American Spy

by Lauren Wilkinson

  “But, Marie, seriously. How can you work for an organization like that?”

  “You mean, as a black woman?” I said, wanting to be clear about how precisely he was dictating what my experience should be.

  “Let it go,” Ross said, having heard the sharpness of my tone. “Maybe she feels like I do, like I have to make a place for myself. Even if the agency doesn’t want me.”

  I glanced at him. It was the second time in the conversation that he’d said something that reminded me of Helene.

  “Let it go?” Phillip asked. “You let too much go. That’s the difference between us.”

  “I don’t know how you can be so sanctimonious,” I said. “If I’m culpable, you are too. You’d never catch me pretending to be a radical if I were in your shoes. Ross is in the CIA. If you’re a radical, you’re supposed to hate everything he stands for. But you don’t. And you benefit from what he does for a living, every day.”

  I finished what was in my wineglass. Ross let out a loud, forced laugh. He said, “Phil, do you mind if I meet you upstairs in a little bit? I need to talk to Marie alone for a few minutes.”

  Phillip stood. He took my hand and said disingenuously, “Listen, it was really great to meet you.”

  “You too.”

  “If you’re ever down in DC, you should drop by. I mean it.” He didn’t. We both knew that.

  “Good night, Phillip,” I said as I leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  Once he was gone, Ross and I glanced at each other. He put a finger up to order one last round of wine.

  His choice to invite me into his life was a customized recruitment technique. I’d said what I had to Phillip to short-circuit the tactic. I could imagine them upstairs, before they came down to the restaurant, Ross telling his lover to play up his politics. It wasn’t dissimilar to the toys I used to bring Aisha for Marlon. There are elements of recruitment that aren’t unlike seduction, and although what he was doing was transparent to me, I’d been so starved for pleasurable conversation, and for anything that looked even remotely like friendship, that at first I’d been willing to pretend I didn’t understand precisely what was happening. I’d come to my senses.

  And now I had the advantage. Now I could decide what dangling Phillip’s friendship like that meant Ross had divined about me. He knew I was lonely, and that I wasn’t really politically neutral. I’d learned things from the move as well—that he was smarter than the people I was used to. And more manipulative.

  He cleared his throat. “So how’s it going over at your office?”

  I told him things were great, but the truth was that the high-profile case Mr. Ali and I had discussed, the one involving a spy at the Foreign Mission, had thrown the division into turmoil.

  “I hear you’re a talented agent. Hopefully they’re not wasting you over there.”

  “They’re not,” I said, lying again. I’d been hopeful that Gold would ask me to participate in the suspect’s interrogation. Instead he’d assigned me to the evidence seized from his apartment. I’d spent a day sifting through and logging the items a squad had found in his safe: his tax and bank records, his diplomatic passport. A black address book with two tickets stubs for a Saturday matinee of Verdi’s Macbeth inside.

  He must’ve known I wasn’t telling the truth, because he said, “These organizations aren’t savvy. If the agency knew I was…the way I am, they would assume I was a liability. Out in the field, I had to hide everything about who I was because it made me vulnerable as an officer. And at Langley now, I still have to hide. That’s a choice I made. A personal sacrifice. It was worth it, because I swore an oath of service to all Americans. That includes kids like me. They should have someone to look up to. And I bet there are little girls like you—”

  “Black girls.”

  “Who want to grow up and become special agents. Don’t you want to blaze the trail for them too?”

  “Yes,” I said, although to tell the truth, what he was describing sounded absolutely exhausting. Why should I subject myself to professional torture for the sake of some hypothetical black girl who might want to be a Fed? I was too tired. I wouldn’t realize how tiring the last few years had been for me until I was forced to take a break from them. Which isn’t to say it wasn’t tempting, the way that Ross wanted me as an ally. To join him in his own secret war—pushing back the goalposts at our respective agencies. I just wondered if it occurred to him that the posts might need to come down altogether.

  “Listen, Officer Ross—”

  “You can call me Ed.”

  “I’m ready for your pitch. I should warn you though, I’ve read a little bit about Burkina Faso since our meeting. I know it’s never done as well as it’s doing right now.”

  “What exactly impresses you?”

  “The CNR has improved the lives of millions of Burkinabè in just a few years.”

  “That’s true. There was the vaccine campaign,” he said, and counted it on a finger. In 1984, Thomas Sankara had made it his goal to vaccinate as many Burkinabè children as possible in two weeks against three diseases that they routinely died from: yellow fever, measles, and meningitis. Despite UNICEF’s misgivings about the project’s feasibility, they supported it, and two million were vaccinated. And in that way, Sankara had helped save the lives of thousands of children.

