Spy Mom (29 page)

Suddenly, as if to save me from myself, an instant message popped up on my computer screen. The name was unfamiliar, Anon 15. The message went something like this: He's working for the other side. Not a good idea to be sleeping with the enemy, even if it is fun.

It was signed with the initials IB. No, no, no. I looked around, sure I'd find him sitting right behind me, down here in the daisy.

Blackford? I typed and quickly hit send, as if my keyboard were suddenly very hot.

Of course, he shot back. I could almost hear his impatience.

What enemy? I asked.

Your current lover, he wrote.

In a second, the room was swimming before my eyes. How did Blackford know?

Where are you? I pecked with one finger.

Meet me at the Vietnam Memorial in twenty minutes. Don't be late.

And the screen went blank. I was sweating, holding on to the arms of my chair until my fingers were white and throbbing. Not possible. Not Josh. He was harmless, a sad divorced guy. I put my head down on my desk, hoping to regain some equilibrium, when Simon Still showed up in my office.

“Sal, what the hell is wrong with you? Done with those A580 forms yet? It's been long enough, even for you.”

There was something about the way Simon smelled, the combination of cigarette smoke, hand soap, and laundry detergent that made my stomach turn. I pushed him aside and ran for the bathroom. Simon, of course, followed me right inside.

“Did you contract malaria in the jungle last visit?” He laughed at his own joke. “Go home, will you? You're an unnatural color.”

What I should have done was tell him that Ian Blackford would be at the Vietnam War Memorial in exactly fifteen minutes, that in one quarter of an hour he could finally really truly get his man. But I didn't. Because saying so would force me to admit I'd been screwing the enemy three times a night for two weeks, and I wasn't sure I could deal with the overall embarrassment. Instead, I splashed some water on my face, avoiding Simon's intense gaze.

“Thank you, Simon. I think I will go home. I am definitely not feeling well.” I darted past him, grabbed my bag, and ran for the door. I checked my time. Thirteen minutes. I could make it if I got lucky.

I was a minute late in arriving at the Vietnam wall and I hoped Blackford wouldn't punish my tardiness by having already left. But no, there he was, coming around the south end of the wall, collar turned up against the wind. And as usual, I let him talk, finding myself terrified and tongue-tied in his presence.

“The guy,” he said, taking my arm and forcing me to walk with him, “the one you are fucking, is no good. I know you're having fun in the sack and all,” he continued as I blushed a furious and uncontrollable red, “but he works for the Blind Monk, who is, apparently, really mad about what you did to his hula girl.”

“She wasn't a hula girl. She was a prostitute who had information we needed.”

Blackford raised his sunglasses so I wouldn't miss his look of disbelief. “Details, Sally. Don't get bogged down in the details. Whore or hula, who cares? You threw her overboard, and now he is taking the show directly to you.”

I kept pace with him, trying to digest the information without falling on my face. A cold sweat started to run down my back, soaking into the waist of my pants.

“So let me get this straight,” I began, my voice unsteady despite my best efforts to control it. “Josh is working for the Blind Monk and he's here to … do what exactly? Kill me? Why hasn't he done it already and gone back home?”

“He's not here only to kill you, at least not yet. They want you to tell him where I am. After which he'll kill you. Two birds with one stone. That kind of thing.”

“Fabulous.” I took a deep breath. “So what do I do?”

“What do you think you do, Sally?”

“Great.”

“Well, the next time you need a roll in the hay, try doing it with someone who has honest intentions.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said, stopping. Blackford was still attached to my arm, so my abrupt stop brought him to a standstill as well.

“Why are you here?” I asked. Slowly, quietly. “Why not let him do it?” Blackford turned in my direction, but kept his sunglasses in place. I could not even see the outline of his eyes.

“Because if anyone is going to kill you, Sally, it's going to be me, not some two-bit criminal climber whose only asset is that he speaks a decent Tibetan.”

“I guess that makes sense. In a totally fucked-up way.”

“Of course it does.”

With no further explanation, he peeled off into the crowd of tourists, leaving me alone and a little nauseous.

