by Cecilia Gray
“It’s not often a girl your age can take this kind of burden on her shoulders. It might seem dramatic to say it, but this mission—it’s going to save a lot of lives, Sasha. I mean it. I’m proud.”
God, let it be enough. Let this be enough. “Thank you, sir.”
“Let me ask…do you think you could get him to carry something of yours on the mission?”
Porter pulls something out of his pocket. At first I mistake it for a mosquito, although that doesn’t make sense. But it’s the same size, the same color black.
“What is that?” But even as the question flies out of my mouth I know the answer. “A tracer.”
“If we can get them on site—Sasha, you’d be able to pull off what a dozen seasoned CIA agents haven’t come close to accomplishing.”
I pluck the nail-sized device off his palm. “No problem.”
~~~~~
Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium
I bang on the door. There’s no answer after a couple minutes. I should take it as a sign. I turn around and glance down the cobblestone street with the darkness of the city laid out at my feet. That familiar urge rises up to run into the dark and be swallowed up by anonymity.
I look at a girl ahead of me with her fingers entwined with her boyfriend’s. She carries a brown paper bag with a baguette sticking out the top. I imagine she’s on her way to a normal life with a normal job. It could be mine, couldn’t it?
But whereas before my fantasies dissolved into still life collages. Those snippets of life I’d imagined for other people. Today it does not. It’s not just that a normal life isn’t for me. It’s that I don’t want it. That deep down, I’ve never wanted a normal life no matter how hard I pretended I did. That deep down I’d rather be this and interesting than that and normal. Even if this is makes me a bad friend. I bang my fist against the door again.
The door swings open. Sebastien smiles, leaning his shoulder into the doorway. “We are closed.”
“Oh, sorry—I thought—”
He laughs. “I’m teasing.”
I feel stupid as he steps aside. Teasing. I see him and Vivi and Smacker teasing each other all the time. How does it come so easily?
I walk into the bar, feeling my nerves ratchet up.
When I turn around, he’s right behind me. He rests his hand on my shoulder to keep me from bumping into him. Instead of letting go, his hand trails over my elbow and forearms to my hand. He lifts my fingers in his palm to his face then turns my hand over. My palm is still mangled from the rope burn.
“You haven’t been using vitamin oil,” he chastises.
I pull my hand away, even though I don’t want to. “I’m not here for medical advice.”
“Why are you here?” he asks, eyes smiling.
“I wanted to give you something before you go. A good luck charm.”
He takes a step closer.
I slip the gold cuff off my wrist. A cuff that’s no longer just a cuff. I grab his hand. He laughs as I force it over his long, lean fingers and onto his wrist. On him it makes sense. He’s the hero now.
“My turn.” He takes a pen from his front pocket and takes my hand again. He turns it, palm up, and draws the rolling ballpoint over my skin.
Shivers run up my arms. I’m having trouble knowing what’s real. My mission has always been real—finding Kid Aert has always been real. But my feelings are cloudier than that. I can’t deny I feel things for him, but is it real? Is it more real than my mission?
“There,” he says. He has drawn the dog tag with his initials K and A over my raw palm. “Now when you see it, you’ll know I’m thinking of you. I promise.”
XII
Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium
I flip through the channels. Up, down, up, down.
“You’re driving me nuts.” Vivi leans over the bar to try and grab the remote, but I hold it high over my head. “Smacker, get the remote.”
“Far be it from me to come between two lovelies,” Smacker says as he clears tables from the last of the customers.
“What do you want to watch, anyway?” Vivi asks.
“I don’t know, that’s why I keep looking for it.” For any news of what’s happening with Sebastien at the Embassy.
Vivi leans over the bar to whisper, “He won’t be in the news until tomorrow, you know.”
“I know.” I pass a channel with a press hearing and click through as I hear the portly man utter the name “M——.” I change back.
“—undeniable results from the soil testing,” he is saying. He goes on to talk about the results—trace uranium and other elements. Undeniable evidence of M——’s involvement in the production of nuclear weapons.
The traditional black propaganda, but why tonight, of all nights, when Kid Aert is breaking into the M—— Embassy?
Smacker walks up beside me, his lips tense.
I know he’s thinking what I am thinking. That this is not good timing.
~~~~~
Jennings residence, Brussels, Belgium.
“We need to talk.”
Porter looks up from the sofa, where he is seated next to Rachel. He glances around, as if expecting to see Vivi behind me.
“I’m alone.” I stalk to the couch. “Have you been watching the news?”
“Of course,” Rachel says. “We were expecting the announcement on the soil results.”
I look at her, surprised that between cooking and cleaning she has any idea at all of what’s going on, but then I remember what she said—that she shares the same objective. Her Betty Crocker life is as much of a cover as Porter’s Midwestern vibe.
Or not. It’s not a cover. It’s real—and that’s what makes it a cover.
Wasn’t I suited for this job because of the parts of me that were real? That I loved to draw. That I had a thing for comics. That I was the right age.
Use her.
Like running into a brick wall. That’s how it feels. I’m the one being used. “I told you my asset is going into the Embassy tonight.”