  “And Alpha Commando,” he added, and put up a second finger, counting the CNR’s accomplishments in as dismissive a way as possible. That was a similar campaign designed to combat illiteracy in the most rural parts of the nation. It had increased both the literacy rate and school attendance. Before he’d taken office, less than 10 percent of the population had been literate; in two years, the CNR increased that number to 25 percent.

  Sankara argued that a society that oppressed women couldn’t be a successful one, and committed himself to women’s rights: banning forced marriage, polygamy, and female genital mutilation. He argued that the poorest on the globe were the most vulnerable to climate change and started a tree-planting initiative to stop the encroaching desert.

  “It’s rare for one man to have done so much good for so many in such a short time. I can’t think of anyone else who’s done it. It’s impressive.”

  “Fair enough.” He inclined his head. “But you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make. Is it a bad idea for us to gather intel on a hostile government because of its social initiatives?”

  “Is it hostile?”

  “By definition, all Communist governments are hostile. All dictatorships are hostile.” The lightness that had been the companion to his attitude all evening had suddenly dissolved. “I won’t tell you that Sankara’s not doing a lot of good. I can see it. But I don’t think there’s much value in looking only at short-term social improvements, while ignoring the potential for long-term economic gains. It’s a fact that Communist governments inhibit the economic growth of a country. End of story. And when Sankara runs out of what little money his government has, what do you think’ll happen to all those programs?”

  “Good point,” I said. “Now let me ask you something else.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Shoot.”

  “What do you really want from me?”

  He smiled. Once more, he seemed entertained by my ignorance of something. It was becoming condescending.

  “Here’s the truth. Getting you close to Sankara is at the heart of SQLR,” he said, using the operation’s code name for the first time. I assumed it was a meaningless acronym, probably one that followed CIA conventions on such matters. After all, it wouldn’t be a very good code if it hinted at what the operation was about.

  “Have a good night.” I started to gather my things, having finally understood what he was leaving out. They expected me to sleep with him. For intel. Although I was angry and insulted, I was unsurpri
sed to learn that this was the best way they could think of to use my talents.

  “You’re going? You haven’t even asked about the money.”

  He told me how much the assignment would pay. It was a lot, an obscene amount in fact, so much that it shocked me. And further convinced me that they wanted me to have sex with him. For intel.

  Off my expression he said, “I think a lot more things are about money than people care to admit.”

  I’d made it only a few paces toward the exit when he played an unexpected card. “Do you know Daniel Slater?”

  My mind raced back to the night I’d spent sitting beside him at that bar in North Carolina. I turned back to Ross. “He knew my sister.”

  “He recommended you for this assignment.”

  “Why?” I said, unable to hide my surprise.

  “He thinks you’ll be successful.”

  “It’s his idea for me to get close to Sankara?”

  Ross shook his head. “The assignment is getting the intel. I’m being honest with you about what you’ll need to do for it.”

  I sat down again across from Ross. “Where is he? Slater.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Please,” I said. I heard the strained, begging note in my voice, but wanted too much from him then to bother with being embarrassed by it. He shook his head. I said, “Did you know Helene too?”

  “No. I’ve heard about her though. From him.”

  “How can he vouch for me? Is he in DC?”

  “He’s in the field. That’s really all I can say.”

  “What did he tell you about her?”

  “I know he loved her.”

  I thought for a few moments before I spoke. “So, you just want me to find out how much Thomas Sankara knows about CIA involvement in his government.”

  “Yes. But to do that you’ll have to get close to him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, trying to pin him down.

  “You’re smart. What do you think I mean?”

  “I think you want a particular bit of intel and it’s up to me to figure out how I get it.”

  “All right.”

  I thought he was radically underestimating me. I knew I wouldn’t have to sleep with Thomas Sankara just to extract a little bit of intel. That was crazy. And if all he was willing to admit to was that he wanted this bit of information, then I had no problem participating in SQLR. Because I could do it on my own terms. I could outfox him—a thought that was pure Helene. She often believed that. I said, “Okay. I’ll get the intel. But I want something in exchange.”

  “Something other than the cash?”

  “I want to talk to Daniel Slater.” I had questions about Helene that only he could answer. The chance to ask them was worth far more than the money to me.

  “I can’t make any promises,” he said. “But let’s say SQLR was successful. I could see him surfacing to congratulate you. And to take credit for recommending you.”

  “And I could ask him my questions.”

  He nodded.

