That would explain how Jackson could be working for the Russians and disrupting a sleeper cell. It wasn’t really a sleeper cell at all. It was victims set up to take the fall.
And what if they threatened Alina, blackmailed her, did something to convince her to plead guilty, and to stay quiet?
Barker wouldn’t admit to being manipulated, but maybe Alina would. Maybe she’s key to finding the proof I so desperately need.
The sound of Zachary’s name pulls me back to the present with a start, and I’m disoriented. I look up to see him striding across the stage, all the way at the front of the room, so far away from me. Why didn’t I move closer?
I set down the phone and clap thunderously, like the sound can somehow let him know that someone’s here for him, that he’s not a school-event orphan, like he’s been too many times in the past. I watch him, grinning as he shakes the principal’s hand, accepts his certificate.
And as he sits down to silence, not giving the audience another glance, I wish I’d done one of those obnoxious shouts. I wish I’d snapped a picture of him crossing the stage, because isn’t that what parents are supposed to do? I didn’t do anything the way I should have.
I look down at the notes in my lap. I reread that sentence, the one that connects the dots. Then I look back up at the stage. Zachary’s sitting, gone again from my sight. I try to catch a glimpse of him, but I can’t, not from here, from so far away.
Impulsively, I stand up. I’m not going to sit here and feel sorry for myself, berate myself for my mistakes. I walk up the aisle toward the front, until I can see Zachary. I slide into a row near the front, and make eye contact, offer him a smile.
His face registers surprise. And then color rushes to his cheeks like a sunburn; he grins back.
Chapter 40
I wait impatiently in an interview room for them to bring her in. It’s a small room, square and windowless, just four white walls, a metal table, and two metal chairs, all bolted to the floor. And it’s freezing, like all these rooms are. I wish I’d brought a jacket.
While I wait, I check my phone. Nothing from Zachary, nothing from Mom. And still nothing from Marta. No return call. I dial her cell again, hold the phone to my ear. Before the first ring, there’s a voice. But it’s not Marta’s; it’s a recording. Mailbox full. I press the end button. A swelling sense of worry makes it hard to breathe.
In the distance I hear a buzzer, very faint. The clang of the door. There’s a clock on the wall, and I can hear the loud tick of each second passing. I watch it, the hands going around, time vanishing in the most visible way, and I think of Zachary. I imagine a future in which I must come to a place like this to visit him, and I shudder. Then I force myself to stop looking at the clock, try to tune out the hammer blow of passing time.
Finally, a key scrapes in the lock. The door opens, and she’s there. I recognize her from her mugshot, but only barely. She looks older, and haggard, scarcely more than skin and bones. Her face is gaunt, her hair streaked with gray. Her jumpsuit hangs off her; it’s probably the smallest one they have, and it’s still huge.
She sits gracefully across from me, back erect. Her expression is unsettling. It’s defeat, I decide. She looks defeated. The guard who led her in withdraws, shutting and locking the door behind herself, and then it’s just us. We watch each other, the clock the only sound in the narrow room, which reeks of bleach.
Finally, I clear my throat. “Ms. Petrova, thank you for meeting with me.”
“Alina,” she says. She has an accent; it’s faint, but it’s there.
I nod. “Alina.” I pause, gather my thoughts. “I want to cut right to the point. You were adamant that you were innocent. Then you pled guilty. Why?”
She holds my gaze, unblinking. Then she shrugs. “Why do you think?” she challenges.
“I have an idea, but I need to hear what you have to say.”
Her lips tighten.
I try a different tack. “You said you were being set up. Why did you believe that?”
She regards me steadily. Then, just as I’m sure I’ll get nothing from her, she says, “I resisted. Spoke the truth about Putin, about his government. Did it under an assumed identity, of course.” She shakes her head, like it had all been a mistake.
“You think the Russian government learned your real identity?”
“They know everything. When they don’t know, they hack in and find out.” Her eyes mock me.
“Why did you change your mind? Why did you plead guilty?”
She shakes her head again, lips in an unyielding straight line. I wait, but she says nothing.
“Are you being treated well here?” I ask, shifting tactics again. I look at her thin frame, and suddenly I mean it. My concern for her is real. “Are you getting enough to eat?”
“They give me enough food.”
“And you eat it?”
“When I must.”
“Why only then?”
Distrust flickers in her dark eyes. “You just never know. They have…ways. When it comes to food…you never know what is safe, do you?”
She’s living in fear. So afraid of them coming after her, she doesn’t even eat. God, how awful.
Studying her face, the sincerity that’s there, the dread, I know this woman is not guilty of anything. And in the instant that thought crosses my mind, I see Zachary in this very spot, in his own jumpsuit, his own life ruined, just like Alina’s. The thought absolutely terrifies me.
“Someone got to you,” I press. “Someone convinced you to plead guilty.”
Her face tightens again.
“Someone threatened you,” I insist. I pull a small photograph from my bag, the headshot of Jackson I printed from the Bureau website. I slide it across the table toward her. “I think it was this man, right here.”
