“We? You were . . .”
“I’m the only one who made it out.”
There was life in this room a second ago. There was something moving. But now it’s just still. Just silence in a seemingly empty room.
I shuffle back to the photographs, the dress blues, the SEALs. There, younger and much more luminous somehow, is Madden, with crew-cut hair, seeming almost like a boy. Happy.
I look again at the photograph of my parents. There in a dusty corner halfway across the world.
“They’re alive, Paige.” The ground falls out from under me.
I can’t breathe suddenly. That dream I had. The one with the ocean of bodies. I thought it meant they were gone. That somehow I knew. But now the truth comes in like a comet.
And now it bursts into flame.
I pick up the photograph of my parents, touch my fingers to their out-of-focus outline, wishing I could just grab them, grab them right out of there through the photograph.
“Are you sure?” It’s a whisper. “How? Why?”
“We don’t know. Your father’s work on the Middle East is highly respected in the Arab world. There could be something there.”
“But they kill journalists all the time. In horrible ways.”
I’m still recovering. They’re alive. My parents are alive.
All of a sudden the colors have come back into the room. I realize there are paintings on the walls I’ve never seen before. And an intricate, hundred-light sculpture, made of glass, hanging in the cavernous space. I never noticed that either.
Beauty. Beauty in the world.
“This mission. To save your parents. I asked to lead it. I read their books. In Annapolis. The world needs to question the dominant paradigm.”
The dominant paradigm. It’s a quote from River to Sea, my dad’s bestseller.
When my mom and dad went missing, it was all over the news.
Their pictures were plastered all over the papers and the TV and the internet for a few days.
And then there was another one of those mass shootings. This one at a Walmart in Arkansas. And that became what was plastered all over the papers and the TV and the internet. Then a pop star released a surprise album.
And poof, my parents were gone. No more story. Like they vanished from the earth.
“The safe return of your parents is a matter of utmost importance,” Madden whispers. “This mission came down all the way from the White House.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, then you don’t know our president very well.” He smirks, waggles his phone. “You can trust me. I have her on speed dial.”
Okay.
We sit there for a moment, me wanting to ask this question yet being afraid, terrified, of the answer.
“Everyone at the checkpoint died. In the midst of the confusion, the fog of war, your parents escaped.”
“How?”
“We don’t really know how. Quite frankly, it seems impossible.”
“So you don’t know where they are now?”
“We’re gathering intel.”
“So they’re just out somewhere, in the middle of all this ISIS terror, in the middle of all these drone strikes and the Russians fucking bombing everything in sight, by themselves?!”
“I know. I know you’re worried.”
The color comes out of the room again. Everything returns to beige and gray. I feel . . . heavy.
“Paige, you can help. We need you.”
“You’re joking, right? What am I supposed to do?”
“We’re going to find them. Wherever they are. And when we do, we’ll bring them home. You and me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. With me. I’m keeping this mission alive. Not just for your parents. For them.” He gestures to the pictures. “For their families.”
Those four faces are staring up at me. The Navy SEALs. They had parents, too. Three of them had children. Small children. There’s a photograph of one of them, a little towhead with bright-blue eyes, staring up from a birthday cake, smiling, with blue frosting all over her mouth. The candle on the cake says 3. Behind her, her daddy holds her on his lap, beaming. Smiling bright.
In the little girl’s eyes there is only light.
There’s a picture of me at my third birthday somewhere.
I looked like her once.
“When do I start?”
II
INTERLUDE I
This is what it looks like. The report. Tucked into the seventh page of the Moscow Times. A mere paragraph.
It says only that shots were fired and several injured two hours outside of Moscow at the dacha of a noted Muscovite, Thursday night, at approximately nine p.m. It says there was a subsequent exchange of gunfire. It does not say the how, it does not say the why, and, most important, it does not say the who.
No, it does not say who happened to be at that particular dacha when chaos, gunfire, and general mayhem erupted.
Because if it had said the who, well, then it would have not been neatly tucked on the seventh page of the Moscow Times. No, no. If it had said the who, it would have been front page of the New York Times. Cover story. Photo before the fold.
But come with me. I’ll show you.
1
You know how in movies they’ll insert a training session, with a power ballad blasting over a testosterone-happy montage? And they’ll show the down-and-out, kind of pudgy protagonist beat up a cow carcass in some meat-packed freezer in an undisclosed location? And then at the end of three minutes he just sort of emerges as Hercules? Welp, that’s because to actually show anyone training for an extended period of time, or any period of time for that matter, is about as exciting as watching grass grow. Even if it’s for a covert government intelligence agency. Scratch that. Especially if it’s for a covert government intelligence agency.
“Again,” Madden snaps.
I’m not in a fish tank, ladies and gentlemen, but I am in an enormous lap pool, the sounds echoing off the cavernous tile. There’s no marker on the entrance to this entire complex, or on many of the buildings, but if there was I would call this one “Super Secret Spy Swimming Complex” or SSSSC, for short. We’ve been in here all morning, me swimming freestyle, trying to better my time, Madden standing there, by the edge of the pool, making me feel like a guppy.
