Spy Mom

by Beth McMullen

  The man, dressed in dark clothes and soaking wet, was in my living room, busily making a pile of Will’s coveted electronics.

  “You’re dripping on my floor,” I said. “It’s sustainably farmed bamboo and apparently harder than diamond, but still, it’s rude. Plus, who breaks into a house in the middle of the day? Aren’t you at least supposed to commit these sorts of crimes in the dead of night?”

  The man slowly stood up. I wondered for a brief moment if he had a gun and, if so, what exactly I would do with that information.

  “You’re not supposed to be home,” he said in as menacing a voice as he could manage. “Turn around and I’ll forget I ever saw you.”

  He had a point. San Francisco was hardly doable on one income. Every able-bodied person needed to work to keep the whole thing afloat. The only people ever at home during the days were the nannies and the babies.

  “The last time I checked, this was my house,” I said. “Maybe you should leave. Or better yet, maybe you should plug all that stuff back in first. Do you know how complicated it is to set up a sound system these days? It practically takes a Ph.D. Do you have one of those?”

  The man looked confused.

  “A what?”

  “An engineering degree. Because I don’t want to spend the rest of my day putting this all back together. I was reading. It was nice.”

  In his eyes, there was the first flicker of realization that this was not going as planned.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” I said. “There’s no future in crime.”

  The man stood up, took a few steps toward me. His fists were clenched.

  “What are you going to do about it, lady?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “I would consider letting you go, but you’d have to promise me you’d reform your ways.”

  The man started to laugh and drew closer to me.

  “It’s hard out there, man,” he said. “This is the only way.”

  “There are always options,” I said, planting my feet.

  “Not for people like me,” he said. It was a little sad but he had broken into my house and that was not allowed.

  He never considered, even for a moment, that a person like me could be dangerous. In his eyes, I was just some girl blocking the door. He’d already accepted the fact that he wasn’t getting out of here with his haul but he was certain he was getting out of here, and tomorrow he’d just try again down the block. This was too good a neighborhood for wide screen TVs and electronics and laptops to move on.

  He thought he’d punch me and that would be plenty. But I caught his fist mid-flight and twisted his arm around behind him. As he spun, I clamped my arm around his neck and squeezed. With both hands, he clawed at my arm and his feet ran in place on the wet floor as if he were a gerbil on one of those wheels. He was heavy and I felt the weight of him dragging me to my knees. Resting on the coffee table was a Steuben glass globe a little bigger than a baseball. It fit comfortably in my hand and didn’t seem to sustain any damage when I clocked my burglar in the head with it. He immediately slumped into a boneless heap at my feet.

  At the Agency, I would have called for a clean-up crew and eventually a few men I had never seen before would show up and take the person in question, mostly alive, away to be debriefed. I wasn’t usually privy to where they ended up. I didn’t do interrogation. That job belonged to people even more shadowy than myself. But this was my living room and I was unsure as to the protocol, so I called my newly minted husband for advice.

  “So I was sitting at the kitchen table reading a magazine,” I began, “and some guy broke into our house.”

  There was silence. Perhaps my approach was too casual?

  “He didn’t get away with anything,” I continued, hoping to reassure Will, “but he did unplug a bunch of stuff.”

  “Lucy, hang up the phone and call the police.” Will’s voice was measured and still within his control, but it teetered right on the edge. “Do it now. I’m on my way.”

  “I’m not in any danger,” I said. “The guy is unconscious on the floor. I hope his wet coat doesn’t stain the wood.”

  That was it. Will lost it. “Lucy,” he screamed. “Why are you still in there? Get out of the house! Get out right now!” I was touched that he cared. It was sweet.

  “It’s okay. Really,” I said.

  “Hang. Up. The. Phone. Call. The. Police,” he said, obviously taking deep breaths in an effort not to sound hysterical. No one likes a hysterical man. I could hear him out on the street. I thought he must really love me because he was hailing a cab and Will never takes cabs. He thinks they’re a symbol of wasteful human consumption. We have feet. We have public transportation. We have bicycles. Ergo we ought not to have taxis. Or something along those lines.

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “I’m doing it now. I’m going outside. Just let me grab an umbrella.”

  The police detectives arrived round about the same time as Will. Martinez was a short stocky guy. He looked profoundly uncomfortable in his clothes, the shirt under his sport coat straining across his broad chest. His partner, Walters, a tall stringy woman, had the opposite problem. She was a human clothes hanger and her shapeless suit hung accordingly. They made an odd couple and for some reason that made me smile. I wondered who got to drive the cruiser. Did they rock-paper-scissors every time they got in? Will wrapped his arms around me.

  “Jesus, Lucy,” he whispered. “You just scared the shit out of me. Please don’t do that again.” Walters poked at the damp criminal on my floor with a gloved hand.

  “Better call for an ambulance,” she said. “Ma’am, can you explain to us what exactly happened?”

  It was then that I realized the rules I was used to playing by didn’t apply in the so-called civilized world in which I now lived. My story, however supported by the evidence, was not going to be well received by this audience.

