She examines her hands. Then she looks up at me. “I’m glad you’re both happy. But it’s not that easy for me.”
“You’d be doing what’s right,” Jill says. “And that will bring you more peace than you’d guess. Trust me: I know.”
“It’s why you joined the intelligence service in the beginning, isn’t it?” I say. “To make a difference? This is your chance.”
Natalia searches my face, then Jill’s. I try to read her expression, determine what she’s thinking, but I can’t.
“I always imagined making a difference,” she says.
A couple of young girls in pigtails skip by beside us, darting from step to step. She watches them, then turns and faces the Reflecting Pool. Sits quietly, deep in thought.
Losing everything changes you. Those words that A.J.’s mother spoke float through my mind.
Life doesn’t always turn out the way we expect, that’s for sure. If we’re lucky, it’s just as sweet. Sweeter, even.
I don’t know if it will be for Natalia. But I didn’t think it would be for me, either, and I’m more content than I’ve ever been.
She might have lost her dreams, but maybe, just maybe, she’ll grab on to this new one.
“Okay,” she says at last. She gives us a resolute nod. “I’ll do it.”
EPILOGUE
The woman now known to the U.S. government as Python boards a United flight to Beijing, where she’ll catch a connection to Moscow. She slides into the last row of business class, past two empty seats to the one by the window, sets her carry-on down by her feet. Then she reaches in, pulls out a slim black case, barely bigger than a notebook. Places it on her lap, clasps her hands over it, and waits.
A few minutes later the man once known as Falcon stops at the same row. He lifts a carry-on into the overhead bin, slides into the middle seat beside her. He removes his baseball cap, runs a hand through his newly shorn hair, over his freshly smooth cheeks. Even his once-bushy eyebrows have been plucked; he looks like a completely different person.
Wordlessly she hands him the slim black case. He unzips it, pulls out a laptop barely bigger than a sheet of paper. “Quite a bit smaller this time.”
“Technology has improved.”
He smiles. “If it hadn’t, none of this would have been necessary.”
Another man hustles down the aisle, like he’s running late. He’s awkwardly carrying a large duffel bag, bumping people as he goes, apologizing hurriedly. He stops at their row, hoists the bag into the overhead bin, plunks himself down in the empty seat. Then he leans into the aisle, hails a flight attendant. “Vodka rocks please. Double.”
The attendant heads toward the galley, and the man leans back in his seat, lets out an exaggerated sigh. Then he looks at the two passengers beside him, plasters on a fake cheery smile, and extends a hand as though offering a handshake. “Mittens. Timothy Mittens.”
“How did you come up with that ridiculous name, anyway?” the woman asks.
He leans back theatrically, hand over his heart, as though offended. “Thought it had a nice ring to it.”
The woman seated in the window seat in front of them stands up, and the three fall silent. She steps out of the row, reaches into the overhead bin for her handbag, then makes her way back to her seat, never giving the passengers behind her so much as a glance.
“You had it easy, you know,” says the man once known as Falcon, quietly, to the man beside him. “One infant. Now it’s two children.”
“The infant did nothing but cry,” he replies in Russian. “I wanted to smother him.”
The flight attendant approaches, deposits a drink on his tray, continues on down the aisle. He flashes her a fake smile, one that disappears as soon as she does, grabs the drink, downs it.
“And you,” says the man once known as Falcon to the woman beside him. “You nearly took me out with that first shot. I think the bullet grazed the hair on my arm.”
She smiles. “Exactly. Had to look convincing. And come on, when have I ever missed a shot?”
“Is this it?” asks the man known as Timothy, nodding toward the device, switching back to English.
“Yes,” replies the woman, reaching for the case, taking possession of it once again.
“Better be worth it.”
“It was before, wasn’t it? And they’re even more confident now that they’re getting this new technology into the right hands.”
She smirks, and the man once known as Falcon snorts.
The flight attendant hurries back down the aisle, and the man known as Timothy flags her down. “Ma’am?”
She turns, her expression harried. “Yes?”