While I believed what Blackford had told me, I also wanted some proof that he wasn't simply setting me up to bump off an annoying competitor. Or worse, a completely innocent man, because it might amuse him for a few minutes.

That night, before dinner, I made Manhattans, adding a little something extra to Josh's glass.

“You make a mean cocktail, Maggie,” he said.

“I do,” I replied. “I learned a lot about what is good to drink and what isn't while traveling. Have you done any traveling, Josh?”

His eyes twitched, ever so slightly, from my face to the floor and back again.

“No, I'm mostly a homebody. Or I used to be, when I had a home.” He laughed.

I refreshed his drink.

“Was the divorce bad?” I asked, with all the sincerity I could summon under the circumstances.

“She was having an affair with one of my old friends. And I found out about it when I got her cell phone bill and saw that she'd been talking to this guy every day for hours. It couldn't be anything else. When I confronted her, she caved immediately. They got married not that long ago, so I guess it was the real thing.” He held his glass up to toast me. “To love,” he added.

“It's not always easy to know what someone is up to, is it? They can be right in front of you and yet you have no idea what they are thinking, let alone doing.” The Tibetan came easily off my tongue, woven into our conversation with deliberate intent. When Josh answered me, something about deception, his accent was flawless, as natural as if he'd been born to it. It took him a few seconds to realize what he'd done.

Slowly he put down his glass. “How did you know?” he asked, still in Tibetan, his tone completely flat now. I could feel the air getting sucked right out of the room.

“Anonymous tip,” I replied. My gun was in my bedside table, not great planning on my part. I wondered if Josh would excuse me to the bathroom if I asked politely. Probably not.

“Well, Sally, this has definitely been fun. But I guess the fun is over.” He moved like a panther across the space that separated us. His warm hands closed around my throat. I gasped for air, crushed under him. We rolled off the couch and crashed to the floor, upsetting the glass coffee table. What remained of his drink splashed in my face. For a moment I was sure I was drowning. He held fast to my throat, a quiet peaceful look on his face.

“Don't you even want to know where Blackford is?” I managed to squeak out.

He relaxed his grip.

“Right. I'm supposed to ask you where Blackford is. So, where is he?”

“The last time I saw him he was by the Vietnam Memorial. But I don't think he's there anymore.”

“Wrong answer. Which is fine by me. I've been looking forward to killing you since the moment we met in the Laundromat.”

How romantic. He got back to strangling me. This was not going well.

Finally, I managed to free one leg, bringing my knee up, hard and quick, into his stomach. He grunted and for a second lost his death grip on my throat. But it was enough. I rolled away from him, scrambled around the coffee table, and ran to the bedroom, with a groaning Josh right on my heels. Just as I was about to reach into the bedside table, he grabbed my ankle, pulling my legs out from under me. I went down hard, the wind knocked from my lungs.

“Why struggle?” he said through clenched teeth. “I'm going to kill you.” His matter-of-fact tone was insulting.

“Not if I kill you first.” With all my strength I pulled my knees into a bent position and, holding the bottom of my bed for leverage, I kicked him in the face. He recoiled. I rolled on top of him, pulling his arm back and up high over his shoulder blades. When I met some resistance from his stretched tendons, I pulled harder. Josh didn't scream. As I went past the point of no return, he let out a respectable yelp.

“Bitch,” he moaned.

“I learned that trick from your boss,” I said, snapping a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

When my guys came to get him, Simon was in tow.

“How did you know he was with the Blind Monk?” Simon asked, standing over my drugged ex-lover.

“He talks in his sleep,” I said after a moment. Simon raised a curious eyebrow in my direction, indicating he knew I was full of shit, but was not going to press it.

However, I remain grateful to Joshua to this day. Although he was not very enthusiastic about the idea of interrogation, he eventually provided enough useful information to put me back on the trail of the Blind Monk, getting me as far away from Washington as a girl could get.

