“In a good way?”
“No. Definitely not in a good way.”
I didn’t think so.
“And it’s supposed to be here, in the middle of nowhere?”
Roger shrugged. “So they say.”
“I hope it’s a really pretty flower, Roger.”
“Yes. I agree. Do you really think we are going to get out of here?”
“Alive? Of course,” I said, grabbing onto a thick vine and pulling. This one came off with surprising ease. I threw it back over my shoulder. Roger screamed, the snake, my easy vine, now awake and dangling around his neck, hissing and spitting.
“Get it off me!” I couldn’t see well enough to determine if the snake was poisonous, so I said a quick prayer that it wasn’t and snatched it behind its head, tossing it to the ground. There it sat, coiled and ready to strike.
“Don’t move,” I whispered. We stared at the snake and it stared at us. Finally, it decided we weren’t worth it and slithered off into the jungle. Our first break.
“Damn,” Roger said, swatting furiously at the accumulating bugs, the sweat pouring down his face. “This is crazy.”
“I’ll say. But look on the bright side. At this moment I’m not frantically trying to suck snake venom out of your neck.”
“Are you a blind optimist or just completely insane?” Roger asked. It didn’t seem like a question worth answering. We trudged on. I figured it was about one ridiculously long mile from Sovann’s house to the dirt road.
“I heard something when they were holding me back there,” Roger said after a while. I paused for a moment in my bushwhacking and wiped my dripping forehead with the back of my arm, which served only to spread the blood from my various wounds all over my face. Couldn’t win for trying around here.
“What did you hear?”
“The guards in the room where they were holding me. They were talking about the coming wave of blood. Something along those lines.”
“You speak Cambodian?”
“No, but I can understand some of it.”
“Did they say anything else?”
“They were afraid, thinking about not sticking around.”
“And that was it? No more details?”
“That was it. What do you suppose a wave of blood means?”
I took a deep breath, gearing up to continue my battle with the jungle.
“I don’t know exactly. But I think it’s a safe bet to say it’s not good.” I crushed a huge bug on the inside of my thigh, the wet guts stuck like glue to my fingers. I didn’t want to think about the leeches clinging to my ankles contentedly guzzling down my blood like it was happy hour, and I thought it wise not to mention them to Roger yet either. We kept going, slowly pushing forward. I prayed we weren’t walking in circles.
We both smelled the flowers at the same moment. It was a silky scent, floral and light and somehow damp, too. It was soft but all-encompassing, wrapping us completely in its warmth. We stopped abruptly and took a few deep breaths.
“What is that?” Roger asked.
“I don’t know. Isn’t this your area of expertise?”
The scent grew more potent the longer we stood there, intoxicating, sickly sweet. “They told me to expect this but wow … it’s … magical,” Roger said.
“Did your source tell you?”
“What?”
“You just said you were told to expect this. Who told you?”
“What?” he said again, sounding stoned. And I gave up, the fragrance somehow making it okay for me to not give a shit. Our dire situation suddenly seemed irrelevant and silly.
“It’s wonderful,” I agreed.
“I’d like to eat it,” Roger cooed, as if he was talking to a baby. I giggled and my face felt like Jell-O.
We looked around to see if we could identify the plants, but the darkness and the jungle did not cooperate. I wanted to stop and roll around in the scent like a cat in a bed of catnip until someone thought to rescue us. Which would probably be never at the soonest, but I didn’t care.
But there was the voice in the back of my head, sounding suspiciously like Simon Still, telling me to get the fuck up.
“Okay, okay,” I said, when it appeared the voice would not be shoving off any time soon. “Roger, we need to keep going.”
“Poppies, poppies,” Roger murmured, staggering around like a drunk.
“Don’t sit down!” I shouted, sure I could never get him back up without the assistance of a crane. “You are not Dorothy and that is not the Emerald City over there. That is more impenetrable Cambodian jungle and it is the middle of the night, do you hear me? Now stand up!” I pushed him forward.
