“Nothing conclusive,” she said. “But look at this.”
Sara tapped again. A new screen appeared, and I blinked in surprise.
“They instigated the paperwork for your dismissal Friday afternoon.”
“But you said—”
“That my chief had dismissed any connection? She did. And so this conversation is both private and unofficial, Captain Watson.”
I felt a flutter underneath my ribs. “You said they’re watching us.”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes. They keep a watch outside this building, and around the neighborhood. Which, by the way, is how I knew you were in danger last week. While there are recording devices in this bedroom, I am the only one who can activate them. Unless, of course, they have lied to me. Not impossible.”
My reply was a muttered curse. Sara responded by leaning close. “Listen to me,” she said softly. “Trust me, even though I’ve given you no reason to. Any recordings under duress do my chief no good, at least not for the mission at hand. So as long as I carry out my duties, we are safe.”
“Define safe,” I said.
It was a matter of expectations, she explained. Of hiding in plain sight. Her chief expected Sara to continue resting between missions. As long as Sara carried out her official duties—of maintaining her cover persona and reporting on the ripples and reactions of her mission, as she called it—she could interleave our investigation with the official one. Her chief was not oblivious. She would have Sara’s activities monitored. The same held true for their adversary.
“I must provide my own people with interesting tidbits,” Sara said. “I want them to believe I am investigating certain matters connected to my official case. I want them drowning in details so they won’t delve into my search algorithms. And you will do much the same for our adversary.”
She let her hand drop between us. I felt a shiver of sensation from my ghost arm. I said, “But your people can read the same files you can. They can draw the same conclusions.”
“If they do, that’s all for the good.”
Maybe, could be, as Jacob liked to say.
“We cannot hide from observation, because hiding attracts attention,” Sara said. “So I disguise my research in various ways. I use deliberately imprecise parameters. Carefully constructed searches that bury the important details in a flood of extraneous data. You in turn will show yourself to the world. You will go about the city on errands and present our adversaries with the opportunity to eavesdrop on your electronic conversations. Truth and lies. What matters is creating a plausible pattern to our activities.”
“So what do they know?” I said. “Our adversaries, I mean.”
Sara shook her head, and her locs slithered over her shoulders. “They is such an ambiguous word. I don’t have enough data for even a guess. Our data says this much, however. The VA filed the preliminary paperwork against you at three twenty-five p.m. Friday afternoon. They, whoever they are, acted well before our trip to Florida. They are very, very worried about you, Captain Watson.”
“I knew that last Wednesday,” I said.
Wednesday, less than a week ago. More than a lifetime.
“Yes, and that gives us our next two data points. They were worried before we gave them an obvious reason, which tells me their goal was to separate you from your access to both Captain Martínez and the VA database. Saúl Martínez dies so you cannot discuss Belinda Díaz’s case, with its possible connections to pharmaceutical companies. You lose your job so you cannot make any more troublesome searches in the VA system. The thoroughness alone convinces me.”
“But not your chief.”
“No. Which means . . .” Her gaze swept up to pin me with those same dark eyes that I remembered from our first meeting. Holmes allowed herself a fleeting smile as if she remembered that moment as well. “Which means you and I must tread carefully,” she said. “I cannot guarantee your safety. My chief has only promised surveillance for the next week, more to protect the agency’s concerns than yours. If you wish to retire from the field, we can arrange a different narrative.”
“You mean, convince our adversary that I’m harmless?”
She nodded.
“Is that possible?”
“I don’t know. There are too many probabilities at work. Perhaps the mystery is a simpler matter, and coincidence explains the rest. Perhaps . . .” She smiled. “Perhaps we’ve imagined a conspiracy where none exists.”
“You don’t believe that,” I said. “And neither do I.”
“No, I don’t. So what do you say, Dr. Watson? Shall we solve this mystery together?”
“Of course,” I said softly. “I was only waiting for you to ask.”
