Liz laughed. “Open mouth, insert soap,” she said, placing her hand inside her mouth.
Mia was laughing when she answered the phone. When the man on the other end spoke, she stopped.
There was no controlling her shaking hands now. She nearly dropped the phone. Margo stopped cleaning. Liz stopped smiling. “Auntie Mia?”
The phone conversation ended with Mia silently placing the phone down and stepping back. A mix of emotions—despair, anger, and guilt—consumed her.
“Who was it?” Margo asked, then got very serious. “It wasn’t?”
Mia was already nodding.
“Is he?”
Mia shook her head, no. “Missing in action,” she whispered. “For ten days.”
Before Margo’s comforting hand could reach her, Mia ran for the sink, clutched the sides and vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach. Missing in action left some room for hope, but MIA in Afghanistan could easily end with a videotaped beheading.
“What’s wrong, mom?” Liz asked her mother. “Is Uncle Matt not coming home?”
“He’s coming home,” Margo said, trying to sound confident.
“When?”
“I don’t—”
The phone rang again.
Margo sprang for the phone and answered it before Mia could remove herself from the sink. “Hello... Oh my God. Okay, I will.” As though moving through sludge, she placed the phone on the receiver and turned to Mia, who was still bent over the sink.
“Who was it?” she asked.
“Mom.”
Mia looked confused. “She knows?”
Margo nodded slowly. “It’s on the news.”
After quickly rinsing out her mouth, Mia made for the living room.
Margo caught her by the arm. “Mia, wait.”
They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment as Margo attempted to find a gentle way to break the news. She couldn’t let her sister learn the truth from a newscaster. “Mia...”
“Just spit it out!” Mia shouted.
“They’re saying Matt’s a traitor. An assassin. They—”
Mia had heard enough. She ignored the rest of her sister’s words and pounded for the TV. She turned it on, changed the channel to a news network and was greeted by a service photo of her fiancé. She staggered back and fell into one of the old La-Z-Boy chairs she and Matt had picked up at a yard sale. Her hand went to her mouth as she heard the words, “...accused by Russia of being an assassin—an elite sniper—sent to kill President Misha Alexandrov.”
It wasn’t possible. Matt drove trucks. In and out of the military, it’s what he loved to do. He drove them for work. He drove them for fun. He drove them for his country. But the Russian military accused him of being an elite sniper?
The words, “act of war” filtered from the newscaster and cut through her chaotic thoughts. I’ll never see him again, she thought.
“My orders were to assassinate President Misha Alexandrov.” Matt’s voice hit her like a wrecking ball. She pitched forward and let out a moan. They were playing a recording. His confession.
“You are a sniper, yes?” an interrogator asked.
“Yes.”
“One of your country’s best?”
“Yes.”
“Elite?”
“Yes.”
The ridiculousness of the statements made her laugh with rage, but her mind swirled with doubts. Is Matt a sniper? Could he have hidden something like this from me? Why the hell is this happening? As the questions built and the news replayed the audio recording again and again, she listened to his voice, hearing the fear tinged with desperation, and she wept. She cried for him, knowing what it would take for him to betray his country like that. Hell, she thought, he endured hell, and broke.
Who wouldn’t?
And I was here.
Safe.
Feeling sorry for myself.
Feeling alone.
And justified for fucking his best friend.
He’ll never know, she thought, and for a brief moment she felt a new emotion.
Relief.
It sent her running back to the sink where she dry-heaved some more of her soul.
3
New Hampshire
“Shit!” she yelled, and pushed the button to hang up the portable phone. Mia missed the days of slamming down a corded phone and hearing the clang of the bell inside. It was much more satisfying. The best you could do with a cordless was throw it across the room, but then you’d be out thirty bucks. And she had more calls to make.
Two weeks had passed since she and everyone else in the world learned about Matt. She felt sure he was dead, and spent the first week at her sister’s house, mourning his loss and her betrayal. There was no funeral, however, because there was no body and officially, no one knew Matt’s fate. Maybe never would.
Her anguish became anger. Anger became a thirst for justice. Then for answers.
Was Matt really an assassin?
Who was responsible for his death, or capture?
What was being done about it?
Her guilt became a perpetual motivation. She needed to tell him the truth. She needed him to forgive her. To love her, despite her failings. She had no idea if such a possibility existed, but she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t get the chance.
She pursued the cause as a reporter. Because she and Matt had yet to marry, her relationship with him was easy to hide. His name was on the mortgage and utilities. They had separate checking accounts. So no one questioned why a small town crime reporter was asking about the biggest story of the year. Then again, everyone was asking the same questions.
The problem was, no one was talking. Not the president. Not a single senator or congressman. No one. Aside from denying all accusations, the United States government had gone silent on the issue. Business as usual.
Hear no evil.
See no evil.
Speak no evil.
But Mia didn’t buy it.
A plane crash yesterday had distracted the media. They could only stay focused on a story so long with no official sound bites. They’d played and replayed the audio of Matt’s confession so many times most of the country could probably recite it. The standard group of ex-military, ex-political and ex-presidential candidates had ranted and debated until their voices grew raw.
