No questions asked. But this time I had to ask. Carvajal was pushing me toward a step that I couldn’t take without some sort of explanation. “You promised not to ask,” he said sulkily. “Nevertheless. Give me a clue or the deal’s off.” “Do you mean that?” “I do.” He tried to stare me down. But those blank eyes of his, sometimes so fiercely unanswerable, didn’t intimidate me now. My hunch function said I should go ahead, press him, demand to know the structure of events into which I was entering. Carvajal resisted. He squirmed and sweated and told me that I was setting my training back by weeks or even months with this unseemly outburst of insecurity. Have faith, he urged, follow the script, do as you’re told, and all will be well. “No,” I said. “I love her, and even today divorce is no joke. I can’t do it on a whim.” “Your training—” “To hell with that. Why should I leave my wife, other than the simple fact that we haven’t been getting along very well lately?
