Spy Mom (67 page)

“I have a few things I need to take care of this afternoon so I was wondering if you would be willing to take Theo to the zoo without me?”

My father-in-law takes a step back as if I just whacked him across the chest with a two-by-four.

“Are you ill?” he asks. “Because you look a little washed out to me.”

I wish everyone would stop saying that. I'm starting to take it personally.

“No,” I say. “I'm fine. Just a few errands to run and I thought Theo might have more fun with you two than being dragged around with me all afternoon.”

“I love that boy,” William II says in a deep voice. “I love him more than anything.” The Laurence Olivier vibe comes through strong and steady. “We can do whatever he wants. Oh, and I want to pay for that San Francisco Country Day that Will was telling me about.”

I'll leave it to Will to explain how Theo will probably not be accepted because he has a loud-mouthed, overly paranoid mother.

“That's very sweet,” I say, “but unnecessary. Let's start with the zoo.”

Over the course of the morning, I've convinced myself that, logistically, it would be difficult for anyone to sneak up and snatch my kid at the zoo. Too many people milling around eating cotton candy and popcorn and feeding the giraffes. But that small fact does little to help my stomach, now located somewhere down around my shoes. I feel as if I just jumped off the Empire State Building without a parachute.

I begin to pile various snacks on the kitchen table for the zoo expedition: cheese sticks, crackers, yogurt tubes, apple slices, unsalted almonds. It must appear like I'm having a snack-related seizure because William II takes me by the shoulders, forcing me to look at him.

“We'll be fine, Lucy,” he says with a genuine smile that did not exist
B.C.
“Just go on and have a nice afternoon.”

I have heard mothers talk about a sense of liberation, the sense of freedom they get when they walk out the door alone. It's as if they're walking back in time to the person they were before little Johnny or Mary Sue showed up to complicate things. But I don't feel that. I feel nothing but dread.

I stop at the Java Luv to fortify myself with a few shots of espresso. Leonard is behind the counter, staring into space, a completely vacant look on his face.

“Leonard!” I yell. “Come back to us.”

“What? Oh, hey, Lucy. It's the middle of the afternoon. What are you doing here?”

Getting ready for battle. Some people meditate. I drink coffee.

“Can I get an espresso for here and a coffee to go?”

“Loading up, are you? Wait a minute. Where's Theo?”

“At home with his grandparents,” I say. I wait for a tear in the space-time continuum to occur or something equally dramatic. But nothing happens.

“Holy shit, Lucy,” Leonard says. “What gives? Are you dying?”

“Of course not,” I snap. “I just have some stuff to do. What's so weird about a kid spending time with his grandparents?”

“You're the only weird thing in that equation, Lucy,” he says with perfect kindness. “For anyone else, it would be completely normal.”

I toss back the espresso. “Thanks, Leonard. You're a real pal.”

He smiles. He likes compliments of any sort. I pull out my cell phone and dial my old pal Chemical Claude.

“I'll be ready to make the trade in ninety minutes,” I say. “If you're not at the Ferry Building with Director Gray at that time, you don't get your prize. No second chances.”

I hang up before he can answer. Leonard stares at me.

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Too much acid maybe? Gotta lay off that stuff.”

“Drugs are bad for you, Leonard.”

“Sure they are. Yeah. Here's your coffee.” I take the container, give him a wave, and head out into the afternoon. The fog is rolling in fast and steady. I can feel the cool lick of its tongue on my face as I slide into the front seat of my car.

It's time to get to work.

On my way back toward the Presidio, I take a quick detour to a big, anonymous bank in the financial district. Parking there is hell but the chances of anyone recognizing me in that neighborhood are slim to none. Downstairs in the bank's vault is a safe deposit box registered to Maggie Wilson and paid for with cash. In the box, nestled in a bed of newspaper, is a gun. It looks almost exactly like the Colt Commander I dropped off the bridge at Point Bonita a couple of years ago. Except it's not. I have never run through a jungle with this gun nestled against my back. It has never been soaked with my sweat, squeezed tightly in fear. This gun has never killed anyone. The ridges on the grip feel unfamiliar and new. It's really clean.

