Need to Know

by Karen Cleveland

  “Vivian,” Omar says, his voice so gentle it’s almost tender. “I never should have given you that info. Not without knowing what was going on.”

  “It’s okay,” I stammer. What does he know? What did I tell him that day?

  “I should have trusted my gut, figured out why you needed it.” He shakes his head.

  “You did me a favor.”

  He looks away, back over to the sheet. A raw sadness twists his face. Peter was his friend, too, wasn’t he? “You were trying to help him,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.

  I swallow. Now. I need to say something. “He was my mentor. My friend.”

  “I know. But he was a traitor.”

  I nod, on the verge of tears, emotion threatening to crest over.

  “We had him under surveillance. Suspected he was the mole. We watched him come in here. And then when we heard the shot…What did he say, before we arrived? Did he explain why he did it?”

  “Katherine,” I say. “They used Katherine.” It’s all I can choke out. There will be plenty of time to explain more later. That part I want to explain, need to explain. Peter wasn’t a bad guy. They took advantage of him, coerced him. Used the thing that was most important to him, in all the world.

  “They get you where you’re most vulnerable,” he murmurs.

  I listen to the wail of the sirens outside. “He planned from the beginning to make things right. That’s what he was trying to do.” I shudder. He did make things right, didn’t he? At least for me. Admitted to my biggest sin, setting back the servers. Kept Matt’s identity hidden. Even came up with the four pictures I erased, the ones I felt so guilty about hiding.

  The four pictures. The flash drive. I pat the outside of my pocket, feel it in there. I reach in and pull it out, extend it toward Omar. “He gave me this. Said the pictures of Yury’s sleepers are on here.”

  Omar’s gaze locks onto it. He hesitates, then takes it from me, swings around, calls for a colleague. Within minutes, there’s a laptop on the table in front of us, and Omar’s inserting the drive. I watch as pictures appear on the screen—the woman with the orange curls, the man with the round glasses, the two others. The four I erased. They’re all here. And Matt’s not.

  “Four?” I hear the other agent say. “Only four?”

  “Strange,” Omar murmurs. “Should be five, right?” He looks at me.

  I blink at the screen and nod absently. I’m vaguely aware that the agents are having a conversation, something about the significance of four versus five, theories for why there might only be four. A sleeper died. Retired. The program isn’t quite as robust as we believe.

  I can feel Omar watching me. A long look, intense. One that sets my nerves on high alert.

  There’s more conversation, more discussion, and eventually an agent comes over, scoops up the laptop, disappears with it. The other agents drift away.

  “I’m going to let you go home,” Omar says. He lowers his voice. “And tomorrow, Vivian, you’re going to tell me everything. Everything. Is that clear?”

  Tomorrow. Luke dies tomorrow. I nod, because I can’t make my voice work right now.

  He leans in closer, his eyes searching mine. “I know there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

  —

  I’M STILL BADLY SHAKEN by the time I get home. The gunshots won’t stop echoing in my mind. I’m still picturing Peter’s face as he apologized, as he lifted his gun, as he fell. But most of all, I’m hearing Yury’s words, the threat to my son.

  Matt’s in the front hall when I walk in, and it’s jarring to see him here, in our house. It feels wrong, almost like he doesn’t belong. I stop and we stare at each other, neither of us speaking, neither of us making any move toward the other.

  “Why didn’t you leave when Peter said to?” he finally asks.

  “I couldn’t.” In my mind I picture the agents storming in, then turning around and seeing he wasn’t there. My eyes search his. Why did you leave without me?

  “I thought you were right behind me. When I got outside and realized you were still in there…I was terrified.” The words ring true, but the emotion doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What happened in there?”

  I shake my head. Too much to tell you right here, right now.

  “Are you okay?” His voice is flat, like he doesn’t much care one way or the other. And it dawns on me: He blames me. He blames me for the fact that he killed someone. And he’s furious with me.

  “Yeah.”

