You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  “If it is a foreign intelligence service,” Alex says, “which country’s most likely?”

  I consider the question. “China and Russia are the most capable, the most aggressive. Just behind there’s Iran, Israel, Ukraine. Could be any number of countries. Anything in the messages to indicate what country it might be? Unusual phrasing, word choice?”

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t have even guessed—”

  The shrill ring of my phone cuts short her thought. I pull it from my bag, check the screen. Drew.

  He’s not calling from a burner phone. He’s calling from his phone—

  “Hello?”

  “Jill?” Instantly I hear the panic in his voice.

  “Drew? What’s wrong?” I grip the phone tighter.

  “The kids…They’re gone.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Jill

  No. This isn’t possible.

  “What do you mean they’re gone?” I can hear the panic in my voice. “How are they gone?”

  “I took a shower, Jill. Honest to God, all I did was take a shower. Two minutes max, and they were watching PAW Patrol, and I came out, and they were gone.”

  I glance at Alex and she’s watching me, sympathy on her face, an expression that somehow makes this all more real, more terrifying.

  It’s not possible that I’m living this same nightmare again. Even worse this time, really, because they told me if they took Owen again, they’d kill him. And they have both of my kids this time, and they haven’t told me what I need to do to get them back.

  Is there anything I can do to get them back?

  I talked. To a journalist. I did exactly what they warned me not to do.

  They know. And they took my children because of it.

  My heart feels like there’s a weight pressing down on it, crushing it.

  I imagine the scene he’s describing, the kids in their footed pajamas, sitting on a double bed, absorbed in the TV, Drew darting in for a quick shower—

  What happened, when he was in there? Did someone break in?

  Or did someone come to the door, and the kids answered it? I’ve told them never to answer the door, not without a parent there, but did I stress it enough? Would they have known what to do if they were in an unfamiliar setting, if the only parent there was in the shower?

  They’re gone. My kids are gone. Someone has them. I don’t know who, or where—

  “Where are you?” I ask Drew.

  “Atlanta. A budget motel off the interstate. It’s all that would accept cash.”

  It’s my fault. It’s my fault they were in a cheap motel, that they had to leave home in the first place, that anyone was after them, took them—

  “Call the police,” I say, and I see the surprise on Alex’s face. But really, how can we not? They know how to track down missing people, and my children are missing.

  “Already done.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Just that I came out of the shower and the kids were gone. I didn’t tell them any of…you know. The other stuff.”

  “Good. So what now?”

  “They’re on their way.” He pauses, then adds, “I hear the sirens now.”

  My stomach is in a knot. The police are on their way. Drew’s talking to the police. But it’s him, not me, and he’s not saying anything he shouldn’t.

  Would it matter if he did?

  My reason for staying silent all these years was so they wouldn’t come back, wouldn’t come for Owen. They came.

  “They’re gone,” he says. His voice breaks. In the distance, behind him, I can hear the wail of sirens approaching. “Jill, what are we going to do?”

  “We’ll find them.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, they sound like a lie. My vision blurs, but the tears stay put, almost like they’re frozen in place.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Alex

  Jill lowers the phone. She’s pale. Looks stunned, almost like she’s in shock.

  This is what I’ve always worked so hard to avoid. Something terrible happening to a source of mine. I can’t help but feel responsible. And scared. For her. For her kids.

  I don’t know what the hell to say. I finally settle on the last words I heard her say. “We’ll find them.” But the words ring hollow, and she hears it.

  Silence descends. She stares down at the black screen of her phone, unblinking.

  There’s got to be something I can say. But everything that comes to mind sounds like a damn lie.

  “We need to figure out who has them,” she finally says. She looks up at me. “Your source knows.”

  “My source won’t say a thing.”

  “These people have my children!”

  Now she looks wild. Unstable.

  I turn toward my laptop. “I’ll try again.”

  I open up ClandestineTips and type a new message:

  Please tell me who’s behind this.

  The response comes a moment later:

  Publish what I gave you.

  “What?” Jill asks, looking at the screen.

  “He wants me to publish the story.”

  “You promised me.” She looks terrified.

  “I know. That’s why I haven’t. But I’m afraid he’s not going to give me more until I do.”

  “If you do, they’ll hurt the kids.”

  If they haven’t already, I think. But I say nothing. I’m pretty sure by the look on her face she hears my unspoken thought. I turn back to the keyboard, type again:

  I can’t publish without knowing who you are. I need to confirm your access.

  It’s not entirely the truth. I could publish a story with what Jill told me. But my source doesn’t know that. I can’t publish anything he’s given me until I know who he is.

  I don’t have any proof right now it’s the U.S. I have Beau’s speculation, and Jeremy’s speculation. And I have some anonymous tipster confirming it. But without knowing who this source is, or his access, I can’t publish something that sensational. A new message appears:

  I’m an anonymous source. You use them all the time.

