Spy Mom (3 page)

I met with John D. Smith in a coffee shop. He had on a navy blazer and a white shirt even though it was 90 degrees and humid outside. He seemed pleased to see me. He called me Smokey the Bear and I had to deliver a long explanation about how I only smoked during finals, because of the stress and all. He laughed, saying something about how he already knew that and continued to call me Smokey the Bear. Later, after several years with the Agency, I would develop a perverse hatred of nicknames, code names, pet names, and any name not written expressly on one's birth certificate, not that I was able to use that one either.

“So what would the job be?” I asked.

“Well, you'd have to come to Washington for a while, after which you might visit … other places. And there would be a lot of reading and studying and giving your opinion.”

Giving my opinion was something I was good at. I accepted his offer without even asking about the pay, and headed to D.C. six days later.

For a month, I read files on Cambodia, a place I could barely find on the map. There were sketchy pictures of what looked like a massacre, newspaper clips I couldn't decipher, and personal reports from people who were still there or had been there. After completing my required reading, I was asked what I thought about Cambodia.

“It seems like a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there,” I said.

“In other words,” John Smith prompted.

“They're fucked,” I said. He snorted. His snorting was starting to get under my skin.

“But why are they fucked?” he asked.

“Because no one will take responsibility for the slaughter of millions of people. There has been no reckoning. And there always has to be a reckoning. Someone has to pay for the blood. The situation will never be stable otherwise. You know, that whole justice thing.”

I found out later that they had been watching me for that month, not so much interested in my silly opinion of the Cambodian holocaust, but rather in what I ate for dinner, if I crossed against the light, if I flossed every day or every other. They followed me to and from the office, to the movies, to the dry cleaners, on one lame date with an accountant, to the grocery store. They even followed me into the locker room at the gym. Wherever I went, my shadow followed. Of course, I had no idea. All of that following and being followed and following someone following someone else contributed to the development of my acute sense of paranoia, which is why I was crawling around under the shrubs this morning while my sweet little boy was inside coating himself in applesauce and trying to bite the cat's tail. Some things never go away.

After those first few months, I was invited to spend some time with Simon Still, a mysterious figure who floated in and out of the USAWMD offices from time to time. He was of average height, thin, pale, with hair that might have been blond at some point. He always wore a white Panama hat and dark glasses and bore an odd resemblance to David Bowie, circa 1985.

It was not that I didn't like Simon exactly. But he made me uncomfortable, like a pair of jeans that are a little too tight and pinch your thighs when you try to sit down. He took me for a walk on the Mall and explained in a very Simon-like way what was going on.

“Okay, Sally Sin, here's the deal. Did you watch all those spy movies when you were a kid? With agents and double agents and James Bond and all of that horseshit? Yes? Good. Well, it's all true. Actually, Hollywood dumbs it down a bit for mass consumption. Being a real spy is much sexier in real life than it is on TV.”

I had no idea what he was talking about, but I remembered Sally Sin.

“How did you know about Sally Sin?” I began. But before the words got all the way out of my mouth, I suddenly understood something.

“Those tests were not for grad work?” I asked.

“You
are
as brilliant as they say you are, Ms. Sin. No. Of course they weren't for grad work. They were an agency screening. You'll be pleased to know that out of several thousand tests administered, only three people passed. Plus your language thing, that put you over the top.”

I'll admit I was impressed, but at the same time a little freaked out. “Who else made the cut?” I asked, thinking immediately of the guy in the cubicle next to mine with the terrible mustache, and the woman from upstairs with the paisley scarves.

“Tsk, tsk,” Simon said, “that is for me to know and for you never to know, if you get my meaning.”

He continued, “So here you are. Do you want to be a spy for USAWMD or not? Do you want to track down bad guys, call in the cavalry, walk away a hero time and time again? Only you can decide. Of course, if you decide not to, we'll have to kill you.” He paused for a second too long. “Just kidding. Naturally. So what do you think?”

Me? A spy? This was ridiculous.

