by Linda Gerber
“No. You don’t understand. You owe me, Mom. I’ve waited four years to get some answers from you, and I’m not leaving until I do.”
Mom signaled me to be quiet while a woman with a stroller passed by, and then she nudged me toward the van. “We’re not going to have this conversation here.”
I pulled away. I had waited too long to talk to her and spent a good chunk of my resort earnings to buy the plane ticket for the opportunity. There was no way I was going to let her send me home without an explanation. I just wouldn’t go. What was she going to do? Carry me onto the plane? “We’re not going to have the conversation at the airport, either,” I said.
She gritted her teeth. “I see. Please get in.”
I raised a brow at her forced civility and matched it with my own. “I’d prefer not to.”
“We’ll go someplace where we can talk.”
I folded my arms and stared her down.
“You have my word,” she said.
Once, her word might have meant something to me, but she was no longer the mom I used to know. I had no idea if her word was worth a thing anymore, but I really wanted to believe it was. Which is why I caved. I shrugged my backpack from my shoulders, swung it into the van, and then climbed in after it.
Inside, ceramic dust coated the cargo area and clung like microscopic barnacles to the front console and the seats. It smelled old and dry. The closing door behind me sounded like the bars of a prison cell clanging shut. That would have been a good time to cut my losses and go home. But, of course, I wasn’t about to do that.
Mom climbed into her side and settled onto the seat, turning the key in the ignition and checking the rearview. Her actions were all very calm and measured, but irritation was clearly written on her face. I folded my arms tight across my chest and I turned my own face to the window so she wouldn’t see the angry tears gathering in my eyes.
I suppose I had known all along that my surprise appearance might not go over well. Mom had a life, after all, and I had interrupted it. But what did she have to be mad about? She’s the one who left all those years ago. If anything, I should be the one pulling faces and acting all put out about things.
We drove in silence for what felt like a very long time. Mom didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t about to talk just to fill the void. I did steal glances at her, though. Her expression never changed.
“What did you want to talk about?” she finally asked.
I stared at her. “Are you kidding?”
She didn’t reply.
I turned back to the window. She left the main road for a steep side street where she pulled over to the curb to park.
“Aphra, I’m sorry you’re upset, but you can’t just show up out of the blue like this. Not now. There are things you don’t know . . .”
“But I do know.” I swung to face her. “I know you were with the CIA. I know you left Dad and me to help protect the Mulos when the agency no longer would. I know you sent their family to stay with us because you thought it was the one place where no one would find them. But that’s over now, Mom. They’re gone and I’m here. It’s my turn now.”
She shook her head sadly. “That’s just it, Aphra. It’s not over. Not by a long shot. That’s why I can’t let you stay. It’s not safe for you here.”
I laughed bitterly. Not safe? How safe did she think it was sending the Mulos to our island with a paid assassin on their tail? And when I thought about everything I had done to get to Seattle—deceive my dad, ask my best friend Cami to lie for me, deplete my savings—my laughter nearly dissolved into tears.
“Aphra, I wish . . .” I could see the indecision in her eyes. There were things—obviously—she wasn’t telling me and it looked like she was trying to decide whether she should.
“Do you know what happened when the Mulos got to the island?” I blurted.
Her face changed immediately and the expression became guarded, wary. “I know some.”
“And you still don’t know if you can trust me?” I didn’t intend for my voice to sound quite so small or nearly as pathetic, but the words had the intended effect.
“I trust you, Aphra,” she said, “but I don’t want you to get hurt.”
It was a little late for that.
She must have read that thought because she turned in her seat to face me full on and took one of my hands in both of hers. She looked into my eyes, choosing her words very carefully. “Aphra, do you know why the Mulos were running?”
I nodded. The Mulos—Seth’s family—had once been part of a sleeper cell. Seth’s parents defected and offered to help the CIA in exchange for immunity.
“And me?”
“You . . .” I hesitated, lowering my voice, as if anyone could hear us in the van. “You were their contact with the Agency.”
She gave me a quick nod. “So you understand the type of people I work with. This is no place for—”
“But I thought you quit.”
Her guarded, blank expression returned. “I’m sorry?”
“Seth told me that you left the Agency four years ago.” Which happened to be the same time she left my dad and me . . . but I figured it wouldn’t be good timing to bring that up.
Her nostrils flared and she took several deep breaths before speaking. “What else did Seth tell you?”
I hesitated for a moment. I didn’t mean to get Seth in trouble—but why should she be angry if all he did was tell me the truth? “He said you suspected that one of the sleepers had infiltrated the Agency. And that when the CIA couldn’t—or wouldn’t—protect Seth’s family, you helped them disappear. But now that they’re safe, can’t you—”
“Aphra, the Mulos are not the only family in the program who’ve been compromised. People came forward. They trusted the government. But someone gave them up. Those people must be protected until we can find the identity of the Mole’s plant inside the Agency. That’s what we’ve been doing here the past several months—following leads. And the closer we get, the more dangerous it becomes.”
We? The guy at the market must be her partner, then. And the pottery business would be their cover. I leaned back against the seat, suddenly very tired. “You’re still working for them, aren’t you?”