She glances down at the photo, and I wait, my heart pounding. She looks up. “It was not him.”
“But it was someone.” My mind’s racing. It wasn’t Jackson, but someone had threatened her. “Who was it, Alina? What did he say? Did he threaten you?” I ask, more urgently. I’m getting to her. I know it; I’ve experienced it in interrogations countless times before. She has to admit it. She has to say something.
“Not me,” she insists, visibly frustrated, and what I hear is That wouldn’t be enough. I’d take my chances. And then there’s one of those interminable breaks of time where no one breathes, no one makes a sound, where all the air seems sucked out of the room. That moment balanced on the razor’s edge of truth or lie.
“They know where every member of my family is.” Her voice is a whisper. “Everyone I love.”
“Alina—you need to say something.”
She shakes her head.
“You need to tell the truth, Alina.”
“The truth is a very dangerous thing, Agent Maddox.”
“The law will protect you.”
“The law? The law is nothing against them.”
“Alina, you’ve always stood up to them. You’ve fought for the truth. Stand up now.”
Her chin quivers, the smallest bit, and then her jawline tightens. “It is my family.” She tilts her head up, gives me that unflinching, mocking gaze. “I am doing what I must. Would you do anything different, Agent Maddox?”
* * *
—
The deputy director of the FBI is working for the Russians.
I’m on the plane home, and I’m struggling to wrap my mind around just how serious this is. The Glock in Zachary’s closet was just the tip of the iceberg. I’ve seen more of that iceberg now. I’m starting to get glimpses of what’s below the surface, and it’s almost unimaginable.
I can’t even begin to comprehend how dangerous that is for our country. Is it possible Jackson is feeding the Russians information? Sharing secrets? I’ve never found anything to sug
gest the Russians have benefitted from him being in a position of power. Our collection of sensitive intelligence hasn’t diminished. Our assets haven’t been harmed. Nothing’s happened, as far as I can determine.
But with Jackson on their side, the Russians have tremendous influence. Unfathomable access. And that’s enough to make me think I can’t wait any longer. I need to tell someone. But who? Who can I trust? And what would I say?
Should I go to Director Lee, tell him his deputy is working for the Russians, framing my son, threatening all these other innocent people?
What happens when Scott and Barker and Alina deny it? I haven’t a shred of proof, and Jackson’s tracks are covered. If I come clean, if I mention the gun, the slides, it would look like I was making spurious charges to cover for my son.
No one would believe me.
And nothing would happen to Jackson.
Jackson worked Russian counterintelligence. How much did he pass back to the Russian services? He must have been doing that. And now he’s the Bureau’s number two. Does that mean more access? Not complete access; I know that from my meetings with Barker. But enough to irreparably damage our country, cripple our intelligence-gathering efforts, I’m sure. I find myself wondering again if the CIA has any idea what the Russians are doing, of just how far the Russian government’s reach extends.
I need to talk with Marta. I need to reach her. I’ll go to her home….
My eyes finally close; I’ve barely slept in days. I can’t keep them open any longer. But I don’t shut off my mind. I can’t.
Thinking of the CIA makes me think of that woman, the one with Jackson in that row house, years ago. Vivian. For the first time I wonder: Was that picture Barker gave me real? Was she truly safe? Or had she stood up to Jackson and suffered the consequences?
I try to push the unanswered questions away. But Vivian Miller is still on my mind. I can’t get her off of it. She’s the last thing I think about before I drift off.
What happened to her?
Chapter 41
The train lurches forward and the woman tightens her grip on the handrail, shifts her weight to keep her balance. The crowd of commuters sways with the motion, and for a moment her husband disappears from view. She takes a step to her left, and there he is again. At the far end of the Metro car, head down, phone in front of him. He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t noticed her. Even if he did, he wouldn’t recognize her instantly, not with the hat, the glasses, the baggy sweatshirt she’s never worn.
She shouldn’t be doing this. But at the same time, she can’t not. His once-rare meetings in the city have become increasingly frequent these last few weeks, and she’s on edge. He said he has another today, told her he wouldn’t be able to pick up the kids if the schools called. And so instead of driving to work, she took a sick day. Stopped for the hat and glasses and new clothes, drove to the Metro station, waited near the entrance for him to appear. Then followed him onto the train, a safe distance away.
She learned surveillance tactics ages ago. Hasn’t practiced in a couple of years, but it’s all coming back. And this should be easy. Red Line all the way in. His office is near Gallery Place. Three more stops now.
The train grinds to a halt at Union Station. The doors open. Her husband looks up from his phone—and then angles through the crowd toward the open doors.
Her heart starts to pound. She elbows her way toward another open door.
The platform is packed with people waiting to pile on. She’s going to lose him. She needs to see where he’s going.
She scans the crowd, catches sight of him, heading away from her, toward the exit. Breathes a sigh of relief, starts moving toward him, her eyes never leaving his back, ignoring the jostles, until—
An older man steps directly into her path, stops. “Hello,” he says with a nod. It’s unsettling, seeing him here. They know each other from work, after all, and there’s a limit to what they can say in public, how they can acknowledge each other.