When I was little I would play spy in the old barn out back. I'd tip a few dusty hay bales up on end, creating a series of obstacles that I'd navigate around, pulling my imaginary gun like in the
Charlie's Angels
reruns I was addicted to, as I went around each hay bale corner. Somewhere out there in the maze of hay was a nameless, faceless bad guy. While I created elaborate scenarios about whom I was rescuing, the villain was always vague. I could never summon up an image of his face.

I could play this game for hours, until the hay started to itch my nose and make my skin red.

But to be a real spy? I looked up at the Lincoln Memorial. Simon did this on purpose, posed his question right here in front of this great and courageous man. Do it for your country, Lincoln seemed to be saying, looking down on small, inconsequential me. Do it because your country needs you now. Step up. Be a hero.

But in the end, I said yes because it was easier than looking for a new job. Perhaps being a spy was what I was meant to do. There was certainly nothing else of interest happening in my life.

And for nine years I faithfully executed the duties of my job. These duties included dropping into foreign countries in the middle of the night, and I do mean dropping. Speaking languages that still cramp my tongue. Being places that I shouldn't have been, taking pictures of things I shouldn't have been taking pictures of. Pretending to be any number of individuals. Possessing an ability to sleuth under duress. Staying alive. Delivering the goods, mechanical, chemical, human, or otherwise, again and again and again. And I was good at my job. Not the best there ever was, but good enough.

Reentering the house, I realize the applesauce is not only in Theo's hair and on the cat, but there is also a thin veneer coating the walls and the table. Theo sits with the jar between his legs, a blue plastic spoon deep in the applesauce, making “mmmm” sounds as he licks his hands and arms. I feel a slight involuntary twitch in my left eyelid. He's only three, I remind myself. It's only applesauce.

“Mommy, what's outside? Do I have pea school today? Do we have more applesauce?” Sometimes I feel like my brain is no longer elastic enough to follow a preschooler's train of thought.

“No school today. No more applesauce. And nothing was outside, sweetie. Mommy thought she heard something, that's all. But it was nothing, probably just a cat.”

“Probably just a cat,” Theo repeats. “Just a cat. Cat.” He rolls the word around in his mouth, tasting it like only a child can. Then he digs into the remaining applesauce with his still chubby fingers to retrieve the spoon. “You eat some?” he offers. He holds the spoon out to me.

“Of course,” I say, sitting down on the floor next to him, ignoring the mess. “I'd love some.” He spoons the sauce directly into my mouth very carefully. Theo has Will's power of concentration, of being able to block out the whole world and see only the task at hand. I, on the other hand, can have ten things running simultaneously through my head, which is not always a good thing. For example, I can't let go of the possibility that someone was in my backyard. And if that is true, what do they want? And whenever my mind goes in this general direction, I always end up thinking, does this have anything to do with Simon Still?

That I met William Wilton Hamilton III at all is Simon's doing. He's the one who sent me to Hawaii in the first place. It was supposed to be Stanley, but he turned up on the banks of the Zambezi and that was that.

With an afternoon to kill in the lovely tropics, I went scuba diving. The last time I'd been diving was in the Caribbean, there specifically to blow up a smuggler's yacht and his cache of FN Five-seven pistols pilfered from Dublin. Normally at the Agency we stuck to big weapons, the kind known to level entire cities, but sometimes we dabbled in the small stuff. In this case, the guns in question were purchased illegally with U.S. funds, given to Peruvian rebels, sold to the IRA, and, shortly thereafter, stolen by the smuggler with the boat. The intent was to bring them back into the States and sell them for a tidy profit on the black market. Ah, the circle of life. There was a reporter sniffing around, which might have led to some embarrassing moments for the sitting government. Call Simon. He can take care of it.

I was willing to bet that the last time most of my fellow divers were under water they were admiring the clown fish and giant brain corals and things. But no matter.

Anyway, I climbed aboard thinking nothing more than how nice it would be to pretend to be a normal person for a few hours, and there he was.

