Spy Mom (28 page)

Simon nodded at the well-dressed secretary. She gestured for him to sit. No words were exchanged.

“Wow. I guess if you're the boss, you get real furniture, huh?”

Simon stood back up. “You stay here. I'll see you when he's done with you. If you haven't been reassigned.” He disappeared back the way we'd come, leaving me with nothing more than the secretary for reassurance. Her face was blank, without the slightest hint of compassion for my predicament.

“Great. I'm fucked,” I muttered.

“He'll see you now,” she said, almost in response.

I marched into the Director's office with as much swagger as I could muster, which, let me tell you, was not a whole lot. The Director sat with his back to me facing a wall of huge, clean windows. He got to look outside. We, down in hell, got to look at puke-colored cement walls or, worse, each other. He was talking on the phone. I stood in front of his desk, silent, waiting, my heart pounding in my chest.

After a minute, he finished his conversation and spun toward me.

“Sally Sin,” he said, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Yes, sir,” I said. I couldn't help but stare. There was something so familiar about him, something so close but still out of focus. I knew this man, I would swear to it, yet we had never met until this exact moment.

“Well, Agent Sin, if I may call you that. Tell me about Blackford.”

“Ian Blackford, sir? I'm not sure I can …”

“Can and will,” he said, pushing back from his desk.

“I'm not sure what I can tell you that hasn't already been in my reports.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning? Tell me everything. Don't leave out any details. Make me understand why Blackford picked you.”

I'll admit, this last part made me feel a little bit bad, but no matter. I began to tell the not quite fairy tale starring little old clueless me and big, bad, superspy traitor Blackford. When I got to the part about his request that I tell Gray he could get to me anytime, anyplace, I could see the old man's face tighten, but he said nothing. He kept his eyes closed and listened.

“I know how he can be,” he said when I was finished. His smile was like an arctic wind blowing through the room. “Sweeps you right off your feet, doesn't he? Makes you think you are important.” The last word came out like a hiss.

“Don't be fooled, Agent Sin. He will tell you things, fantastic things. None of it is true. It's all make-believe. Is that clear?”

I nodded, although I had no idea what he was talking about. Blackford never told me anything. He just played with me like a cat with a three-legged mouse.

“Well, even if you do believe him,” he said, leaning toward me, “it can't change the circumstances. It can't change what has been done.”

I sat so still I might have been dead.

Director Gray stared intently in my direction, but it was as if he were seeing through me to some other time, some other place. Abruptly, his eyes flashed, and he was back in the present.

“Go,” he said. He spun in his chair, leaving me to ponder the back of his head. “This conversation is over.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, the flush rushing to my cheeks. I backed out of the office like he was the Queen of England. And that was the first time I met Director Gray.

Avery's house is on a hill with a panoramic view of San Francisco. From her bathtub, you can actually see the Golden Gate Bridge. We are good friends but not so good that I could ask to borrow her bathtub and not have her look at me funny. The house is catalog perfect, a designer's dream, and yet it manages to feel homey and lived-in at the same time. I'm not afraid to walk on her carpet or sit on her sofa.

Jonathan is in the kitchen, bifocals low on his nose, the Sunday
New York Times
unfurled on the table. It is 9
A.M
. At home, Will and Theo are working through their scrambled eggs. My husband will try to read the paper, and Theo will not allow it.

“Daddy, let's play cars. Daddy, what are you reading? Daddy, what are you doing? Daddy, is that coffee in there? Can I have some?” And on and on until Will relents, gets down on the floor, and gives Theo his full attention.

Thirty minutes earlier, I promised to be back in plenty of time to go shopping for Theo's new bed and slipped out the door. In my bag, Malcolm's photographed notes are rubbing elbows with leftover apple slices and a leaky bottle of water.

Jonathan is older than Avery by a decade. With silver hair and a crooked smile, he looks every bit the professor, the kind the girls can't help but flirt with. Avery gets me coffee, which may push me over the line into a state of hyperactivity from which I cannot return. She has an odd look on her face, a tight smile that might fracture into a million pieces with the slightest provocation. She avoids eye contact with Jonathan, focused entirely on delivering me my drink. From my bag, I pull the notes, only slightly damp. I slide them in front of Jonathan.

“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.

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.