There’s no response. I think I can hear him breathing, or is it Yury’s breath, I’m not sure. And in the silence, I picture us on the dance floor at our wedding, those words he spoke in my ear. I give my head a shake. I don’t know what to believe anymore.
“They’ll pay you,” he says. “It’s enough that you can leave your job.”
“What?” I breathe.
“Spend more time with the kids. Just like you’ve always wanted.”
This isn’t how I wanted it. Not at all. “I wanted us,” I whisper. “You and me. Our family.”
There’s another pause. “I did, too.” His voice is heavy. I can picture the look on his face, the creases in his forehead.
My eyes are filling, my vision blurring.
“Please, Vivian,” he says, and the urgency, the desperation, in his voice sends a rush of fear through me. “Do it for our kids.”
I’m still holding the phone to my ear long after the line goes dead. Finally I set it down, back on the couch cushion beside me, and I stare at it. The last words he spoke are ringing in my head, the way he said them, the fear in his voice. Something isn’t right.
I should just do what they say. The promises are stacking up: It’s the last thing I’d have to do. I’d be paid well. I could provide for my kids. Be there for them. All I’d have to do is stick that flash drive into that port, the same thing I’d already done once before.
But I can’t. I can’t be responsible for bringing harm to our assets, to my country. And I can’t trust that they’re sincere, that they won’t task me with something else, whenever the opportunity arises.
I’m supposed to feel like I have no choice. Like I’m alone, and I’m not strong enough to do this on my own.
But they’re wrong. I do have a choice.
And when it comes to my kids, I’m stronger than they think.
—
I WAS EXACTLY TWENTY WEEKS pregnant when I got the call. On my cell, as I was driving home from work. A local number; the OB’s office, probably. I’d had another ultrasound that morning—the anatomy scan, the one I’d looked forward to for weeks.
A long string of fuzzy black-and-white photos lay on the seat beside me. Faces that finally looked distinct, arms and legs and the tiniest fingers and toes. The sonographer caught one of them smiling, another sucking a thumb. I couldn’t wait to show Matt.
And the envelope. Plain, white, the word genders scrawled on the front. Sealed, because I didn’t trust myself not to peek. We’d open it together when I got home, Matt and the kids and me.
“Hello?” I said.
“Ms. Miller?” I heard, and it was a voice I didn’t recognize. Not the receptionist, the one who called for routine matters like this, to say that everything looked good. My hands tightened on the wheel. I had a vague sense that I should pull over. That whatever this was, I wasn’t going to want to hear it. I’d almost started to believe that everything was going to be okay, too.
“Yes?” I managed to say.
“This is Dr. Johnson, from pediatric cardiology.”
Pediatric cardiology. I felt like a weight settled down around me, unbearably heavy. They’d run a fetal echocardiogram today, after the ultrasound. Don’t worry, the nurse had whispered as she led me across the hall. Sometimes with twins they just want to get a closer look. And I believed her. I believed I shouldn’t worry. I believed that the sonographers were just standoffish, that they weren’t allowed to tell me anything, that everything was okay.
“One of the fetuses showed no anomalies.” Dr. Johnson’s voice was heavy.
One of the fetuses. There was a dull thought pounding at the edges of my brain. That means the other did. “Okay.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“Ms. Miller, there’s no easy way to say this. The other has a critical congenital heart defect.”
I don’t remember pulling over, but the next thing I knew, I was in the emergency lane, hazards flashing, cars whizzing by on my left. I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
She was going on and on, and little snippets were connecting, reaching my brain. “…pulmonary valve…cyanosis, trouble breathing…surgery immediately…that said, there are options…if you decide…two male fetuses…selective termination…”
Two male fetuses. That’s what stuck, what lodged in my mind. It was two boys. There would be no huddling around the envelope, no excited yelps from Luke and Ella. But there wouldn’t have been, anyway. What did gender matter when there was news like this?
“Ms. Miller? Are you still there?”
“Mm-hmm.” My mind was racing. Would he have the same life as the other kids? Would he run, would he play sports? Would he even survive?
“I know this is difficult news to receive. Especially over the phone. I’d like to schedule an appointment as soon as possible. You can come in, we can talk about options….”
Options. I looked down at the pictures beside me, the smile on one baby’s face, the thumb in the mouth of the other. I closed my eyes and saw them wiggling around on the ultrasound screen. Heard the sound of one heartbeat, thub-thub-thub-thub, and the other, thub-thub-thub. Then I laid a hand on my belly and felt it shift, the two of them in there, jockeying for space.
There weren’t options. This was my baby.
“Ms. Miller?”
“I’m keeping him.”
There was a pause, brief but long enough that I could hear the judgment in it. “Well, in that case, it would be good to sit down and discuss what to expect….”
I hated her. I hated this woman. I knew, with absolute certainty, that every appointment I had from here on out, I’d make sure it was not with her. He was my son. He was going to reach his full potential. I’d keep him safe, I’d give him strength. Whatever it took, I’d do it.