“Is this the kind of thing where you work me so hard that I fall apart and then you put me back together again in the form of a Madden-bot who will just shoot first and ask questions later?”
“It’s possible.” Madden smirks.
And I start my next lap. Each lap, trying to beat my own time, competing against myself.
This is my summer. Or “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”
Not parties and hangovers and a Pasolini Trilogy of Life marathon featuring Il Decameron with bachelor number two. (Oh, you don’t know Pasolini’s Decameron? That’s because you forgot to be a pretentious person with a love of completely toneless films that fluctuate blindingly among sex, slapstick, and scatological humor.) Nope. No obscure film marathons this summer! This, instead, is the summer when sort-of-cute-but-way-too-square Madden insists I can hold my breath for thirty minutes, run a mile in three minutes, and tell pithy jokes, in fluent Russian, immediately after I do both. Right now he is insisting I can swim the one-hundred-meter freestyle in less than ninety seconds. To give you some perspective, Michael Phelps got it in forty-seven.
I know you think there’s a Bond villain above me maniacally stroking a white cat before pushing a button to send in five great white sharks to devour me. And at this point I wouldn’t mind that, really. Not now that I have practically morphed into a fish and grown fins, and the ache of my upper back and arms will probably last until 2020. So, given all of that, you can see why I welcome death. But it is not an evil villain torturing me. Nope. It’s Madden. He’s still insisting on the hundred meter in less than ninety seconds. He’s lost his marbles, clearly.
“One hundred and
thirteen seconds.”
“I am in extreme dislike . . .”
Gasp.
“. . . of this process at the present moment.”
Gasp.
“And, also, of you . . .”
Gasp.
“. . . in a dispassionate sort of way.”
Madden raises an eyebrow.
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“Methinks you just like annoying me in my bathing suit. Admit it, you couldn’t do this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“Please.”
And, wouldn’t you know it, before I know what’s happening, Madden has decided to strip down to his skivvies and proceed to jump into the pool.
I, on the other hand, am busy pretending not to notice that he is—okay, seriously, completely—in perfect, not-too-muscular/not-too-scrawny shape. With stripes on his tummy. I think it’s called a six-pack. But I’m not noticing any of that. Nope. Instead, I am pretending to admire the blue-and-white plastic buoys separating each lane.
“These blue-and-white plastic thingies are really interesting. I wonder who invented them?”
SPLASH.
That’s Madden. In the pool swimming headfirst to the other side and back before I can finish this sentence.
There. See. He’s already back.
I’m still pretending not to notice his body, which a lesser female might, say, throw herself on top of.
“It doesn’t seem like anyone would actually need these blue-and-white plastic buoys not to run into each other, but perhaps on the off chance they became delirious or specially unaware—”
“Paige. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I’m actually just wondering about the levels of chlorine in the pool right now. When was the last time you guys had them checked? Have you considered a saltwater pool? It’s really much better for the—”
He smiles. Gets out of the pool. Proud of himself.
I just lost my train of thought.
“You can get out. You’re done for the day.”
“Already? It’s only midnight.”
“See you at oh-five-hundred.”
“Just say five a.m. It’s not like we’re in Beirut.”
There’s a moment in the middle of my own personal pool exit and towel-drying when my spidey senses tingle. It seems like I might actually, honestly, catch him ogling me.
I turn.
But no. He’s looking away.
Anyway, I’m not disappointed. Because it’s not like I care. I mean, why would I care? Just stop it.
After a quick shower in the bleach-flavored locker room consisting of a criminal amount of chemicals, I exit my government-sponsored pseudo-YMCA only 80 percent poisoned.
There goes my phone. A text from Aaron. It reads simply: ?
Well done, Aaron. One lone question mark. Did you know English was actually a language once?
His competitor for my cold and lifeless heart, Teddy, has gone back to Santa Monica for the summer, where his effortlessly attractive self is free to bask in perfect weather, unencumbered by a phenomenally imperfect, emotionally disassociated, soon-to-be covert government operative, whom he has, judging by a recent Facebook unfriending and Twitter unfollowing, unceremoniously broken up with. It’s okay. I get it. I’d give up on me, too. (Although Teddy really was the best one of the lot. One day, he’ll make some perfect girl very happy. She’ll be named something like Abigail. I’ll see their wedding pictures in my Facebook feed and cry into my vegan chocolate chip cookie ice cream.)
This leaves only Aaron. The last holdout.
You remember those scenes in all those aforementioned training montages where you see the sweaty protagonist watching French surrealist cinema with his love interest? No? Do you know why? Because Rocky Balboa does not watch The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. I know. You’re surprised.
Rocky Balboa has done so much training that the montage did not show you that Luis Buñuel is like a fast-acting narcotic on his brain and makes him fall heavily asleep, avec snoring. And likely drool.
Look. This whole now-I’m-an-international-spy thing isn’t really going to jibe with Aaron. Now that I think of it, I kind of have to dump him.
I just don’t know how to do it.
