The band blasted out “Happy Days Are Here Again.” Someone touched her arm, and she turned to see Miles Lombardy, Mr. Harrington’s senior staffer. He was a fair young man no older than thirty, an up-and-coming political wunderkind. Mia thought he looked like a wise owl, with his big round glasses and goatee. He introduced himself, smiled, and said, “Mr. Harrington was pleased to hear you’ll be the chief correspondent for the Guardian covering his election for mayor. I’m confident you’ll feel quite supportive when you learn more about him.” He sounded slick as streambed rock, even smoother than Harrington.
She gave him a fat smile. “Don’t you mean his run for mayor? You do know it’s in my contract to be as objective as I can be, right?”
Mr. Lombardy returned her smile, showing perfect straight teeth. “One naturally prefers optimism, Ms. Briscoe. Whatever you need, please contact me, or Mr. Harrington’s campaign manager, Cory Hughes.” He gave her his card. “Mr. Harrington would like to meet you. Please wait here.”
Mia accepted another glass of soda water with lime and ice. She never drank alcohol, not since that long-ago night that had devastated so many lives, hers included. As she waited for the candidate to come to her, she wondered if it was her blog or the articles she would write about him in the Guardian he thought more valuable to him. Probably both. Her three-year-old political blog, Voices in the Middle, had garnered over three hundred thousand readers to date and was growing daily. Her scope was usually national, not local, and her readers a pretty fair sampling of the country as a whole.
“Ms. Briscoe?”
Mia turned to see Mr. Lombardy, and beside him, the candidate. “Alex, this is Ms. Mia Briscoe of the Guardian.” Miles stepped back and nearly bowed as if Harrington were royalty.
She took in Mr. Alexander Talbot Harrington up close and personal. She had to admit he presented the complete package. He smiled down at her, not all that far since she was five feet nine in her stocking feet. With her three-inch stilettos, she looked him almost straight in the eye. She felt the force of his complete focus on her. Potent was the first word that popped to mind. Natural or learned? It didn’t matter, she had no doubt it would serve him well.
He took her hand, held it in a firm grip, and said in an intimate deep voice, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Briscoe. Thank you for coming tonight. I’ve followed you in the Guardian, of course, but your blog—I’ve got to say I admire your ability to present both sides of a question without prejudgment or bias for either side. No matter how divisive the question you pose, you always find ideas to bring the disparate sides together. That’s exactly what I hope to do in my campaign, and as mayor. As you know, holding on to solutions that make sense can be very hard to do.”
She wondered who’d done the research on her blog and given him a rundown. She was impressed.
Mia said with a smile, “Sometimes I have to hang on to sensible ideas by my fingertips because few who sit in the center say much; it’s always the two extremes who shout out their views, dominate the news. They never shut up. But I do say that in my blog, don’t I? Is that where you read it?”
He managed to wince and smile back at her at the same time. “Since it’s what I believe, too, does it matter? I know I’ll be experiencing much the same. But all those folks in the middle? Aren’t they our real strength?”
Mia responded to his smile, even knowing it was highly practiced, part of his shtick.
He leaned forward. “Do you get a lot of hate mail from the extremes?”
She had to laugh. “More than I can count. Either I’m an idiot and deserve to be hit with a hammer or I’m a mealymouthed wuss and why can’t I take a stand?”
“Do you ever hear from the voices in the middle?”
“Oh yes. Usually they tell me I’m not entirely stupid.”
He grinned, lightly laid his hand on her arm. “I hope to meet with you again soon, talk all this over with you. Unfortunately, right now I have a lot of people to meet.” And he was gone, working the room like a pro.
Mia taxied back to her building from the fundraiser, exhausted and freezing, since the heater in the taxi had been on strike. As she shivered, she recorded some impressions so she wouldn’t forget them. Alex Harrington had been fluent, engaging, and careful to keep his actual stands on the more divisive questions unspoken. Still, all in all, his self-assurance was impressive. He managed to present himself as trustworthy, with a goodly dose of charm and charisma to boot. She wasn’t surprised he’d met with her personally, it had only been politic. She’d seen him assessing her carefully with his dark eyes, well aware that what she wrote about him in her articles and in her blog mattered.
Now it was time for her to start her in-depth research, time to dig in, find out if he had any skeletons, if he was for real or only another ambitious politician out for himself and for power. She’d even find out the brand of socks he wore. Mia didn’t think using personal details was unfair, or cynical. It was her job to find out what was real about him and what wasn’t, whether he could be the right person for the job, if there was such a thing.
When Mia was back in warm sweats and thick socks, she bulleted out what she already knew about Alex Harrington and began rhythmically tapping her finger on her laptop as she organized her thoughts, a longtime habit. Still stuff to accomplish before she slept or thought about Travis rubbing sunscreen on her back. Of course she’d give Harrington attention in her next blog since he’d announced he was running for mayor of New York City.
