by J D Ventura
After several minutes, Claire moaned.
“Okay, both of you, not a word. I’m going in,” said Summer, positioning the microphone in front of her lips.
“Claire, it’s me, Summer. Can you hear me? Just whisper ‘yes’ if you can hear me.”
“Yes,” Claire managed, without opening her eyes.
“Claire, I want you to listen to my voice very carefully. We are in a dark forest right now Claire. But we are together. And if you trust me and follow my voice, I will show you the path out, to the light, Claire. Do you want to find that path with me?”
“Yes.”
“Good girl. Put one foot in front of the other and follow me. You are behind me now. You can see I am wearing a blue dress and a red hat. I know it’s dark Claire, but keep your eye on my hat. Follow it Claire. Follow me. Can you see glimpses of sunshine in the distance? Through the trees.”
“Yes.”
“The meadow is just ahead now. And there is a house there. It’s the big house on the hill. In the Village.”
“The Murrays,” Claire said flatly.
“Yes, the Murrays’ house. Let’s walk in together. Follow me in. Are you with me?”
“Yes, right behind you.”
“If you could go anywhere in the house, where would you go? What is the most interesting room you were in? Can you take me there?”
“Yes.”
“Take me there, Claire,” said Summer, soothingly. “I’ll follow you now.”
“It’s down this hallway, the long beige hallway with no artwork. Nothing on the walls. It’s ugly. It’s hard to forget ugly things.”
“I agree Claire. I’m still behind you. What do you see now?”
“The wallpapered elevator door.”
“Okay, Claire, is there a button to push? Can you call the elevator to this floor?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need a card.”
“But you have the card, Claire. It’s in your pocket. You’ll see. Take it out.”
“Oh. Yes. Good. I forgot. It’s coming now.”
“Good, Claire. Tell me when the doors are open.”
“Step on in.”
“What floor are we going to, Claire?”
“Down.”
“Don’t you have to push a button to get there?”
“No. There is only one place this elevator goes. Do you want to come?”
“Yes, Claire, please take me there.”
“My friends are here,” Claire said flatly.
“Claire, I’ll be quiet in the corner. I still want you to tell me what’s happening. Okay?”
“I can see them in the mirror. Above me,” Claire offered, sounding excited and eager, a child’s attempt at endearment.
“Who, Claire?”
“Stephanie and Marc.”
“Good, Claire. Tell me when the doors open again.”
“We’re here.”
“Where is here, Claire? Can you describe what you see when you get off the elevator?”
“There are people from the party. But they aren’t in their costumes.”
“What do you mean, Claire?”
“Everyone has changed their clothes. They’re wearing different costumes. They all look the same.”
“The same? Like how, Claire?”
“I think they’re uniforms. Are you coming with us?”
“Yes, Claire, I want you to describe for me what you see.”
“We are laughing and Marc apologizes to me.”
“For what?”
“For lying.”
“Ask him what he lied about?”
“Marc, what did you lie about again?”
Claire gasped so deeply, Bill and Martin exchanged worried glances. Summer reflexively held Claire’s hand.
“He lied about Sam. He knows where Sam is. They all know where he is. Sam is here. He’s here.”
Chapter 15
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the Mountain View Motel, a dilapidated L-shaped brick building on the outskirts of town. Martin pulled up directly in front of room six and turned off the engine. He threw a soda can over Claire and Summer and it hit a snoring Bill squarely in the forehead. He woke up with a start and reflexively reached for his sidearm. “That’s a good way to get shot, shithead,” he growled.
“Yeah, well, we’re here and we have just a couple of hours to be fully briefed and mission ready.”
“Dude, I’m ready and steady. As frosty as a snowman’s pecker.”
The surrealism of being in the back of an unmarked van with three CIA agents a few miles from her house hit Claire like a bucket of ice water dumped on her head. The realization manifested itself as a surge of adrenaline through her body. Her muscles tensed and, for a fraction of a second, she eyed the door handle. Summer noticed and grabbed her shoulders, turning them so Claire was facing her.
“Claire, you won’t get far, and any attempts not to help us at this point are only going to hurt Sam. Do you understand?”
Claire could only nod in acquiescence. Summer had a point. Where would Claire go anyway? To the local police? The incident at the guard shack made that idea out of the question. Would she maybe run back to the Broken Spoke yelling and screaming about CIA agents and Russian spies? They’d think she was a lunatic and call the police, or, worse, they’d pour her a drink and ignore her. Shitty bars were fairly tolerant of people and their crazy theories. No, these people were her last hope at getting to the bottom of whatever was happening.
She never saw them check in, but Martin produced a key and the four of them entered the room in single file, with both Martin and Bill carrying large duffle bags. Room six was paneled in cheap pressed wood made to look like walnut. A small microwave, its door speckled with spaghetti sauce (or blood, Claire thought) sat atop a rattling mini-fridge. Two lumpy double beds were covered in shiny polyester duvets. An archway led to an alcove containing a cigarette-stained vanity. The carpet smelled like mildew and dried sweat.
“Jesus, Martin, this place makes me miss Afghanistan,” Bill said, as he tossed a duffel bag on the bed closest to the door.