But the media’s distraction didn’t keep the government from stonewalling her. The reporter angle wasn’t working.
She looked down at the phone. She’d made nearly one hundred phone calls in the past few days. Most had been answered by full voice mailboxes. The few human beings she spoke to had simply said, “No comment,” and hung up.
“No luck?” asked Chris Kuzneski, a photographer at the paper and one of the few co-workers she considered a friend. He knew the score and didn’t believe Matt was an assassin.
“No one’s talking,” she said, leaning back in her office chair. Her desk was clutter free, in part because she was a neat freak, but also because no one used paper anymore. Everything she needed, from phone books, to press releases, to word processing could be found on her slender MacBook.
“Have you played the fiancé card?”
She nodded. “Seems I’m not the first person to try. No one’s buying it.”
“Damn. Have you said please?” Kuzneski flashed a smile, but the look in his eyes posed a question. Is it okay to joke with you?
She smiled, happy for the distraction. “I’ve said a lot of things.”
He chuckled. “I bet.”
“Shut-up, Kuzneski. What kind of name is that, anyway? Kuzneski. Sounds like Was Pesky.”
“Hey, don’t take your frustration out on me,” he said, raising his hands in mock defense and stepping back. Not watching his step, he tripped over a trash barrel, toppled into an office chair with a too loose back and tipped ass-over-tea-kettle onto the linoleum floor.
Mia burst out laughing, and everyone in the office turned in her direction. When Kuznesk
i hopped back up, they seemed to understand what had happened and went back to work.
“Thanks for helping me up,” he said, straightening his shirt.
“What are friends for?”
“Honestly?” Kuzneski said. “Friends need to be honest with each other.”
The uncommonly serious tone of his voice held her attention.
“You look like shit. Go home. Get some rest.”
She looked unsure. Giving up wasn’t in her blood.
But before she could respond, he held his watch out in front of her face. “Besides...”
At first she had no idea what he was trying to tell her. She read the time on his watch. 4:10PM. Normal work hours were until 5PM, but she often stayed late and—
“Shit!” Mia closed her MacBook and shoved it into her briefcase.
“Ten minutes late,” Kuzneski said. “Some aunt you are.”
“Bite me, Peski,” she said as she rushed for the door.
His singsong voice chased her down the stairwell. “You’re welcome.”
It turned out Kuzneski was being a good friend. He’d set his watch twenty minutes fast so she would arrive at Liz’s school on time.
“Hi Auntie!” Liz said as she swung open the door, hopped into the back seat and buckled herself in. Liz’s hair bounced as she bobbed her head back and forth for a moment before meeting Mia’s eyes in the rearview mirror. She smiled, barely containing her energy.
Mia turned around in her seat. “What’s got into you?”
“Nothing,” Liz said, but the way she bit her tongue after speaking said otherwise.
Some of the weight that had settled on Mia over the past few weeks lifted as she watched Liz squirm in her seat, doing her best to contain some kind of surprise. While Liz wasn’t her own, she was as close as Mia would ever get. She and Matt had talked kids on several occasions. Apprehensive at first, he came around after she began describing what their kids might be like and who they could become. But it wasn’t to be. Even if Matt were still around, doctors had long ago pronounced her infertile.
“C’mon Lizard, spill the beans.”
Liz giggled and shook her head, but after just a few moments of an old-school stare down, she cracked. She dug into her backpack and pulled out a business size envelope. A nice one, with a shiny blue return address she couldn’t make out.
“Did the president tell you where Uncle Matt is?” Liz asked, her grin widening.
Mia’s stomach dropped. The question caught her off guard. “Why? No...”
“Did you talk to him on the phone?”
“No, Liz.” Mia’s frustration was growing despite Liz’s continued excitement. “It’s not that simple. You can’t just talk to —.” Her memory kicked in. It couldn’t be...
Liz let out a giggle. “I can.”
With that, Liz handed the envelope over. Mia glanced at the return address and nearly dropped the envelope. It read:
The White House
Washington, D.C. 20500
202-456-1414
“I won,” Liz said. “I won a contest.”
Mia didn’t bother asking which contest. She knew exactly what this letter regarded. She opened the envelope and read the one-page letter inside.
Dear Elizabeth,
Thank you for your inspiring essay on “What it means to receive the Medal of Honor.” Out of nearly two hundred thousand entries from around the country, we have chosen yours as the best, for your honesty, above average writing skill, and evident research. I would like you and one family member to attend a private Medal of Honor ceremony next week, where I will be giving the award to Major Paul Byers. It would mean a lot to all of us if you would attend. A duplicate letter has been sent to your mother at home. Please call to confirm. Thank you very much for entering the contest and I look forward to meeting you for breakfast next week.
Sincerely,
President Robert Collins
A hand-written note read, “Hope you like Eggs Benedict!” and was followed by the president’s signature.
Mia stared at the letter, rereading it. She felt sure Margo would let her go with Liz. She doubted being confronted by the fiancé of a man Russia accused of being an assassin would be well received by the president, especially over Eggs Benedict, but she’d get no better chance to find out the truth.
