The Revisionists

by Thomas Mullen

  He had been exhausted and crashing from his adrenaline high when he’d kissed her the night before. At least, it was easy to blame it on those things. After what she’d just been through, romance obviously had been far from her mind. Why didn’t his mind work that way too? He wasn’t sure if this was a male/female difference, an East/West thing, a spy/agent power discrepancy, or something else.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.” Standing rather far away from him, as if the room weren’t big enough for both.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Okay. I put a new bandage on. Did you bring anything to eat that isn’t a candy bar?”

  He laughed at that—he’d brought energy and sports bars the night before, but of course they were basically the same as Snickers to someone who hadn’t been tricked by the marketing campaigns. So he handed her the grocery bag, and her eyes lit up at the pile of fruit. She started peeling an orange immediately; the citrus tang hit his nose through the motel funk.

  “Are people looking for me?”

  “I think so. I had to be very careful getting here.” He took the camera out of its package. The salesclerk had promised it didn’t need to be hooked up to a computer first and would work immediately. “I need to take your picture. For a driver’s license—an ID card.”

  She thought about this for a moment while she ate. She was just dropping the peels on the floor, as if her weeks as a slave maid had made her swear off basic cleanliness from then on. “You don’t have friends in Immigration, do you?”

  “I’m going to get you out of here. I can get you to a safe place, where—”

  “Safe like this?” She gestured to the room.

  “No, something better. I can get you to a place in America where other Indonesians live, where you can find people who speak your language and can help you get by. Tell you where to work, where to get an apartment, that sort of thing. And I can get you some money to start out. But you’ll need an ID.”

  When he saw that the walls were painted tan—he’d forgotten about that—he checked the bathroom; they were white. She stood beside the toilet and he leaned against the opposite wall, trying to fit her in the frame.

  “Don’t smile for it,” he told her. “No one ever does.”

  She hardly needed to be told that.

  Back in the main room, he told her his plan—at least, the part of it he had figured out thus far. When he got to the fact that they would never see each other again, she barely blinked. He felt a shiver in the bottom of his gut, a physical sadness. Maybe she was only trying to appear strong, not reacting because of the professional, matter-of-fact way in which he explained everything. He wasn’t sure if she was a great agent or just terribly unromantic.

  He found himself remembering that ridiculous date he’d described for her the other night, wishing it could come true. He was keeping careful track of how long he’d been gone from the gym, knowing a point would come when the shadow outside would start wondering how the hell long a workout Leo could endure. He’d hurried over here, had checked for shadows, but hadn’t taken quite as circuitous a route as he should have, half hoping he could buy himself time to make more traditional use of this motel room. He was an idiot, led by things he should be suppressing.

  She had flirted with him before, though, hadn’t she? She had used her beauty to draw him to her. She didn’t need to, of course—she was valuable for other reasons, but she hadn’t known this. Now, though, when sex was at least plausible, she was acting more distant. He wondered if it was shock from the Shims attacking her or if it was from some of the things he’d said last night. Perhaps she’d seen him as some heroic American figure, calm and in charge, until his admission that he didn’t have a ready escape plan—and his confession of his mistakes in Jakarta—had dispelled the illusion.

  That was the other thing he’d always loved about the job, he realized. The ability to portray himself as better than he truly was. Now, sadly, he was just himself.

  Her arms were folded, the injured one on top. She wasn’t looking him in the eye any more than necessary. Maybe that kiss in Rock Creek Park had been offered only as a bribe, a plea for help, and she didn’t feel like begging anymore. Maybe she’d been using him as much as he’d been using her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “You just… told me my future. I’m still taking it in.”

  It wasn’t a very good future, was what she meant. He tried to reassure her, explained that what he was giving her was possibility. That anything could happen for her in the future. What he didn’t say was that this was the best he could do, given the fact that she was wanted for attempted murder, and possibly espionage, by at least two countries.

  “Just… think it over,” he said. “It will sound better. Everything’s going to be fine, really.”

  She nodded, but her eyes didn’t seem to agree. Those eyes, and his watch, told him it was time to leave.

  Z.

  The dense trees along both sides of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway have lost enough of their leaves to reveal the houses and apartment buildings behind them, like a badly covered secret coming to light. People everywhere, even when you think you’re free of them.

  Now I understand why Wills’s and my own intel deviated about Tasha. She wasn’t historically important originally, but my own actions changed that. I selfishly got involved with her, and now that she’s perused my files and come to the conclusion that I’m some government spy following her around, her anger at the world will only grow hotter. I’ve inadvertently pushed her deeper into T.J.’s ring of believers, and that’s why she’ll be with him at the final Event.

  I could rationalize that this doesn’t matter; according to my records, she was going to die not long from now anyway. All I’ve cost her is a bit of time. But even that much is unforgivable; what have I deprived her of? What joys might she have had, what discoveries and successes? When I spent time with her, I liked to think I was doing it partly for her, that I was easing away some of her pain in this difficult time, but really it was all for myself. More than anyone, I should realize how motives can become so confused, how actors can fail to know themselves. I’ve darkened her life, and shortened it.