15
October 22. There are days when the words for this journal come oh so easily. They slip off my brain and onto the paper like honey off a white-hot spoon. Today is not such a day. Sara tells me I write in my journal to shed my troublesome thoughts. She might be right. I should introduce her to Faith Bellaume and let them dissect me. On second thought, no, I’m not ready for tag-team therapy.
On third thought, honey on paper only makes a mess.
Mess. Good word for this week, for this day. Oh god, I am about to weep again
I struck out that line so quick, the ink spattered over the page, like a constellation of black stars against a white sky. Across the room, Sara watched but said nothing. She had wanted to lock up my journal, take away my pens and ink. But no sooner had she uttered those sanctimonious words security issue than she stopped, held her breath a long moment, then softly said, “Just . . . be careful what you write.”
Because they watch.
For a moment, I considered striking out the entire paragraph, but that would only provoke their already lively suspicions. My journal should have been private, but Sara’s agents had searched our apartment once already. They might do so again, before we could gather enough proof to act.
I dipped my pen in the inkwell and tapped away the excess while I considered an innocuous ending to that sentence. So. Why did I weep?
because what else can I do? I have no job, no friends in DC now that Jacob avoids me. I once thought RN Thompson could be one, but we’re separated by my separation from the VA Medical Center. *cue forced laughter* Whatever. I need to find work and a cheaper room to rent. I no longer believe that mere persistence will wring a glorious new device from the government, and I refuse to take Sara Holmes’s charity.
I set my pen down and blew upon the wet ink to speed its drying. There was much, much more I wanted to write. More thoughts I wanted to shed. But I was weary with this careful journaling, everything written with the idea strangers would read my words.
Sara had rolled over and now lay facedown on my bed, her locs unrestrained and tumbled about. One arm cradled her head, the other angled around so that fingertips touched lace-covered fingertips. She appeared to be asleep, but I knew she was listening to the news streams pouring through her earbuds. She shivered, then exhaled softly. Her fingertips beat a soft, almost random, tattoo against each other. It was like watching the pulse and flicker of brain waves, writ large. How long had she lived with wires inserted into her skull, with her brain connected to the universe? How much had that changed Sara Holmes?
I tapped my pen over its inkwell. Sara immediately disconnected from her news streams—I could almost pinpoint the moment—and drew herself upright in one fluid motion. “Ready for the next part?”
“Ready enough.” I wiped the pen nib and screwed the cap onto the inkwell.
Sara did not remind me that I did not need to follow through with our plans. We had talked for hours, from early evening to well past midnight, drinking expensive red wine as we worked out the fiction of our next few days. If I did nothing, I would likely escape any danger. Likely. As in, You will likely survive this operation. Unless infection sets in. Unless the cancer is more aggressive than we predicted. I did not want to do nothing.
“I’m ready,” I repea
ted.
“I knew it,” she replied.
She vanished down the corridor while I locked away my journal and changed from pajamas into baggy trousers and my old U-Howard hoodie. We had worked out the details of my appearance the night before. A general impression of neglect was both plausible and reassuring, so though I had tended to my stump, I had not showered and my hair was a nest of fairy knots and tangles.
I packed my duffel bag for the morning. That too was carefully planned. The three paperbacks to be traded at the used-book store. Several empty Diet Coke bottles for the recycling refund. My tablet, carefully hacked by Sara herself so that my Wi-Fi shut down after thirty seconds.
Sara waited for me in the kitchen, where she had prepared an enormous pot of coffee and a plate of freshly baked croissants. The air was laden with the scent of yeast and flour. Sara herself was like a dark witch, casting spells of appetite and delectableness.
“Do you treat all your operatives like this?” I asked.
“When I can.” She filled two mugs with coffee. To one she added cream. “One lump of sugar, or two?” she asked.
“Guess.”
She smiled and pushed the mug with cream across the table.
“You remember what to do,” she said.