“Wait!” He got down on his hands and knees and started crawling around on the ground. “A sample,” he said. “I need a sample if we are going to grow it.”
Grow it, I wanted to ask, and do what with it? But any questions would have to wait. I grabbed Roger by the back of his sweaty shirt and, with my remaining strength, pulled him back up on his feet, steering us as far away as possible from the mind-bending scent of those flowers.
With the first rays of light, I saw the cut of the road in the jungle. We’d been bushwhacking with nothing but our hands, my hands, for what felt like an eternity. My tongue was dry and swollen in my mouth. My fingers were raw and burning. Roger was barely upright. I sat him down and popped out onto the road to see if Sovann and his men were waiting to mow us down for our effort. But there was no one, only the low hum of Rangsey’s motorbike approaching.
“Here is our ride,” I said, trying to get Roger upright.
“Mr. Ford and I thank you for saving my life, Camilla or whoever you are,” Roger whispered. “God knows you didn’t have to.”
I dropped him to the ground.
“Mr. Ford?” I asked, my dehydrated stomach clenching in a tight knot. “Does your Mr. Ford happen to have blue eyes, really blue eyes?”
“Funny you should ask that,” Roger said, his head bobbing around oddly on his neck. “Yes, he does. A lovely color, like a Centaurea cyanus. The cornflower.” And with that he passed out. No, no, no. I shook him hard.
“Wake up!”
“Sally, are you trying to kill him?” Rangsey asked, pulling up beside me.
“I’m considering it,” I said. I mean a personal botanist? What kind of person has a personal botanist? Now I could understand an accountant, a secretary, a lawyer, a hairstylist even. But a botanist? Not so much. I got down on the ground and put my lips right up against Roger’s ear.
“Did he shoot out those windows?” I shouted. “Did he set me up to save you? Is he everywhere?” Roger did not even stir.
“Hey, Sal?”
“What?” Rangsey was staring at my legs.
“That’s a lot of leeches, Sally.”
I looked down and almost swooned. My legs were thick with the bulging bloodsuckers. I was definitely being punished. Slowly I began to pluck them off, fat and soft between my fingers. The blood flowed freely from the little holes they left behind, like a red rivulet down my ankles and onto the dusty road. Maybe this was what the guards meant when they were talking about the coming wave of blood? But somehow I didn’t think so.
13
The night that Theo was born, deep in the winter rainy season, the wind was howling so intensely I thought the heavens might actually split at the seams. Will and I were watching TV. I was alternatively standing, sitting, lying on the floor, bending over the couch, and complaining.
“Should we start counting?” Will asked, tension spread across his normally calm and serene visage.
“Counting what?” I snapped. “Sheep?”
Will picked up the day’s Wall Street Journal and held it between us like a wall.
“The paper is upside down,” I said. He flipped it but continued to use it as a shield. He was patient. He would wait for me to answer his question about counting the contractions if he ended up having to deliver the baby himself, which was not something I saw my
self enjoying.
“The doctor said a pain moving from back to front in waves,” I said. “This is not a pain moving back to front in waves. It is a pain from my head to my toes and not taking the time to do the wave thing. So I don’t think it’s it.”
“Are you sure?”
Just as he asked, I felt a huge gush of warm water cascading down my legs.
“No,” I said meekly. “Definitely not sure.”
“Shit!” Will jumped up from the couch, ran down the hallway, ran back, did a lap around the couch, and stopped short in front of me, still standing in my puddle.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Will started to laugh. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You need to calm down now, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” He nodded, regaining his composure. “I’ll get your bag. Let’s go.”
At the hospital, the nurse yelled at me. “Why did you wait so long? What were you doing?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t think this was it.”
“Not it? This baby is almost ready for college!” With that she took off down the hall, barking orders at everyone she passed.
Will stroked my hair and looked adoringly into my eyes. “I think it’s too late for the epidural,” he said.
