Spy Mom (20 page)

“No,” I said and slipped out of the café without further conversation. On the street, the crowds were growing, people unsure of what to do taking solace in the fact that nobody else seemed to know what to do either. Starting to panic, I pulled out my phone and called Simon.

“This is not a good development,” he said without preamble. And I felt my heart sink, heavy and fast.

“Simon, how did no one see this coming?”

“Well, that's a fine question, Sal, and one we will all be called upon to answer, that I can assure you. What is going on there?”

“Nothing,” I said, glancing around the crowded square. “Everyone is sort of mulling around looking freaked out. I lost the priest in the chaos. Where are you?”

“New York,” he said, “Ground Zero actually. I left the building about twenty minutes before the planes hit.” Another wave of dread washed over me.

“Simon,” I whispered, “what were you doing there?”

“Nothing in particular, Sally. Sightseeing.”

I could hear shouting and noise in the background, yet Simon sounded cool as ever. Three thousand miles away, I shivered in the fading afternoon sun.

“We're going to war over this. Are you ready to go to the desert, Sal?” I held the phone away from my ear, not wanting to hear what came next, and let the sounds of the square wash over me. I wish I were someone else, I chanted slowly to myself, like Dorothy in her ruby red slippers. Except I didn't want to go home. Instead, I wanted to vanish forever into the body and life of any other person. Suddenly, I glimpsed my priest moving along the outer edge of the square, heading toward an alley.

“Have to go, Simon. See you when I get back,” I said, flipping the phone shut and starting out after the priest.

As I followed him down the quiet back alley, I wondered how it was we could have suffered such a breach in security. I wondered about Simon's involvement. I wasn't paying attention, moving along in a fog and thinking about the mess that was sure to be coming, when the priest stepped out from a recessed doorway and grabbed my arm. I wasn't all that surprised. It seemed fitting that today, of all days, I'd fuck everything up royally.

“Why are you following me?” he asked in broken Italian.

“I think you know why,” I replied in Portuguese, which I took to be his native language. He almost smiled.

“It would be better for you and everyone involved if you didn't, you understand?”

“Yes, I do understand. But unfortunately, I can't stop. You've been up to some nasty tricks for a man of God.”

The priest snorted at that one. “Man of God, please. It is all hypocrisy. Me saying I speak for God. You passing moral judgment on my actions. The whole world is falling apart.”

He had a point, but that did not make him any less of a thief.

“I don't care why you are the way you are,” I said. “Maybe your mother neglected you as a child. Maybe you were born this way. All I want is what you have stashed under those robes. I think you know what I'm talking about.”

“Why do you care what I do with these documents?”

“Because innocent people always end up dead when these sorts of documents are passed around like Life Savers.”

“Life Savers? I don't understand you.”

“Forget it,” I said. “Candy. Passed around like candy.”

“Innocent people die anyway. Look around you. It is the way of the world.”

“Forgive me, Father, but I don't think you are in any position to be telling me about the ways of the world. You lost that right when you stole from your leader.”

I am not a religious person. I don't identify with any of the world's major religions, or minor ones for that matter. In fact, I don't understand religion at all and as far as I can see the only thing it does is hasten the slaughter of people who generally seem to be minding their own business. But I had to admit, standing in that alley with this very naughty priest, I felt bad for the Pope. If he can't hire reliable people, well, who can, really?

“Who do you work for?” the priest asked, still gripping my arm a little too tightly.

“I can't tell you that. That's not how this works.”

“How does it work?”

“You tell me who you are working for. I like that better.”

“I think you are being smart.”

“How smart can I be when I just got jumped by a priest in a dark alley?” I ask.

“Not very. Now how do we proceed?”

“You give me the papers you stole, I will take them, and we will both go our separate ways. I will, of course, have to inform your people about your extracurricular activities, but you probably already knew that.”

“And why would I let that happen?” he asked, his eyes black as coal, his mouth twisted into a strange smile.

