Bravo

by Greg Rucka

  She could do it. Escape this life and become anyone she wanted. Escape this life and pretend to be normal, to have what she saw all around her, a life without fear, a life without lies.

  All it would take is betrayal. The betrayal of him. The betrayal of his trust. The betrayal of every promise for their future together.

  If she could have her Lover again, she was sure her doubts would vanish, that these thoughts would no longer prey upon her. Just a moment to be with him, to hear his voice, to feel his arms around her and not the arms of these others, these men and women who whispered that they loved her. These men and women to whom she whispered back, telling them the lies they wanted to believe.

  She could do it, if she would betray him.

  She hated herself for even considering such a thing.

  The morning after the soldier’s visit, she rises late and goes downstairs to the condo’s fitness center to swim her laps. She does this every day except Sunday, varying the length of her swim to keep it fresh to her body, sometimes twenty minutes, sometimes forty minutes, and, once every other week, a full hour. This is a lesson from her first tutor, an Italian who looked barely past forty and assured Zoya that she was almost seventy, who asserted that she’d never had so much as a nip or a tuck, who claimed to have been setting honey traps since the Cold War. Fitness, the woman had taught her, more than diet. The body is made to move, and moving the body keeps it happy, and happiness is always beautiful. Swimming is the best movement. Weights are for sculpting; swimming is to provide something to sculpt. So Zoya works with weights three days a week, mostly her legs and core, only rarely her arms, because the swimming is good for that, too.

  Going from the pool back upstairs, a smile and sincere good morning to Mr. Kamen in the elevator as he steps out and she steps in, hair dripping from the pool, towel snugged about her waist.

  “Jordan, you’re all wet!”

  “It happens every time I see you, Stephen.”

  He laughs and wishes her a good day, and she grins as he goes. Stephen Kamen is gay, in his fifties, and works down on K Street, and they both enjoy the joke. She figured him out early, the way she studied every tenant in the building to the best of her ability. That had been a lesson from her third instructor, the nervous American who had lived too many years spying in Moscow, who would switch midsentence from English to Russian and back again and not realize he’d done it. Learn the terrain, he’d taught her; learn the people, the places, the patterns, and watch them for even the slightest change.

  Back in her apartment, she showers, dresses in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, makes herself a breakfast of yogurt with sliced peaches and a cup of green tea. She washes up, then she takes her laptop, the one her Lover had made just for her, puts it in her messenger bag, sets the alarm by the door, locks up, and heads out. She rides the elevator down to the parking lot with Theresa Irwin (forty-two, attorney, married to Ian, forty-one, attorney at the same firm, no children), small talk about the humidity and wondering when the weather is going to break and did you know D.C. was built on a swamp? Tell me about it.

  She takes her car, a new Jetta, nothing ostentatious, past the Kennedy Center and almost across the Potomac, making her checks before reversing direction northeast. This she learned from the American, and the Frenchwoman, and the Spaniard, otherwise known as instructors three, five, and six. Ultimately she ends up in Georgetown, finds a place to park, and takes her time walking to the Saxbys on O Street. She orders another green tea and finds a seat at a sticky-topped table where no one can peek over her shoulder, where she looks like every other summertime student working on a laptop.

  Dorogoy, will you speak to me?

  Camera.

  She switches the laptop’s camera on, resettles herself so she is framed. She smiles, hoping against hope that he will return the favor, that she will get to see him, though she never does. Sometimes, she wonders if it’s even he at the other end of their conversations, but she cannot imagine who else it could possibly be. Even so, it feels unfair, that her Lover can see her while he denies her the same. She understands why, of course. His secret is greater than hers. Even now, after all this time, she has no name for him other than dorogoy—my love.

  Good.

  Begin.

  She types quickly.

  B visited. They feel they are owed. He says Jamieson is dead.

  There is a brief pause, and she is surprised by the response.

  I did not know that.

  They got what they paid for.

  He was anxious. He wants what was promised.

  Did he say anything more?

  I don’t understand.

  Did he mention Tashkent?

  He did not.

  She stares at the screen, the empty messenger box, unsure if she should add anything else, resisting the urge to ask. It’s unlike her Lover to pause during these conversations. These communications, encrypted though they are, bring risk, and she knows as well as he does that speed is crucial. But still, no response comes, nothing, and she takes a sip of her tea and glances about the coffee shop again, feeling a spur of anxiety, of warning. The memory of so many lessons, of the nervous American who told her to always trust her instincts. It’s those instincts that make her type:

  Is there a problem?

  He still doesn’t answer. The clock on the menu bar of her laptop marks a minute passing, then another, and she’s feeling a tightness in her stomach, a nervousness she hasn’t experienced in years, not since she first arrived in the United States with papers saying her name is Jordan Webber-Hayden and with the background to match. Not since she moved into the condo in the West End and those first, terrifying months of being careful, oh so very careful, that no one who shouldn’t had noted her arrival. Not since she drew her first asset, the attorney from Justice, that careful dance that had to never once look like a dance at all. The first of many men and women who could surrender secrets that she would pass to her Lover, or could provide a service that he required, or simply be used, one day, for profit or gain.