I thought about that for a moment. As every spy I knew, I’d taken the occasional beating on behalf of my country. But I’d never been broken, never gave up anything that I wasn’t supposed to. As the searing pain in my abdomen gathered force, I hoped that would count for something.
“Try breathing,” Will suggested.
“I am breathing,” I growled. “If I wasn’t I’d turn blue and die. Got it?”
Will closed his eyes and gathered his resources. “You are a strong person, Lucy, stronger than anyone I know. You can do this.”
To prove it, I gripped his hand so hard he winced. But I held on as the tidal waves of pain washed over me.
“Why didn’t he kill me in Madrid?” I gasped, my vision blurry from exertion.
“Who, baby?” Will asked.
“Blackford,” I snarled. “And how dare he go and get himself dead before he could explain?”
Will gave me a funny look. Right at that moment, the nurse returned with the doctor on call.
“How are we doing?” the doctor asked.
“She’s babbling incoherently,” Will said.
“Oh, that can happen. Don’t pay any attention to it.”
Twelve minutes later, Theo burst on the scene. And Will never asked me about Ian Blackford and why exactly he didn’t kill me in Madrid.
Back at home, carrying around my wrinkled and red bundle of joy, I slipped into a fog of contentment. Yes, I was exhausted, up every two hours, wrestling with diapers and tiny little pajamas, and freaking out that my baby would die of SIDS if I didn’t check his breathing every ten minutes. I was hopped-up on a cocktail of anxiety and exhaustion that reminded me of life in the field and yet I felt oddly at peace.
I knew it was weird because I’d never felt it before. It was as if the slate was suddenly wiped clean and I could start again. The person I was before was gone. I was now Theo’s mom and my job was to help him grow and learn and keep him safe. That was it. Simple.
Will was impressed with my multitasking mothering skills, with my ability to talk on the phone, change the baby, feed the cat, and put away the dishes all on twenty minutes of sleep and about a hundred cups of coffee. He said I had two pairs of eyes. Which was true. When I started my Agency training, Simon told me rule number one was to grow eyes in the back of my head. So I did. They came in handy being a mother. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve grabbed Theo as he was about to fall down a set of stairs or trip on an uneven stretch of sidewalk. Even if he’s behind me, my hand flies on its own, grasping onto his collar at the last second, stopping him from tumbling into oblivion. So maybe being a spy is good training for being a mom? Maybe.
It is 8 P.M. when my husband rolls through the door into our very clean house. Theo has been fed and bathed and has been sleeping soundly for thirty minutes already. Instead of collapsing on the couch with a magazine, as I usually do, I’ve been pacing around trying to banish Simon Still, Ian Blackford, and the Blind Monk from my consciousness, sloshing red wine out of my very full glass with every agitated step. Short of banging my head against the actual wall, I’m at a complete loss as to how to shut off the noise in there.
Will looks at the red spots all over the floor, a small trickle of wine running down my wrist.
“Rough day?” he asks.
“No, it was fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Terrific day. Really. Here. Have some wine.” I shove my dripping glass into his hand.
“I have to go to yoga in about three minutes. Can you wait for dinner until I come back? If you’re starved there’s food in the oven.” I wonder if he can sense the nervous tension rising from me like an off-color aura.
“No, I can wait. I have a few work odds and ends to catch up on.”
“Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you?” I say.
“Are you sure nothing happened today? You sound a little angry.”
“Nope. Perfectly fine. Not my fault you’re a workaholic. Theo is asleep but you should go in and see him. If you can spare the time,” I say, grabbing my yoga mat and bag and heading toward the door.
“I hope the yoga makes you feel better,” Will shouts after me. “If not, you can beat me up when you get home.”
As I jump in my car, I can’t help but smile. I should run back in and kiss him and tell him I’m sorry for being so nasty. None of this is his fault. But I don’t.