Martin ignored him and pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number, waited a few seconds, and hung up. “We’re good. He’s bringing her SUV. He’s about an hour out.”
Summer pulled out the chair from under the room’s small desk and spun it to face Claire. She motioned for Claire to sit, while she took a seat on the end of the bed. The two women sat knee-to-knee while Martin and Bill methodically removed a variety of cases and equipment from the two duffel bags. She had never seen one, but, due to its length, Claire surmised that one of the cases most likely contained a long gun.Claire noticed with an increasing sense of alarm various boxes of ammunition still in the open bag.
“Claire,” said Summer. “Claire, look at me.”
She was relieved to find a calculating and confident professionalism in Summer’s face. It was a countenance that did not reflect her own inner panic. Summer could handle herself. Summer was here to ensure the “hysterical wife” didn’t totally screw up “the mission.” Although she hadn’t a clue as to what their objective was. She inhaled and looked directly into Summer’s eyes. Are we rescuing Sam, or capturing him?
“I need to ask you a few questions,” Summer continued. “About Sam. And it’s very important that you answer truthfully, because eventually you will be asked these same questions during a polygraph test and under oath.”
“Am I…is he…are we in some kind of trouble?” Are you in some kind of trouble, Claire? Why would you ask such a silly question? You’re only preparing for a CIA-led operation to free your husband from his potential captors who may or may not be holding him hostage for classified information he may or may not have stolen from the fede
ral government. No, no trouble at all.
“It’s not productive right now to calculate culpability. That’s not my job here. My job is to find Sam. Plain and simple. But, to do that, I need to ask you a few more questions. Okay?”
“Sure, yes. Okay.”
“Did Sam ever mention a woman he worked with by the name of Jennifer Stevens?” She felt Summer studying her face, undoubtedly looking for any physical recognition in her expression.
“I don’t think so, no. Sam and I really made it a point to not talk about his work. That name isn’t familiar to me at all.”
“How did Sam come up with Frontier Village as the place he wanted to move to? How did you first hear about it?”
“He said a friend at work tipped him off to it,” Claire said.
“Didn’t it seem odd that it was priced so low?” Claire’s arms felt weak and jittery. The conversation had veered into cross examination. This was the moment on television cop shows when she would demand access to her attorney.
“No. I, we just thought we had stumbled across a steal. The seller was extremely motivated, we were told. Why? What is this all about?”
Summer reached into her purse on the side of the bed and pulled out a brown folder marked “Classified” in black letters across its face. She crossed her legs and placed it on her lap. She opened to a tabbed page and pulled out a black and white photo of a tall, middle-aged woman with short-cropped hair. Her face was partially obscured by large designer sunglasses. Claire’s eyes widened and her temples began to throb.
“You know this woman?”
The shades provided little obfuscation. It was Luanne Murray.
“She’s one of my neighbors,” said Claire. “She owns the house on the hill. Lu Murray.”
“That’s another one of her aliases. Sam knows her as Jennifer Stevens. Her actual name is Karina Kuznetsov. She is a Russian operative, Claire, who infiltrated NASA. She worked secretly for Sam’s big boss, Gunderson.”
“A spy?”
“Yes, a spy. An engineer who worked with Sam for several years.”
“No, that can’t be right,” Claire said, emphatically shaking her head in disagreement. “Sam never mentioned her and Luanne never said she knew Sam.”
Bill and Martin had stopped what they were doing and were now sitting on the side of the other bed, providing a small audience for Claire’s interrogation.
“I need some water,” she said.
Summer looked at Bill and tilted her head toward the sink. But before he could move Claire ran over to it and vomited. Summer came behind her with the chair and sat her in it before handing her a frayed hand towel, which smelled like bleach and fabric softener. Claire wiped her mouth and began to cry. No one said anything for several minutes, until Summer finally broke the silence.
“Claire, we believe that Kuznetzov, Lu, convinced Sam to move to Frontier Village, perhaps at the urging of Gunderson.”
“But why? For what reason?” said Claire. “If Kuz – if Lu used Sam to steal information about the satellite program, wouldn’t she just disappear? Just go back to Russia? Why entice us to move out to goddamn West Virginia?”
“This is the part we don’t understand, either, Claire,” Martin interjected. “And this is why there is serious doubt that Sam is an unwilling participant in all of this. This is what we are here to find out. This is why we need your help. We are prepared to offer you full immunity from prosecution if you help us, Claire.”
“Wait, but I haven’t done anything. I didn’t know anything-”
“Claire, people way above my paygrade have not determined that yet,” Summer interrupted.
“So, you want me to help you build some sort of espionage case against Sam? Against my own husband?”
“Our primary focus right now is Kuznetzov. And Gunderson. But more importantly than that, we need to know what Sam discovered. We need to know why the Russians are so interested in the data he took. And why did he take it in the first place? And if they have gotten him to provide them with the decryption key. Help us find that, and we can negotiate a deal for you and Sam. A reduced sentence. A chance for you both to be together again.”
Claire’s lower lip trembled and she looked down at her belly, gently running a shaking hand over it.
“I have two conditions,” said Claire, a sob collecting in her throat.