Her voice drifted through my thoughts. “…a series of surgeries in the future…potential for delayed development…”
I felt like I’d been punched again. Surgeries. Therapy. All of that would take money. A stable paycheck, one that would keep growing. It would take good health insurance, the kind I got from my job. Not the kind we’d have to pay out of pocket for, that would bankrupt us, that wouldn’t provide the same level of care.
The plan to stay home with the babies evaporated, just like that.
But whatever it took, I’d do it. This was my son.
—
I’M STILL STARING AT the phone on the couch cushion beside me. A plan is starting to take shape in my mind.
It could work, or it could blow up spectacularly in my face. But right now I don’t have another option. I need to find Yury. And I finally have another lead.
I remove the battery from my cell, then find the burner phone. I dial, hold it to my ear, hear Omar pick up.
“I need to talk to you,” I say quietly. “In private.”
Two heartbeats before I hear him say, “Okay.”
“How about the Reflecting Pool? Tomorrow morning at nine?”
“That works.”
I pause. “Just you and me, okay?”
My eyes drift to a photo on the mantel, Matt and me at our wedding. I hear Omar’s breathing.
“Okay,” he says.
—
I ARRIVE BEFORE HE DOES, sit on a bench near the center of the pool. The park is quiet; the trees, still. The air is cool, but holds the promise of warmth. Tourists mill around up near the Lincoln Memorial, little specks of color, but this section of the park is deserted, except for the occasional jogger.
There are three ducks in the water, a little straight line, ripples cascading around them. How nice it would be if I were here with the kids, if they were throwing little chunks of bread into the water, watching the ducks swim over and gobble them up.
I don’t see Omar until he’s there beside me. He sits down on the opposite end of the bench, doesn’t look at me right away, and for a moment I feel like I’m in a movie, like none of this is real. Then he looks over. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I meet his eyes
briefly. There’s some suspicion there, but not like there was months ago, when we first broke into Yury’s computer. I look away, back to the water. One of the ducks has trailed off, turned himself in the opposite direction.
“What’s going on, Vivian? Why are we meeting out here?”
I twist my engagement ring around my finger. Once, twice, a third time. I don’t want to do this. “I need your help.”
He’s silent. I’ve spooked him. This will never work.
I swallow. “I need you to trace a call. Tell me everything you can about the number.”
There’s a beat of hesitation. “Okay.”
I clear my throat. This is a risk. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. But I do know it’s the only idea I’ve had, the only way I might be able to track down Yury. And he’s the only one I can turn to. “It was to my phone, last night. Unknown number. Patched through from Russia.”
His mouth opens into a little circle, then quickly closes. “I can talk to my boss—”
“No. You can’t tell anyone.”
His expression darkens. He raises an eyebrow. I can read the question on his face, even without him saying a word.
I can feel pinpricks of sweat on my brow. “You know how you said there’s a mole in CIC? Well, there’s a mole in your department, too. The Agency’s investigating one.” I fight to keep my expression open, honest. Omar knows how to look for lies. I can’t give him any of the signs.
He looks away, shifts in his seat, visibly unsettled.
“You’re the only one I trust. We need to keep this between the two of us.”
He’s staring straight ahead, out into the pool. I look that way, too. The ducks are back in their straight line, far from us now, moving fast.
“What you’re asking me to do—trace a call to your cellphone, not document it—it’s illegal.”
“I need help. I don’t know where else to turn.”
He shakes his head. “You gotta tell me more.”
“I know.” I realize I’m twisting my engagement ring around my finger again. It feels wrong, what I’m about to do. I can hear Matt in my head, those words from so long ago. Whatever it takes. You’d need to forget about me and just do it.
“It’s the sleeper cell. I think I’m close to breaking in.”
“What?” he breathes.
“Someone’s wrapped up in it.” I hesitate. “Someone who’s important to me.”
“Who?” His eyes are searching mine.
I give my head a shake. “I need to be sure first. I’m not ready to talk about it. Not yet.” Not until I’ve destroyed anything they can use to blackmail me.
There’s a jogger approaching on the path, bright pink shorts and headphones in her ears. We watch her pass, her footsteps pounding the dirt in front of us, then trailing off in the distance. Finally I turn back to him. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Just let me get to the bottom of it first.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and when he lifts his arm, I can see the bottom of his holster under the edge of his shirt. I stare at it.
“I can’t let you do this on your own,” he says.
I pull my eyes back to his face and give him my sincerest look, try to channel all of my desperation into it. “Please.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Just you and me, Viv. We can—”
“No.” I pause. “Look, we’re friends. That’s why I came to you. You said that if I ever needed help…”
He runs a hand through his hair again. Gives me a long look, hard and worried at the same time. He’ll do it, right? He has to do it.
He looks hesitant. Too hesitant, like he’s going to say no. I need something else. Something he’d care enough about to bend the rules for me. I think back to the conversation in the elevator, months ago. There’s a mole in CIC.
If you’re in trouble, you know where to find me.
My throat feels tight. “You were right about the mole. In CIC.” I need to promise him something. I need to buy time. “I’ll learn more if you trace this number for me.”
“The number’s connected to the mole? And the sleeper cell?”
I nod. His eyes search mine, and I can see the excitement, the hunger. I’ve dangled a carrot in front of him, and he wants it. He wants it enough to do anything, right now.
