The Rewind Files

by Claire Willett

  He stood there, framed in the doorway, and he watched me, patiently waiting for me to untangle my thoughts and explain what I meant, and I felt an entirely unexpected wave of reassuring comfort wash over me. I somehow knew, without knowing how I knew, that here was someone with whom I couldn’t put a foot wrong, that whatever I said to him, however fumblingly and incomprehensibly I said it, he would listen and understand.

  I didn’t answer him immediately, just looked at him for a long moment and tried to figure out what this thing was that made me feel so strangely at ease with him, and as it dawned on me I was so startled by the truth of it that I blurted the words out loud.

  “You don’t know my mother.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it is. That’s why you’re different. You don’t know my mother. I mean, you know her, obviously, but when you met me, I wasn’t Katie Bellows’ daughter.”

  I saw comprehension dawn in his eyes, and blessed him for it.

  “Oh. I see,” he said. “No, you weren’t. If anything, you were Leo Carstairs’ daughter. But that’s completely different, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what it is. Yes. You get it.”

  He leaned his tall lanky frame against the doorjamb and looked at me appraisingly.

  “It’s like you think you’re not allowed to make mistakes,” he said. “You’re used to everyone watching to see how you measure up to your mother. That’s why you didn’t want this mission, why you’re so afraid of it. Because if you think you’re going to fail, you just don’t try.”

  He did hug me then, and his arms were as comforting and steady as they had been last night when I cried into his starched white collar. “Can I give you one piece of advice?” he said, as he pulled away. “I think instead of being Katie Bellows’ daughter, or Leo Carstairs’ daughter, you should see what it’s like to be Reggie for a while.”

  I didn’t say anything to this, and he didn’t look as if he expected me to. I just watched him walk away. “See you on Monday,” he said over his shoulder, and I gave him a small wave.

  Fifteen

  Everything Put Together Sooner or Later Falls Apart

  Barlow was already there when I arrived at the diner, and his expression was difficult to read. He plainly wasn’t happy to see me, but I suspected that there was something a little thrilling in the idea that he was in on a secret FBI scheme that the rest of his colleagues – even his supervisors – had no part in. He wasn’t friendly, but he had come.

  “Agent Burns,” he said coolly, and I stared blankly for a second before remembering why he thought that was my name.

  “Detective Barlow,” I said, with a curt nod, slipping comfortably into the caricatured impression of my mother that had been my best party trick while I was at the Academy. (The trick is pretending like you’re about ten feet taller than you are, and never, ever smiling.)

  “I don’t want to offend you,” he said. “But if all you needed was the photos I’m not sure why we had to meet in person.”

  “I missed your handsome face,” I said. “And I thought I might have some questions for you after I saw the photos.”

  “Sure,” he said, and then there was a pause. I waited for him to pull out the photos. He didn’t. “Did you have a question?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t seen the photos yet.”

  “That’s hardly my fault,” he said. “Your assistant must not be very reliable, then.”

  “My what?” I said quietly, feeling my blood run cold.

  “Your assistant,” he said. “The one you sent to pick up the photos?”

  “A young black guy?”

  “No,” he said. “An old white guy.”

  “What name did he give you?”

  “He didn’t,” said Barlow. “He just came to the front desk and said he was here to pick up an item for Agent Calliope Burns.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Barlow, how stupid are you?” I snapped, standing up from the table so rapidly that I almost knocked my chair over. “You goddamn idiot. You complete and utter boneheaded shitbag. Why the hell do you think I set up a meeting to come pick up those photos from you myself?”

  “So . . . that guy doesn’t work for you.”

  “No, Sherlock, he doesn’t. I have no idea who he is. But now he has the crime scene photos, and I don’t, so you’ve done a terrific day’s work.”

  “I can have another set made,” he said hastily. “Those weren’t the originals.”

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “It’s not just that I don’t have them. It’s that somebody else does. That was the one lead I had, and now it’s useless. You stupid, stupid man.”

  “I’ll get you another set by the end of the day.”

  “Fine,” I said. “I’m going.” And I stormed out. I was so furious I was shaking – and not just at Barlow. How had I failed to see this coming? Carter had called Detective Barlow from my house while he was making me breakfast. If I was very, very lucky, they might have done no more than tap my phone. If I was not so lucky . . .

  I hailed a cab. “Watergate,” I said, “fast as you can.” We sped down the streets as I felt my heart pounding. Oh please, I thought. Oh please, oh please, oh please . . .

  I flung a wad of cash at the driver, bolted out the door and through the lobby, pounded on the elevator button, then crawled with agonizing slowness up each floor – ding, one, ding, two, ding, three, ding, four, ding, five, ding, six – before sprinting out the elevator door, keys already in hand, and bursting into my apartment, headed straight for my bedroom.

  The evidence wall was gone.

  I stood there, staring at the jungle vines snaking up the ceiling, suddenly visible again where a sea of white paper used to be.