She got up, made a cup of tea to shake off her fatigue, paced her living room while she planned out what she’d write, then returned to her laptop. She looked at a photo of Harrington taken recently at a society party—he looked every bit as charming as he’d been this evening, in command of himself, totally comfortable in his surroundings. She never doubted he’d say all the right things, both to her and to voters. He simply had that look. She thought, then typed, “It’s not important what a politician says during a campaign, what promises he or she makes, it’s what they actually do when elected.” So let’s see how you’ve actually behaved in your life, Alex, outside the political arena. I’m going to look at your roots. Milo always said to look at the family first if you want to find out who a candidate really is.
Mia left her laptop and walked into her small kitchen to make another cup of tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she looked at the Christmas card from Serena’s parents she’d kept on the counter. She felt the familiar stab of remembered pain, the horrific grief Serena’s family had felt. Their not knowing, their tiny flame of hope that she was still alive somewhere. Somewhere. There was no rhyme or reason for them to hope, but it didn’t matter, probably never would.
Serena had been gone for seven years now, ever since the fire at the frat house. Everyone except her family accepted she had to be dead, even Tommy Maitland, Serena’s boyfriend at the time. Mia and Tommy spoke often, emailed several times a month. He was an FBI agent, for two years now, assigned to the Washington Field Office. She remembered his father, Assistant Director James Maitland, had sent the Philadelphia Field Office to assist with the search for Serena, starting at the scene, and with interviews. They’d found nothing to lead them to her, no clue, only that the fire had been set. When Tommy had graduated from Quantico, the first thing he did was repeat everything that had already been done, with the same result. It had led nowhere.
Mia closed down her laptop for the night when she realized it was two a.m. and her eyes were burning.
6
Olivia
32 Willard Avenue
McLean, Virginia
Monday evening
Olivia was bone-tired. She’d been released from Walter Reed a week before and still, she felt drained so quickly. She wouldn’t be cleared to go back to work until the headaches from her concussion stopped. At least she wasn’t still in the hospital. Tonight, she and Andi Creamer had shared pizza at Benny’s Pies, close enough to Olivia’s house to be an easy drive for her
. Andi, with her spiked black hair and hazel eyes, was as tough as her field boots. She was also one of the smartest operatives Olivia had ever worked with, decisive and hard to beat hand to hand. You wanted her to have your back. They’d been good friends since they’d trained at the CIA Farm together five years before. They spoke of Tim Higgs, who’d been wounded in the leg during the Iran mission and was in Maine visiting his parents. They spoke of Hashem Jahandar, the Iranian undercover operative who’d died, and toasted him. His name would soon grace the Wall of Stars at Langley. And they wondered how it was possible Iranian military knew where they’d be. They didn’t have to say it out loud; they knew they were lucky they wouldn’t have their own stars on the wall next to his.
Of course they spoke of Mike, where he might be, why he hadn’t reported in to Langley to debrief with Mr. Grace, and what had happened to him. Olivia knew something had happened and it scared her to her toes. She wished she could have flown back to the States with him—as least she’d have been close by—but they had wanted to keep her in Balad for another couple of days before flying her back to Walter Reed Hospital. And he’d simply disappeared. Langley’s greatest concern, it seemed to Olivia, wasn’t for Mike’s safety, but for the missing flash drive Hashem had pressed into his hand before he died. Oh yes, Langley was trying to find him, as were all his friends, but they wanted the flash drive first and foremost. Olivia herself had called his cell dozens of times, pestered Mr. Grace with questions, but he told her she was on leave for a reason, to rest and not to worry. They would find Mike Kingman. But she was scared for him, and angry because she’d heard there were suspicions about Mike at Langley. Were they idiots? Mike would never do anything to hurt the agency or the United States. She was frustrated and hated her body for holding her back, and all she could do was worry and be afraid for him. It all hovered over her like a black cloud.
Olivia drove slowly back toward home, cursing the constant fatigue pulling at her. She turned on loud rock to keep herself alert. She couldn’t help it, she turned and drove to Mike’s condo in Western Heights, not far from her own house. She’d been told to drive only when absolutely necessary. She was to rest, let her body heal, but she had to knock on Mike’s front door, peer in the windows. No sign of him.
She remembered Mike being there when she was half conscious in the hospital in Balad, the soft cadence of his voice, the warmth of his hand when he’d held hers, the feel of his mouth when he’d kissed her forehead, her lips, but she couldn’t remember his words, or if he’d even spoken to her. Before she was flown back to Walter Reed, one of her nurses told her she really liked her visitor and gave a little shudder. “Tall, dark, and delicious,” she’d said. Without a doubt that was Mike.
Olivia rested her forehead against the steering wheel at a red light. Over and over, she thought, Where are you, Mike? Why won’t you call me? If you’re not all right, I’ll kick your butt.
She remembered another firefight two years ago in a small ISIS-held town three hundred miles north of Damascus; she and Mike, on another mission, had ended up in the middle of the fighting, when again, they’d nearly died. They’d briefly become lovers then, to reaffirm being alive, she supposed. He’d been part of her life for three years, sometimes sharing her missions, sometimes her bed. But he’d slowly become more, she realized now. He’d become important, vital. Olivia hated being afraid, hated being helpless, hated not knowing.