Not a question. Not a reminder. A statement.
“It’s all possibilities and supposition,” she added, unnecessarily.
That was Sara, worrying in advance for the agent she sent into the field of danger. All of a sudden, I had the clearest image of her doing the same for others over the years. A carefully prepared meal of favorite dishes. A warm hand laid on the agent’s shoulder—but lightly because she did not want to upset the equilibrium of terror and determination. Was this how my mother had felt, sending her children off to university, to marriage, to war?
I swallowed my coffee and felt my throat loosen from its knot. My appetite woke up, and I ate two of those delectable croissants and drank a second mug of coffee. It was already eleven o’clock.
“I should go,” I said.
“Yes, but don’t hurry,” she said. “And don’t come back right away.”
I nodded. Let the adversary observe me angry, frustrated, but unafraid of any mysterious assassins. Let Sara’s people observe me doing nothing in particular. The paperbacks and bottles were part of that strategy, but Sara had urged me to follow my own instincts, as well.
My first stop of the day was Aida’s Electronics on Florida and Third. There I dropped off my tablet and haggled over the cost of its repair with the skinny girl running the maintenance shop. We spent fifteen minutes discussing firewalls and viruses, with a bonus lecture to me about proper backup procedures. Finally the girl agreed that if they couldn’t repair the tablet within one hour, they would attempt to extract my files onto a thumb drive. A $50 minimum charge for troubleshooting. Another $100 for data recovery with thumb drive included. Sign here, please.
I signed and paid the $50 deposit via debit card. Step one established: tablet inoperable. Step two: spend a couple hours at the VA headquarters using their workstations to provide an open trail for my activities. I set off on foot from the electronics store.
Saúl is dead. You can’t make any more searches. We can’t rely on that alone to convince our adversaries that you are harmless. So we add new layers to our story. Misdirection and lies blended with the truth. The word is counterfactual. An alternate now. And we make it easy for our friends-the-adversaries to discover this new narrative.
From Aida’s, it was a short walk to the Metro Red Line, which brought me directly to Judiciary Square and the VA headquarters. Sara’s matter-of-fact voice guided me from point to point. Turn this direction. Pause at this street corner. Remember the empty bottles now. You have the change? Good. Walk another block. Once you sight the Metro station, you will see a grocery shop. Walk a few yards past, then duck back and buy a bar of chocolate.
Sara had constructed a plan for my every movement, my every emotion, between 2809 Q Street and the VA. Over and over, she had repeated the assurance that I was safe. Our adversaries were people who acted in secret, in the unlit streets or the lonely back roads of Illinois. Avoid the abandoned stables, the church at midnight, she told me. Above all, do not respond to messages from the mysterious gentleman who asks you to accompany him to his rooms.
No matter what Sara said, I felt the skin between my shoulder blades itch with every step. Once or twice I stopped, pretending to read the election posters. They stole my breath, they did. Foley yammering for peace at all costs, while his running mate, Joe Stevens, offered muttered commentary about a return to traditional values. I knew exactly how to read that dog whistle. Traditional values = women in the kitchen offering up dinner and children. Meanwhile, all those angry men whined and argued and spoke oh so persuasively for a return of the nice polite women, gays, and minorities. Donnovan’s posters were so very low-key, as though he didn’t wish to offend the white working class, never mind the black working class. And the ones from the third parties, that alliance that Alida Sanches had built, seemed . . . hesitant at best.
By the time I reached the front desk of the VA headquarters, my teeth ached from grinding. I paused in the entryway, huddled inside my hoodie, while I searched and searched for quiet within. That too fit our narrative. That too fit the character of so many who passed through these doors.
Eventually I decided I was human enough to face the next step. I wiped away the tears from my face and clasped the small portion of quiet I needed to approach the front desk and explain what I wanted. I was a veteran, I told the woman. I was out of work. My tablet was in the shop and I knew the VA had a job search center here.