  His expression doesn’t change, and I’m about to say something else when I hear Ella. “Mommy’s home!” she yells. She bounds into the hall, runs over, hugs my legs. I lay a hand on her head, then crouch down to her level, give her a kiss. I look up and see Luke hanging back. I let go of Ella, walk over, and give him a hug, relief coursing through me. Thank God he’s okay.

  And then Yury’s words run through my head, unbidden. I squeeze him even tighter.

  I walk into the family room. My dad’s on the couch, and my mom’s on the floor, struggling to her feet. There’s an elaborate Lego town spread out in front of her. “Oh, honey, you’re home,” she says. There’s concern on her face. “I can’t believe you worked all night. Do they make you do that often? That’s not healthy, working all night like that.”

  “Not often,” I say.

  “And with Luke sick and everything,” she goes on, shaking her head. I glance at Luke, whose head is bowed, then at Matt in the kitchen, who shrugs slightly, avoiding my eyes. I guess they’d have to lie, though, wouldn’t they? They had to give my parents some reason why he came home from school early. There’s an awkward pause, as we all just stand around, looking at one another.

  “Well,” my mom finally says. “Now that Matt’s back, we can get out of your hair.” She gives Matt a smile. My dad’s looking at him from the couch, no smile, naturally. He’s never been one to let things go easily, if he thinks someone’s hurt me.

  I glance at Matt, but he’s still not looking at me. They can’t leave. Not yet. “Actually,” I say, “if you guys could stay a little longer…” My mom’s smile fades. Dad’s expression hardens. Both of them look at Matt, like he’s about to take off. “If you can’t, I understand. I know you’ve got work and—”

  “Of course we can stay,” my mom says. “Anything you need, honey.” Her eyes dart again to Matt. It’s okay; I can make this right later. I can make all of this right. “You know, your father and I could use some fresh clothes. Why don’t we head back to Charlottesville tonight, come back in the morning.”

  “You can do laundry here,” I say.

  She ignores me. “And the house. We should check on the house.” She wants to give us privacy, doesn’t she?

  “If that’s what you want to do,” I say. I don’t have the strength to argue. And besides, it’ll be easier for Matt and me to talk if they’re gone.

  They leave a short time later, and then it’s back to just the six of us. I lock the door behind them, then check the locks on the other doors, and the windows, too. As I’m drawing the blinds, I hear Matt in the kitchen. “What should we have for dinner tonight, princess?” His tone is light, but I can hear a hollowness in it.

  “Mac and cheese?” comes Ella’s voice.

  “For dinner?” Matt says. There’s a beat of silence, and I look over, into the kitchen. She’s bobbing her head up and down, a grin on her face.

  Matt turns to Luke. “Buddy, what do you think?”

  Luke looks up at me, like he’s waiting for me to say no. When I stay quiet, he turns back to Matt and shrugs, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Sure.”

  “Mac and cheese it is,” Matt says, reaching down into the cabinet for a pan. There’s an edge to his voice, one I hope the kids don’t notice. “Why not?”

  “With peas?” Ella says brightly, like she’s bargaining. That’s usually the compromise when we have mac and cheese for lunch. A side of peas.

  “We don’t need the peas,” Luke c
hides, his voice hushed. “He already said yes.”

  Ella’s little brow furrows. “Oh.”

  Caleb starts fussing, so I put him in his high chair, set a couple of crackers on his tray. Chase sees them and starts whining, throws his arms out toward me, his chubby fingers spread wide. I pick him up and set him down in his own chair, with his own crackers.

  Luke and Ella drift off into the family room, and I watch Matt at the stove. His back’s to me, and he’s quiet and stiff. Because I’m not a killer, I picture him saying. He turned into one, though. And he blames me for it.

  “Do you want to say anything?” I ask. I see him go still, but he doesn’t turn around, doesn’t say a word.

  I feel even more desperate, even more hopeless, seeing him like this. How can I deal with this threat to Luke when Matt won’t even look at me, won’t speak to me? How can I be so close to losing everything, all at once?

  “I didn’t ask you to do it,” I say quietly.

  He spins around, a wooden spoon in his hand. “You made it clear what you expected.”