  I type back:

  They’re anonymous in print, but I know who they are. Our standards require it.

  “Why does he want you to publish?” Jill asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  I stare at the screen and wait for a reply. There’s nothing.

  “See if he’ll just give you the name,” Jill says. I can hear the desperation in her voice. “I don’t care if you publish, as long as I know who has my kids.”

  I lift my fingers to the keyboard:

  Or just tell me who’s behind this. I’ll confirm it and then I’ll publish.

  Jill’s pacing the length of the loft now. Wringing her hands.

  A new message appears:

  I can’t do that.

  I type back:

  I protect my sources.

  I watch the screen. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jill. Pacing faster now. “What’s he saying?” she asks.

  “Nothing yet.”

  I continue to watch the screen.

  Finally, a reply:

  I’m a Russian intelligence operative.

  “He’s Russian intel,” I say to Jill.

  Jill was right. A foreign intelligence officer.

  If I can confirm he is who he says he is, I have my story.

  She comes over, stands behind me. Reads my screen.

  I type a response:

  Can you prove it?

  “No wonder he’s skittish,” Jill says.

  That’s an understatement. If Russia finds out what he’s doing, he’s toast. And if our government thinks a Russian spy is skulking around, jail it is. Jail, and no swaps.

&
nbsp; A message appears. A picture. It’s a snapshot of the front of an employee badge. Bright blue background, a yellow emblem at the top—three crowns, two feathered wings, crossed swords. Cyrillic writing. And a passport-size photograph in the middle—completely covered with several overlapping strips of masking tape.

  “SVR,” Jill says.

  “Is it real?”

  “Looks to be. But for all I know, it’s available on Google.”

  That’s true. There’s nothing to indicate my source actually took this picture. I lift my fingers to the keyboard.

  I need proof it’s you.

  I wait for a response. Nothing. Maybe I pushed too hard—

  Another picture. Same badge, slightly different angle. And it’s lying on top of yesterday’s Washington Post.

  “It’s legit,” I say. My source is legit. Adrenaline is coursing through me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jill says, moving away from the screen, sitting back down. “He needs to tell us who’s behind this.” There’s desperation in her voice.

  Another message arrives.

  Now do you believe me?

  Yes, I type back. But we need to know who’s behind this.

  Publish.

  “Dammit,” Jill says.

  I try to figure out what to say next. Lift my fingers to the keys—

  Another message appears.

  You waited too long as it is. You’re too late.

  I stare at the screen and try hard not to react. It’s damn near impossible. I can feel Jill’s eyes on me, from across the table.

  “What it is?” Jill asks.

  Too late because the kids were already nabbed? It couldn’t be that they’re dead, could it? The thought fills me with fear.

  I don’t reply. Instead, I type:

  What do you mean?

  Jill pushes back from the table, her chair scraping the floor. She comes up behind me again. My instinct is to close the screen, because I don’t want her to see what I’m terrified the source is about to write—

  A message appears:

  Something happened. And I’m afraid it’s just the beginning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Alex

  “What happened?” Jill says, her voice panicked. “Is he talking about my kids?”

  “I don’t know.” My fingers find the keyboard:

  What happened?

  My gut feeling is that the source isn’t talking about Jill’s kids. But who the hell knows. I stare at the screen and wait for a reply.

  Seconds pass in utter silence.

  Finally, a message appears:

  An accident.

  “Oh my God,” Jill says. “What happened to them?”

  My stomach is starting to turn. Is the source talking about her kids?

  What kind of accident? I type. Who was involved?

  The loft is utterly quiet. We both stare at the screen.

  “Why isn’t he responding?” Jill says. It’s gut-wrenching to hear her voice.

  At the Farm.

  “What’s he talking about?” I say. “What happened?”

  “No idea.” Jill looks relieved.

  I’m confused.

  What happened at the Farm? I type.

  That message has left me completely unsettled.

  Something happened. And I’m afraid it’s just the beginning. Look into it. Logging off now.

  “No, no, no,” Jill pleads. She leans forward toward the screen like she can physically restrain the source. “We have to know who has them.”

  I feel for her. I do. We didn’t get anything to lead us to her kids.

  But we did get a lead.

  I open a browser window. Google “the Farm.” Then “the Farm CIA.” Looking for any recent news. Anything about an accident.

  Skim the articles. Just the basics: covert training facility, shrouded in secrecy. No news, though. Nothing noteworthy that’s happened recently—

  Or at least nothing that’s made it into the public domain.

  “Can you check the chat again?” Jill pleads. I pull up ClandestineTips. No answer. I leave the window up. Reach for my phone and dial CIA Public Affairs. Kassie answers.

  “It’s Alex Charles at the Post,” I say.