“Because,” I said, reaching around to the back of my pants, “I have a gun and you don't. Or at least I don't think you do.” He released my arm and we stood staring at each other. I let the gun dangle down at my thigh. There is something unsettling about aiming a gun at a priest, even if he is not a very good one.

“Yes, I see that you do,” he said.

“Now, slowly open your robes and hand over the papers.”

“What difference does it make? I've already committed the information to memory. What is to stop me from telling my employers what I know?”

“Why are we having this conversation? Okay, there is nothing to stop you really because even though I would be totally justified in leaving you here in a bloody heap, I don't think I can actually do it. So the only thing that will stop you would be your conscience. If you still have one of those. Sometimes getting caught is a good first step toward redemption.”

He thought about what I said for a few moments. “Perhaps you are right.”

“Listen, Father. You're clearly new to this espionage thing, and you're not very good at it, so why not go back to fathering or whatever. Leave the bad behavior to those with more of an inclination for it, like the politicians.”

He gave me a little laugh, reached up his sleeve, and handed me an envelope.

“I will pray on this event,” he said.

“Oh, please,” I said. “And what is that worth?” But he was already gone. I thought about informing the Vatican that they had a traitor living among them, but in the end I didn't. My revenge against Christianity? Maybe. Or maybe on that day I just wanted to believe in second chances. And I'm hoping, when this is all over, that Will feels the same.

Agent Nanny shows up at my house the next morning at 9
A.M
. sharp. Mary Poppins she is not, dressed stiffly in khakis, a white button-down shirt, and a blue blazer.

“This is not the FBI,” I say by way of greeting. She looks hurt.

“I don't have kids myself,” she says meekly.

“Of course you don't.” Not compatible with the professional responsibilities of a USAWMD Agent. I give myself a mental kick in the ass. This is not her fault. I extend my hand.

“Lucy Hamilton,” I say. “It's nice to meet you.” I can tell from her eyes she knows Sally Sin and she is intimidated and, at the same time, surprised to find that Sally Sin is barefoot and wearing dirty jeans with her hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. It never occurred to me I should do anything to protect my reputation as a superspy, being as I didn't know I had a reputation to protect.

“Can I get you some coffee?” I offer, trying to make amends.

“Yes, please,” she says, looking a little more relaxed.

“Sit,” I command, and she quickly pulls out a kitchen chair and plants herself in it. “Tell me about yourself.” She pauses. I can tell she doesn't know if she should tell me the real story or the fake one, whatever it is they cooked up for this assignment. I help her out.

“The actual one, please, not some Agency bullshit authored by Simon.” I swear she almost smiles.

“This is my second assignment. I did some work in Canada last winter but that's been it. I'm grateful for the chance to help out in this situation and, of course, to meet you.”

“Sure you are.”

“No, I really am. We hear stories about Sally Sin,” she says and catches herself. “Sorry. Simon told me I was not to call you that under any circumstances.”

Simon, I think, you still get off on scaring the kids, you sick old man.

“Don't worry about it,” I assure her. “Now, to be clear, this is the most important assignment of your life. Don't let me catch you treating it otherwise.” In the back of my mind, I am already formulating a plan on how to test this new agent. Does Simon think he can send me someone still wet behind the ears and that will be it? He's slipping.

Theo picks this moment to come parading into the kitchen dragging his favorite mangled teddy bear. He climbs up on my lap and settles Teddy on the table before demanding juice. Agent Nanny jumps into action. “The apple juice is in the fridge,” I instruct her. “Pour it into that sippy cup.”

“Who is she?” Theo asks.

“This is …” I pause, realizing I have no idea what Agent Nanny's name is.

“Pauline,” she supplies. “I'm Pauline.” I know that's not her real name. She still has a problem saying it.

“Pauline is going to play with you for a few days while Mommy does some … work. How does that sound?”

Theo shrugs, noncommittal. “Will she play trucks?” he asks.

