Spy Mom (50 page)

“Let's go and get your camera,” he said, linking his arm through mine. “We can stroll among the vendors and get some of the shots you wanted.”

“I have my camera,” I said, pulling it from inside my heavy coat.

“Great news,” Min said with forced enthusiasm. “Let's get to work. Tomorrow we go back down to Kathmandu and we send you home, okay?”

Why the rush?, I wanted to ask but Min didn't look like a man who was going to answer such a question.

Forgetting all about Ayushi, we slogged along in the mud, not having to work too hard to blend in with the other gritty trekkers. In his mug shot, Chemical Claude had a face that looked average at first but upon closer inspection was off in a number of ways. His eyes were too close together and his broad forehead appeared to go on for miles. He tried to hide its expanse with shaggy bangs that went out of fashion with the Monkees. His deep, saggy cheeks could have stored a winter's supply of nuts without much effort. The result made for an unattractive man but not one so horrifying as to make small children run away at the mere sight of him.

I snapped picture after picture of the vendors, hoping that Chemical Claude still resembled his mug shot and hadn't grown a long beard, dyed his hair, or gotten plastic surgery after escaping from prison. At one stall, a long cotton scarf, indigo and pale green, caught my eye. I thought it would look nice on Ayushi.

“How much is that?” I asked in Nepali, pointing to the scarf. A similar scarf flecked with orange obscured most of the vendor's face and he wore sunglasses to cover his eyes. But even so it was obvious he wasn't Nepali or Tibetan. He was not a large man but sturdy, his feet planted as if he were anticipating an attack. He paused for a moment at the sound of my voice before handing me the scarf.

“It's a bargain,” he said. His Nepali sounded strange, tainted by an odd, flat accent. I ran my hands over the scarf. It was dirty and torn on one end. Fingering the frayed edge, my body started to tingle. It was either the acute onset of altitude sickness or something was wrong here.

“You hesitate,” the man said. “One should never hesitate when one knows what one truly wants.”

He leaned close to me. “Welcome to Namche Bazaar, Sally Sin. They told me you'd walk right in like John Wayne, like you owned the place, dragging innocent children behind you no less. So American. You people can't bear to be alone.”

Time did that strange thing it does when you have but a split second to decide what you're going to do and yet the choice could use so much more consideration. My entire focus turned to Ayushi, whom I had left stupidly unattended in the smoke.

I dropped the scarf, turned, and ran back through the market toward the lodge where I had left her earlier. Behind me I could hear the man laughing. It was a high-pitched sound that bounced off the surrounding mountains and ricocheted around the valley with wild abandon.

I crashed through the flimsy front door of the guesthouse. Min was at my heels, trying desperately to figure out what was going on.

“Where is she?” I shouted at the owner's wife.

“Those men said you sent them to get her and meet you. She went with them.”

I grabbed Min by the shoulders and shook him as if he were a rag doll. “Where would they take her?”

“Who?” Min stammered.

“Claude Chevalier. Chemical Claude. Notorious bad guy who likes to make origami.” I didn't expect my explanation to mean anything to him but, without pause, he answered.

“Back down,” he said. “To the river. The bridge. They have done it before.”

“Before? What are you talking about? Oh, forget it. Move!”

I shoved him out of the way and took off at a run down the very trail we had toiled to scale that morning. Behind me, I could hear Min shouting for me to stop, but all I could see was Ayushi's face. The terrain was rocky and damp and my boots skidded around as if the whole trail were coated in ice. My ankles repeatedly gave way, bending at unnatural angles, but I kept running, not willing to slow down even a bit.

As I rounded a corner, I heard the pop of a gun. Instinctively, I dove to the side of the trail and lay flat in the yak shit and mud, completely still. A moment later, Min came barreling down the trail, a Glock 19 gripped tightly in one hand. Briefly, I registered that a Glock 19 would cost more than what the average Nepali trekking guide made in a year. And it's not like you could just drop by the local hunting and fishing superstore and pick one up at your leisure.

“Nice gun,” I said from my position on the ground, “but why the hell are you shooting at me?”

Min tucked the Glock into the pocket of his puffy down jacket. “I asked you several times to stop but you did not seem to hear me.”