Her voice sounded far away when she spoke. “It’s complicated.”
I shot her the hardest look I could muster. “Then why don’t you uncomplicate it? Either you work for the CIA or you don’t.”
She searched my eyes for a long moment, hesitating, questioning. Finally, she said, “Officially, I quit. I cleared my desk and said my good-byes. But, yes, I still answer to the Agency. Our operation is funded by the Agency. My job is not done, Aphra.”
I folded my hands into tight fists and stared, unseeing, out the window. What about her job as my mom?
“So you understand why you need to leave? It’s much too dangerous for you here. I’ll call your dad to meet you in Los Angeles or—”
“Dad can’t fly.”
Her brows lowered. “What?”
“The doctors won’t let Dad travel until he’s completely recovered.”
“Recovered?”
“From the poison . . . and a minor infection from the tracheotomy. But that wasn’t Dr. Mulo’s fault. He wasn’t exactly working in a sterile environment.”
“Jack was poisoned?”
I frowned. “I thought you said you knew what happened on the island.”
Her face took on a pinched look that I might have read as genuine concern if I hadn’t been so mad at her. “My reports were apparently . . . less than complete.”
“He almost died.”
She blinked rapidly against the tears glistening in the corner of her eyes. “But he’ll recover?”
“Yes.”
Her voice cracked as she asked, “Who . . . ?”
“An assassin named Hisako. She was the one trying to kill the Mulos.”
“Yes, I knew about her, but I don’t understand—”
The cell phone in her pocket buzzed
. She flipped it open and barked into the receiver. “What is it?”
As she listened, her expression grew even tighter. She glanced over at me and frowned. “I can’t right now. I need to . . . No. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right there.”
She snapped her phone shut. “Well, Aphra, it looks like you get your way for now. Something urgent has come up that requires my attention, so I’ll need you to come with me. We can talk more tonight.”
I sat up straighter, trying not to let my smile show. “Where are we going?” I asked. She didn’t answer, but I didn’t really care. She wasn’t sending me away. Not yet. And I’d take any small victory I could get.
CHAPTER 2
I watched Seattle slip by, the gray-blue water of the sound on one side and the Space Needle rising above the skyline on the other. Ever since I had learned where my mom was living, I’d dreamed about how exciting it was going to be to see those very sights. But now the magic was gone. Everything outside the car windows was just a backdrop.
Mom didn’t say a word as we drove. It looked like she was going to once or twice, but she held her tongue. And I held mine. There were so many questions I had to ask her, but I knew I wasn’t going to get answers just then.
The road wound through business districts and eclectic neighborhoods before hugging the edge of a massive lake dotted with boats, their white sails puffed full. Under a steel-gray sky, an unseen breeze teased white-caps on the water. I sat a little straighter, staring at the lake. Already, I missed the ocean back home so much it almost hurt. It was as if I needed to be near water to feel connected. Too soon, buildings and trees obscured the view of the lake, so that all I caught as we zipped past were flashes of blue.
Eventually the van slowed, the turn signal ticking rhythmically, and we turned onto a smaller side street. “This is where we live,” Mom said, gesturing with her chin toward an old four-story apartment building. The architecture was a strange mix of arches, columns, and porticos beneath a flat-top roof.
Mom cleared her throat. “We’re . . . subletting, shall we say, while the owner of the apartment is on sabbatical, so we must be careful to maintain a low profile.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll behave myself.”
A wide driveway to one side of the building sloped downward and emptied into a shadowed parking garage beneath the building. A light flickered on as we entered the garage—it must have been on some kind of sensor—but it didn’t do much to brighten up the place.
Before Mom had even pulled into her parking spot, a guy who looked to be in his early thirties, with close-cropped hair and horn-rim glasses, rushed toward the van. As we rolled to a stop, he peered into the windows with what I considered to be more than polite curiosity. I stared right back at him. Who was he? I could only guess by Mom’s nonreaction at seeing him that she had expected to find the guy waiting there. He probably worked with her, too.
She calmly put the van into park and switched off the ignition while he, on the other hand, fidgeted like he was about to jump out of his skin. He looked like the uptight sort with pressed jeans and a starched oxford shirt buttoned all the way up to the collar. I couldn’t see his feet from my vantage point inside the van, but I could just imagine him wearing polished loafers and dark socks.
Mom told me to stay put and then climbed out to talk to the guy.
“What’s going on?” I heard him say before she shut her door. “Where’s Joe?”
She and the glasses guy had an animated conversation in front of the van that I couldn’t hear. I debated rolling down the window a little so I could eavesdrop, and I might have except that Mom gestured toward the van and the guy’s eyes followed her movement. He nodded and walked around to open my door.
“Well, hello.” His soft Southern drawl honeyed the words. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
I swear it was like he was talking to a preschooler. Made me want to hit him. Instead, I mumbled a greeting, hefted my backpack, and climbed out of the van.
He pressed a hand over his chest. “Oh, look at her. She’s lovely. This girl is just the spittin’ image of you, Nat.”
Nat? My mom had always hated people to use that nickname instead of her given name, Natalie. She’d said it made her sound like an annoying insect. But she didn’t show any reaction that it bothered her when this guy said it.
