This fills me with a sense of glee, confusion, pride, insecurity, shame, affection, and fear. These sentiments all just rotate in a circle around my head for the next five hours, in the path laid by the Tweety Birds, each of them showing up in different forms to hound me on a kind of Ferris wheel of emotion.
Ah, the feels!
50
This place is fancy. Not fancy in the hey-we-were-all-born-on-the Mayflower sort of way. No, no. Fancy in the we-are-so-rich-we-are-Bohemian kind of way. So even though it’s three hundred dollars a night for a standard room, there’s all sorts of Navajo rugs and spiritual stylings in every crag of every corner. For instance, above my bed is a dream catcher. I wonder if it will catch my dreams about Gael García Bernal deciding that he is in love with me.
Right now I’m in a sandstone tubby with eucalyptus bubble bath bubbles up to my eyebrows. This is my favorite way to be. I can fantasize about disappearing under the water and reappearing under the sea. All my friends will be sea creatures with different personalities based on their species. My crab friend will always be crabby. My shark friend will always be sly. My BFF dolphin friend will always be trying to trick me into playful shenanigans. We will be happy there under the sea. We’ll sing and splash and frolic in the coral reef. Every once in a while a family of whales will migrate past us and we’ll stop to listen to their eerie, beautiful whale songs. We’ll shun humans. Whenever humans or boats are anywhere near us, we’ll call them “flat feet” and hide and giggle and make fun of them. Such will be life under the sea!
But my phone rings and that all goes away.
Good-bye, sea creatures—we were good together!
It’s Madden.
“What?”
“Meet me downstairs.”
“I can’t. I’m in the bathtub daydreaming.”
“Paige, come downstairs.”
“My sea creature name will be Lobstertails.”
“Paige!”
“Okay, fine.”
It’s funny, this moment. I didn’t realize it at the time. But this moment, here, in the bath, fantasizing about life at the bottom of the ocean, was kind of like my way of ending it. This spy adventure. Everybody go back to what you were doing. Everything is fine. Done. Over.
Which is to say, I was entirely kidding myself.
51
The desert-themed hotel bar at this place is pretty generic. Lots of sienna and even a few multicolored pebble fountains. But there’s a wall of windows looking over Monument Valley in the distance, so that’s really the draw.
Madden is sitting down at a two-top, looking serious.
(That’s restaurant lingo from when I worked as a waitress.)
(For one week.)
(Yes, they fired me.)
(I couldn’t remember anyone’s orders because, well, because I didn’t care.)
“By the way, if you are interested in turquoise jewelry, you may want to visit the hotel gift shop, which has offerings that consist almost entirely of turquoise jewelry. And cedar-scented candles.”
“Paige. Sit down.”
He doesn’t even smile.
Usually, I can get at least the beginnings of a smirk.
“What?”
“I have some news for you, and it’s probably going to be hard for you to take, but I’m hoping you won’t make a scene.”
“Make a scene? What, are you breaking up with me?”
“Paige. This is serious.”
He sighs and looks out the plateglass window over the red stone rock formations, placed like dominoes, in the distance.
“The flash drive. The one you so remarkably found . . . it’s a list.”
“A list?”
“Yes. It’s a list of names. Of RAITH operatives. All of them, all over the world, in over one hundred different countries, some of which are extremely unfriendly to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s his plan. Raynes. To release the list.”
“Wait. What? Why? Why would he do that?”
“Because we think he believes that RAITH, with all its secret civilian operatives and congressional unaccountability, is a violation of the Constitution. He believes the rogue nature of RAITH is a danger to our democracy, operating even more secretly and undercover than both the CIA and the FBI. That’s why.”
“So, wait, how many people are on the list?”
“Thousands.”
This does not compute. Raynes is an Elliott Smith fan. If his security was compromised, he wouldn’t take out thousands of people. Right? “You’re about to say you’re making this up—”
“Paige, if this gets out, people could die. Horrible deaths. Not just executions. Torture. It will be a field day for all of our enemies, capturing our operatives, extracting state secrets.”
“He wouldn’t do that. Raynes. He would never do that.”
“Paige, it’s all there. If he’s killed, a program is tripped. He checks in twice a day. If he stops checking in, because, say, he’s dead, the program launches and the info is sent on how to find the flash drive. It’s like a treasure hunt for nerds. And once they finish their little nerd hunt and find the flash drive, it’ll be front-page news. But not anymore, Paige. The fact that you found the flash drive first is a miracle. Now we just have to pray that Raynes doesn’t know we’re on to him and release the information himself. That is, if we thought praying would help.”
“Wait. You don’t believe in God?”
He shrugs. “Jury’s out. Why? Do you?”
“Well, I’ve just never met anyone happy who doesn’t believe in something.”
I shrug it off, but, by the way, in my experience, that is 100 percent true.
I need to disentangle myself from this entire mess. My mission was to find out what Raynes was hiding. I did that. So, time for my exit.
