Spy Mom (31 page)

“You,” he says with great relish, “are retired. Besides, it's a myth. It doesn't exist.”

“Boy, you seem awfully sure of yourself in light of the circumstances. You don't have any intel on this guy?”

Simon shakes his head. “We've been busy with other things, Sal. Haven't you noticed the whole world is a big fucking mess these days?”

“Yes,” I say, “I have noticed that. But still, nothing?”

Simon shakes his head again.

“Okay,” I say, “so let's think about what we do know. Blackford is here.” Simon interrupts me before I can continue my summation of our dire situation.

“Did you see him? When? Where?”

“If I have to tell you that, you ought to consider a second career as a congressman or something. I hear they have great benefits and a private dining room.”

“Now is not the time, Sally.”

“I'd say it's really the time. Blackford walked out on the beach, said hello to me and Theo, and disappeared. Where were you? I don't remember it being like this.”

“It's always been like this,” Simon says. He looks a little depressed.

“So Blackford is here. The Blind Monk is here.”

“No. Not possible. The Blind Monk is not here. Last we heard, his newest syndicate had cut him loose.”

Sure. And Ian Blackford is dead. And I'm not a liar. And life is just one big fat bowl of ruby red cherries.

“The Blind Monk may in fact have been cut off from whomever was most recently bankrolling him. I can't claim to know the details as you apparently do. But he is most certainly here. He was even considering offing me in IKEA yesterday. I imagine the only thing that saved me is my superior karma.”

Simon looks suddenly pale. He closes his eyes, but his eyelids twitch.

“What else do you know?” he asks.

“Well, I know that the last time we all spent quality time together was in Cambodia, and that was more or less a disaster.”

Simon shudders at the memory.

“Something is about to happen,” I say. But at this point all I know for sure is that I'm starting to get hungry. Simon's cell phone chirps in his pocket. He pulls it out, examines the number.

“Damn, Sally,” he says, “I have to go. We'll talk later.”

With that, he jumps in his car and peels out, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust. I don't even have time to yell at him about calling me Sally. Nice. I get back in my car. On the radio, there is a report about a major terrorist cell in Pakistan that has been infiltrated and disbanded by members of a U.S. intelligence agency. The reporter does not offer any specifics, but she doesn't need to. I know who they are talking about. It just goes on and on.

Nanny Pauline and Theo are both asleep on the couch when I finally get home from the university. There are toys and trucks and trains in every corner and on every surface. The refrigerator door is slightly ajar and the kitchen counters are covered in cheese sticks and empty cups and popcorn, not to mention peanut butter on rice cakes face down on the floor.

I leave the mess and the sleeping Pauline and Theo and go upstairs to the spare bedroom that serves as Will's home office. Out of the goodness of his heart, he gave me a filing cabinet that is all my own. I dig through a number of randomly named files until I find a folder with the initials IB scrawled across the front in my handwriting. Inside is yet another folder, although this one is stamped with CLASSIFIED LEVEL 7 in big, unmistakable red letters.

For all the money in the world, I cannot tell you what inspired me not only to steal Ian Blackford's Agency personnel file but to hang on to it all these years. Maybe I knew that someday I'd need it. Or maybe I figured that he was dead so where was the harm?

I sit down at Will's desk and open the file. The pages inside are yellowing, and some of the typed words are faded. I start at the beginning, scanning his test scores, his psychological evaluation, his background check, his self-supplied history. And it is here that I pause.

Minnesota. A small town. Abandoned by a single father, made a ward of the state at age four when no other relatives could be found. Nobody knew if the boy and his father came from Minnesota or if they simply ended up there at some point. From all accounts, the father, an assistant professor at a rinky-dink college in town, seemed like an okay guy. Not going to win any parenting awards, but stable enough. One hot summer day, the neighbors find the boy, half starved, sitting on the steps of their rental house. He was dirty, confused, tired. They called the police, but the boy's father was gone. And it appeared that he left with intent, taking all of his textbooks with him but somehow forgetting his kid. He never came back, and Ian Blackford became another poor soul lost in the chaos of state-run foster care.