She turned toward home. Her head began to throb, thankfully not as bad as the day before. She hated taking the pills the doctors had given her; they made her brain feel too fuzzy. As she left her MINI Cooper in her driveway, she heard Helmut barking madly behind the front door as she walked up the flagstone steps she’d laid herself six months before. He recognized her car, her footsteps.
She forgot her headache when she unlocked the door and eighty-five pounds of golden retriever jumped in her arms, licking her everywhere he could reach. She was glad he hadn’t knocked her on her butt with his love because she was still weak and it was close. She hugged him, whispered against his soft coat, “Yes, yes, Mama’s home. I was only gone for an hour, not back from Iraq again. You’re my beautiful boy, and I swear, tomorrow morning you and I will go to the dog park and I’ll throw your mangy ball until one of us collapses, and that would be me. Yes, okay, and I’ll get you a new chew rope.” She’d worried Helmut wouldn’t want to leave her friend Julia, who’d kept him while she’d been away. But when he’d seen Olivia, his joy was boundless.
Olivia slowly stood up and looked around her small entry hall into the living room through a graceful arch to her right. She’d fallen in love with the arches that framed every room, and several of the windows as well. The clincher was the big fenced backyard for Helmut. She signed her life away for this perfect little house tucked into a mess of oak trees next to Clifford Park. Three years ago now. Both she and Helmut were very happy with her purchase.
She wanted nothing more than to collapse into her bed. Still, she made her rounds out of longtime habit, checking the window locks in each of the rooms as she pulled down the shades, closed the draperies.
With Helmut at her heels, she walked back to her second mortgage—her marvel of a kitchen—opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of mineral water. She drank deeply to the sound of Helmut’s tail thumping like a metronome on the kitchen pavers.
She smiled. He loved sparkling water too. She poured the rest of the water into his bowl and watched him lap it up. “There you go, my man.”
Thirty minutes later, Olivia was in bed with Helmut sprawled on his back at the foot of it. She knew by morning, he’d be sleeping beside her, his head on the pillow next to hers, sometimes with the covers pulled to his neck. How he managed that, she didn’t know. She’d emailed photos of him snoring on his back to her family and friends. She remembered Mike laughing his head off. He’d met Helmut, thrown a football for him, roughhoused with him. Olivia sighed, forced herself to turn it off. She had to get well, and that meant long stretches of rest.
Olivia was sleeping deeply when she was jerked awake by a low growl from Helmut against her cheek. She laid her palm on his neck, whispered, “What is it? What did you hear?” She’d seen several foxes racing through the trees by the park at night. But Helmut was trained and he was smart. It didn’t matter that she lived in a quiet neighborhood, she wasn’t going to ignore his warning. It had been drilled into her at the Farm, when she’d first joined the CIA, to be cautious, to always double-check. Olivia slipped out of bed, pulled on her wool robe and sneakers, picked up her Glock from beside her cell phone on the bedside table, and walked slowly to the living room, Helmut as silent as a ghost at her heels, as he’d been trained. She went down on her knees and gently lifted the bottom edge of the drapery with the muzzle of her Glock, looked outside. It was dark, no moon or stars to give her any light. She scanned the trees out toward the park. Helmut’s tail thumped on the floor. Time passed. She was turning to pet him when she saw a quick flash of light, gone in an instant, as if a palm had quickly covered a flashlight. Her brain went to red alert. She was immediately operational. Someone was out there, and that was all she needed to know. She eased down the drapery, moved away from the window, Helmut beside her.
She dressed quickly in sweats and boots, shrugged on a thick dark overcoat, pulled a black watch cap out of her coat pocket and covered her hair. She realized she was shaking from the damnable weakness and cursed her body. Didn’t matter, she’d gut it out, find out who was out there. Olivia went down on her knees and looked into Helmut’s eyes. “You’ve done your job. This isn’t practice. Stay, sit quietly until I tell you to come.” He immediately sat on his haunches, but he didn’t look happy. She gave him a quick squeeze and moved as quickly as her body allowed through the kitchen, threw the dead bolt, and eased out the back door.
Olivia walked quietly around the side of the house, her Glock at the ready. There was only a slight wind, barely stirring the stark branches of the red oak trees, but it was icy co
ld, hovering toward freezing.
She stopped at the front corner of her house, eased down on her knees, looked toward where she’d spotted the flash of light.
She quieted her breathing and eased herself into the night sounds around her, listening for anything that didn’t belong. And she heard it, a man’s voice speaking a few words of English in a near whisper before he switched to Farsi. She strained to make out his words, but couldn’t.
Another man whispered back in English, but again his words were muffled, indistinct. Then she heard them moving toward the house.
Olivia’s blood pumped hot and wild but her brain was calm, focused. She went down flat on her belly so there was no chance they’d see her. She smiled. Come to Mama, boys.
Vortex Page 3