“So, I’m done now, right? I did my job. Successfully, I might add, and I can go home. And we can figure out our next move vis-à-vis my parents once this situation is all cleaned up. Yes?”
“Not quite.”
“No. Just stop talking.”
Madden leans in.
“The list. Only he knows where he embedded the list online. There’s no more analog, you see? You just took away his only backup. Do you understand? That flash drive was the only thing keeping him alive. Now it’s just him.”
“Jesus. So I just took away his life support.”
“Correct.”
“Look, you never told me that was—”
“Paige, nobody knew what he had, or where he had it. That was the mission.”
“Right. And now that the mission is complete, I’m not going back to Moscow. No way. FSB already must know I’m an operative.” And they’ll definitely know I’m an operative once Katerina explains how she got that concussion.
“Maybe. But if they didn’t kill you by now, they’re not going to kill you. You have to go back,” Madden repeats.
“No, I don’t.”
“Paige, listen to me. You have a new assignment.”
“No, sorry. I’m done. I passed with flying colors, and now I’m done.”
He stares at me, and I can see the indecision on his face. Should he say what he’s going to say next? I shake my head in a barely perceptible signal that no, he shouldn’t.
Regardless, he leans in.
“They want you to kill him.”
“What? Fuck no!”
I don’t tell him, but he has to know that I am kinda, sorta developing feelings for Raynes even though I never do that except with hypothetical people like Gael García Bernal.
“It’s a direct order.”
“I don’t care. I’m not doing it. There’s nothing in the world that could make me do that.”
“You’re the only one close enough to him to do it. You’re the only one who can slip by FSB radar to do it. And the clock is ticking. If that FSB agent out in the desert told them about the flash drive, which I’m certain he did, they’re piecing it together right no
w. They could take Raynes in. Torture him for the information on that flash drive, then kill him. You have to leave for Moscow tonight.”
“I said I’m not doing it.”
He presses his lips together so they form a thin line. “They’ll send someone else. You know that. Someone to whom Raynes is just a mark.” He’s giving me this look now. A deep, intense stare into my eyes. He’s trying to tell me something without saying it. “You’re the best person to . . . navigate this.”
“Navigate this?” I repeat.
There’s something going on underneath this. Maybe some serpentine orders from the executives up above. Whatever it is, Madden seems like more of a messenger right now than a suit.
He gives me a nod. And with that, Madden leaves my plane ticket on the table and walks off.
Outside the plateglass window, the sun turns the mesa blazing orange. Bright as a bomb blast.
III
INTERLUDE II
All you have to do is look at the report from that very morning. It’s a doozy. Dallas. Love Field. There’s an entire bandstand set up. A stage. A podium. Red, white, and blue decorations. The picture is set up perfectly, the stage facing the runway, in the background a grassy, green field, the distant Dallas skyline, framed by the cloudless bright-blue sky.
Everyone is reportedly there. The sheriff. The mayor. Even the governor is rumored to be arriving. There are a number of what look like oilmen in suits and Stetsons—ten-gallon hats. Bolo ties set in turquoise. Their wives, hair perfectly coiffed, in sundresses. A few toddlers. A few babies, sleeping in their strollers. A few annoyed boys, playing cowboys and Indians, asking, when can we go, wheeeeeen can we GO!? Everyone. For this triumphant announcement, for this pink pony show. And there is going to be a surprise, boy howdy. This is going to be on every news stations from Manhattan to Mumbai. Top story.
And everyone is just waiting. Waiting there in the hot, sticky, Texas late afternoon. Waiting. Waving fans. Fanning flies. Looking at one another. Hanging on every word, each new rumor, whispers through the crowd. Shrugging.
They’ve been waiting there since sunrise.
1
I am really beginning to like watching these videos with you. It’s, like, our thing.
Plus, there’s something vaguely thrilling about being able to go back and piece it all together. Even though I know how it ends, and you don’t, there’s this feeling I have, each time, of wonder. Each time, picking up on some little tic, some subtle thing I maybe missed before. A clue.
And then there is the mystery of figuring it out. When was this video taken? What was I doing then? Who was involved?
Like this one.
This one here.
I happened to be halfway between the States and Moscow, at an altitude of thirty-nine thousand feet above sea level, when this video was taken from our favorite blue Baroque gilded restaurant. I am probably snoozing somewhere up in the night sky, passed out on my third vodka tonic, when this happens. Having no idea, no clue, that miles way, a third of the way across the world, a trap is being set.
Dimitri sits at his usual table. Queen Elsa is playing Candy Crush on her iPhone.
Sitting next to Dimitri is our favorite little henchman, Underling. He leans in.
“A little bird tells me that Raynes is fucked.”
Dimitri frowns. “Why fucked?”
“He had backup plan, something for his minions, in case he get hurt.”
“And?”
Underling smiles. “He no longer has backup plan. The Americans. They discover.”
“This is good, yes?”
“It’s perfect. It means whatever he has”—Underling points at his head—“he has here. He knows how to find. Encrypted.”