  They’re pros, I thought, a tiny distant part of my mind almost impressed. They had heard Carter’s phone call, telling them not just that I was investigating the burglary but the exact time I would be out of the house. And now they didn’t just have the crime scene photos. They had everything. My press clippings, my field reports, the notes I’d stolen from Beth, and Carstairs’ files on Gemstone.

  Gemstone.

  I froze in my tracks, and turned around, very, very slowly, hardly daring to hope, and saw the jungle-green dresser with its neat pile of books on top.

  They hadn’t touched the books.

  I ran over and opened them all. Everything was still there. My Microcam and my Short-Hop and my scanner – and, most importantly, there inside the Book of Ruth where I had casually tossed it with my earpiece before going to bed, was the Gemstone drive.

  I reached out a trembling finger to touch it, to reassure myself that it was real, and read for the first time the words just above the carved-out hollow – Ruth, chapter three, verse eleven.

  “And now, my daughter, fear not. I will do for you all that you require, for all the people in the city know that you are a woman of great courage.”

  Struck by a sudden thought, I tugged at the filigree chain around my neck and looked again at the clock pendant my mother had given me.

  The hands were set at 3:11.

  I slipped the necklace back inside my collar and felt the cool metal against my skin. My faceless enemy might have had a head start, but I had something better. I had Carstairs and Bellows.

  Now, I thought to myself grimly, it was a race.

  * * *

  I shoved every single piece of my tech equipment into my handbag and changed out of my dress into clothes I could move in. I folded up my contraband cotton pants and shirt as small as they would go and threw them, along with a toothbrush and some other necessities, into the purse as well, blessing Mark for how roomy it was. Then I took the hollowed-out books, dumped them in the hallway chute that led to the trash incinerator, and left the Watergate.

  I crossed the plaza from the apartment to the hotel, where a bank of taxis stood waiting, and directed the driver to a large, busy hotel. Once inside, I found a telephone booth an
d dialed the number on the card I had pulled out of my purse.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Washington Post. Bob Woodward speaking.”

  “It’s Regina Bellows,” I said. “From the other day. I work for John Dean.”

  “Miss Bellows!” he said. “I’m glad you called.”

  “I need to talk,” I said. “I’m in trouble.”

  “Where are you?” he said immediately.

  “The lobby of the Shoreham.”

  “Regina, were you followed?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I keep thinking – I don’t know.” The frustration inside me finally snapped. “I’m a desk worker,” I said. “I’m not a spy. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m just a girl who sits at a desk all day. But my apartment has been ransacked and my phone has been tapped and this is insane, Bob, all of this is completely insane.”

  “Stay where you are, Regina,” he said. “We’re coming to get you.”

  “Fast,” I said, scanning the room, pulse pounding, for fair-haired men with newspapers.

  “Get out of the lobby,” he said. “You’re too visible there. Go wait in the ladies’ room. Come out in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Hurry.” And then I hung up.

  I followed the signs to the public ladies’ room and stepped inside the stall farthest from the door, clutching my handbag close to me and staring at the clock on my wrist Comm, willing it to move faster. Twice somebody entered and my heart stopped beating, but both times they simply did their business, washed their hands, and left, leaving me faint with relief.

  When the clock finally hit fifteen minutes, I bolted out of the restroom and through the lobby, just as a car pulled up to the curb. I could see Carl step out of the passenger seat, holding the door open for me. I dove in.

  “Get me out of here,” I said to Bob as Carl closed the door behind me. Bob nodded. His calm was reassuring, and I felt safer in their car than I had since Carter left.

  “You hungry?” he said, as he pulled away into the late-night traffic.

  “Starving,” I said. And in just a few minutes we pulled up in front of a gleaming black façade with an enormous neon sign over the door that read YENCHING PALACE. Carl held the door open for me and the proprietor, nodding when he saw us, beckoned us towards an empty round booth towards the back of the room.

  By an unspoken agreement, we all waited to begin until the waitress, an artificial chinoiserie work of art with impeccably-penciled eyebrows and a red cheongsam covered in golden dragons, had taken our order. Carl’s shaggy hair had led me, incorrectly, to assume that he would be a vegetarian, but he dove into the barbecued pork with gusto. They both liked lots of hot mustard in the red sauce for their spring rolls, which I found enormously endearing.

  I felt safe with them. I liked them. I hadn’t really expected to. They had been dead for centuries in my real world, after all. Everyone here had. The world had felt curiously unreal when I first entered it, everyone scurrying about like little animatronic dolls, following the paths programmed for them.

  But there was something about the reporters that felt real. Warm and alive and unpredictable. Maybe it was because they weren’t historical celebrities. It wasn’t like being in the White House, craning my neck as I walked down the hall, wondering if I’d ever catch a glimpse of the President. Bob and Carl were just people doing their jobs.

  I suddenly felt a pang in my chest, wondering if I’d done the right thing dragging them into this. But I was here already. So I might as well get on with it.

  “The burglary was only part of it,” I began slowly. “It goes much deeper than anyone thought. It was called Operation Gemstone, and Gordon Liddy was its architect.” Carl pulled out his notepad and pencil, looking at me for permission. I nodded. Bob didn’t take notes, just watched me as I spoke and piped in from time to time with questions. I told them everything I knew and I watched their eyes widen in disbelief.