Hi, Aaron. No, I’m sorry, I can’t come over. The thing is, I’ve kinda been recruited by a covert government organization— No, not the CIA. It’s called RAITH. I said RAITH— Yes, like Lord of the Rings . . . Yeah, I know. I don’t know if they got the reference. They’re sort of humorless, honestly. You know what? It doesn’t matter. The point is, if there’s any hope of liberating my parents and possibly saving the world in whatever covert way I might be saving it, I’m not going to be able to take our relationship to the next level.
Now THAT would be a text.
By the time I get out of the locker room, Madden is long gone. It’s okay. It’s not like I was expecting him to wait for me and exchange witty banter or ask me out for an impromptu drink or anything.
Jesus. Stop.
I’m totally, totally not interested.
2
3:02 a.m.
Fifty Shades of Grey is the name of a book, but it also should be the name of my bedroom at the training facility. Whoever put this together pinned DRAB and METAL on their Pinterest board. Walls: light gray. Door: dark gray. Bed: darker gray. You get the idea. The silver lining here, or rather the gray lining, is that I have my own room. No, we are not all in one room like in Full Metal Jacket, with that guy yelling racial epithets at us all day. This is much more chic. Only the best here at RAITH. And by “best” I mean a double shot of depresso.
There’s only one other girl here, and she has already succeeded in putting me to shame on the driving course. I UBER. She’s from East Los. Yes, East LA. Viva Martinez. I think she might be the inspiration for The Fast and the Furious. Fun fact: she has a purple mohawk. It’s a kind of graduated purple that gets darker near the back. Sometimes she wears it spiky. Sometimes she wears it down, in a swoop. Sometimes she even wears it in a braid. Always, she wears it cool. Kudos to you, Need for Speed. You be you.
If you’re curious what I’m doing up at three in the morning, the answer is hyperventilating. If you’re curious why I’m hyperventilating, the answer is I just woke up from the most horrific dream about my mother. And father. Usually, when you wake up from these things, you get to sigh in relief that it was all just a dream. The thing about this is that I really don’t know if it is. It could be real. For all we know, it could be exactly this terrifying and unspeakable and inhumane.
In the dream my mother and father were being pulled from each other. My mother was being hurried away into a long line of women and girls and put on a bus. My father was being forced into a long line of men, in front of them a ditch. Behind them were men with guns, dressed in black. My mom watched, screaming, before the horrible thing was about to happen. Before the guns were raised and pointed.
I woke up in a gasp.
It’s about two minutes until I realize I am here in this gray room, that it wasn’t real.
God, please make it just be a dream.
There is a gray pillow here for me to put my face in, so no one hears me. This isn’t even a cry.
This is a prayer.
3
Madden has decided that today would be a good day to humiliate me. Here is what he has cooked up, before breakfast: a predawn romp. It’s actually not a romp at all—it’s a race. Involving cars. Involving cones. Involving steep turns. Involving competition. And, worst of all, involving me.
I am an excellent driver.
In my mind. When nobody’s watching. I could drive circles around you. And even East Los Viva.
However, there is the small issue that in the human realm, when I am driving an actual vehicle, which is rare, and there is someone in the passenger seat, which is even rarer—I have a tendency to get nervous. And a bit neurotic. Okay, fine, let’s just face it. I am a terrible driver.
&nb
sp; Madden is leading me across a long field to what looks like an obstacle course in a car commercial. A silver sports car sneers out at us from the pavement, two racing stripes over the top.
“Like it? Two thousand sixteen Dodge Viper SRT.”
“I don’t know what any of that means.”
“Six hundred forty-five horsepower, six-hundred-pound-foot torque.”
“Are you even speaking English right now?”
We make our way next to the spiffy little thing. Inside, at the wheel, there is Viva, stone-faced.
“C’mon, Paige, admit it. You’re impressed.”
“If I were to divulge the materialistic side of my consciousness, perhaps.”
Madden sizes me up.
“Did you even ever get Christmas presents . . . ?”
“Yes. And Hanukkah presents. And Kwanzaa. Three Kings Day. Also, Saint Lucia Day and Ramadan. It’s important not to play favorites. You know . . . you never know who could actually be running this thing . . . probably important not to put all your eggs in one basket—”
“Stop. Stop talking.”
Viva steps out of the Viper and gives me a look halfway between charity and sorrow.
“She driving today?”
“Yes, Viva. I’m afraid so. Do you mind riding shotgun?”
“Shotgun? With her?”
“I was hoping you could give her some pointers.”
“How about this for a pointer? Don’t drive, juera.”
“Okay, I think that’s not entirely fair. Also, you can speak Spanish to me—I’m totally fluent, although my accent is actually Cuban, not Guatemalan, which is what I’m detecting, but neither of us have an actual Spanish accent, from Spain, because let’s face it, all that lisping just sounds weird.”
“Why are you talking so much?”
Ouch.
She turns to Madden.
“Please don’t make me get in the car with her. I have dreams.”
Madden smiles. I wouldn’t think he would have such a familiar repartee with someone with a purple mohawk.
“I think Viva has a point; there’s really no reason for me to drive.”
Liberty Page 6