“I need to go,” I said.

“I can't let you do this.”

“Listen, I appreciate your sense of obligation as my guide or whatever, but I think you're getting in over your head.”

Min sighed, looking at me as if I were hopelessly naïve, which, in retrospect, was certainly true.

“I cannot let you go after the girl,” he said. “My orders come from the top, Sally.”

I was pretty sure he had just called me Sally. “The top of what?” I asked. There were a lot of mountains around here and all of them had tops.

“The Director,” he said. “The head of the Agency. That top.”

“As in Director Gray?” I asked slowly.

Min nodded.

Sitting there in the mud, I was speechless and I'm not often speechless. Director Gray and Min? Even accounting for six degrees of separation that relationship seemed impossible.

“But I picked you out of a random line of taxis,” I said as if that would explain everything.

“Nothing is random, Sally Sin,” Min said.

“I'm starting to get that.”

“My job is to keep you safe while you attempt to carry out your mission.”

Emphasis on attempt, I guess.

“You're my babysitter?” Was I really that pathetic?

“I prefer to think of myself more as a guardian.”

When I woke up that morning, I'd been concerned about normal everyday covert agent things such as if I was going to die from a brain aneurysm brought on by a lack of oxygen or if Chemical Claude was going to kill me before I had a chance to complete my mission. But it was rapidly turning into the kind of day that well illustrated one of Simon Still's fundamental beliefs: Things are seldom as they seem.

From the back of my pants, I pulled my small Colt Commander. It was slick with sweat from being nestled against my skin. Before Min could figure out what was happening, I had the barrel pointed right in his face.

“I'm going to get that girl,” I said.

“Sally, be reasonable. You're walking right into their trap. They want something. And then they'll kill her anyway.”

If I had been Simon Still or, I suspect, any other agent from the USAWMD, I would have seen the logic in Min's argument. But I wasn't and I didn't.

“Get out of my way,” I said.

“I can't do that.”

“Who's in charge here? You or me?”

He shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“So if I run, you shoot me. And if you won't move, I shoot you, is that it?”

“Looks like it.”

“Those aren't very good choices,” I said. “I hate a rock and a hard place.”

And then I shot him in the foot. As he fell to the ground, cursing, pulling at his boot to remove it, I took off down the trail. I would end up spending two months in a desert in Mali for this act of reckless aggression because shooting an innocent man is just not acceptable, even according to the rules of frontier justice governing the USAWMD.

I ran over the treacherous ground until I came to a rickety wooden footbridge strung haphazardly across a raging, chalky gray river. On the bridge stood the man with the scarf and two goons, one of whom held Ayushi, a beefy arm around her slim neck. I skidded to a stop. The man began to unwrap the scarf. Gone was the giant forehead; bleached blond hair tumbled to his shoulders in stylish waves. If I had to bet I would say the nose was new, too, but no amount of reconstructive surgery could take care of those eyes, filled full with sadistic pleasure at this turn of events.

“Welcome to the party, Ms. Sin,” Chemical Claude shouted above the thunderous sound of the water. “We knew you would come.” I had found my man.

The time on my fake password expires and the computer screen goes dark. I push back from the desk and close my eyes. Chemical Claude's voice rings in my ears just as it did that day, floating in the thin air above the furious river. And despite his best efforts, no amount of voice-distorting software can mask the flatness of his accent. Chemical Claude and Righteous Liberty are one and the same and, when I think about it, there was never really a chance they weren't.

And to make matters worse, by staging this elaborate effort to get Yoder back, Chemical Claude has indicated to Simon Still that the boy does indeed know something, and Simon really doesn't like being made a fool of. Gray is irrelevant. Simon's on an unsanctioned one-man mission to get Yoder to confess all he knows, damn the consequences.

What a mess.

“Shit,” I say, squeezing my temples, hoping if I apply enough pressure the whole world might disappear.

Back from the hardware store and sucking on a lollipop, Theo stands in the door, looking at me with a curious expression. I have no idea how long he's been watching. The fact that he's not an early reader suddenly seems a point in my favor.

“Mom,” he says, “how do you spell ‘shit'?”