  “Well, I was in the kitchen when I heard a sound, like the splintering of the front door lock, so I came to see what was happening and, well, this guy was in the house trying to take, you know, things. I guess I startled him because he slipped on the wet floor and knocked himself out. Isn’t that lucky?”

  The silence was so loud I swear they heard it down at police headquarters.

  “That’s your story?” Martinez asked.

  Yes. Is there something wrong with it?

  “Are you saying you don’t believe me?” I asked, putting an incredulous look on my face.

  Walters tapped her pencil on her open notepad.

  “Most people would be, let me see, how should I put it here? Upset? Yes, maybe that’s the word. Most people would be upset to find a guy like this in their living room. But you seem fairly relaxed.”

  I shrugged. “I do a lot of yoga and practice intense biofeedback when confronted with stressful situations.” Translation: I’m just another kooky San Franciscan and no matter how hard you try to understand me, I will never make any sense to you.

  I was saved by the arrival of the ambulance and several medics rushing in to deal with the guy on the floor.

  “We aren’t done asking questions,” Martinez said, although he did not sound completely committed to that position. “There has been a rash of burglaries in this neighborhood. If this turns out to be the guy, we’ll need you to testify.”

  “Regardless,” Walters interrupted. “We’ll be expecting you down at headquarters sometime tomorrow. To chat.” She handed me a card with her number. As I studied it, I could feel her watching me. I knew that look. Her radar was up.

  It’s a good thing that most of the world’s terror is perpetrated by men. In general, men aren’t as observant as women. They’re much more focused on great shows of strength and violence than on the subtler approach that subterfuge provides. And it’s this very focus that makes bringing them to their knees even a possibility. When we start to have a surplus of female bad guys, then we’re in serious trouble. There will be no stopping that tide.

 
After everyone finally left, the police, the EMTs, the photographer, and the evidence collector, Will sat down on the couch. He looked exhausted.

  “Tell me that’s what really happened,” he said quietly.

  “That’s what really happened,” I said.

  “Lucy, did you ever see any of those horror movies where the heroine goes into a house that is clearly possessed by a demon carrying a machete, just so she can have a look around?”

  I nodded my head.

  “Well, normal people don’t do that,” he yelled. “Normal people run away! What the fuck were you thinking?”

  In the back of my mind, I saw Walters plugging my name into her database and coming up with something that didn’t look quite right. I saw her digging deeper, pulling in favors, stretching her resources to their logical limit. After which I saw her captain calling her into his office and shutting the door.

  “Cease and desist,” he would say. Walters would protest, demand an explanation, and the captain would sigh and tell her it came down from the top and there was nothing he could do. Walters would experience a small shiver then, the kind that makes the hair on your arms stand straight up. And she would stop poking around because she would be suddenly and painfully aware that they were watching her.

  But my husband was not so easy. I had to bring out the big guns.

  “I have something to tell you,” I said, sitting down next to him on the couch, taking his warm hand in mine.

  “I’m not sure I can take any more surprises today,” he said, pulling me closer.

  “It’s a good thing,” I said. “I’m pregnant.”

  As far as misdirection goes, that one worked like a charm.

  21

  By the fourth inning, the kids are antsy and I’m busy working on a theory that involves four minutes and baseball statistics. Teacher Wendy is trying to get everyone to sing a round of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” but all the kids want is more junk food. Richard Yoder has hit me up for a Coke and a box of Cracker Jacks in addition to the popcorn and the corn dog, so I’m no longer feeling that badly for him.

  I pull out my cell phone and dial the number for Chemical Claude and his Righteous Liberty pals. I don’t have a special cell phone like Simon but we civvies have to make do with what we’ve got. Chemical Claude answers after the fourth ring.

  “Put Gray on the line or no deal,” I say. Claude chuckles. He’d make the perfect evil Santa Claus.

  “Sally, you didn’t say hello,” he says.

  The noise of the ballpark fades into the background and his voice fills the entirety of my head. The experience has all the qualities of a bad sinus infection.

  “She was a lovely girl, you know,” he says. “Compliant. Pretty. A shame you couldn’t protect her.”

  It’s ill-considered to have this conversation in broad daylight, surrounded by a bunch of children. They’re certainly going to wonder what’s up when I crush the cell phone into dust with my bare hands.

  “Put Gray on,” I whisper, each word a chore. My heart pounds in my chest and I’m aware of Yoder’s eyes on me. I dig my nails into his thigh, indicating that now is not a good time for him to make a break for it. On the phone, there’s shuffling and the sound of wind.

  “Sally?”

  “Is this Director Gray?” Calling him Dad will take some work. The voice is muffled and soft and doesn’t sound like the Gray I used to know. But maybe that’s because I never really knew him and for some reason he’s speaking Russian.

  “Don’t come. They want you …” He is cut off before he can finish. Chemical Claude comes back on the line.

  “I’m pleased you were able to make this happen,” Claude says. “I knew you would.”

  A vote of confidence from Chemical Claude is not necessarily heartwarming. Plus, if we start talking about it I might feel compelled to admit that skill had nothing to do with it. Mostly, it was dumb luck.

  “We trade tonight,” he says.

