Of all possible dinner conversation topics, I will admit this is not one I was expecting.
“Taking care of you,” I say.
“That’s not a real job.”
I wipe some cheese from his eyebrow. He pushes me away as he always does when I try to touch his face with a napkin.
“It feels like a real job to me.” Some days more than others. Where is this coming from? “Why don’t you think it’s a real job?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. Harry’s mom drives an airplane.”
That may be true, but has she ever jumped out of one into a war zone at night in the rain? I add some more pasta to his bowl, suddenly hostile toward Harry’s mom, who is nothing short of lovely. All my playground friends have answers to these types of questions. They can fall back on doctor or lawyer or investment banker or marketing executive or whatever. And sitting here, elbow deep in fake macaroni and cheese, I’m equally jealous of their normalcy and bothered that Theo will go through life thinking that in my heyday I was nothing more than a government analyst sitting in the dark, pondering the end of the world.
20
This is the one about the girl.
She was from somewhere in Eastern Europe. A gypsy. Perhaps Romanian or Hungarian, although which I can’t say for sure. She was beautiful. Tall and lithe, with long dark hair and violet eyes. She seemed almost incandescent, somehow lit from within, and she was said to have long, delicate fingers that fluttered around when she was nervous. She would sit on the street in Prague or Sofia, near nice hotels and restaurants, offering to read the fortunes of the passing tourists. She could not have been more than twenty-two years old but seemed to have wisdom beyond her years. For some Eastern Europeans, the fall of the Soviets came like a spring rain, refreshing their hope in life. For others, it began only another phase of hardship. She was destined for the latter, but desperately wanted to believe life could improve. When Blackford saw her, sitting behind her little table, a deck of tarot cards laid out before her, it’s said he was so taken with her beauty, he could not restrain himself. He offered her a pile of money for a private reading, and she returned to his hotel with him. This was not the first time she had provided such a private reading.
But Blackford was half in love with her by the time they arrived at his room and could no sooner take advantage of her offered services than he could shoot himself in the foot. They sat up all night on the balcony of his shabby communist hotel, looking out over the city lights, talking about the future, mostly hers. He told her he was an entrepreneur and could maybe use her help in gathering information. He could pay her a small salary, enough to keep her off the streets. He said he would visit her from time to time, and she seemed pleased by that prospect.
As the sun rose and the wine ran dry, he leaned in close and gently kissed her full, red lips. She pressed her hips to his and wrapped her long arms around his neck. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the dampness of his palms as they slid under her shirt.
Did he fall in love with her because she was beautiful or desperate or delicate? Did he want to save her? To save something real? I can only imagine.
Some say they made love that morning, with the balcony door open, on the squeaky old bed, and afterward watched the sun rise high in the cloudless blue sky. Others say it was raining, and that with the dawn of a gray morning, Blackford did nothing more than kiss her and promise her the world, or at least as much of it as he could deliver.
They also say the girl was a spy for the other side, sent to kill Blackford. But there seems to be no consensus on this point.
Blackford used her as an errand girl, to deliver packages and messages to the middlemen of the cartel he was trying to infiltrate. These middlemen, fat and lazy, came to anticipate with excitement visits from Blackford’s girl.
The details on how they spent the intervening months is anybody’s guess. Some say Blackford would take her on picnics in the country. He’d take her boating out on the river, to museums, to cocktail parties, shopping. He even got her a passport and took her to Paris. I can see them together, bodies intertwined, looking down on the city from the Eiffel Tower. I can see them holding hands, stopping to share a kiss in the Tuileries. I imagine they must have laughed, too, in that way new lovers do, as if no one else in the world exists. But I can’t actually get that mental image to come up. I’ve tried, but it won’t stick. Blackford never laughed. At least not really.
Someone once told me that they suspected he might have even been happy during that time. And maybe he was.
But happiness at the Agency was not an asset. It just gave you something else to lose.
They’d been together for about a year when she turned up dead, strangled, in the apartment they shared. She’d been there for a few days when Blackford finally found her. It was summer, and some say the heat had not been especially kind.
Simon Still pulled him from the case, replacing him with a new agent whose name I can’t remember. And Blackford came home. No one asked about what happened. Quietly and carefully, as if they were walking on eggshells, everyone went back to work. A few weeks later, Blackford was shipped out to South Africa. Although Blackford’s behavior never betrayed any distress, Simon said a few months in the nice weather might be good for him.
And it was hard not to notice his eyes. Once lively, they were now dead, like a shark’s eyes.
After Blackford started kidnapping me, there were whispers, conversations that would stop awkwardly when I came around the corner. Finally, annoyed, I announced that yes, I had been abducted against my will by the notorious Ian Blackford, but was quite certain it wouldn’t happen again. And I thought that put an end to it.
