Spy Mom

by Beth McMullen

“Sorry they are a little wet.” Jonathan picks up the limp notes between his thumb and forefinger as if they might give him a bad case of cooties.

  “Just water,” I assure him. He nods and gives me a weak smile. Jonathan, from what I understand, is not a hands-on dad. He doesn’t enjoy poopy diapers, snot, sand, spit, drool, barf, sticky fingers, or mushed-up food in his hair. He is a scientist, a professor, and he has a reputation to maintain even within his own home.

  “I need a little help understanding these,” I say, “for an article I’m writing.”

  “Sure,” he says, running his eyes over the pages. “I didn’t know you were a writer.” After a minute, his brow furrows, and I wonder how smart bringing another person into this mess really is. But in the end I have no choice.

  “Where did you get these?” he asks.

  “I stole them out of Albert Malcolm’s lab,” I say before I can stop myself. Avery laughs and Jonathan smiles.

  “I almost believe you,” he says. “These are lab notes with some very complex formulas. They are not complete so I can’t tell you exactly what they say, but it looks like someone is messing around with the idea of the Death Lily.”

  “The what?”

  “The Death Lily. Not a flower you’d want to have in your tabletop arrangement exactly. Have you ever heard the story?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, you probably have never been to Cambodia, so why would you know?”

  Nope. Never been to Cambodia.

  “In any case, the writings on one of the temples in Siem Reap describe in great detail a lily so powerful that it can basically turn a human being into an automaton, making him susceptible to external influences. The Khmer drew a series of scenes in which they used the lilies to turn whole armies back on their masters. It’s pretty powerful stuff. But no one ever found the lily, so it remains what it is—a story.”

  He holds the notes gingerly. “Whoever is working on this is trying to mimic the components of the Death Lily in the lab. However, that’s hard to do if you don’t have a sample. The possible combinations become infinite.

  “Really, where did you get these?” he asks again. “Because I know you didn’t steal them.”

  Right, I think. It’s more like I borrowed them.

  “From one of his students,” I say, which is, technically speaking, true, even if said student doesn’t know it.

  “I’m surprised a student would be willing to give up something like this. It’s fascinating. I didn’t know Malcolm worked in this area, but he never publishes anything and never speaks, so it’s hard to know what the hell he’s up to.”

  “No good,” I say, only half joking.

  “Hmmm. Interesting. There is a notation here that indicates he was close to success, but something went wrong. It might mean that there is a component involved that cannot be easily synthesized.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “Some element from nature that cannot be created in a lab and have the same effect. He would need a bit of the actual lily in order to proceed.”

  “Why would anyone want to undertake this?” I ask, sure I’m not going to like the answer.

  “Well, there is the academic challenge, of course. But think about it,” he says. “Think about what was described on those temple walls. There would be no need for weapons of mass destruction, right? Whoever controls this substance controls the world. You simply turn the armies back on their masters.” We both sit in silence for a few moments, contemplating such a world.

  “Mind control,” I say.

  “Total mind control,” Jonathan says. “But don’t worry. This sort of nonsense exists only in movies, not in real life. Malcolm is wasting his time. I always thought he was a bit of a kook.”

  If only what he said were true.

  “Well, I’m sorry to interrupt your Sunday morning, but I greatly appreciate your help.”

  “Of course,” he says, already back to his newspaper. “Good luck with the article.”

  Avery stands at the kitchen door, arms folded across her chest.

  “I’ll walk you out,” she says, grabbing a fleece jacket from the coat closet.

  “What’s up?” I ask as soon as the front door slams shut behind us.

  “I think,” Avery says carefully, “that my dear husband is having an affair.” The tight smile is back, like armor. My instinct is to comfort her, to tell her that’s ridiculous, that Jonathan would never cheat on her, he loves her and the kids and so on and so forth. But I get the sense that is not what she wants to hear.

  “Evidence?” I ask.