  “Nights don’t work for me,” I say. Can you imagine the hoops I’d have to jump through to get an overnight babysitter on such short notice? “Tomorrow afternoon. Ferry building.” I’m already excited about a post-hostage-exchange Blue Bottle coffee.

  “Sally, why do you think you get to make the rules?”

  “Because I have your guy,” I say.

  There is silence. Chemical Claude doesn’t like being told what to do.

  “We will see you there at two o’clock,” he says finally.

  I agree, although I’m already sweating the logistics of such a venture. As soon as I hang up, my phone rings again. I’m sure it’s the CIA curious to know why I’m chitchatting with a terrorist wanted in all 192 countries of the world recognized by the United Nations. But the number that flashes up is Will’s office.

  “Hey,” I answer. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Idaho up to your knees in shit?”

  “Well, when you put it that way, it makes me kind of sad I’m missing out.”

  The sound of Ian Blackford’s voice, even coming through the air, is enough to make me cold.

  “Are you in Will’s office?” I ask. Next to me, Yoder is getting into it, on his feet cheering a two-base grounder.

  “No,” Blackford says. “I just really like the element of surprise, don’t you? Keeps life interesting.”

  “I liked you better when you were dead,” I say.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “Yes, I really do.” We couldn’t have a party and invite Simon and Chemical Claude and not have Blackford crash. His presence is somehow inevitable.

  “Oh, Sally, don’t be so melodramatic,” Blackford says. In the background, I hear a police siren. He could be in Will’s office. He could be anywhere. “You should have known the minute I gave you the Polaroid, but you decided to stick your head in the sand like an ostrich. And for my purposes, that wasn’t helpful.”

  I hate that he just compared me to a big dorky bird that can’t even fly but even more I hate he’s playing an angle that’s not immediately obvious to me.

  “And those purposes are what, exactly?” I ask, not expecting an actual answer.

  “Oh, you know, me, rising like a phoenix from the ashes.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about but his cryptic statement sends an old familiar tremor of fear through my body.

  Had you asked me at any point over the last year or so, I would have proclaimed myself finally inured to Blackford’s dark magic. The fact that he occasionally showed up in my dreams looking indistinguishable from the cover of a bad romance novel was utterly beside the point. I might even have taken it a step further and said I was no longer scared of him. But here I am shaking in the pale sun like one of those pathetic little dogs that needs to wear a sweater in the wintertime. Yes, the feeling is part fear but also part fury. Blackford will do what he wants and I will sit back and take it because I haven’t yet figured out an alternative.

  “Are you here?” I ask, assuming he knows exactly where I am.

  “No. Baseball is dull,” he says finally. “I like games where the players bleed.”

  “That’s nice,” I say. “Really.”

  The smell of garlic fries wafts by on the breeze. The Cheerios I had for breakfast crawl back up my throat. I sound as if I am being strangled.

  “Sally, are you okay?” The genuine concern in his voice strikes me as completely hilarious.

  “I’m great,” I say. “Really fabulous. The Giants are winning. I’m thinking they go all the way this year.”

  Through the phone, I hear a familiar sound, the horn blast of a container ship gliding into the Bay. I look out toward the water and there it is, riding low with cargo from China, destined for places like Toledo and Albuquerque and Des Moines. The horn blasts again.

  “I wonder what your husband thinks about all the fuel being dumped into the Bay by those tankers?” Blackford asks. “Surely it’s an environmental no-no.”

  Down on the field, a player shouts at the umpire. He s
pits on the ground and kicks at the dirt, an angry bull about to charge. The umpire gestures violently. In a flash, the dugout clears. All the players spill out onto the field and begin swinging at each other with big fleshy fists. Theo and Henry and the rest of the Happy Times Preschoolers are rapt, mouths open. They’ve never seen adults act this way. Teacher Wendy, looking shocked, launches into a speech about not letting anger get the best of you and then she starts to sing a song about sharing our toys. The kids could not care less about singing. It’s important to remember that, not long ago, for pleasure, we’d fill the stands of Roman arenas to watch lions tear unarmed men limb from limb. Violence is fascinating as long as it’s happening to someone else.

  Without answering Blackford’s question, I press the End button on my phone because there’s nothing else to talk about. I get it. He’s here and he’s close. I don’t know why or what he wants but I have no doubt that at some very inopportune time in the very near future, he will let me know.

  Meanwhile, the umpires struggle to regain control of the field. There will be multiple fines and penalties and reprimands when this is over. Sitting beside my very own personal hostage, watching the scene unfold below, all I can think is how I would sell my very soul for a chocolate cupcake with a thick layer of frosting, which is an odd thought, considering the circumstances.

  22

  Fear is a funny thing. For me, it usually shows up after a near-death experience, be it a shooting, a near drowning, or some other general kind of ass-kicking. I get a strange sensation in my stomach that is best described as four hundred butterflies and a quart of motor oil. Usually, the feeling passes quickly and I keep on going.

  But I’ve noticed that fear makes other people, normal people, behave erratically, as if all logic got off the bus at the last stop. I suppose this shouldn’t be surprising. Half the reason I was recruited for the Agency in the first place is that I rarely let fear get a stranglehold on me. Although that time in Laos, it came pretty close.