“I'm sure she will play trucks, if you ask her nicely and show her how,” I say, seeing the fear in Agent Nanny Pauline's eyes. This assignment may drive her into early retirement.

“Why don't you go and get a few to show her?” I suggest. Theo slides to the floor, clutching his juice, and wanders off to find some trucks.

“Now, it's very easy,” I say to a terrified Pauline. “All you have to do is play with him. You will do all your playing here in the house or in the backyard until I say differently. Don't let him out of your sight even for a second. I've made a list of his schedule, what to feed him, etc. Follow his lead and you will be fine.”

Pauline is pale. She sees her whole career going down the toilet because of a bratty three-year-old and an inability to understand the concept of playing trucks. I search for something reassuring.

“This should all be wrapped up in a few days,” I say, sounding far more confident than I am. “After which you can go back to things that are really scary.”

She smiles halfheartedly, turning toward the noise that is Theo dragging a half dozen toy trucks down the hallway. He dumps them with enthusiasm on the kitchen floor, squats down, and gets busy with the playing. After a few seconds, he glances up at Agent Nanny Pauline and says, “Well, come on. Play trucks.” Agents are good at taking orders, and Pauline does as she's told, assuming a cross-legged position on the floor next to my darling and bossy boy.

“I'm going to be upstairs in the office,” I say, refilling my coffee cup. “Don't forget to remind him to pee every once in a while. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Okay,” they say in unison. I shake my head at the weirdness of the blazer-wearing Pauline on the floor playing trucks and go upstairs.

My first order of business is to orient myself. I don't know who this professor is or why everyone seems so interested in him all of a sudden. I don't know what he does. I don't know how he knows Ian Blackford. It seems I don't know anything anymore except how to make banana bread with whole wheat flour and raisins that Will insists reminds him of a brick. And speaking of Will, there is the little issue of telling him why Agent Nanny is down in my kitchen at this very moment. I could tell the truth but that won't work. I could say I'm doing a bit of freelancing, but having not mentioned work in any real capacity throughout our relationship, the timing seems bad. After careful consideration, I decide to deal with it when Theo announces to his daddy that he had fun with his new friend today and his daddy turns to me for explanation and I don't have one. Sounds like a plan.

Once upon a time in a jungle I can still not bring myself to mention by name, Simon Still, delirious from malaria, was ranting about the government of Pakistan. Because it was not good for our life expectancies to have the supposed Frenchman howling in English about extremists hidden in the mountains, plotting our downfall, I lay down next to him on his grass mat and tried to soothe him. I stroked his sweaty hair back from his forehead and sang verse after verse of “Oh My Darling Clementine” in French, which he seemed to like very much. After a while, he felt cool and limp in my arms. But as I tried to slide my arm out from under his shoulders and escape back to my own scratchy mat, he reached up and grabbed me, panicked.

“Stay,” he whispered, his eyes clouded with an unknown terror.

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. I'll sing. Calm down. Go to sleep.”

“No, Sally,” he said, squeezing me tighter. “The passwords are secure. They are. I just add another number on to the sequence every month. Is that good enough? You must tell me.”

I am not normally an opportunist, but this seemed like due compensation for having to stay up all night singing.

“What's the sequence, Simon?” I asked. “I'll keep it safe.”

“The day it all began,” he said, as if I should have known. “The day I signed my life over to them. I like to remind myself of the time that has passed.”

Why he wanted to torture himself like that I would never know, because before I could ask he passed out cold. I wriggled out from under him and crawled back to my own mat. As I dug through the layers of mosquito netting to find the opening, I repeated Simon's password to myself a few times. Not that I was at any risk of forgetting it.

In my head, I count off the number of months I have been gone from the Agency. I add those to 415288, the month and day that Simon began service to his country followed by the number of months he'd been at it when I left, and I'm in. It shouldn't be so easy. If I liked Simon better right now, I might even point that out to him.