It's also stolen. It's generally not a good idea for a girl like me to purchase a weapon through normal channels. The required background check would send up all sorts of red flags guaranteed to confuse the poor dumb guy behind the counter at Walmart. And eventually a note would pass over Simon Still's desk and there would be questions I don't want to answer.

Instead, I went to visit the guy who did some after market work on my old fun car and asked him bluntly to sell me a stolen gun. That he did not expect such a request from me, wearing yoga pants, hair in a pony tail, and driving a shiny new Prius, worked in my favor. The situation was so outside the norm that, to his mind, there was no way I could be a cop and he willingly threw open his store of stolen guns for my perusal. When I picked up the exact Colt Commander I'd lost, he even went so far as to berate me for picking a small, sissy gun. But I ignored him and stuck to what I knew.

I don't know why I felt the need to go out and get a gun on that particular day. Nothing of interest was happening in my life but as soon as I woke up I knew it had to happen. There was no way around it. If I didn't need it today I would certainly need it tomorrow. And here I had arrived at tomorrow.

I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. I put a handful of bullets in my jacket pocket and close up the box. I have to get this whole thing wrapped up by 5:00 so I can get back here before they close. Can't have a gun in the house. There are too many children wanting to hide in my closet so they can see their glow-in-the-dark light sabers.

No one tells you when you have kids that you'll completely lose control of your life. In your life before, you were probably able to maintain a semblance of order, chart a linear path through your days. But motherhood does nothing if not hone your ability to bob and weave. Any plans you make have probably gone to shit before breakfast is even over. It can be very disorienting.

Here it is just after lunch time and I've already read Theo four or five books, made a mess of an interview for private school, had some playtime on the playground, had at least six cups of coffee, passed Theo off to his grandparents with many instructions and snacks, all of which will be ignored, retrieved my gun from a safe deposit box, and headed off to get my terrorist back. I'm tired. I could use a nap but I just don't see that happening today.

It's a beautiful day down on Crissy Field. This is one of my favorite spots in the city of San Francisco. A long stretch of coast running from the Marina to Fort Point, great efforts have been made to return it to its natural state. The results of those efforts is a long walking path through restored habitat with incredible views of the Golden Gate Bridge, accompanied by the salty air and the ever-present wind. When Theo was a baby, I'd regularly walk him up and down this route in his BabyBjörn, breathing in the sea and letting the natural beauty clear my foggy mind. I have so many fond memories from this place, playing in the sand, watching the surfers, seeing Ian Blackford for the first time since he died. Okay, maybe not that one.

I drive west on Mason Street. Very few empty warehouses remain along this stretch of road with unobstructed views of the Bay and Golden Gate Bridge. Most of them are rented to swim clubs or gymnastics studios or rock-climbing gyms. S&S Outsourcing appears to own its whole building. Although I'm sure it wasn't intentional, it turns out the Presidio is perfect for a clandestine effort like this one. Federally owned land meant a minimum of questions if the Agency paid off the right people. And the Agency, as with all intelligence-gathering organizations, functioned as if laws did not apply to them, so that was not an issue.

The S&S Outsourcing building has been converted to what looks like office space to the casual observer, a hulking mass refinished in light-colored shingles meant to pay tribute to its industrial roots. The windows are all new and, from the way the sun glints off them, I can tell the glass is bulletproof. The building looks ominous, the kind of place that does not guarantee your eventual exit. And if you turn out to be one of the fortunate souls who does earn an exit pass, you might come out and not recognize the person you see in the mirror.

I pull the Prius into a space in the tiny parking lot near the door. When considering a getaway car, I doubt the Prius would float to the top of anyone's list. Of course, what it does have going for it is the element of disbelief. Slap a
FREE TIBET
bumper sticker on that sucker and no one in their right mind would ever believe the driver could be a criminal. It's simply too far-fetched. I leave the car unlocked. I'd leave it running but I don't know how to do that with a Prius.