Yes, of course, the woman told me. An escort would direct me to the common room and show me how to access the system. Within fifteen minutes, I had a cup of hot coffee and a desk in the same VA services room I remembered from August. I listened to the same familiar tutorial on how to access the VA services and the restrictions of the internet portal. I almost expected to see the same tech from tekSolutionsEtc dissecting one of the laptops.
Goals. Remember your goals. No longer was I Janet Watson, a surgeon momentarily deflected from the upward trajectory of my career. I was a disabled veteran, willing to take any job to survive.
The VA portal demanded my military ID and password. I provided them.
A new screen slowly rendered itself onto the twenty-four–by–thirty-two rectangle that included links to the usual VA services and to my viewportal to the internet. A few clicks brought me to my personal email account. I scrolled down through a dozen spam messages until I came to one.
Dear Janet, Saúl here. I’m so glad you want to talk . . .
Ohgodohgodohgod. I clamped my mouth shut against a sob. I noticed, as though from a distance, that I was trembling. One of the other vets glanced around. I collected myself long enough to smile and shake my head. Nothing wrong here. No. Because of course I could not know about Saúl’s death.
The other vet shrugged. I slid my mouse over the desktop, clicking at random, until I was certain their attention had shifted from me back to their own screen. My lips felt numb and I was still shivering deep inside. It was only the thought of Saúl himself, of Belinda Díaz and her companions, that kept me from breaking down and weeping.
Eventually I recovered myself enough to continue reading.
. . . I worried about you, of course. You are invincible but I know invincible comes with a sell-by date. Not for loyalty or honor, but simply the void that Wile E. Coyote discovers when he’s run fast and far beyond the edge of the cliff. So how am I? Let’s see how much of this message gets past the government Yossarians. I am well. The company not as much, but you can imagine the relevant details. I suspect the other side feels much the same. We all want to come home, alive and safe. It’s the details of home and safe that we seem to disagree upon.
I’m heading off to Decatur today for the usual run. I’ll text you Saturday morning with the best time to call. —
Saúl
The time stamp on the email read 10.16 07:47.
Hours before I woke to find myself a prisoner. Longer still before he set off for Decatur. I clicked to see the message headers. The delivery chain showed a few short hops from Decatur’s local servers to the central military one, then a much longer delay—nearly three days—before the servers shunted the message onward. That . . . was not implausible. The military censors often took a day or two to review outgoing messages. It was an artifact of the second Iraq occupation, when GOP congressmen inserted extra monitoring regulations.
Now for the hard part.
I drew a deep breath and clicked the reply button.
Dear Saúl, I love you. As a friend. As a companion in arms. Stupid, I know. They told us that first day, do not fall in love with your duty or your colleagues. You will die of disappointment. Fuck them. I love you. Janet.
The words came out in a rush, typed without halt or hesitation. The moment I stopped typing I shut the window and clicked Discard. My stomach had twisted into a knot, and I had to breathe through my nose until my gut stopped heaving against my ribs.
All around me was the warmth and quiet of this late October day, the muted tap, tap of keys and the click of mouse buttons, the almost inaudible noise of midday traffic from the streets outside. No one glanced in my direction or tried to kill me. For that, I was thankful.
I took a deep breath and held it, willing my pulse to slow down, my nerves to collect themselves. Right. Back to the fiction. I clicked Reply a second time. This time, the words came out in spits and spurts. This time, I did not have Sara Holmes to guide my answer.
Dear Saúl, Sorry I missed your email before. You were in Decatur, I was in San Juan. Yes, San Juan. I know. All I can say is that someone else’s drama got really old, really fast. But enough about her, let’s talk about me. I came to DC to demand a new device. No luck so far. I had that job but lost it. The market for one-armed surgeons isn’t nearly as good as it used to be. I’m thinking I should leave DC for parts less expensive. Maybe north to Vermont. Let me know how you are. Love, Janet
A Study in Honor Page 19