  “And Dean was in on it?”

  “I think so, yes,” I said. “I wasn’t straight with you before. Liddy did come visit Dean. The Monday after the break-in. They were in there for hours. I didn’t know about Gemstone then. I found out later. But Dean was there, in the room, when Liddy first pitched it. At first they made a joke out of it. The story was that Liddy was sort of a nutjob and had proposed this cracked-out million-dollar pulp spy novel plan, and it was shot down.”

  “But it wasn’t.”

  “No, it wasn’t. The best I can figure out is that afterwards, somebody – maybe someone from the campaign, or maybe Dean – quietly went back to Liddy and basically told him that if he whittled it down to a more manageable, practical size, they could funnel him the money to execute it. I don’t know how many of the different elements were actually executed, but I know Project Opal was clandestine surveillance of the DNC offices and Project Sapphire was a wiretapped yacht full of call girls in Miami at the Democratic Convention. There may have been more.”

  “Holy shit,” said Carl.

  “I know,” I said.

  Then the waiter approached, depositing several plates of food in front of us, and we all stopped talking. Bob thanked him, and they chatted casually about the weather for a moment as I dug into my food.

  And almost choked on it as I felt the HIO meter in my pocket: tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

  I hadn’t done anything. Or rather, I had done a great many things, but the meter hadn’t reacted when I had called Bob, or gotten into his car, or started talking about Gemstone. In fact, I had taken its continued amicable silence as a kind of encouragement, a sign that I was on the right track. I certainly hadn’t done anything, besides take a possibly too-large-to-be-entirely-ladylike bite of orange chicken, that would cause the HIO meter to tick up to 6.

  Then 7.

  Then 8.

  And then I knew.

  It wasn’t measuring interference from me.

  The other agent was here.

  I looked around, attempting to be discreet, and saw that the restaurant was about half-full. Nobody I recognized, of course, they weren’t that stupid, although several people who could have fit Barlow’s frustratingly vague “old white guy” description.

  Something in this room was very, very wrong.

  I turned back and saw Bob watching me curiously.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “I just . . . ” I swallowed hard. “I have a bad feeling.”

  “Like you’re being watched?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay,” he said quietly. “Carl, stay here.” Then he raised his voice so as to make sure he was overheard. “We’re going to go have a cigarette. We’ll be right back.”

  I grabbed my purse and coat and followed him out, attempting to look nonchalant. Bob walked perfectly normally, and made a show of reaching into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes as we walked. As soon as we were outside, he turned to me.

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Honestly, I don’t.”

  “But someone inside the restaurant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” he said. “You stay right here. I’m going to go get Carl and we’re taking you to the Post. There’s a couch in the editor’s office you can sleep on, and most importantly, there are night security guards. We need to get you somewhere out of sight. Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” I nodded obediently and watched him dash back inside.

  “Reggie!”

  I turned, startled, to see Carter leap out of a taxi and sprint across the street, through the traffic, towards me.

  “I tracked your Comm!” he shouted, not caring as both our HIO meters ticked up and up and up. “I went to Election Day and then I went to the bombing raids—”

  “You went to the bombing raids?” I shouted at him. “Are you insane? You could have been killed!”

  “Later,” he shouted back. “Reggie, li
sten to me, you can’t go home, it’s not safe.” He leaped up onto the sidewalk and came running towards me. “Reggie, listen, I was there, the day of the bombing, I was there, they knew, Reggie, they knew—”

  “Slow down, Carter, what are you talking about?”

  “You have to get out of here,” he said, looking over his shoulder at something, I didn’t know what. “We have to go.”

  “Carter—”

  “You have to get out of here,” he said again, wild-eyed, closer to panic than I’d ever seen him, then grabbed my hand and pulled me away. “Reggie, run.”

  But I didn’t get the chance to run. Or to find out what Carter meant by “they knew.”

  Because by the time Woodward and Bernstein came back out to the sidewalk, Carter and I were gone.

  * * *

  I had never been force-jumped before, and the impact as we hit the Slipstream was startling. One minute we were standing outside the Yenching Palace, the next we had been pulled, against our will, out of 1972 and into nothingness.

  There were only three reasons that an agent would ever be pulled back to the lab without their own authorization and ready signal – without even having done the most cursory HIO scan.

  One, some amateur with no idea what they were doing was at the Comm.

  Two, it was a Rewind – meaning, I was about to get killed and someone jumped me back to reboot the mission and start over.

  Or three . . . I was being abducted.

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, bracing myself to land on my feet. But I didn’t land. The Slipstream continued to stretch out around me, long past the point where I should have arrived back at the lab, and I felt a slow, cold fear clench around my heart. I didn’t feel the telltale atmospheric pressure of an Incongruity, but something was wrong.

  Instead of feeling the reassuringly solid weight of the transport platform under my feet, I floated, unmoored to anything, for what could have been hours, minutes or even days. The red-black darkness around me lightened in places, and I began to see a gap open up.