  I decide I need to do something that truly is for her. I tap into my databases and look for information on her brother, something she might not have been told by the unhelpful people in the army. It takes a while, but the records they loaded into me are extensive.

  I do the research while hiding in yet another motel. The day passes in a blur as I sit impassively, gazing inward. I find a few things that might interest her—it’s probably not what she’s looking for, but it’s what the record states. Which is a form of truth, isn’t it? Or at least it’s something that someone thought was true. More important, it’s in Marshall’s own words, which I know she’ll appreciate. I’ll need to go to an office somewhere and find a way to print out the files so she can read them—I can scan them into the ancient laptop they’ve given me, hook it up to a printer later. If I can get it to her apartment soon, she might read it before the final Event. At the very least, she’ll know the truth about Marshall when she dies. At most—and I allow myself to hope this, even if it violates the Department’s core principles—maybe it will keep her away from the Event. Maybe I can undo the historical changes I accidentally made, can return her to her original path and buy her back those few moments.

  All this research gives me another idea.

  Tasha was so enraged by what she thought she learned about Troy Jones. I decide that I need to find more information on who he really was and what he did. He keeps tripping me up, after all—those two strangers who seemed to recognize me as Troy still bother me.

  I run checks through my databases, and at first I get nothing but error messages. The databases don’t seem to understand the concept of my researching my own cover. Or maybe I’m only allowed to know what the Department already told me about him.

  I�
��Troy Jones—am a defense contractor, I was told, so although I live in Philadelphia I have occasion to do business in Washington, which explains my presence here. Jones’s firm is located outside Washington, which means there are colleagues of the real Troy Jones not far away. And as I’ve learned, the real Troy once lived here too.

  The Department’s surgical alterations to my appearance are supposed to create a strong likeness but not a perfect replica. The two people who called me Troy were both white, and I was briefed that the contemp white people weren’t very good at discerning differences among darker-skinned individuals whom they didn’t know well. For the sake of my sanity I’ll assume that I don’t look too much like the real Troy Jones, that the white people were just confused and made a mistake. But what are the odds?

  I hit the files again, trying harder to uncover hidden documents, hacking into my own databases. The Department was trying to keep something from me, but they didn’t count on my determination. And there, buried in the data on the many contemps who perish in the initial bombs, I find a misplaced file on Troy Jones.

  He’s dead. Well, of course he’s dead; everyone’s dead from a certain historical perspective. According to these records, though, as of today’s date he was still only “missing.” He would not be declared dead for a few more days.

  Again, this is fairly standard as covers go. And all of the other information I turn up jibes with what the Department gave me in my briefings. His father was an “African American” who fought in Vietnam, his mother was a Vietnamese immigrant. Troy himself didn’t serve in the army, but he had a successful career with an intelligence agency before going into related work for private industry. He, like me, had a wife and daughter once.

  When talking to Tasha and mentioning my own wife and daughter, I was able to conflate my identity with Troy’s. That’s part of the job, an inevitability that makes it easier to play the role. You hold on to pieces of yourself, bring them into your new character. But I need to guard against the identities becoming too mixed, need to make sure it’s not myself I’m confusing.

  And then I find the first discrepancy: According to a file from the State of Maryland, Jones owned a house in the city of Laurel, fewer than twenty miles from D.C. He even made a mortgage payment a couple of weeks ago. Then why did the Department tell me he lived in Philadelphia? And why would they give me the cover of someone who lives so close to the area I’m patrolling?

  There’s only one way to solve the puzzle. I need to find the real Troy Jones.

  * * *

  After printing and mailing some records for Tasha from a pay-as-you-go office, I drive to Laurel. The rental car has its own GPS; this time I decide to use it instead of the one the Department implanted in me. I’ve learned not to trust what’s in here. The bruise on the side of my skull is still sore. Maybe when it’s faded I’ll be able to think more clearly, but when was the last time I thought clearly?

  I follow the small LCD screen’s directions, the mechanized voice telling me when to exit and when to turn left. I pass through the commercial core of the suburb, the Home Depots and Walmarts, like the looming castles of feudal lords protected by their large lots and flanked by their usual cronies, the fast-food joints selling microwaved meat. Places like this are mostly vacant in my time, as everyone has crowded close to the urban centers. This road is choked with evening rush-hour traffic, cars and SUVs and shipping trucks inching along, brake lights crimsoning the scene. I pass some subdivisions, the buildings narrow and jammed together, as if by imitating urban row houses they can trick prospective homeowners into believing that this is a vibrant community. Then the voice tells me to turn right.

  I ease off the accelerator and glide into what seems a conventional neighborhood. The houses two-story and unattached, the yards well tended, some of them strewn with children’s playthings. Cars rest in driveways or inside garages whose open doors gape as I pass.

  “Destination reached.”