“We know,” Porter says patiently. “That’s why the press release went out today.”
“But…” My brain feels sluggish, like they’re having a conversation at double speed and I can’t catch up. “If there’s undue scrutiny on the Embassy, tonight of all nights, he might get caught. If you want him to plant the tracers—”
Porter’s patient expression grows wearier and wearier. Even Rachel looks at me with so much sympathy that I feel numb.
“The tracer is meant to track him,” I say dumbly. “He’s meant to be caught. You always intended for him to be caught. You’re going to give up the signal to the authorities.”
“No,” Porter says. “We originally intended Aabid to be caught, but you obtained asset cooperation so quickly that once Aabid was compromised, the opportunity presented itself.”
“The opportunity to send someone innocent to prison?” I ask, raising my voice—Like Chelsea, I’ve never raised my voice, either.
“He’s not innocent,” Rachel says. “Besides, if he’s captured, he gets to play martyr. Imagine what that will do for the cause.”
“Martyrs are dead,” I say.
~~~~~
Stella Artois Restaurant and Bar, Brussels, Belgium
“You feeling better?” Vivi asks as she opens the door to let me back into the closed bar. “Fresh air help?”
“Where’s Smacker?” I glance around the bar. No sign of him.
“Went to grab us a bite.” Vivi jumps up on a stool, her eyes straying to the Embassy coverage, where a small mob of protesters has gathered outside.
“Can you call Sebastien?”
“Slow it down,” she says. “Nobody likes a clingy girlfriend.”
“Listen to me. You need to call Sebastien.” I shake her arm. “Like now.”
“What’s up your butt, Sasha?” She pulls away, frowning.
“I think—I think Sebastien is in danger. We need to get h
im out of the Embassy.”
“Why would you think that? Nobody knows what he’s doing except you, me, and Smacker. The news has all the action outside the Embassy.” She gestures to the television. “He can handle himself.”
“Vivi, please, call him.”
“Calm down. I know you’re all slobbery over each other now, but he’s been doing this a long time. Being his kinda-sorta-girlfriend for two minutes doesn’t mean you know him.”
“Listen to me.” I grab both her arms and force her to look at me. “He’s in trouble. He is in a lot of trouble.”
“You’re so paranoid. I thought you’d handle it better than this.”
I realize there is one way she’ll believe me. “Sebastien isn’t safe because I talked. So we’re not the only people who know.”
“Stop messing around.”
“I’m not.”
Her expression slowly contorts with a mixture of horror and disgust. As it changes something in me rots and I want to take it bad so badly, to tell it was a joke, to see that smile light up on my face but it’s too late now “Sasha, oh my God. Who did you tell?”
“Does it matter?”
She slams her fist on the bar. “Of course it matters, dumbass.”
“The police know he’s in there and where to find him.”
“You ratted him out.” She jumps off her seat and takes a step back. “You ratted him out. Why?”
I look at her helplessly.
“Smacker was right not to trust you.” She twirls around and stalks away.
“Wait, please. It’s not what you think. Please. I need you to trust me.”
She whips back around. “Trust you for what?”
“What do you mean?” I sputter. “Trust that—that I’m good.” I am good. I’ve always been the good guy. As screwed up as things have been, I’ve never doubted for a moment that good is on my side. I make the world a better place. I make a difference. I’ve taken it for granted, that feeling, and a sense of entitlement rears its head.
“Are you crazy or just stupid?” She trembles, her hands in fists. “Good? Good? Sebastien could end up in prison—or worse. Everything he worked for could be destroyed because you’re a lying narc. A lying narc, Sasha. What’s so good about that?”
Even though what’s she’s saying is true, I still want to shake her. Can’t I have the benefit of the doubt? Some kind of tattoo across my forehead reading, Free Pass. Vouched for by the U.S. Government. I’m trying to fix things.
“Whatever you believe,” I say. “That doesn’t change that Sebastien is in trouble. We have to warn him. Do you have a way to reach him?”
“You know that he doesn’t carry anything on him when he’s working.”
“We have to do something.”
“You have done enough, thanks. I can’t believe I vouched for you. I gave my word that you were cool.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re pathetic. I can’t believe I felt bad for you.”
Her words sting, but I push past my pride. “If you know of any way…I’m worried about him.”
“Too bad. You don’t have that right anymore. You never should have had that right. Now get out—out.” She pushes me back with a glare. I want to stay, to fight, but I also know she won’t try to contact him with me there. At least if I go, maybe when Smacker comes back they’ll think of an idea.
“I’m sorry,” I say, backing away.
“Yeah, you are sorry,” she says, before shutting the door in my face.
I start running toward the Embassy.
~~~~~
M—— Embassy, Brussels, Belgium
A rowdy crowd has gathered in front of the Embassy, spilling out into the broad green lawn across from where Sebastien, Vivi, and I broke onto the roof of a convenience store.
A line of police officers decked out in heavy battalion gear block them from entering the premises of the Embassy. And block anyone from getting out.
Don’t let them see you sweat, hon.