Our holiday parties at the Agency were always sad little affairs. Whoever was home and not celebrating in some cave in Pakistan would gather at a local watering hole and get falling-down drunk. The agent seated next to me was old by Agency standards. He would be forced out soon, only to discover most of his life was over and he had nothing to show for it, but for now he was enjoying himself. Toward the end of our mediocre Italian meal, he leaned in close, the alcohol strong on his breath.
“It wasn’t the kidnapping, Sally,” he slurred. “We’ve all had our little humiliations. Keeps us humble.”
“Thanks for that,” I said, mock-toasting him. “It makes me feel much better.”
He gripped my wrist and pulled me toward him.
“No, it’s that you remind us of her,” he slurred. “The dead girl. The spy.”
“Who killed her?” I whispered, thinking this drunk old guy might be out of it enough to give me the goods.
“We thought he might be the coldest person in the world,” the old agent said, looking right at Simon Still. “Then we realized someone had to give the order.”
21
After dinner, Theo and I sit together on the couch and watch an episode of Sesame Street. There is joy here, huddled with my son, so warm and soft. I try not to move. If I disturb the moment, if I don’t respect it, it will disappear and I will never get it back. Theo plays with the ties on my sweatshirt and eventually settles in to chewing them vigorously while keeping at least one eye glued to the TV.
“Who’s that?” he asks, spitting out a soggy sweatshirt tie.
“Grover.”
“No it’s not.”
“Yes it is. I swear that is Grover.”
“No it is not,” he insists.
“Fine, it’s not Grover,” I say. I’m not really paying attention, thinking more about how I’m going to get into Malcolm’s lab than which furry blue monster is doing what on the television.
“Yes it is Grover. He’s the blue one,” Theo says, exasperated.
“That’s what I told you.”
“No you didn’t. I know everything.”
How do I argue with that? I go back to thinking about getting caught breaking and entering. I’m not sure exactly how I would explain this particular set of circumstances to my friends and relations. Will woul
d be especially ticked off if he had to fly home to bail me out of jail. And getting rescued by Simon Still is plain out of the question. I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that this whole thing is stupid, that maybe I should sit back and follow Simon’s dim-witted plan about drawing Blackford out.
There is a little secret among the covert agencies of the United States and that little secret is that we rarely know what we are doing. Half of our success can be attributed to good luck and the other half to timing. Our plans and strategies are far less elaborate than the ones that spies come up with in the movies. We are usually making it up as we go along. Anyone who tells you differently is lying.
Theo is fast asleep when Pauline shows up, dressed exactly as she was earlier.
“How do you keep your shirts looking so pressed?” I ask.
“I changed into a new one,” she answers. Of course she did.
“Theo is asleep. Will is in D.C. I should be back in a few hours.”
“Where are you going?” she blurts out. I am wearing black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket. For a second, I consider telling her.
“Bar hopping,” I say finally and head out the door.
This time, when I sneak back around and into the kitchen, Pauline is standing there, wielding the cast-iron frying pan.
“Nice,” I say. “You’re getting it.”
“Are you going to do this every time you leave?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But your reaction time is improving. You should be proud.”
She gives me a look that can only be described as hostile.
“Okay. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
She doesn’t move or put down the frying pan or say anything. She just waits for me to leave.
I sit in the university parking lot with my lights off, trying to remember how to do this. I feel ridiculous, like an imposter, a fraud. I don’t remember ever feeling this way before.
“You used to be good at this,” I remind myself. The car remains silent. “Well, sitting here hyperventilating is not going to get you into Malcolm’s lab anytime soon.” I kick open the door and step into the crisp night air. There is no fog tonight. I almost wish there were so I could hide in its mist and disappear. I walk toward the lab deliberately, like I have a reason to be here. Simon falls into step beside me.
“Out for a stroll, Sal?”
“Are you stalking me?”
“Yes. I’m stalking you and your nanny. Have to cover all the bases,” he says. “Actually, Pauline is under orders to report her activities directly to me, and I made the logical leap that in the middle of the night this might be your destination.”
“You’re a genius. What is her real name?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Yes, you can. But you won’t.”
“Same thing.”
“Not at all.”
“What are you planning on doing here, Sally?”
“Your work for you, it looks like.”
“Resources are limited these days, Sal. I can’t throw everything I’ve got at this.”
“Is that why I’m involved? I’m the cheapest solution to the problem?”
Simon doesn’t answer. He pops a piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth and starts chomping.
“You sound like a cow,” I say.
“Your support for me while I attempt to improve my health is overwhelming,” he says. “I’m touched.”
“You know, Simon, my resources are somewhat restricted too, but even if they weren’t, I’d still find it strange that Blackford comes back to life and suddenly strikes up a relationship with a guy you’ve never heard of who is concocting who knows what in his hermetically sealed laboratory.”
Simon glares at me. “You need to save me from myself, Sal,” he says, mocking, “like before.”
“Oh, forget it.”
We walk on in silence. After a few minutes, he asks me if I remember anything about breaking and entering.
“Not much. You?”