“Name it,” said Martin.
Claire looked at Summer instead. “I need a change of clothes.”
“Already have one for you,” Summer replied, pointing to a pair of jeans and a shirt hanging in the room’s closet. “What else?”
“I need to know just how high the stakes are,” said Claire.
“It’s a matter of national security,” Summer replied neatly.
“No. Not for the country. How high they are for me. For my family,” Claire said, laying a hand on her belly. “I need to take a pregnancy test. Today.”
Later that day, as they stood in the hotel’s parking lot alongside her car, Martin briefed Claire on the plan, which was apparently no more involved than Claire returning from D.C. as if nothing had ever happened. Their belief was either Sam, or possibly even Lu, would make contact with her. Maybe even Gunderson, although they suspected that was a remote possibility. They were hoping for Sam to materialize, believing that, if pressed, he would confide in his wife and reveal the project’s secret. The dental implant would transmit everything back to them at the motel and they would communicate with her via text, which she should check regularly. At that point, when Sam finally revealed everything to her, they would move in to take Sam and Lu into custody.
“Why not just do it now?” Claire had asked, as Martin handed her the keys to her Range Rover, which was now parked out front.
“We don’t want to spook either of them. This may be our only chance to uncover whatever Sam discovered. If we move too quickly, hard drives might be erased, and those they are working with could go to ground. We also don’t know Sam’s mental state right now. His dementia may be impairing his judgement, or his memory,” Martin said.
Summer came up from behind him, shielding her eyes against the setting sun. “Under direct questioning by us, Sam is liable to have more difficulty remembering specific facts we need, especially if the data we want has been deleted or is now off-shore, with, say, Gunderson. The likelihood his recall will be better with you is much higher. We don’t want to squander that opportunity.”
“You mean, the opportunity for him to incriminate himself, right? Isn’t that what you are saying?”
“Claire,” Martin said, his hand closing the car door behind her as she climbed into the driver’s seat. “Do this for him. If we do this without you, I don’t think you’ll like the outcome.”
She looked up at his face and the message had been received, loud and clear. They thought her husband was a traitor and they were prepared to go in guns blazing and throw the proverbial book at him. Her cooperation was all that stood between Sam and a treason conviction. She had been in D.C. long enough to know exactly what Martin was saying. She wanted to say something brave and defiant. But all she could muster was an agreeing nod as she put the car in drive and slowly exited the lot, the three agents turning into dark silhouettes in her rearview mirror.
She didn’t know why, but she never told them about the guards, or the dog. She also didn’t tell them about her conversations with the school teacher at the bar. Or what she overheard between Marc and Stephanie. Part of her didn’t want to make any of this easier for them, and part of her felt like they didn’t have it all figured out. Somehow, deep down, Claire suspected there was a layer to what was happening they weren’t considering. She thought about the crow on her window sill – possibly the same bird she saw in Marie’s bedroom – and shuddered. She hoped somewhere within that ambiguity there was an out for Sam. That maybe their suspicions were flawed. That a
different fact pattern would exonerate her husband and make this nightmare go away.
Her mind was whirring as she approached the guard shack. She said “fuck” aloud when she turned the car onto the road leading to the checkpoint. Instead of the usual two guards, there were five. Three of them looked out at her approaching headlights from within the building and one picked up a phone receiver, while two others stood like sentries in front of the gate. The taller of the two raised his hand, palm flattened in her direction. Her right knee was shaking so badly she briefly worried she would accelerate right over the men. Get your shit together, Claire. It’s a normal day. Just another normal return home from D.C. Polite chit chat. Light and breezy.
She rolled her window down. The tall guard backed up a step and leaned down to face her, his eyes sweeping the inside of the vehicle. “Mrs. Sturgis, you’re back.”
“Yep. And happy to be. I’m getting too old for that damn D.C. traffic,” she said, gripping the wheel so tightly her wedding band felt as if it might puncture skin. “How are you tonight, officer?”
“Just fine,” said the guard. “Are you expecting any guests this weekend? Should I add anyone to the list?” The question hung in the air and she could see, out of the corner of her eye, the slightest semblance of a smile on the man’s face. He was playing with her, a cat joyfully torturing a broken-winged bird.
“Um, guests? No. Nope. I wish. None of my D.C. friends feel I am worth the drive, unfortunately.”
“Well, in that case, if anyone shows up looking for you, we will make sure they know they’re not welcome here.”
She didn’t know what to say to that and her entire body went rigid. A bead of sweat rolled down her back. He began laughing. Laugh, Claire, he’s just joking. Laugh. She laughed, a high-pitched nervous shriek that sounded a half a decibel away from total lunacy. He stood up and patted her hood. “Have a good evening, Mrs. Sturgis.” He gestured to the guard shack and the gate slowly parted open.
It was dusk when she maneuvered the Rover into their driveway. As she got out of the car she looked around the neighborhood. As usual, there was nobody out and about. No joggers. No kids on bikes. No neighbors sharing gossip over fences. Just darkened, perfectly landscaped yards and a random constellation of window lamps and porch lights twinkling in the gloaming. Yet despite the absence of people, she felt watched.