  “What I expected?” This isn’t fair. He can’t be putting this all on me. He heard what Yury said about Ella—

  He lowers his voice even more. “You wouldn’t trust me unless I did it.”

  “Why should I trust you?” I practically explode. It’s loud enough that the kids can hear. Luke and Ella go quiet in the family room, their play paused.

  “Mommy?” Ella says tentatively. “Daddy? Can you stop fighting, please?”

  Matt and I exchange a long look. Then he shakes his head, turns back to the stove. We don’t say another word.

  We get the kids fed and bathed and into bed, and then we fall back into our normal routine—Matt cleans up the kitchen, I pick up the toys in the family room—except none of this is normal, because we’ve just been through hell, and there’s a threat to the kids, and Matt won’t even look at me.

  I watch him, see the top of his head, the little spot on the top where the hair’s starting to thin, just the smallest bit. He’s scrubbing something in the sink. I sit back on my heels. “We need to talk.”

  He doesn’t turn. Keeps scrubbing.

  “Matt.”

  “What?” His head jerks up and he gives me a look, one that’s sharp and pained at the same time. Then he looks back down.

  “We need to talk about Luke,” I insist, and I hear the desperation in my voice. I need to talk to him. I need a partner in this.

  His hands go still, but he doesn’t look up. I can see the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. I focus on that spot where his hair’s thinning, so different now than it was a decade ago, when we first met. So much is different now.

  “Fine.” He turns the water off. The rush stops, and there’s only a slow drip, the last droplets finding their way into the sink.

  I exhale, grateful for this opening, then force my mind to focus. “Did Luke say anything else about the man who talked to him at school?”

  He swings the dish towel over his shoulder, walks into the family room. He perches on the armrest of the couch, his body tense. “I pressed him on it. Had him tell me everything he could possibly remember. It was a Russian accent, for sure. I pulled up some audio clips on my phone, different accents. There was no question in his mind.” There’s a coldness to the way he’s speaking. I try to ignore it, try to focus.

  “Okay.” Russian accent. Another Russian agent. There’s a thought pricking at the edges of my mind. The ringleader. Could it be? Could Yury have reached out to his handler? Asked for help?

  “And appearance: He said dark brown hair, brown eyes. Average height and weight…”

  It makes sense, though. Almost more sense than anything else. Yury’s not supposed to have contact with any other Russian agents; no one except the ringleader.

  “…wearing jeans last time, black pants this time. Button-down shirts both times. A necklace…”

  A necklace. He continues to talk, but the words are a blur. My mind’s churning again. “A necklace?”

  He pauses midsentence, whatever the sentence was. “Yeah. A gold chain.”

  Without thinking, my hand lands on the front pocket of my pants, feels the hardness of the pendant inside. And then just as quickly, I pull it back to my lap, clasp it with the other. My eyes find Matt’s—do I look as guilty as I feel?—and I see confusion in them. Hurt. Like he knows I’m not telling him something, that I don’t trust him enough to do so.

  He stands and turns away from me. “Wait,” I say. He stops, and for several long moments I don’t know what he’s going to do. Then he turns back around.

  “I lied to you, Viv. And I am truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.” His chin quivers, just the smallest bit. “But I have let you hate me for weeks. I can’t do it forever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” It feels like a goodbye, and how can it be, when we need to get rid of this danger, protect Luke from this threat?

  “I thought we were strong enough to get through this. But I’m not sure anymore.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure you’ll ever trust me.”

  Confusion swirls inside me. Should I trust him? He lied to me, for years. But I understand why he did it. He was trapped. And ever since I discovered the truth, he’s been nothing but honest.

  I picture him walking down the stairs in Yury’s apartment, fresh from the shower. But he was there because he couldn’t leave. Because Luke was in danger. The only reason he was even there in the first place was to protect Luke.

  He didn’t leave us, like I’d feared. He’d gone to keep our kids safe.

  And he didn’t tell the Russians about Marta and Trey, either. Peter admitted to that.