I pull up Albert Malcolm's file on the USAWMD database and confirm. Minnesota. I Google Malcolm and find a picture. I zoom in on his face. I stare. Those familiar blue eyes that threw me for such a loop this afternoon stare back at me. I know that short of a DNA test I can't be 100 percent sure, but I'd bet my life—something I really try not to do anymore—that Albert Malcolm is Ian Blackford's father.

By the time Blackford got around to kidnapping me in Paris, I was no longer surprised. I started to have that woozy feeling about halfway through my house red wine, before my meal even arrived.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered, forgetting for a brief second how to curse properly in French. “Where are you?” I didn't have to wait long. He was already striding through the front door, through the smoke, as if he owned the place. I held on to my seat, sure I would slide to the floor in a heap if I let go. He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down, unable to stop himself from smiling.

“Couldn't you at least wait until I got my food?” I asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“Common courtesy?” I suggested.

“If I exercised common courtesy, as you call it, nothing would ever get done. I'd spend all of my time trying to get you on the phone.”

“Hey, what an idea. The phone! Brilliant. Next time, how about you call and let me know you'd like to meet?” And that was the last thing I remember saying before my world went completely black.

When I came to, I was not locked in a bathroom or handcuffed to the desk or tied up or bound or restrained in any way. I was lying on a nicely made bed with beautiful orange silk pillows. I sat up slowly, still feeling dizzy. Outside the gauzy curtains was a stunning vista of Paris at night, with the Eiffel Tower as its centerpiece twinkling like a star with blue and white lights. I made my way to the window and gazed out, my head not clear enough to do much else.

“It's my favorite view in the world,” came a voice through the dark. I turned slowly, afraid I might fall down. Blackford stood in the doorway watching me. I could barely make out the outline of his body, the neck of his white T-shirt under what could only be a cashmere sweater, and the shine of his dark leather jacket.

“Where am I?” I said. My throat was dry and my voice cracked.

“My house,” he replied. The words hung in the air between us. Blackford had a house? He actually lived somewhere? I sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Is this the end?” I asked.

“Come on now, Sally. We're almost friends, you and I.” I couldn't tell if he was joking.

I started vigorously rubbing my temples, trying to drive away the foggy, out-of-focus feeling. “Okay,” I said, “let's get on with it. What am I doing here? What do you want?”

Blackford was quiet. He moved across the room, quiet as a cat, and looked out the window.

“Have you ever gone looking for something, Sally, believing that without it you could never be whole, only to realize what a fool you'd been? A sentimental fool?” I nodded, unsure where this was going, but too afraid to ask. Blackford continued.

“Well, then you know what I've been up to. For some reason, I couldn't let it lie, accept the fact of my life as it is.” He pulled the curtain aside, stared out. I shifted slightly toward him so he'd still be aware that I was listening. “The old guy denied that I ever existed, however, and that is something I simply cannot accept. He will pay, Sally. I will make him pay. And I will make it hurt.”

Somewhere in the distance I could hear the blaring of car horns, the casual conversation of people passing beneath the window.

“Twice I have allowed myself to indulge in the fantasies of a normal life. Twice I have failed. I won't do it again. Do you understand?”

I could think only of the girl, the Hungarian, the Bulgarian, whatever, dead in Blackford's arms. I had no idea what the other thing was. I didn't want to know.

“You can go, Sally. I shouldn't have brought you here. I trust you will forgot where it is I live.”

“Of course,” I said, quickly. I pulled myself up and, using the wall for support, made my getaway. The house, I observed in my foggy state, was beautiful, a work of art, everything in perfect order. I still swear there was a Modigliani at the end of the hallway, although my experts assured me that particular painting was back at the Guggenheim in New York. I fumbled with the front door lock and tripped down the stairs onto the empty sidewalk. There I tried to get my bearings. When I looked up at the bedroom window, I saw Blackford watching me. I gave a little wave, not sure if that was the right thing to do. He turned away from the window without waving back. Was I the closest thing Blackford had to a friend? It was a terrifying thought, kind of like Henry VIII asking you to marry him.