He snaked a gentle arm around my shoulder. “All right, darlin’. I s’pose we better go on inside. After that long flight, I’m sure you’ll be wanting some rest.”
I threw a glance back at my mom, but she was busy unloading a box from the back of the van and didn’t look up.
Horn-Rim Glasses Guy guided me toward the stairwell. “I’m Stuart Hunt, by the way.” He held out his hand and I automatically shook it, though it seemed like a silly gesture, seeing as his other hand was still draped over my shoulder.
“Aphra Connolly,” I mumbled.
“I still can’t get over it. Natalie’s daughter. Here. It is quite a surprise.”
He opened the door for me and ushered me inside. The stairwell was painted a vivid blue, and the landing was tiled in a cheerful mosaic pattern. I couldn’t help but notice that the tiles themselves looked worn, though, and the grout was stained black and chipped out in several places. A vague odor of turpentine and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.
“Resident artists,” Stuart said, as if he could read my thoughts. “Lots of ’em. Natalie and Joe fit right in with their pottery.” His lips pressed together as if hiding a smile. He glanced at my backpack. “I’m afraid it’s a rather long climb—we’re on the third floor and there’s no elevator. May I help you with your . . . luggage?”
“No, thanks,” I said quickly. “I’ve got it.”
“Of course.” He let the smile spread across his face. “An independent woman. Just like your mother.”
I glanced back at Mom, who followed us carrying what looked like a pretty heavy box. I wondered if Stuart’s perception of her as independent kept him from offering to help her with it. I wondered if I should. Offer, I mean.
But then Stuart took my arm and guided me up the steps. “Is this your first time in Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll just love it here. It’s so . . . eclectic.” He smiled, displaying impossibly white, cosmetically perfect teeth. Not that it surprised me. Everything about the guy was fastidious, from his perfectly trimmed hair to his perfectly trimmed fingernails.
When we reached the third-floor landing, he held the door open for me, and—almost as an afterthought, it looked like—for my mom. He ushered me across the hall to a polished wood door with a brass plate tacked in the middle of it that read 307.
“I think you’ll be pleased to see where your mother resides,” he said. He dug a key from his pocket to unlock the door. “It’s actually large by Seattle standards, so we do feel rather fortunate to have found it.” He grinned in a way that made me think fortune had little to do with it.
The place wasn’t luxurious by any means. Not that I was being a snob, but it was a far cry from the resort—even the employees’ quarters. But it was clean. Obsessively so. Even the couch cushions were symmetrically arranged. I eyed Stuart’s proud smile and knew immediately who was responsible for that touch.
“It’s very nice,” I murmured.
“Why, thank you.” He beamed. “But you haven’t even seen the best part yet. Come on back. I’ll show you.”
“She doesn’t need a tour, Stuart,” Mom said.
“Nonsense.” He ignored her and led me down a long hallway. “All the bedrooms are along this hall,” he said. “Except for this here.” He tapped the door and it gave a hollow thunk. “This is the commode . . . and a shower, in case you’d like to freshen up a bit.” He eyed my travel-crumpled shorts and T-shirt with a pained expression. “But first”—he opened another door grandly to reveal a tiny room at the end of the hallway—“this is the study. It has a lake view. Come see.”
I followe
d him out a set of sliding doors to a small overhang that he called the balcony. There wasn’t even enough room out there to put a chair or anything. More accurately, it was the small landing of what looked like a fire escape. A narrow ladder to the side of the balcony stretched up past other balconies and down, I supposed, to the ground.
Stuart directed my attention once again. “You have to lean out a bit to see the water. See, look. Over there. That’s Lake Union.”
“That down there?” I pointed to the water I could see beyond the trees that stood behind the building.
“No, no. That’s part of the Ballard locks. Those locks connect Lake Union to Salmon Bay and eventually the sound. Like a ship canal, you understand? But that . . .” He leaned even farther out and pointed toward the corner of the building. “That is Lake Union.”
I appropriately “ahhed” at the small patch of grayish water. Really, I couldn’t see enough of it to be truly impressed.
He stepped back, satisfied.
Just then, a gruff man’s voice demanded, “What is she doing here?”
I jumped and spun around to find Joe in the doorway, glaring at me like I was the devil incarnate.
“I didn’t have a chance yet to get her to the airport,” Mom said.
“So you brought her here?”
She stared him down. “Not now, Joe.”
Mom must have been his senior because he clamped his mouth shut, following orders. To a point. He may not have used words, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. He was not happy.
She nodded toward the front room. “Let’s get started.”
Stuart bowed to me. Seriously. He actually bowed! “If you’ll excuse me. Duty calls.”
I looked to Mom, but she had already turned away and was following Joe down the hall. Stuart left the room and closed the door behind him. The signal was clear. I was to stay out of the way while they did whatever it was covert CIA agents did.
I shook my head. Come see the view. Yeah. Right. Get the kid to the back room where she won’t be a bother was more like it. Stuart’s Southern-gentleman act was effective, I’d give him that. I might have laughed at his clever manipulation if I wasn’t just a little bit peeved. Okay, more than a little. I didn’t like being duped.