  Meet him. Tell him this, exactly:

  I have the contingency. I will execute the contingency on my timeline. It will take seven days.

  She nods, but now the words are appearing quickly.

  I want three things in return. I will not move forward until all are fulfilled.

  One: Tohir cannot be allowed to talk.

  Two: Correlation between those responsible for the counteroperation in California and the capture operation in Tashkent.

  If there is correlation, information on individuals involved.

  Three?

  Three will depend on the answer to the two.

  She waits, but nothing more appears. She reads over his words again, and the name Tohir means nothing to her at all. She understands what her Lover is demanding. It doesn’t bother her in the slightest. Whoever Tohir is, whatever he has done, he is an enemy of her Lover and therefore an enemy of hers. His death is undoubtedly well deserved. It’s the second and third conditions she finds confusing, and that does nothing to settle her nerves. She knows that what happened in California was resolved through use of force, that specialists went into the theme park and killed the terrorists. This draws a line from them to him, and the horrible thought strikes her that the reason for her Lover’s pause is that they are now after him, too.

  Are you safe?

  Tohir has made me vulnerable.

  I am not safe.

  Neither are you.

  She stares at the screen.

  I love you.

  The connection terminates.

  Chapter Six

  THERE’S A SUGAR maple in the front yard of the house on Edinborough Drive in Burlington, afternoon shade that falls across the front porch of the house, and it shelters it from the August heat. Half a kilometer from Appletree Bay, on Lake Champlain, and it’s humid, but nothing like what Bell left behind on the Gulf of Mexico in the predawn. He’s showered and changed since leaving Hurlburt, now weari
ng old 501s and a black T-shirt and a black windbreaker. He has a small duffel slung from his shoulder, the violet head of a stuffed dragon peering out. He flew in commercial, picked the stuffed animal up at the airport before grabbing his rental car, and he’s still wondering if it was a good idea, if Athena will think it too childish. Wondering if any of this is a good idea, in fact, hearing his steps ring on the wooden porch as he stops at the front door. He called from Boston to tell Amy he was coming but didn’t get an answer, left a message instead. She hasn’t called back. She’s never liked surprises.

  The front door is a dull ivory and weathered by the Vermont winters, and Bell has steeled himself to knock when he hears the animal coming, looks to see a Rottweiler bounding around from the east side of the house. He’s a big beast, even for the breed, and comes to a sudden stop at the sight of him, and together they share this moment of surprise. Broad skull and neck a little longer than average, black fur broken with patches of brown like the leather on a loved baseball glove. A dark red nylon collar is around his neck, tags visible but illegible from this distance.

  He waits for the growl, but none comes. The dog makes its way to the foot of the porch, forepaws mounting the step, looking up at him.

  “I’m Jad,” Bell says.

  The Rottweiler seems to accept that, comes closer. Bell lifts his right hand slightly, and the dog moves in to sniff at him, then lick his fingers. Bell uses his left hand to stroke the animal’s neck, then scratch behind his ears. The heavy skull pushes up against his hand in approval. Bell drops to his haunches, putting the two of them at eye level, then proceeds to rub the dog’s coarse coat with vigor. He also takes this opportunity for a closer look at the tags. The name is Leaf. The phone number is for Amy’s mobile.

  “Leaf,” Bell says. “Hello.”

  Leaf flops on his side on the porch, making the boards creak. He looks at Bell hopefully.

  “Yeah, you’re a ferocious beast.” Bell grins, rubbing the dog’s chin and belly. Leaf lolls. “Nothing gets past your perimeter, huh?”

  The door behind him opens, and Bell swears he can feel the tension. Leaf lifts his head to look as Bell does, and they see Amy standing there. She’s wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt that’s been made to look older than it really is, faded blue with classic Wonder Woman on it and the words AMAZON PRINCESS.

  “I called.” Bell tries not to sound defensive.

  “I know.”

  She pats her thighs with her palms, and the dog rolls onto his feet, rises from beneath Bell’s hands and moves to Amy. Bell stands and faces her, feels the awkwardness and everything that comes with it. He’s looking at the only woman he’s ever loved, and she will always be beautiful in his eyes. There was distance between them before the divorce, but the gulf seemed to stabilize once the separation became legal. Then came the Hollyoakes School for the Deaf’s visit to WilsonVille, and everything else that followed, and six days later he thinks that she maybe hates him now. He feels that, and he feels his affection for her still.

  Amy runs a hand along Leaf’s back, and the dog nudges past her thigh and into the house.

  “You didn’t call back,” Bell says.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “If you didn’t want me to come…”

  Her lower lip juts out as she exhales, the sigh enough to make her bangs flutter slightly. “I don’t know what I want. I couldn’t decide.”