Liz unbuckled and leaned over the front seat. “Did I do good?”
Mia kissed her hard on the cheek. “You did amazing.”
“There’s just one problem,” Liz said, her smile turning quizzical. “I didn’t write anything for this contest. I like writing. And I’m smart, thank you very much. But they sent a copy of my essay along with that letter and I definitely didn’t write it. It was too...”
“Insightful?”
“Exactly.” Liz leaned over the front seat and turned her head toward Mia, her eyes wide with mock suspicion. “So, Auntie Mia, who writes for the newspaper, who do you think wrote it? Hmm?”
Mia smiled wide. She had indeed written the short essay, doing her best to keep the language as simple, and believable, as possible while making a statement that would be profound for a seven-year-old. The odds of it working were slim. Thousands of kids had entered. But like Liz knew, only one of them was actually a reporter, and a damn good writer. She took Liz’s hand, locking their pinkies. “Can we keep this a secret?”
“Can I have a hundred dollars?”
“How about a Friendly’s sundae on Saturday?”
Liz raised a thoughtful eyebrow and then said, “I’ll take a Friendly’s sundae right now.”
“Done,” Mia said, squeezing Liz’s pinkie. She showed all smiles on the outside—Liz would keep her secret—but her insides felt like she’d just sucked down a pint of spoiled milk. The odds of her confronting the president about Matt in person defied logic and felt supernatural, like fate, or God. Too bad she didn’t believe in either.
4
Washington D.C.
Robert Collins walked through the lobby of the White House West Wing and entered the main hallway. Though his freshly pressed suit itched his skin, he made no move to scratch. He believed the president should be prim and proper at all times. In private, he’d scratch his ass raw, but even a single pair of eyes was enough to make him straighten up, speak deeply and ignore any personal irritations. His hair, graying on the sides, but still black on top, matched his black and white suit, chosen specifically for this morning’s medal ceremony and brunch. The press hadn’t been invited, but a staff photographer would document the moment and send the pictures out with a press release. If the press came, they’d only ask questions about the Russian debacle. It wouldn’t be long before some other kind of controversy or tragedy overshadowed the hullabaloo started by the Russians. The airplane crash helped, but with every crash around the world being front page news since 9-11, it wouldn’t hold interest for long. “Let it blow over,” he’d told his staff, “then welcome the vultures back.”
Four Secret Service officers, three men and one woman, followed close behind Collins. They had been handpicked to watch his back and if need be, take a bullet for him. Tom Austin, the senior agent of the four, was an outstanding agent with a squeaky clean appearance and a record as polished as his now bald head. Collins had heard that the man had some strange hobbies outside of the job—surreal art and painting—but that didn’t matter to Collins. Tom was the best Secret Service agent on the job.
Collins strode past the vice president’s office, glancing in. The office, as expected, was empty. A hunting trip called the VP north to Maine. He’d missed out on the Russian fiasco, but called in to brag about the black bear he’d taken. “Maybe a brown bear is next in our sights, eh?” he’d joked. Russia hadn’t been a bear since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Mother Russia was hardly more than a cub now.
Passing the chief-of-staff’s office, Collins saw the man hard at work. He gave a quick wave and rounded the corner. Next came rows of smaller offices on either side of the hallway, leading
toward the Oval Office. He avoided the glances of the men and women working in those offices. He knew what they were thinking, and their probing eyes would only spoil what was sure to be a pleasant morning and a delicious brunch. The White House cook staff made amazing hollandaise sauce. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Any acknowledgement of the staffers in the offices to either side might bring on a barrage of questions about Russia he didn’t feel like answering, to them, or the press.
The truth of the matter was that Collins did not take the Russian claims or threat seriously. Not in the least bit. Russians perfected the art of geopolitical grandstanding long ago. Several other concerns held higher spots on his priority list. Bills to be vetoed. Lobbyists to treat to dinner. Medals to award. Hell, his golf swing had him more concerned. He didn’t need to get into a public, celebrity style, name calling squabble with a has-been superpower. They could shout until they were red in the face, nothing more. It was a waste of time. Their own silence proved that. If they had any real case at all, they’d still be holding press conferences, or harassing the U.N.
Collins smiled as he passed between the dining room adjacent to the Oval Office and the Roosevelt Room. Someone in the Russian military was no doubt being deported to Siberia for such a tactical blunder. What their angle was, he had no idea, but it turned out to be a major league screw up. Thank God I’ve got smarter people than that on my payroll, Collins thought, as he opened the door to the Oval Office and stepped inside. He left the four Secret Service officers in the hall where they would take up their normal positions.
He closed the door behind him and smiled. A woman sitting in his executive chair had her long legs up on his desk. Her skirt rode up to her thigh and carried his eyes over the rest of her body, up to her blue eyes and smiling face. She held up a cigar. “Found an old stash of cigars deep in the desk. Think Clinton wants them back or should we have some fun?”
Collins laughed. “Not very First Lady-like of you, dear.”
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