The first thing I noticed was how the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled and the easy way he lounged, with his wetsuit unzipped to the waist, on the stained boat cushions. He seemed so comfortable in his skin, so relaxed. His laughter greeted me as I climbed aboard and it was real laughter, without even a hint of bitterness. It had been a long time since I'd heard that sound. Suddenly my own skin felt old and worn. And for a second I was just unbelievably tired.

The dive master, studying his clipboard like the Rosetta Stone, announced that this guy and I were the only solo divers on the trip and therefore would have to “buddy up.”

I should probably take a minute and explain something here. My dive instructor at the Agency was a retired Navy SEAL. Somewhere off of the Washington coast, he sat me down, explained the basics, and dropped me, fully geared up, over the side of the boat into the 50-degree Pacific Ocean. All in about forty-five minutes. There was no buddy system, no classroom training, no checkout dives. There was nothing more than me, the freezing water, and whatever strange Agency task had brought me there. So this whole buddy thing was news to me. But I'd happily play along if it meant I could spend the afternoon swimming with this man.

“Will Hamilton,” he said, extending his hand across the rocking boat.

“Sounds like you intend to be president,” I said. I gripped his hand a little too tightly, desperate not to fall over and make an utter fool of myself.

“No. I definitely inhaled.” His voice was rich and creamy, like homemade chocolate pudding. “But don't tell anyone. So, buddy, done much diving?”

I shrugged. “Some.”

“Favorite places?”

I noticed his dive gear was well worn, familiar. Mine was well worn, rental. He appeared only moderately concerned that his assigned dive buddy didn't have any experience. How to explain?

“Oh, um, warm water mostly, I guess.” I sounded like an idiot. I thought about taking a moment to drown myself.

“Great. Well, we'll take good care of each other,” he said, a questioning smile lingering on his lips. And I'm mortified to report I actually blushed. I studied my pruned feet until the flush left my cheeks.

“Yes, we will,” I said. Even then it felt like more. Now if you had asked me under normal circumstances if I believed in love at first sight, I would have accused you of being a sentimental fool with, at best, a tenuous grip on reality. Yet there I was, feeling a little queasy. And I was pretty sure it wasn't the rocking boat.

Under the water we moved well together. He pointed out an eel and a stingray, and I managed the disappearing backside of a turtle. Back on board, I marveled at how good he looked wet and was actually approaching giddy when he sat next to me for the return journey. As the ride ended and the boat pulled into the pier, he asked me if I'd like to meet him for a cocktail. He was here for a convention. Or something like that. I nodded dumbly. Of course I would.

We never actually had the cocktail.

Later, wrapped only in the Egyptian cotton sheets of my fancy hotel bed, listening to the waves crashing on the beach, Will told me about growing up rich and privileged in Los Angeles, the son of a television producer.

“It was basically the best childhood that money could buy. I was the only kid, with older parents, and they could not give me enough. Surf lessons, golf lessons, private schools, skiing in Zermatt, sailing in the British Virgin Islands. You know, the list goes on.”

“Sounds nice.”

“Doesn't it? Except it sucked. Because it was all to keep me out of their hair. They basically wanted to sit on the beach and occasionally wave to me as I went off with yet another instructor or babysitter or whatever. They wanted me to look good at dinner but not to say too much. And if I was going to have opinions, it would be better if they lined up nicely with their own.”

“So it felt kind of empty?” I asked, thinking that sounded like the right thing to say.

“Completely. The pathetic part is I kept right on doing what they wanted me to do until not that long ago. Then everything changed. I saw the garbage.”

When he asked me what I did, I told him about my dull desk job as a nuclear analyst for the United States Agency for Weapons of Mass Destruction. I could see his eyes glaze over as I dazzled him with statistics about how many nuclear warheads were actually unaccounted for at the time. I'll give him credit though. He did try.

“That sounds really interesting,” he said, stifling a yawn.

Yes. Thrilling. Really. “It's not bad. It pays the bills and I like to read.”