Simon shakes his head. “I’ve not been out in the field lately, at least not doing anything interesting.” We stand in front of the lab building.
“Of course,” I say, pulling the security cards out of my pocket, “these might help.”
Simon grins. “You know stealing is illegal.”
“I’ve always been better at theft than straight out breaking and entering. It’s good to know your strengths. I think you told me that.”
The lab is quiet, but all the lights are still on. It smells faintly like Theo’s pediatrician’s office, clean and sterile. I try to put Theo out of my head. I have to remember how to concentrate. We head to the second floor, third anonymous door to the left. The security card gives us the green light, and we swing open the massive door.
“I hope he cleaned up whatever nastiness he’s been cooking in here,” Simon says with a shudder. “I’d hate to have my eyeballs melt out of my head.”
“You really have lost your edge,” I say, looking around the lab. It gleams white and silver, everything tightly organized. “You think maybe the good professor is available for housecleaning?”
Automatically, Simon heads right and I head left. We will cover every inch of this lab as fast as possible, meeting in the center on the other side.
In the second drawer of a huge filing cabinet, I find lab notebooks, completely full of notations in pencil. I pull out the most recent, flip to the last page with writing, and start trying to translate, which is almost impossible, Chemistry 101 being the pinnacle of my training. At this rate, I will be here all night. I take a tiny camera out of my pocket and snap pictures of the last twenty pages or so of the notebook.
“You kept that camera?” Simon asks.
“Of course,” I say, “it never failed me.”
“Old technology, Sal. You should see the stuff we have now.”
“So show me,” I challenge.
“Well, I didn’t bring any of it with me,” Simon says.
“Then don’t gloat about your cool spy gear.”
“Fine.”
“Good.” We both go back to our respective sides of the lab. In the drawers and cabinets, I find an assortment of microscopes, lenses, petri dishes, labels, droppers, syringes, chewed-up pencil nubs, a pack of gum, a pack of cigarettes, and several Chinese take-out containers. A single pizza box is stuffed in the garbage.
“There is nothing here, Sal,” Simon says after an hour of searching. “I told you there was nothing here.”
“Simon, something is here. We just can’t see it.” I touch the camera in my pocket. There is definitely something here. There has to be. A final sweep of the room assures us that nothing is out of order, and we head out of the lab, running smack into a security guard on regular patrol.
“Good evening, officer,” Simon says. “Nice night out?”
“Yes,” the man says. “Enjoy it, Professor.”
“I certainly will.” Simon takes my arm and we walk confidently down the hall. I’ve seen him do this before, take a situation that looks wrong all over and make it seem completely normal. The security guard did not even think to question what this strange man was doing in this restricted-access building in the middle of the night. If Simon had remained silent, it would have registered for the guard that something was off. But Simon acts like he belongs and almost commands others to believe the same. I was never as good a liar as Simon Still.
Back in the parking lot, Simon pulls out another piece of Nicorette.
“That’s almost as bad as smoking,” I say.
“I might keep doing it just to annoy you,” he says. “Now that you’re done with your little exploration, can we get back to the original plan? You hang around and draw out Blackford, and we drop the net.”
I give up. “Sure. Tomorrow we will do it your way and see what happens.”
“Thank you for humoring me.”
“What makes you think he’s not hiding in the bushes right now, watching our every m
ove?”
“Nothing. It might, in fact, be true. That’s why I thought I should accompany you on your obviously pointless fishing expedition.”
“Well, thanks for chaperoning but I have to go home now.” I get in my car and without saying good-bye head back toward the bridge.
When I get home, Nanny Pauline is asleep on the couch, sitting up straight. I don’t know how people can sleep that way. I give her shoulder a little shake, and her eyes fly open.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I’m back.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Simon,” she says, rubbing her eyes like Theo after a nap.
“You work for him,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “What are you supposed to do?”
Pauline casts her eyes toward her shoes. She has too much morality. She will die one day because she pauses too long to consider the consequences of her actions.
“You can sleep in the spare room, if you want,” I offer. “It’s late.” Pauline looks at her wrinkled shirt.
“No, I’d better go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” As I let her out, I see a light go off in my neighbor Tom’s living room. He’s been watching the comings and goings at my house, but I’m pretty sure he won’t say anything. It’s a hard thing to admit you’ve been spying.
22
The next day, I go about the difficult business of being a stay-at-home mom, with no job and a nanny. I make an appointment to get a haircut, a facial, lunch with Avery. My first stop is the nail salon. When I show the lady my nails, she frowns.
“You bite,” she says harshly. “No biting.” I look at my ragged cuticles and cannot think of a witty retort. I started chewing on my cuticles the first day I went into the field for the USAWMD and I have never stopped. I take immense satisfaction in gnawing them down to a bloody pulp. And I’m the first to admit it is a horrifying sight.
I smile apologetically and don’t bother with any excuses. “You need come here more,” she continues in disgust. “Nails very bad.”
Spy Mom Page 19