I called Simon as soon as I got back to my hotel.

“He took me to his house,” I said. “I know where he lives.” Simon was on the next plane to Paris. When we arrived at Blackford's house, all the blinds were drawn. Simon was the first one in, something I had never seen happen before. But it didn't matter. The inside of the house was completely empty. Nothing left but a few dust bunnies rolling around on the polished wooden floors. After that, Simon sent me above the Arctic Circle for two months. He said the cold would be good for improving my obviously faulty memory.

It's 2
P.M
. and my cell phone rings. It's Avery, wanting to meet at the park. I agree to head over when Theo wakes up. I leave out the part about him right now sleeping on the couch with a USAWMD agent masquerading as a nanny. I continue to stare at Albert Malcolm's face. Does he have any idea? Is it possible you could be in a room with your own child and not know it? It seems ridiculous to even consider.

I hear noise downstairs, a plaintive wail for Mommy from Theo. I close the computer, re-stash the stolen files, and hurry downstairs. Theo is confused and hops into my open arms gratefully. He buries his head in my hair and sighs. Nanny Pauline looks sheepish.

“I can't believe I fell asleep. It won't happen again, ma'am, I promise.”

“Playing with a toddler can be exhausting. And don't call me ma'am.”

“I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.”

I sit down next to Pauline. “Listen,” I say, “they picked you because you have some special talent. Maybe you're fast on your feet. Or maybe you can tell a convincing lie and not feel bad about it. Maybe you speak ten languages. Or maybe you like being totally disconnected from the world. The thing to remember is that it, whatever it is, does not make you infallible. Believing that you are something greater will only serve to get you hurt in the end.”

“But how will I ever know if I'm any good?” For a second I think Pauline might burst into tears.

“You won't,” I answer honestly. “Not even when it's over. If feedback is something you crave, I suggest you consider a career change to banking. Or the law.”

I stand up.

“Okay, Theo and I have a playdate. You are welcome to stay here because I'm sure they have you in a crappy hotel somewhere out by the airport, right?”

She smiles, wiping invisible tears from under her eyes.

“Cheap bastards,” I say. “Some things never change. Well, no rush. Hang out if you want to.”

With that, I leave her on the couch and start organizing our going-to-the-playground stuff. I pile everything and Theo into the car and head out. I keep my fingers crossed that she'll clean the kitchen while we're gone and not spend the whole time digging through my underwear drawer looking for secrets.

Avery is sitting where she usually sits. Sam is next to her. On an adjacent bench sit Claire and Belinda. They wave us over. Theo takes off in the direction of the kids, and I plunk myself down next to Sam.

“You look tired,” Belinda comments.

“Do any of you remember a time when we weren't all tired?”

They all shake their heads to the negative. “So what's going on?” I ask, wanting to talk about anything but me.

“Oh the usual. Avery is ranting about life versus fiction, about how TV presents this idea that women can do everything—work, family, house, etc., all the while being fit and beautiful and clever,” Claire informs me.

“That's not exactly what I was saying,” Avery interrupts. “I was saying that life tends not to be as exciting as a story. I mean, it's not like we all have secret lives that involve fast cars and beautiful men, or women, and espionage and things.”

I look down at my feet in the sand. I wiggle my toes. I scratch my elbow. When I look up, Sam is staring at me. I look back at my feet. Avery continues.

“I am only saying that sometimes life is boring and that's okay. Life is not always imitating art. Sometimes art is flashier. Does that make any sense?”

Belinda and Claire nod in agreement. Sam continues to look at me. I continue to look at my feet. Suddenly, the kids appear. Belinda, Claire, and Avery gather theirs and head to the bathrooms. Theo and Carter demand snacks. Sam and I set to pulling out cheese and apple juice and crackers.

“You know,” Sam begins, adjusting the top on a sippy cup, “I used to work for the CIA.”