“Another vodka, please.” He flashes her a grin. “Whenever you get a chance.”
Her expression softens. “Certainly, sir,” she says, and heads on toward the galley.
He watches her go, then turns to his seatmates. “International opinion of the U.S. has reached an all-time low, you know.”
“Their loss is our gain,” the woman replies, in Russian.
“No one’s losing more than Mr. West,” he replies, effortlessly shifting to Russian.
“Divine justice. He’s going to rot in prison. And what about Chen and Harris?”
“Ah, the collateral damage. It was quick, at least. Where’d you get that strain, anyway?”
A smile pulls at the corner of her lips. “Just a little something we’ve been working on. Might be useful in the future.”
The flight attendant approaches from the galley, sets down three small bottles of vodka on the open tray. “Thought you might want extra.” She puts a finger to her lips and winks.
“Oh, don’t worry,” the man known as Timothy says to her, his tone conspiratorial. “I can keep a secret.”
She continues on down the aisle, and he hands one of the mini bottles to each of his seatmates. “Cheers,” he says, twisting the cap off his bottle and raising it in a toast.
“To you, boss,” says the other man, clinking his bottle against the woman’s. “To a successful operation.”
“Hear, hear,” agrees the man called Timothy. “To our fearless leader.”
The woman clinks her bottle against his. She unscrews the cap and takes a sip, her nose scrunching ever so slightly. Then she settles back into her seat, rests her hands gently on the black case.
Success. She’s had it before, sure. Especially four years ago, when they got access to the first COVCOM system. But now…Now it’s even sweeter. The accolades are sure to roll in. This is the pinnacle of her career, if she wants it to be. Otherwise, the sky’s the limit.
Those women, they were wrong. She doesn’t have to change her perspective. She doesn’t have to let go of what she thought she’d have, of how she thought her life would look. And she certainly doesn’t need their pity. It was a useful distraction, kept their minds off the truth. But it’s she who pities them. Because they abandoned their dreams. She made hers a reality.
She watches the flight attendant close the cabin door, push the lever into the locked position. There’s something very final about it. Like they’re putting this all behind them—America, those people—once and for all. They’re almost home.
Viktor will be home soon, too. Once her country starts nabbing some very important American agents—something that’s inevitable once they exploit the new COVCOM—spy swaps are sure to resume. Viktor will be free, and the man who arrested him will spend the rest of his life behind bars.
She lays a hand on the arm of the man once known as Falcon, and looks over at the man known as Timothy.
Then she leans back in her seat, and a smile spreads to her face—the deep, contented smile of a woman whose dreams have come true. “I’m glad we’re together again, my sons.”
FOR BARRY, JAMES, WILLIAM, AND EMMA
ACKNOWLE
DGMENTS
Thank you to you, readers, and to all the booksellers, librarians, bloggers, and reviewers who help us find books to love.
Thank you to everyone at Ballantine, especially Kara Cesare, Jesse Shuman, Kelly Chian, Karen Fink, and Taylor Noel. And my gratitude, as always, to David Gernert, Ellen Coughtrey, Anna Worrall, and Rebecca Gardner at The Gernert Company.
Much appreciation goes out to my friend and trusted test reader Karen Boyer, the CIA’s Prepublication Classification Review Board, and all the foreign publishing teams I’ve been fortunate to work with.
To my wonderful family members in Florida, Costa Rica, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Colorado: I’m grateful for all of you.
To Barry: Thanks for being the best husband and dad, hands down. And to our kids, James, William, and Emma: I love you so much, and I feel lucky every day to be your mom.
BY KAREN CLEVELAND
Need to Know
Keep You Close
You Can Run
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen Cleveland is a former CIA counterterrorism analyst and the New York Times bestselling author of Need to Know and Keep You Close. She has master’s degrees from Trinity College Dublin and Harvard University. Cleveland lives in North Carolina with her husband and three children.
karen-cleveland.com
Facebook.com/KarenClevelandAuthor
Twitter: @karecleve
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
You Can Run Page 26