Everyone is trying to enter through the main room, but I know Sebastien went in through the West Wall. I dodge past the crowd and circle around three blocks until I come back in at the West Wall. The door’s lock is impossible, but then I see the door has been wedged open with a small brick. I slip inside.
The Embassy is not what I expected—it’s modest, with a threadbare beige rug and dirty walls. I inch down the hall.
My pulse ratchets up. Jezebel, I’m having a panic attack.
Breathe in slow, breathe out slow.
Sebastien wanted to hit the main lobby, so I make my way there. Footsteps sound from behind me—I duck into a room.
Then I feel hands snake around my mouth and waist.
I cry an empty scream and begin to kick but the hands effectively bind me to the person behind me. “Good timing,” he says.
I still. He loosens his hold and I turn in his arms, let my hands slide up into his hair, bury my face in his neck.
He holds me tight with a muffled laugh—how can he laugh at a time like this?
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t be here at all.”
“Do you see what’s happening outside?”
“As long as it stays outside, then we are safe in here.”
My eyes stray to the gold cuff at his wrist. “Can I have this back?” I ask, tugging at it. If I get it out of the Embassy, away from Sebastien—if I run it across town—
“You came all the way here to ask for it back?” he asks. His expression turns from playful to questioning to serious. “Why do you want it back?”
Shouts echo down the hall, as does the beat of boots against the floor. Sebastien glances up and pulls me away from the door. Someone says something about a signal coming from a room down the hall.
Sebastien glances down at me.
“Run.” I grab the bracelet off his wrist and toss it aside.
We sprint through a side door into a conference room but the boots follow us, as do the shouts that I can loosely translate as, “I hear him—he’s on the move.”
I duck behind a long hanging tapestry, my back against the wall. He slips in beside me. We hold whisper still as the footsteps slow and enter the room. They walk the perimeter as my pulse pounds in my ears.
I could be arrested—and so could Sebastien. Then what? What good are we then?
The footsteps come closer, come right up to the tapestry and brush by so it sets off a ripple of fabric that scrapes against my bare arm. The footsteps go silent.
My pulse roars through my ears. I can feel it in the base of my throat. They are about to find us—both of us. I know it can’t be both of us.
The right thing, not the easy thing.
I turn to Sebastien, see him swallow hard. I lean in and press my lips against his. He pulls taut with surprise but for a moment, I let the dream take over. Me, a normal life, a boyfriend, a simple, warm kiss…
“Don’t move,” I mutter against his lips. “Stay here until it’s over.”
“Sasha—”
“It doesn’t have to be both of us.”
I dart out from behind the curtain. The soldiers, dressed in dark green khakis and vests, holding guns, had been holding a still life pose but come to life as I run between them.
One yells something about me being a girl. They swivel toward me, but I spring away, arms pumping, Chelsea’s voice in my head to go go go. I reach the lobby and stop, gasp, at the massive work on the walls. Black paint twining its way towards the ceiling, the throne blasting skyward with rockets. It’s perverse and epic and completely breathtaking and seeing it, I feel that sense of something bigger than myself come to life.
Then something slams into my side. I fall to the ground. My left side gushes with warmth. Blood. My blood.
I’ve been shot. Shot.
A dark, sticky pool of liquid seeps over the ground, pooling around my hands.
My left side burns. But instead of being afraid, I calm as my
entire body goes slack. The ground is cool and smooth against my cheek. I drift down, down, down. I can’t lift my head or my arm because trying to reach overhead sends a shock of pain through my body.
I close my lids. Images blur—Chelsea, her blue eyes and her determined lope. The messy chicken-scratch of her handwriting. Then me as a superhero—a black catsuit and stiletto heels.
Even though my eyes are already closed, it’s like the lids get even heavier. Pinpricks travel across my skin again, winding down. Like a TV set you turn off and the static coalesces into a single white pinprick.
Then out.
XIII
Safe house, Genova, Italy
The beeps grip my consciousness. Steady. Constant. Beep…beep…beep. I feel them behind my eyelids, pulling my eyes more and more open with each beat.
I catch a quick glimpse of faded yellow floral print wallpaper and an old-fashioned dresser with a white ceramic pitcher of water.
A burning pain shoots through my side, shuttering my lids. Deep breath. The stabbing subsides into a drizzle of sensation, almost like an acid rain against the curve of my left hip. I open my eyes a millimeter at a time.
I’m lying on a long, white-sheeted cot surrounded by machines that blip and whirl. Wires tangle from clear vials of liquid into my veins. Wonder, as real as a gust of wind, rushes from my feet up my legs to the top of my head. The complete, utter, overwhelming relief of being alive.
But then I remember Sebastien. I open my palm, but his drawing has been wiped clean and my wrist feels naked without my cuff.
I sit up, inhaling—another jolt of pain hits my left side, forcing a ragged exhale.
There’s a hum in my ears that won’t go away. I search for a call button but there is none. “Hello?”
A few minutes later, Porter comes in through the door, his expression simmering with intensity—the side Vivi doesn’t get to see.
He clears his throat and gives me a newspaper.
I scan the article on the Embassy riot but the details blur. There’s nothing on Sebastien—they’d report Kid Aert’s death, wouldn’t they? It would be news?