  “How’s Athena doing?”

  “Not well. She’s been spending a lot of time at Joel’s. He had to have surgery.”

  Bell remembers Joel, a classmate and maybe more of his daughter’s. The young man had been injured at the park. “He’s recovering?”

  Amy nods once. She’s just looking at him, her expression neutral except at her eyes, where the slight lines of age have deepened. Bell thinks that once, he would’ve known exactly what she was thinking.

  “How are you doing?” he asks.

  She looks past him, at the trees between them and Appletree Bay.

  “Not that well, either,” Amy says.

  She turns around and heads inside, but she leaves the door open, so Bell thinks he’s at least welcome that far. He follows her down the hall, past pictures of her parents and Athena and other faces he recognizes but cannot immediately place. There’s only one picture of them together, from a different age, she in her cheerleader outfit and he dressed to play ball. He remembers the game, fall of his senior year, against Jefferson, their hated rival. He remembers winning that game and being self-aware enough to think he was the all-American male cliché, a Springsteen song, the football player with the cheerleader sweetheart.

  He should’ve listened more carefully to those songs back then, Bell thinks. He’d have known it would’ve never worked out.

  The hall ends at a large, open kitchen, split in half by a cooking island on the left. Leaf is waiting for them, lapping water from a stainless steel bowl. The dog stops long enough to acknowledge their arrival before noisily resuming. Perhaps inspired by this, Amy goes to the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of iced tea, pours two glasses without a word. She leaves Bell’s on the counter for him to take.

  “How long do you have?” Amy asks. “I mean, we have plans for dinner.”

  “So I should leave before dinner.”

  “Or you can eat alone.”

  Bell gestures back down the hall. “I’m not in love with this place.”

  “It was a bargain, Jad, especially for what I can afford. Athena loves it here.”

  He tries to explain. “I don’t like the sight lines. There’s no good cover.”

  She stares at him.

  “You still have the shotgun?”

  “Jad.”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to either of you, that’s all.”

  “What, you mean like being taken hostage with your daughter’s class at fucking WilsonVille, is that what you mean?”

  “I told you not to come.”

  “But you didn’t say why, Jad!”

  “I didn’t know why, Amy. I told you what I could when I could.”

  She shakes her head, beyond frustrated with him. Looks out the window over the kitchen sink, into a backyard that’s big and fenced with tall, thick trees, and Bell doesn’t like the looks of those, either. He keeps that to himself.

  “And what aren’t you telling me now?” she asks. “In my house all of two minutes, you’re asking where the shotgun is, you’re telling me you don’t like my front hall? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Because something might?”

  “Something always might.”

  “No, no, you don’t get to do that, Jad! Fuck you, fuck your security and your secrets, just tell me!”

  He hesitates. Leaf has left his water bowl and now moved to post up at Amy’s left leg, watching him. Bell appreciates that, at least.

  “We don’t know who was responsible, and we don’t know how much they know.”

  “You’re saying they might know about you. What you did.”

  “Yes.”

  “That you killed all those men.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that they might come after Athena and me to get at you? To hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re paranoid, and you’re trying to make me paranoid. You killed them all. You, and Freddie, and Jorge, and Isaiah, you did your jobs, you killed the bad guys, you splashed the Tangos, however the fuck you put it. They’re all dead. How could they know who I am? How could they know who you are?”

  Bell just shakes his head. There are too many ways, even if there shouldn’t be any ways at all.

  The look she gives him overflows with contempt, and she’s about to voice as much, but instead is signing when she speaks, looking past him. “Look who’s here.”

  Athena stands on the other side of the kitchen, beside the square dining table. She nods, staring at her father, feeling the tension between her parents.
Bell opens his arms to her, and his daughter moves into the hug without hesitation, but slowly, without a smile. He feels her arms close around him, her face pressing into his chest. She’s taller every time he sees her, he thinks. It has barely been a week, and he’s sure she’s put on another quarter of an inch. He puts his nose in her hair at the top of her head, closes his eyes, squeezing her gently in return. She smells like apples.

  She holds on to him for the better part of a minute before letting go, gazes up at him. Her expression is grave, and he feels like he’s being measured in those gray eyes. Then she tracks along the strap at his shoulder to the duffel he’s still wearing, and she sees the dragon’s head poking out. She pulls the stuffed animal free, raises an eyebrow at him. Really?

  He signs, Saw it in the airport thought of you.

  She gnaws on her lip, a mannerism that makes her look all the more like her mother, and the resemblance between Amy then and Athena now is so striking Bell feels it in his breast. She manages a small smile, then sets the dragon on the counter beside the untouched iced teas.

  Did not know you were coming.

  Sorry, Bell says. Called no answer.

  Staying? The question is asked more in her face than in her sign.

  Only a couple of hours.

  Where?

  Going to visit Uncle Jorge.

  Want you to stay.