“You can't,” I say, digging my fingernails into the soft flesh of my palms. “‘Shit' doesn't have any letters.”

But that doesn't mean you can't step in it.

Theo and I play
Star Wars
in the living room, he with great enthusiasm and me not so much. We patiently await the return of Will with our regularly scheduled Sunday night Chinese take-out from the place around the corner. Theo will eat a single egg roll but not before he has deconstructed it and organized all the ingredients into separate piles on his plate. All day, from the beach to the playground to the grocery store, the contrails of Chemical Claude's voice have floated behind me.

“I am Darth Maul and I have two light sabers,” Theo announces in his best attempt to intimidate me. “I will stab you with them, you bad guy.” With that, he pokes me right in the stomach with two plastic swords, left over from Halloween.

“Ouch,” I yelp. When did my darling and loving child turn warlike and mean? He stabs me again.

“Come on, Mom. Be the bad guy,” he whines. “You said you would play.”

I never said anything of the sort. I'm twitchy, anxious, trying to put the pieces of this puzzle together while simultaneously being pursued by a foe with a double light saber. It would be a challenge on a good day.

Finally, I take my sword, cut from a cardboard box, wrapped in peeling tinfoil and slightly bent in the middle, and tap Theo on the head with it.

“I am the bad guy,” I say in my “Theo-clean-up-your-toys-or-I-am-going-to-throw-them-all-away” voice. “I am here to disarm you and take your planet and, um, recycle it.” With that, Theo's lips start to quiver and his blue eyes fill with tears.

“What's the matter?” I ask. “I thought you wanted me to be the bad guy?”

“You're supposed to let me win,” he cries, the tears spilling over and running down his cheeks. This kid needs a sibling. He's starting to exhibit symptoms of being an annoying only child.

“Honey, I'm sorry. Here, let's try again.” He looks skeptical but eventually takes up his swords and makes a halfhearted attempt at gutting me with them. I fall over, accompanying the action with a series of horrible gagging noises, much to Theo's delight.

“Is that better?” I ask from my twisted position on the floor. He nods.

“Yes. Keep doing that. Keep dying.”

What a sweet kid. I lie there groaning and gasping for air and hoping Theo will soon grow tired of this and let me get back to the serious business of panicking over Chemical Claude and being the spawn of Director Gray. Overall, it's been a lousy weekend and I can't say I'm unhappy to see it end.

Will returns holding a brown paper sack already stained with grease in one hand and a bouquet of red gerbera daisies in the other.

“What are you doing on the floor?” he asks. “Are you sick? You have been looking a little pale lately.” He stands over me, examining my face but not making any motion to help me up.

“I'm playing dead for Theo,” I say. “Dead people are pale.” Will looks as if he's considering a follow-up question but, using his better judgment, decides against it.

“These are for you,” he says.

“They're lovely,” I say, still on my back.

“So are you,” Will says, raising his eyebrows. “Even if you are a little pale.”

I think it's a compliment but I can't be sure.

“How long did it take me to pick up the take-out?” he asks, looking around. A trailer park after a tornado has got nothing on my living room.

“Twenty minutes,” I say.

“You guys work fast.” He plucks a stray Harry Potter book from between the couch cushions. Theo's attempt to write his name inside the front cover in fact takes up the whole first chapter.

“And we're efficient,” I add. “And thorough.”

Taking advantage of his father's momentary distraction, Theo sticks Will in the back with a plastic sword.

“Take that!” he yells.

In retaliation, Will grabs Theo by the legs and turns him completely upside down. Dangling there, Theo squeals with delight. I stay on the floor, stretching my arms above my head and listening to all of my vertebrae snap and crack. When I was twenty-five, my body didn't make all this noise.

Still holding Theo upside down, Will steps over me as if I am nothing more than a fallen tree in the forest. He used to come through the door, slide an arm around my waist, and pull me to him so our bodies curved around each other. He would kiss me slowly, as if time and dinner and children and baths and storybook reading weren't important, as if the two of us together were all that actually mattered in the universe. Those were the moments that helped me over the sometimes mindless and infuriating task of caring for a small, unruly, illogical howler named Theo who appeared, at times, hell bent on self-destruction.