I sit in my car, parked precariously in our steep driveway, trying to put the pieces together. I remember Simon Still reminding me that the government wasn't paying me to psychoanalyze the psycho, but I can't help it. The key is in front of me, the path out of this mess, but I still can't quite get a hold of it.

My boys are sitting at the table, waiting for my return so we can commence with our shopping expedition. I stand in the doorway watching them. Suddenly I'm up to my eyeballs in adrenaline. It's a familiar rush, like getting off the Tilt-A-Whirl at the town carnival after one too many turns. I will get my man. I always do. Okay, maybe not always, but at least some of the time.

“I hate to do this to you,” Will says. But my guess is, from his tone, he's going to do it anyway. “I got a call from the office. There is a potential investor in town who wants to talk about methane. Did you know that there are eight hundred sixty-four landfills in the state of New Jersey alone? That's a lot of gas, Lucy. Anyway, he can only do it this morning. Can you two manage the IKEA trip without me?”

“You know that stinks,” I say, kind of proud of my terrible joke. But I look at Theo and he thinks this exchange is anything but funny. His lower lip starts to quiver.

“Daddy is coming,” he insists.

“Sorry, baby. It looks like Daddy has to go and play in his own sandbox for a while. But we'll have fun together. Meatballs. Ice cream cones. New bed. Fun, right?” I glare at Will over Theo's head.

“Daddy?” Theo is about to cry. Will is not looking much better.

“I'm sorry, Theo, but Daddy has some stuff to do. I promise we'll play whatever you want when you get home.”

“I don't want to play later. I want to play now!” He throws the toy car in his hand across the room. Will looks surprised.

“Okay,” I say, “that's enough. Let's go.” I pick him up. Or try to. It's a little like trying to hold on to an angry, greasy badger. He flails, pounding me with his little fists. I turn him away from me and hold him like a straitjacket. This only serves to intensify his attempts to pound me into oblivion. Will sits frozen at the table.

“It would be helpful if you could open the front door for me,” I say. I'm starting to sweat with the strain of holding on to this furious thirty-five-pound child. He jumps up.

“Sure. Yes. I'm really sorry. I didn't think he'd care that much.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“No. I mean, what difference does a few hours make, really?”

If I had to sum up what all of my parenting experience has taught me so far, it would be this: Never try to logic a preschooler. They will only try to hit you. I want to put down my bundle of illogical fury, grab Will by the collar, and throw him against the wall.

“All the difference in the world,” I say. I kick the door shut behind me. Will opens it immediately.

“Lucy, I'm really sorry. Shit, now I feel terrible.”

“You said that already.”

“Shit,” says Theo. A sneaky smile replaces the look of pure anger on his face. “Shit.”

“Oh for God's sake, did you have to?” The same small smile that is gracing Theo's face now creeps across Will's. “Don't you laugh,” I order. “You won't like what happens to you if you do.”

“I'm not laughing.” But Theo is at full grin now, and it is hard for Will to control himself. I open the car door and shove Theo into his car seat. He continues to chant a healthy chorus of obscenities.

“Where does he learn this stuff, Lucy?” Will asks. “Where is it exactly that you two hang out during the day?”

“Go inside,” I say, without turning around. “Really. Go. Now.” I climb into the driver's seat and start the car. I think about lecturing Theo on why using curse words is not okay. Instead, I turn up the music so I can't hear him.

We manage a smooth ride through town and over the Bay Bridge. Theo points out the enormous cranes flanking the west side of the bridge, part of the new bridge construction project that has been going on for approximately four hundred years. The sky is clear and the sun is bright. To the west, we can see the Golden Gate Bridge. The water sparkles as if embedded with a million tiny jewels. I take all this beauty to mean that our luck is changing and that Theo and I might pull off a pleasant and productive afternoon after all. Of course, that's usually when everything starts to go to hell.

The parking lot is jammed, but we find a space in the garage. Theo is already badgering me for meatballs.

“After we pick out a bed, I promise we can have meatballs.” He doesn't like my answer.

“Meatballs first,” he whines. It's like nails on a chalkboard, making all the little hairs on my arms stand up at attention. I grip his hand and haul him toward the store.