  “Hello, Alex.”

  “I’m wondering if you can comment on an accident at the Farm.”

  A beat of silence. Then, “We cannot comment on any location popularly referred to as ‘the Farm,’ nor the existence or lack thereof of any specific training facilities.”

  Of course she can’t. She actually can’t ever seem to say a damn thing—

  “As for an accident, a statement will be forthcoming.”

  So there was an accident.

  “Come on, Kassie. Can you give me just a little right now?”

  “An official statement will be released soon.” She sounds resolute. “Is that all, Alex?”

  I’m not going to get the information I want. But I did get something.

  Something happened.

  “That’s all,” I say. I disconnect, and then look back at the laptop screen. Jill is pacing the length of the loft, her phone tight in one fist. She looks half crazed.

  I scroll up through the chat with the source. Reread the conversation. Skim it, anyway.

  Something happened.

  You’re too late.

  “What are we going to do?” Jill says.

  I don’t know what we’re going to do. Feels like we’ve hit another dead end. At least until Public Affairs releases that statement. And who the hell knows when that will be.

  I keep scrolling. All the way back up to the pictures of the ID badges—

  And then I have an idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Jill

  Fourteen minutes later, Alex has a location for her source.

  I know it’s fourteen because I’ve been checking my phone constantly, desperate for any news from Drew. There’s nothing new on the kids. Nothing I can do, because I’m here, but in order to get there I’d have to be in the car for nine hours, or unreachable in the air for two.

  But at least this—the location—is something.

  A co-worker of Alex’s, a man named Damian, used the attachments the source sent to trace the IP address. Apparently it was a loophole in the anonymous system: it was only anonymous until there was an attachment.

  The messages originated at the Fenwick-Coats Inn, a small, historic hotel just a few blocks from the White House. Alex and I made a beeline for my car, and then for the hotel.

  I park two blocks away, on the street, just in front of a restaurant advertising fish and chips. There was a swarm of valets out front when we drove past, jackets and white gloves, ready to assist with check-in and luggage. Our best bet is to avoid them entirely.

  The hotel is stately, a white-columned exterior, large circular drive. There’s a small park across the street, neat green grass and perfectly manicured landscaping. Alex and I stop there. We sit on a bench facing the hotel entrance and watch the valets.

  “Should I just go in?” Alex asks.

  I don’t answer. I go through the motions in my mind, the ones I know from my days as a case officer. Formulate a plan. Extract information—

  “I’m going in.” I say it decisively. I can see the surprise on her face. But there’s no question in my mind. This needs to be me. I was trained for this, I’ve done this, albeit a long time ago.

  And most important, it’s my kids on the line. I’m not going to rely on anyone else right now. I need to do this myself.

  “How are you going to do this?” Alex asks.

  “I don’t know.” An honest answer. I don’t know. And I wish I did, because for an operation like this, I should have a plan. But there’s no time to
come up with a plan. I need to figure it out on the fly. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I get to my feet.

  “Stay here,” I say. “Watch your phone.”

  “Got it.”

  When there’s a break in traffic, I walk across the street. Across the circular drive, straight to the automatic doors. I nod to the valets as I pass, never breaking stride, like I belong here, like I’ve walked in and out of this front entrance dozens of times.

  “Welcome back, ma’am,” one of them says.

  First rule of blending in: pretend like you belong.

  I’m through the automatic sliding doors now, met with a blast of cool air. The lobby is ornate and dimly lit—lots of reds and golds and rich mahoganies, a huge crystal chandelier above.

  There’s an elevator and stairwell off to the left, a check-in desk ahead, up three marble steps. One man is behind the desk, in a suit, assisting a guest with a small rolling suitcase by his side. The clerk looks stern, no nonsense, and as exclusive as this hotel is, there’s no way he’s going to give me names, not with what little I’d be able to tell him.

  There’s a small lobby bar up the same steps, off to the right. I walk up the steps, angle as close to the desk as I can, commit everything to memory. Behind the desk there’s an old-fashioned-looking cubby system, slots for each room, two dozen in total, newspapers sitting in about two-thirds of them, a few with sheets of paper on top. Final bills, maybe. A filing system, filled with items destined for each occupied room.

  The bar’s just in front of me now. It’s cozy, and dark. There’s a single bartender behind the counter, in a crisp white button-down, drying a glass with a towel. No patrons at the bar. I keep scanning, all the while walking like I know exactly where I’m going, what I’m doing—

  Restrooms. Bingo. I head for those, without pausing, like I was headed there all along. Ladies’ room. I push the door open, step inside. It’s empty, and I can finally exhale. I feel almost shaky. It’s been ages since I’ve done anything like this. I step into a stall, close and lock the door, take a deep breath.

  Twenty-four rooms. How am I supposed to find out which one holds our source?