  But there’s no house. I pull over and look at the other side of the street, see the yellow police tape sagging in the autumn breeze like party decorations left in place too long. The tape stretches across almost the entire property. A half a dozen stone steps end at nothingness, as if they lead to a portal to another world. Beneath them is a pile of rubble, all of it blacker than the night sky above me, a total erasure. Beams poke out here and there, an old fireplace stands mostly intact at the rear, but everything else is ash and soot. A neighbor’s white house, twenty yards away, has char stains from the blaze.

  I sit in the Neon and watch the ruins for a while, as if I’m expecting some being to take shape out of the shards and fragments. As if, if I stare hard enough, I could look into the building’s past, see how the fire started and why, and then see what happened in the preceding nights and days, the many events leading up to this disaster.

  The road is curved, and a passing car casts its headlights on the rubble. I think I see a poster a little girl might have hung in her room, but I’m sure I’m only imagining things. Seeing things from my own past. My own emptied apartment. I haven’t been inside it in what feels like years—my new home is the Department, and whatever beat they send me to. But no matter how hard the men in Security tried, carting out those images and gifts and old letters, there is no way to truly erase a past. I still carry it with me.

  Where are you, Troy Jones? If you’re not here in your home, if they didn’t find your remains in the smoldering heap, then what became of you? And why are you haunting me?

  I find myself getting out of the car and crossing the street. I stand on the sidewalk and I can still smell something, if not smoke then the relic of it, the lingering decay of ruins. How many days ago did this happen? The Department didn’t load that file into me, or at least I can’t find it.

  “Are you okay?”

  It’s a tiny voice that I hear but don’t acknowledge. I’m still staring at what used to be a house, imagining what happened here, and how it relates to me and what I’m doing. Whether a central plot ties this all together or if it’s all just loose strings, and this really is the purgatory Wills fears it is, and I have no real job to do, and none of my actions will ever have an effect on anything.

  “Mr. Jones, are you okay?”

  He’s a little white boy, maybe five or six years old. Looking at me with an empathy beyond his years, like he too has suffered and he knows the sting when he sees it. There are tears running down my cheeks. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here.

  He reaches out and tugs at my sleeve, repeating his question. At his feet is a discarded bicycle. His cheeks are red from exercise.

  I wipe my eyes and try to clear the knot from my throat.

  “You should go back home,” I tell him. “It’s dark out, and not safe.”

  27.

  Leo made it back to the gym in Georgetown less than two hours after he’d left. If any shadows were still watching on M, they wouldn’t have noticed him going in; they would have been expecting him to leave, and not in the outfit he had on now. He went to his locker, put his old clothes back on, ran some water through his hair so it looked like he had just showered, and went out the front door.

  He had a message from Gail, and she agreed to meet him for a drink in an hour.

  An hour later they had drinks at Zola, the lavishly decorated bar that was attached to the International Spy Museum a few blocks north of the Mall. He’d picked the spot because he’d been unable to resist the irony, and because he, Gail, and some other trainees had come here once, many years before.

  It was happy hour, and the people crowding the bar were either happy or trying very hard to convince themselves of the possibility of happiness. Leo ordered at the bar and brought two white cosmos to the small table Gail had staked out. She had cut her hair short sometime in the past few days, and also dyed it blond. It looked good. He resisted the temptation to ask if her new look had anything to do with an operation she was working on.

  “I was worried at first
that you wanted me to look into something relating to… what happened in Asia,” she said after they’d toasted to nothing. “But this looks like something else.”

  “It is. I could have done this research with my company’s resources, but I’m not entirely sure I trust them anymore. I’m worried they’ve been… setting me up for something.”

  She offered him a short, wry smile. “That sort of thing happens to you a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “What did you find out?”

  She removed a file folder from her bag, placed it between them, and opened it. “Troy Jones, thirty-nine and a resident of Laurel, Maryland, was until recently an employee of the National Security Agency, and rather highly placed. From what I understand, he was part cryptologist, part telecom wizard for whatever the hell it is they do there.” People in Leo and Gail’s line of work tended to despise the techno-geeks at NSA, who were slowly co-opting the CIA’s money and influence with their monstrously powerful ability to overhear and oversee pretty much anything on earth.

  Jones had left the NSA seven months ago to go contractor, Gail explained, taking a job with Enhanced Awareness LLC, which was based at one of the anonymous office parks that surrounded NSA’s heavily guarded headquarters in Fort Meade. His departure from NSA was particularly unusual.

  “Jones’s wife was Persian—that’s how Iranian Americans describe themselves when they don’t want to freak people out. She came from a wealthy family, so like a lot of the upper class they fled during the revolution, when she was a young girl. She grew up in California, public schools, then Stanford. Moved to D.C. in her early twenties, following a boyfriend—it didn’t work out, but she stayed here anyway, working in PR. She first volunteered and later took a full-time job with a political organization dedicated to freeing the Iranian people from the tyranny of the ayatollah. She and Troy met at a party of a mutual friend, married two years later, bought a place on Capitol Hill, and had a daughter.”