“Hi.” She tilts her head to peer around him, find her husband’s back in the crowd.
A chime rings from the train. The doors are about to close. She continues to search the crowd, realizes with growing panic that she’s lost him.
“I’m afraid I can’t chat right now,” she says. Where could her husband be? He was just here. The train inches forward, and her eyes dart in that direction—and then she spots him. Inside the train. In a different car, head down, absorbed with his phone.
“Not a problem,” the older man says. His eyes, a clear blue, stay fixed on hers.
She tries to make sense of this. Her husband knew he was being tailed. Stepped off the train to lose her. Hopped back on at the last second. Classic technique.
Or he was distracted, accidentally exited at the wrong stop. Realized his mistake, boarded again.
The older man steps aside, out of her way, but by now it’s too late. The train is barreling forward, out of sight.
He offers her a smile. “Nice seeing you again, Vivian.”
Chapter 42
Zachary doesn’t care where we go to dinner, so I pick a local Chinese restaurant, a place that’s safe and predictable. That certainty is what I crave right now.
We sit across from each other in a red padded booth, examine our menus. Zachary is talking about the theme for the senior prom—a masquerade ball. I listen to the excitement in his voice and remember helping him get ready for his first dance, in middle school. Teaching him how to knot his tie. Dropping him off at the gym, decorated with balloons and streamers, watching him dash toward the entrance.
A waitress takes our order, returns slowly with our drinks—iced tea for me, root beer for him. When she’s gone, he looks around, leans forward, lowers his voice. “So what’s going on with the anarchist stuff?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I say it almost without thinking. If the Russians are involved, I don’t want Zachary to be part of this anymore. I never should have let him get involved in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it?”
“It’s under control.”
He leans back against the booth, shoots me an incredulous look. I’m sure he can tell by my face that it’s not under control. Not even close. I take a sip of my iced tea and ask him if he’s rented his tux.
“Want to know my guess?” he says, ignoring my question.
I shake my head, reach for the sugar.
“It’s someone you investigated. Someone’s coming after you, like that mobster did back in Chicago. Only now, you’re in even deeper shit. And I am, too.”
“I told you not to worry about it.” The reprimand comes out sharper than I intend it to, but his words were too close to Barker’s warning and they stung. You don’t know how deep.
“And I told you I want to help.”
I shake my head. “It’s my responsibility.”
“It’s my life.” A frustrated look crosses his face, and I feel a wave of guilt.
He’s right; I know he is. But this is the Russians we’re talking about. He doesn’t know how powerful they are, how ruthless. And he’s only a boy. The more I can distance him from this, the safer he’ll be.
He pulls his phone from his back pocket, pointedly turns his attention to that, and I don’t ask him to put it away. It’s easier than continuing this conversation.
I take a sip through my straw and watch him. His face is impassive, his fingers swiping through screens, opening apps.
Then there’s a flash of anticipation. He’s reading something on the screen, something that excites him. He blinks, and his face falls, pinched with disappointment.
“What is it?” I have that panicky feeling, the one I get when I know something’s wrong and I can’t do anything about it. It’s like a train is speeding right toward me and I can’t step out of the way.
His eyes stay on th
e screen. Reading, or rereading, trying to comprehend something.
“Zachary, what’s wrong?”
“I didn’t get into Maryland.” His tone is hollow.
“What?” I say, because the words couldn’t be more unexpected. He had the grades. The test scores. Far beyond what he needed.
He turns the phone in my direction, so the screen is visible. “Email from the admissions office.”
“Does it say why?”
He shakes his head.
The waitress arrives at the table, slides our plates clumsily down in front of us. I thank her, pretending not to watch Zachary. He’s turned his attention back to his phone, and I can see him struggling to comprehend this news. Only when the waitress leaves, when it’s back to just the two of us, does he look up. “Oh God, Mom. Was it because I quit all the clubs?”
He looks so impossibly young. He has the face of the brokenhearted boy who didn’t make the basketball team in middle school, even though he tried so hard, practiced so much.
“No,” I reply, and anger starts boiling inside me. It’s Jackson, I’m sure of it. I don’t know what he did, how he did it, but I know it’s him. Maryland was a safety school, for God’s sake.
“Is it that anarchist stuff? The email, the pictures I found on that forum?” My son’s eyes are searching my face: he wants answers. “Did Maryland find out?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“What if I don’t get into any of the other schools?” he asks. In my mind I hear that little boy in the car again. Are we safe, Mommy?
Only this time, I don’t know what to answer. I don’t know. And I don’t know if it even matters. There’s so much more at stake than just college now.
The waitress picks that moment to stop at our table. “Everything okay over here?”
I glance down at our untouched meals. In my mind I see Zachary’s face just moments ago, that nakedly crestfallen look.
“Yeah,” I lie. Then I look up and make eye contact with my son. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Keep You Close Page 19