Since my meeting with Simon, I feel like I’m suffering a relapse. I’m looking around too much. I’m expecting to see something out of place. I’m waiting for someone to come at me from the shadows. It feels a bit like putting on an old but beloved leather jacket and discovering it doesn’t fit exactly like it used to. Your body is different, changed in some small but fundamental way.
Avery has saved me a space on the floor between her and Sam. Sam is the only man in the class, the only grandfather, and by far the most flexible human being I’ve ever met. When I asked him how he got that way, he said he used to be a trapeze artist with a traveling circus. I still don’t know if he was kidding.
“Sorry I’m late,” I whisper, assuming my downward dog. It hurts. I can feel the pull in my ass in a way I never would have ten years ago. There is nothing like running for your life on a regular basis to keep you fit. Now I have incredibly strong arms from toting around my son, but the rest of me has gone to hell. I grimace.
“Redistribute your weight,” Sam whispers. “More on your heels.” I do as he says and the pressure disappears. The instructor glares at us. He would like us never to come to his class again, but cannot figure out a nice way to ask. I try to concentrate on my practice, but all I can see is Simon sitting in the Java Luv, waiting to ruin my life.
“Of course he’s not dead. No one ever saw the body. You always see the body.”
“Who’s dead?” Avery asks, under her breath.
“Did I say that out loud?”
“You said something.”
“Blithering,” I say, tapping my head. “Mommy brain.” We have moved on to sun salutations, which are far more painful than being kidnapped by a turncoat. The room is quiet, everyone trying very hard to block out the day, the frantic energy that keeps us all going from early morning until late at night.
I remember the last time I saw Ian Blackford, the last time he snuck up on me in a dark alley and, within seconds, had me over his shoulder, hauling me off to some hotel room where he would lock me in the bathroom for a while. Such a cliché to be abducted in a dark alley. I didn’t even bother to scream.
“What is it this time?” I asked from my somewhat uncomfortable position dangling upside down, watching the street pass below my head.
“Time for a conference,” Blackford said.
“Can you please let me walk? I’m not going to run away,” I said.
“And why is that, Sally Sin? Why is it you don’t run away? Do you enjoy the slightly illicit quality of our meetings?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“Exactly what I said. I think you might be disappointed if I stopped carrying you off every once in a while.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said with a little too much bravado, considering my situation. “Every time I see you, you threaten to kill me. It’s not very nice.”
“Then why don’t you run?”
The real answer was because I had a sneaking suspicion that my running would do nothing more than make the game more enjoyable for Blackford. And I still had my pride. What was left of it anyway.
“No smart answer for that one?”
“I could shoot you,” I said.
“Yes, but that would require you to carry your gun. Where is your gun, Sally?”
A fine question. In my desk drawer. In my office. About eight thousand miles away. But I couldn’t very well tell him that.
“Fuck off, Blackford,” I said instead. And that just made him laugh.
In about ten minutes, Blackford put me down. We were outside a small bar on a tight Hanoi street crowded with street vendors, scooters, chickens, and people.
“I thought I’d buy you a drink,” Blackford said.
“Do you promise not to put anything in it that’s likely to have me wake up thinking I’m the reincarnation of Anne Boleyn?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Does that mean anything coming from you?” I said.
He fixed those eyes on me and smiled slowly. “Yes,” he said, “in fact, it does.” Caught in his gaze, I almost believed him. He swung open the door to the tiny bar and we went in.
We talked about the beaches in southern Vietnam. We talked about the Guatemalan jungle and how awful a Mexican prison can be if you can’t find anyone to bribe. We talked about how thin the air is at nineteen thousand feet when you are running for your life and what it feels like to watch your guy get away. In the end, there was no point to any of it. He simply said he thought we should have a drink together. He seemed a little sad, although I would never have asked him why. After an hour, I said I had to go, work to do the next morning and that sort of thing. He was the enemy after all, although I was having a hard time keeping it straight.
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