“Just give me a little time,” I say.
Finally he exhales. “I’ll see what I can do.”
—
HE’S GOING TO LOOK into the number on his own. I know he will; there’s not a question in my mind. I’ve started a ball rolling, started a timer that’s going to give me the smallest of windows to get to Yury before the Bureau closes in. I just need to get to that evidence before they do.
Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, going to Omar. But I’m in an impossible situation. That call is the only real lead I have. I need to exploit it.
Back in the office, I stare at the phone, waiting for it to ring. I catch myself doing it, force myself back to the folder of potential ringleaders, the one that’s growing ever so slightly more slim, but only just barely. Every time I hear a phone, I jump, but it’s never mine. I try to imagine what Omar’s doing, pray he’s not telling his superiors, that they’re not calling mine, because someone would make me talk, someone would track down Yury on their own, and then where does that leave me? Prison.
Another ring, this one finally mine. My hand’s on the receiver, lifting midring. “Hello?”
“I have what you need,” Omar says. “O’Neill’s in an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
—
I WALK INTO O’NEILL’S sixty minutes later, on the dot. Little bells ring as the door opens, but no one looks up. The bartender’s leaning against the bar, pounding out a message on her phone with her thumbs. There’s a lone man seated in the center of the bar, hunched over a glass of something amber-colored. A couple’s at the table by the front window, deep in conversation.
I walk farther in, let my eyes adjust to the dimness. I scan the room, neon-lit beer signs and old license plates and memorabilia from another decade, and I spot him at the back, alone at a table for two, watching me.
I walk over and take a seat across from him. He has a glass in front of him. Something clear, with bubbles. Tonic, maybe, or soda. He’s not a drinker. And certainly not the type to drink while he’s on the clock.
He’s giving me an even look, hard to decipher. I think there’s distrust, though. My hands tighten in my lap. This isn’t some sort of trap, is it? Has he told anyone else at the Bureau about our conversation?
“What’d you find?” I ask.
He looks at me for a long moment, quiet. Then he reaches into a bag at his feet, pulls out a single sheet of paper folded in half, lays it down on the table in front of him. I can see a telephone number on it, handwritten in pen, local area code.
“Burner phone,” he says, and it doesn’t surprise me, even if it disappoints me a bit. “No other call history.”
I nod. Please let there be something. Something I can use.
“Purchased here in the city, a week ago. Cellphones Plus in Northwest. No CCTV, records are spotty at best. We’ve never had luck tracing burners from there.”
I feel like I’m deflating, hope draining out of me. How am I supposed to find Yury with this?
Omar’s watching me, an expression I can’t read. Then he pushes the sheet of paper across the table, toward me. I take it, open it. There’s a map, a section outlined in red. I look up at him.
“That’s the location of the call, based on the cell tower that pinged.”
I look back down, examine the map more closely. Northwest D.C. A radius of about twelve city blocks. Yury was close by. I look up at Omar. “Thank you.”
He stares at me, then sighs. “What are you going to do with this? Can’t you let me help you?”
“You said you’d give me time,” I remind him. “Please, just give me time.”
He nods, ever so slightly, a resigned nod, h
is eyes never leaving mine. “Be careful, Vivian.”
“I will.” I fold the paper back in half, then in half again, slip it into the work bag at my feet, then push the chair back from the table, stand to leave. “Thank you again. Really.”
He stays sitting, watches me. I sling my bag over my shoulder and turn, and I’m about to take a step when his voice stops me.
“One more thing,” he says. “About that call.” I turn to face him. He gives his head a quick shake. “There was no patch-through from Russia.”
I drive home in a daze. I’m doing what I need to do—taking the right route, stopping at red lights, using my turn signal—but it’s by rote. Everything around me is a blur.
No patch-through. That means Matt’s not in Moscow. He’s in Northwest D.C., in that neighborhood outlined in red. With Yury. But why?
And why did he lie to me? Something isn’t right. Fear is tapping away at the edges of my mind, trying to break its way inside.
When I get home, Mom’s in the kitchen, at the stove. Matt’s place. She’s wearing my apron, the one I’ve had for years, which usually sits in a drawer, untouched. The smells that fill the kitchen take me back to my childhood. Meatloaf, the same kind she’s been making since I was a kid. And mashed potatoes—from scratch, loads of butter. Not the kind I buy, precooked, microwavable. There’s something so familiar about it, so intensely comforting.
I greet her, greet the kids. Paste a smile on my face, nod when I should, ask the right questions. How was school? How were the twins today? I’m there, but I’m not present. My mind is on that little box outlined in red. Matt’s there, somewhere.
Dad sits in Matt’s chair during dinner. It feels odd to see him there, like he doesn’t belong. Mom squeezes in on the other side of Ella. Too many people at the table, but we make it work.
Visions of Matt float through my mind. Tied up somewhere, a gun to his head as he talked into the phone, told me he was in Moscow. That’s the explanation, right? That’s the only one that makes sense, the only way he’d lie like that. I look down at the meatloaf, my appetite gone. Then why am I not panicking? Shouldn’t I be panicking?
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