years in leafy bliss have dulled her senses, made her willing to believe anything that promises hope. She leans her head to the side, chestnut hair scattering against her clean neck, and says, “You haven’t been here in a while, have you? Home, I mean.”
    â€œBeen a few years.”
    â€œWell, it’s not like it used to be. Trust me on this. These days, people misinterpret the pursuit of happiness. They think it means the right to be happy. The therapists are minting money. The pharmaceuticals, too.”
    â€œPharmaceuticals have always minted money.”
    â€œNot like now. Example. I go to see my primary doctor just after we arrive. I tell him I’ve got a sensitive stomach. Hell, I changed my diet completely when we came back here, so it would be a surprise if I didn’t get some gas. He asks if I’ve