  “I murdered him, Viv. I murdered him and you still don’t trust me.”

  I remember the horror on his face when he realized he’d killed Yury. And not because it was Yury, but because he’d killed a man.

  He did something he’ll regret for the rest of his life. And he did it for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I reach an arm out toward him, and he just looks at it. The gulf between us has never been this wide.

  The way he’s looking at me, the hurt that’s there, is so intense it frightens me.

  I think I trust him. The reasons not to trust him seem to be evaporating. And I need him on my side right now. It’s what’s best for Luke. For all of us.

  My fingers find their way into my pocket, grasp the pendant. I pull it out and extend it toward him, almost like an offering, a way to prove my trust. “I took this off Yury, right before Peter arrived.”

  He says nothing, and his expression stays wary.

  I turn the pendant over, find the four tiny screws on the back. “Could you get a screwdriver?”

  He hesitates, then nods. Leaves the room, comes back moments later with a toolbox. I pull out the smallest screwdriver. It fits. I loosen all four screws, remove them, then use my fingernail to pry open the edges of the pendant. It comes apart in my hands. Wedged in one side is a mini flash drive. I give it a shake, and it falls out, into my hand. I hold it up to the light, then look at Matt. “I think the names are on here.”

  “The names?”

  “Yury’s five sleepers.”

  He gives me a blank look. And then it clicks: He doesn’t know what I know. I hesitate, but only for a second.

  “Each handler has the names of his five sleepers in his possession. If something happens to him, the replacement’s supposed to find the names, contact Moscow for a decryption code, take over. It’s how they protect the sleepers’ identities.”

  His brow furrows. “Why don’t they just ask Moscow for the names?”

  “The names are not in Moscow. They’re only stored locally.”

  He’s quiet, and I can almost see the wheels turning. “They’re not in Moscow?”

  I shake my head. I can see the truth is dawning on him.

  “So when we were told the new handler would get in touch with us…”

 
“That’s only if they find the names,” I say.

  “And that’s why we have those plans for recontact, if a year passes.”

  I nod. “Because if the replacement can’t get the names, it’s the only way they have of getting back in touch with you.”

  “I had no idea,” he murmurs. He takes the flash drive from me gingerly. Holds it between thumb and forefinger, studies it, like it somehow holds all the answers. Then he looks up at me. I know we’re thinking the same thing. If these are the names, Matt could stay out of jail.

  Yury’s dead. The blackmail’s gone. The five names are gone. Whoever Moscow sends as Yury’s replacement won’t be able to get his hands on the names. He’ll have to wait for the sleepers to make contact. And if Matt doesn’t, then he’ll be free, once and for all.

  It would be enough to keep us both safe, to keep anyone from finding out who he is and what I did. It would be a sweet victory if not for the cloud hanging over us. It doesn’t matter in the least if Matt’s safe, or I’m safe. Someone’s planning to hurt our son. Our children. And I have no idea who.

  Then a thought hits me with such tremendous force I’m breathless. But Luke might.

  —

  THE LOBBY’S EMPTY WHEN I arrive, except for a lone security officer near the turnstiles, one who looks vaguely familiar. My footsteps echo in the cavernous space as I approach. I nod at her as I badge in, pass through the turnstiles. She nods back, expressionless, watching me.

  I walk through silent halls to the door of my vault. Touch my badge to the reader, enter my PIN. There’s a beep, then a click as the lock disengages. I push open the heavy door. It’s dark inside, and silent. I turn on the lights, flooding the space with harsh fluorescent lighting, and walk to my cubicle.

  I unlock my desk drawer and pull out the file, set it on the desk, near the corkboard pinned with pictures of my family, drawings by the kids. It’s thicker even than I remember, full of research into possible candidates for the ringleader. Pictures of possible candidates.

  I sit down, pull the file in front of me. Start sorting quickly, separating out the pictures and bio data from the other research, winnowing the pile by almost half. Luke might recognize someone. If we can identify him, we can protect the kids. It’s no longer a nameless, faceless threat. It’s a person, one we can go after and destroy.