  “He smells like someone else. He sleeps in his office. On Thursday night, he didn’t actually get home until three in the morning. And when he is home, it’s like I’m invisible. I’m thinking about hiring a private investigator.”

  Uh-oh. “Have you tried asking him if something is wrong?”

  “Talk to him, you mean? Yeah, we haven’t really done that since we were dating.” The perfect world that I have always associated with Avery starts to fragment. It’s bumming me out, frankly.

  “Do you think you are going to want to hear what a private investigator has to say? Once the cat is out of the bag … well, he doesn’t ever get back in willingly.”

  Avery looks at her feet, kicks a small twig in my direction. “You seem different, Lucy, like if this happened to you, you’d know what to do, that you’d have a plan all laid out and ready to go. Me, I’m paralyzed and I’m not sure how to unfreeze myself.”

  These friends in my new life, these people with whom I spend an inordinate amount of time chatting about nothing of consequence, what do I owe them? They are my first experience with adult friends, real ones that is, and I feel oddly protective of them. However, I stop short of offering to go in and kick Jonathan in the head on her behalf. Avery wipes her eyes and tries to pull herself together.

  “Do you know what’s strange?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “I almost want there to be another woman. At least that is something solid, something tangible. If there isn’t, we are broken. And I’m not sure there’s a way back from that.”

  I give my friend a hug. “You be strong, okay?” I say. She nods, tears filling her eyes again. “You are going to be fine. I promise.” And I think for a minute she might believe me.

  The fog is back, blowing softly down the street as I walk to where my car is parked. It is wet and cold and cancels out all the ambient noise so you feel like you’re walking through cotton candy. I expect to see Simon or Blackford waiting for me. But for now, there is no one around.

  In case you were thinking otherwise, let me tell you, life at the Agency was not always exciting. It was not all car chases and danger and exotic locales teeming with bad guys. There were times, when I was home in Washington, when Agency work was downright dull. Just because we were not supposed to exist didn’t mean you escaped filling out yards of post-mission reports that no one would ever read. I was not as good at the paperwork as Simon would have liked, and he’d ride me hard, threatening never to send me out into the field again unless I finished, leaving me to rot in the home office forever. I tried to create relationships with some of my coworkers, but it never really got off the ground. We’d occasionally find ourselves out for dinner and very drunk, at which point we’d start comparing war wounds, mental and physical, much to the horror of the neighboring tables.

  During one particularly long stint at home, I met a relatively harmless guy at the Laundromat. After spending two Saturday afternoons in a row folding our underwear in front of each other, he asked me out for coffee. I gladly accepted, desperate for something to kill the hours before I’d be on a plane again. Joshua Cole had dark hair and brown eyes. He had big hands and a hearty laugh. He was divorced, currently living alone in a tiny apartment among his unpacked boxes, trying to figure out what to do with his life now that it had basically fallen apart. I wanted to warn him against me, but I also wanted his company, however temporary.r />
  It didn’t take long to move from the coffee shop to his bed, both of us dropping our laundry baskets on the floor in the cramped hallway of his place.

  The sex was frantic, sweaty, but also highly satisfying, especially as I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had someone even want to hold my hand let alone my other parts. Afterward, Joshua got a faraway look in his eyes, kind of a sad longing which I attributed to an ex-wife out there somewhere who no longer loved him.

  I started leaving the office at 5 P.M. sharp rather than at 8 or 9 as had become my custom when at home having nothing else to do. I’d meet Josh for dinner, which we’d eat as fast as we could before rushing back to his apartment and ripping each other’s clothes off. This went on, very pleasantly, for about two weeks.

  It was a Tuesday and I was sitting at my desk filling out yet more forms about how I’d nabbed an exotic dancer who worked as a mule for the Blind Monk. She’d been aboard a yacht off the coast of Tahiti. I got on the boat. I grabbed her. I threw her overboard and jumped in after her. End of story. Simon Still told me my snotty reports were going to get me in trouble. He even alluded to that life behind a desk I mentioned earlier. And that was so horrible I felt compelled to sit there and think up longer and more complex sentences to satisfy the bureaucrats upstairs. It was not pleasurable work.