Standing outside S&S Outsourcing, I don't have even the slightest semblance of a plan. I have nothing but a gun, a fleece jacket, and the element of surprise. Fleece jackets are warm and dry and easy to clean but they aren't intimidating like the Bat Suit or Spiderman's get-up. But I have the gun and the surprise thing so while neither of those will vault me to superhero status, they're better than nothing.

It's possible Simon Still, two stories underground, is right now watching me on the security cameras. And if he is, his complete confidence in his state-of-the-art security system will keep him from getting too excited about it. But I know something he doesn't know. And that is what they say is true—you
can
buy anything on eBay.

For $250, I scored an electronic key card the prepubescent thirteen-year-old seller assured me could break any security system. And it worked just fine at Nordstroms so I'm hopeful my luck will continue.

I slide the card through the slot and the door opens. Inside, about ten feet away at a desk, is a receptionist in a navy suit, bent over a printer, her back to the door. In a split second, Simon will be barking orders at her through her headset, telling her to shoot me. He probably won't even take the time to tell her to shoot to injure, not kill.

I cover the distance between the door and the desk in a few big strides. The receptionist, turning toward me with a dazed look on her face, is none other than Nanny Pauline. I should have known by the navy suit and sensible matching pumps. Putting a gun to Nanny Pauline's head is harder than putting a gun to an anonymous fake receptionist's head. I do it half-heartedly.

“Sally!” Pauline says. “How did you get in here?”

“Do you remember what I told you about calling me ‘Sally'?” I ask.

“Yes,” Pauline replies, shrinking back from the gun barrel. “Your name is Lucy.”

“Very good.”

“Simon said even if you happened to find us, which was impossible, you'd never be able to get in. This place is a fortress, he said.”

I like that I made Simon nervous enough to mention me at all. I'll take all the points I can get.

“Sometimes Simon is wrong,” I say. Actually, this might be the first time Simon's been wrong but she doesn't need to know that.

Pauline clears her throat. “How's Theo?” she asks, turning her head so my gun rests on her temple. Her eyes are squeezed shut. No matter how good you think you are, having a gun pointed at your head is never a relaxing experience.

“Great,” I say. “He's in his last year of preschool. Choosing a kindergarten is turning out to be more difficult than I expected but we'll figure it out.”

What's wrong with me? Why do I feel the need to yammer on about my kindergarten woes to anyone with a pulse? I give myself a mental kick in the ass. Stay focused.

“Wow,” Pauline says, opening her eyes and inhaling deeply. “Time flies.”

“How many agents are down there with him?” I ask. A lot depends on her answer. “And don't lie. I can tell if you're lying. I'm good at that.”

Pauline nods and licks her dry lips.

“None,” she says finally.

“You sure about that?” I say. “Remember, it'll be your body between me and them.”

“I'm not lying. He's alone down there with the prisoner.”

So my sprinkling of fairy dust hasn't worn off just yet. Good for me.

“Get up,” I say. “Let's go see him.”

Pauline wipes her palms on her skirt. I imagine they're slick with sweat.

“Don't worry,” I say. “Just do as I ask and everything will be fine.”

“Whenever anyone says things will be fine,” she says, “they always turn out awful.”

“Look at you,” I say. “You're finally getting it. Way to go!”

I march her at gunpoint toward the elevator.

“Enter the code,” I order. Pauline punches in some numbers and I detect a small tremor in her hand. I'm not supposed to be here. The door wasn't supposed to open. She was unprepared to deal with me just walking in like I owned the place. Later, when Simon ships her off to Siberia for being weak, she'll feel betrayed. It's not her fault I got through the door and it's not her fault that having a gun to her head made her scared. She'll consider once again whether Agency life is for her but will stay in the end because Simon inspires that kind of twisted loyalty. Your hatred of him is matched only by your desire to have him love you. And Simon does not love anyone.

We step into the elevator as if we are one person. I catch a faint whiff of lemongrass rising off her. The smell makes me instantly ill. I close my eyes and take a few quick gulps of air. Now is not the time to go around throwing up on hostages.