Dimitri thinks. “And FSB? Do they know this?”
“Not yet. But when they find out, he is dead. They will find way to make him disappear and torture. He has no chance. He is weak. Pathetic.”
Dimitri contemplates the place setting. “What do you think it is? This thing he has.”
Underling pretends to think, but it’s not his strong suit. “I don’t know. But whatever it is . . . must be important. The Americans are going crazy about it.”
Dimitri leans back and looks at Ice Queen, who doesn’t even look up or acknowledge his existence. After a moment he turns back to Underling.
“We change the minimum. Double the price. One billion. Tell them they have three days. We give him to highest bidder.”
Underling nods and turns to leave.
Dimitri contemplates the picture in the newspaper, the one of Raynes and me having a romantic stroll along the banks of the Moskva River.
“One more thing. Get Uri.”
He smiles at Ice Queen.
“You see. My idiot son may be useful after all.”
She doesn’t look up.
2
The first thing I see when I walk into my Moscow dorm room is Katerina, sitting on her bed with her head bandaged, glaring at me. I put my suitcase down in silence and sit on my bed.
The two of us stare at each other for what feels like a century.
“Well, this is awkward.”
Katerina just sits there, perfectly content to breathe air so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“Okay, so, in America? When something is really awkward and uncomfortable, we do something totally crazy and weird. We talk about it.”
“Talk?”
“Yes, talk. Try it. You’ll like it.”
“No talk.”
“Yes talk.”
If it’s possible to shrug with your eyes, that’s what she does.
I plug my hair dryer into the socket and blast it on high to cover our conversation.
Katerina makes a face. Yes, it is annoying.
“Okay, I’ll start, since I’m the more experienced one. So. I know about you. You know about me.”
She nods.
“We both know the other one is a spy.” I whisper that last part.
She nods again.
“Now I didn’t tell anyone about you. My question to you is . . . did you tell anyone about me? Just nod. Yes or no?”
Katerina takes me in a second, turning it over in her head.
“Nyet.”
“Okay, good. I probably shouldn’t believe you, but okay.”
She scoffs. “Believe. They just think you are stupid student girl.”
“Good. That’s good. So, there’s three ways to do this . . . one is to kill each other, two is to tell on the other one and maybe get the other one killed, and the last, and my personal preference, is not to tell anyone and live in a kind of purgatorial, Switzerland-like state of mutual feigned ignorance. Oh, and that last way? Everyone gets to stay alive.”
Katerina lightens up a bit. “Go on.”
“We have the same interests here. Our bosses may not understand it, but we do.” I pause. “There’s this story in the States. From World War One. In the trenches. I guess the night of Christmas Eve, both the French and the Germans stopped killing each other for once and came out of their trenches and sang Christmas carols and drank whiskey and maybe played soccer. I can’t remember. But the important thing is, they suspended their fighting, realizing they were just cogs in a great wheel, fighting a rich man’s war, which one can argue has always been—”
“Okay, okay. I get point.”
“So, what I’m asking is . . . can we just maybe pretend it’s Christmas Eve? In the trenches?”
Katerina contemplates.
She nods. “Christmas Eve.”
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I didn’t want to have to rat on anyone before breakfast.
But now Katerina has her own questions . . .
“Tell me. What is on flash drive?”
“I have no idea. It’s above my pay grade.”
“You’re lying, American Paige. Not nice lying during the holidays.”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I’m done. My assignment. Fin. Over. Mission complet
e.”
“Is that like your George W. Bush with ‘Mission Accomplished’ banner, playing dress-up in flight suit?”
We share a moment here.
“Now maybe we can go back to our preordained arrangement of cool Russian girl and admiring yet goofy BFF—”
“If you are done, why are you back?”
She raises an eyebrow. And there is that mischievous smile again. Even if I tried to hate her I couldn’t. She’s not the enemy. She’s me on the other side.
And it’s Christmas Eve.
Obviously, I’m not about to give her the nuclear codes or anything. But I am definitely not planning on suffocating her in her sleep. And, hopefully, as we just agreed, she’s not planning that either.
This Hallmark moment is interrupted by a rap at the door.
No, an actual rap.
And then Uri barges in.
“Go, Uri, it’s my birthday. Go, Uri, it’s my birthday!”
Katerina and I exchange a look.
“Hello, fly ladies! I invite you to off-the-hook birthday party. It will be mad dope, yo.”
“Um, Uri. It’s okay to just talk in your normal voice. We’re not exactly Salt N Pepa over here.”
“Where is party?” Katerina asks.
“That is thing. My dad is throwing for me, at dacha. Will be off the chain. You must come. I insist.”
Katerina and I speak at the same time.
“So I was thinking about organizing my—”
“I have made plans with other—”
Then he makes a sort of puppy-dog face.
“Ladygirls. Is important to me.”
Katerina and I share a look. Uri notices her bandages.
“What happen to your head?”
“She threw rock at me.” She points at me.
“It was an accident. We were playing . . . baseball.”
Liberty Page 17