  Suddenly, as if to save me from myself, an instant message popped up on my computer screen. The name was unfamiliar, Anon 15. The message went something like this: He’s working for the other side. Not a good idea to be sleeping with the enemy, even if it is fun.

  It was signed with the initials IB. No, no, no. I looked around, sure I’d find him sitting right behind me, down here in the daisy.

  Blackford? I typed and quickly hit send, as if my keyboard were suddenly very hot.

  Of course, he shot back. I could almost hear his impatience.

  What enemy? I asked.

  Your current lover, he wrote.

  In a second, the room was swimming before my eyes. How did Blackford know?

  Where are you? I pecked with one finger.

  Meet me at the Vietnam Memorial in twenty minutes. Don’t be late.

  And the screen went blank. I was sweating, holding on to the arms of my chair until my fingers were white and throbbing. Not possible. Not Josh. He was harmless, a sad divorced guy. I put my head down on my desk, hoping to regain some equilibrium, when Simon Still showed up in my office.

  “Sal, what the hell is wrong with you? Done with those A580 forms yet? It’s been long enough, even for you.”

  There was something about the way Simon smelled, the combination of cigarette smoke, hand soap, and laundry detergent that made my stomach turn. I pushed him aside and ran for the bathroom. Simon, of course, followed me right inside.

  “Did you contract malaria in the jungle last visit?” He laughed at his own joke. “Go home, will you? You’re an unnatural color.”

  What I should have done was tell him that Ian Blackford would be at the Vietnam War Memorial in exactly fifteen minutes, that in one quarter of an hour he could finally really truly get his man. But I didn’t. Because saying so would force me to admit I’d been screwing the enemy three times a night for two weeks, and I wasn’t sure I could deal with the overall embarrassment. Instead, I splashed some water on my face, avoiding Simon’s intense gaze.

  “Thank you, Simon. I think I will go home. I am definitely not feeling well.” I darted past him, grabbed my bag, and ran for the door. I checked my time. Thirteen minutes. I could make it if I got lucky.

  I was a minute late in arriving at the Vietnam wall and I hoped Blackford wouldn’t punish my tardiness by having already left. But no, there he was, coming around the south end of the wall, collar turned up against the wind. And as usual, I let him talk, finding myself terrified and tongue-tied in his presence.

  “The guy,” he said, taking my arm and forcing me to walk with him, “the one you are fucking, is no good. I know you’re having fun in the sack and all,” he continued as I blushed a furious and uncontrollable red, “but he works for the Blind Monk, who is, apparently, really mad about what you did to his hula girl.”

  “She wasn’t a hula girl. She was a prostitute who had information we needed.”

  Blackford raised his sunglasses so I wouldn’t miss his look of disbelief. “Details, Sally. Don’t get bogged down in the details. Whore or hula, who cares? You threw her overboard, and now he is taking the show directly to you.”

  I kept pace with him, trying to digest the information without falling on my face. A cold sweat started to run down my back, soaking into the waist of my pants.

  “So let me get this straight,” I began, my voice unsteady despite my best efforts to control it. “Josh is working for the Blind Monk and he’s here to … do what exactly? Kill me? Why hasn’t he done it already and gone back home?”

  “He’s not here only to kill you, at least not yet. They want you to tell him where I am. After which he’ll kill you. Two birds with one stone. That kind of thing.”

  “Fabulous.” I took a deep breath. “So what do I do?”

  “What do you think you do, Sally?”

  “Great.”

  “Well, the next time you need a roll in the hay, try doing it with someone who has honest intentions.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I said, stopping. Blackford was still attached to my arm, so my abrupt stop brought him to a standstill as well.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. Slowly, quietly. “Why not let him do it?” Blackford turned in my direction, but kept his sunglasses in place. I could not even see the outline of his eyes.

  “Because if anyone is going to kill you, Sally, it’s going to be me, not some two-bit criminal climber whose only asset is that he speaks a decent Tibetan.”

  “I guess that makes sense. In a totally fucked-up way.”

  “Of course it does.”

  With no further explanation, he peeled off into the crowd of tourists, leaving me alone and a little nauseous.

  While I believed what Blackford had told me, I also wanted some proof that he wasn’t simply setting me up to bump off an annoying competitor. Or worse, a completely innocent man, because it might amuse him for a few minutes.

  That night, before dinner, I made Manhattans, adding a little something extra to Josh’s glass.

  “You make a mean cocktail, Maggie,” he said.

  “I do,” I replied. “I learned a lot about what is good to drink and what isn’t while traveling. Have you done any traveling, Josh?”

  His eyes twitched, ever so slightly, from my face to the floor and back again.

  “No, I’m mostly a homebody. Or I used to be, when I had a home.” He laughed.

  I refreshed his drink.

  “Was the divorce bad?” I asked, with all the sincerity I could summon under the circumstances.

  “She was having an affair with one of my old friends. And I found out about it when I got her cell phone bill and saw that she’d been talking to this guy every day for hours. It couldn’t be anything else. When I confronted her, she caved immediately. They got married not that long ago, so I guess it was the real thing.” He held his glass up to toast me. “To love,” he added.

  “It’s not always easy to know what someone is up to, is it? They can be right in front of you and yet you have no idea what they are thinking, let alone doing.” The Tibetan came easily off my tongue, woven into our conversation with deliberate intent. When Josh answered me, something about deception, his accent was flawless, as natural as if he’d been born to it. It took him a few seconds to realize what he’d done.

  Slowly he put down his glass. “How did you know?” he asked, still in Tibetan, his tone completely flat now. I could feel the air getting sucked right out of the room.

  “Anonymous tip,” I replied. My gun was in my bedside table, not great planning on my part. I wondered if Josh would excuse me to the bathroom if I asked politely. Probably not.

  “Well, Sally, this ha
s definitely been fun. But I guess the fun is over.” He moved like a panther across the space that separated us. His warm hands closed around my throat. I gasped for air, crushed under him. We rolled off the couch and crashed to the floor, upsetting the glass coffee table. What remained of his drink splashed in my face. For a moment I was sure I was drowning. He held fast to my throat, a quiet peaceful look on his face.

  “Don’t you even want to know where Blackford is?” I managed to squeak out.

  He relaxed his grip.

  “Right. I’m supposed to ask you where Blackford is. So, where is he?”

  “The last time I saw him he was by the Vietnam Memorial. But I don’t think he’s there anymore.”

  “Wrong answer. Which is fine by me. I’ve been looking forward to killing you since the moment we met in the Laundromat.”

  How romantic. He got back to strangling me. This was not going well.

  Finally, I managed to free one leg, bringing my knee up, hard and quick, into his stomach. He grunted and for a second lost his death grip on my throat. But it was enough. I rolled away from him, scrambled around the coffee table, and ran to the bedroom, with a groaning Josh right on my heels. Just as I was about to reach into the bedside table, he grabbed my ankle, pulling my legs out from under me. I went down hard, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  “Why struggle?” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m going to kill you.” His matter-of-fact tone was insulting.

  “Not if I kill you first.” With all my strength I pulled my knees into a bent position and, holding the bottom of my bed for leverage, I kicked him in the face. He recoiled. I rolled on top of him, pulling his arm back and up high over his shoulder blades. When I met some resistance from his stretched tendons, I pulled harder. Josh didn’t scream. As I went past the point of no return, he let out a respectable yelp.

  “Bitch,” he moaned.

  “I learned that trick from your boss,” I said, snapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

  When my guys came to get him, Simon was in tow.

  “How did you know he was with the Blind Monk?” Simon asked, standing over my drugged ex-lover.