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  I reached out my hand to shake his. As he took it in his, he seemed very pleased. I thought that once he realized his vagueness had given me a loophole I was planning to slip through, he would no longer be so self-satisfied. He said, “Let’s meet again tomorrow. I’ll brief you on everything you’ll need to know.”

  “We can do that now.”

  He gestured for the check as he shook his head. “It’s getting late. Go home, get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  After he’d paid the bill he said, “Come on. I’ll hail you a cab.”

  “A yellow one?” I asked tentatively.

  “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

  “He’s going to hate having to take me to Harlem.”

  “We all have to make concessions to serve the greater good.” He said it with a smile, but there was a hint of something sharp inside it. “Isn’t that what you just told Phil?”

  PART TWO

  10

  MARTINIQUE, 1992

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. I GOT OUT OF bed and went to the kitchen, where I poured myself some whisky and took it out to the back porch. I sipped my drink and listened to the cicadas. I was trying to distract myself, but my mind kept circling back to what had happened in Connecticut. I wondered how long he’d been watching us. I thought he must’ve known you two were in the house, and that made me feel sick and exposed. I thought about how much I hated having a gun in the house with you. What if it had been one of those nights where one or both of you had decided you couldn’t sleep without me in the room? What if I’d misjudged the sound of that man’s weight on the floorboard in the hall? I kept imagining having shot one of you by accident, and the thought made me feel like all the blood had suddenly drained out of my body.

  At my first FBI posting, in Indiana, I’d earned a reputation for remaining cool under pressure. Really it’s that I go into survival mode during an emergency. I’m grateful; if I’d actually been able to feel my terror when that man had been in our house, it would have been lethal for all of us. But now, the emotions I’d been divorced from were finally visiting me and the delay had made them especially ferocious. The physical symptoms were bad: the heart palpitations, the tremors, the cold flashes. The unwelcome thoughts were worse. What I really wanted was to be alone for a few days, to gather myself, but I couldn’t do that to you.

  Agathe said my name softly before stepping out onto the porch, Poochini just behind her. After I’d told her everything I planned to about that night in Connecticut, she’d taken to doing that—going out of her way not to startle me.

  “What are you doing up?” I asked in French.

  “This dog of yours snores,” she said. “It sounds like there’s a man in the house.”

  “He was sleeping in your room?”

  “Yes. I keep pushing him off the bed, but he jumps back up.”

  “He likes you.” I called him over and scratched his back. Poochini had a very expressive face; when he was pleased he looked like he was smiling. She sat on the couch beside me.

  “You’re always so gentle,” she said.

  Feeling like her comment meant I’d exposed a vulnerability, I took my hand off the dog. “He’s a sweet boy. We got him at the pound. Someone didn’t want him so they tied him up and left him in a lot.”

  As she was about to say something, from somewhere out in the dark came a loud metallic bang. I leaped to my feet, heart racing. My hand went to the gun in the holster on my hip. I hated the thing. It represented the mistakes I’d made that forced a gun to be a necessity in my life. I looked out into the night, trying to find the source of the noise.

  “Sometimes coconuts fall off the trees,” my mother said. “That sounded like one hitting the chicken coop.”

  “You stay here with the boys. I’ll go make sure.”

  I took the hurricane lamp off a hook and set out across the pasture behind the house. The smell of burning wood hung in the air. As I padded across the dead grass, my footsteps seemed loud. So did my heart. I approached the chicken coop, circled it. I didn’t see any coconuts. I started toward the old stand-alone kitchen and peeked inside. I stood beside it quietly for a moment, listening for footsteps. There was only the sound of insects and the crashing ocean.

  My mother looked tense as I stepped up onto the back porch. She was up on her feet and holding Poochini by the collar, so he wouldn’t dart out after me. “What was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who’d you think it was?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Could someone have followed you here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was annoyed with the way I was answering her. My mother and I have always innately understood the bes
t ways to irritate each other. “I have the right to know if you’re still in danger. If we all are.”

  “As long as I’m here you’re safe.”

  “Marie…” We both knew the opposite was true: As long as I was there we were all at risk. “You can’t do this. You can’t take all this on by yourself.”

  “What other choice do I have?”

  She moved to put her arm around my shoulders, but I was too tense to bear it and stepped out of range of her reach. “I’m all right,” I lied. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m your mother. Of course I’m going to worry.”

  As I sat on the sofa, I thought of you two, asleep in the quiet house. “I want to ask you something.”

  “What?”

  “It’s about the boys. You know they love you, right?” You’d warmed up to her, and I felt I could say that sincerely.

  She nodded. I said, “If anything happens to me, I want you to take care of them. I have some money saved.”

  “What’s going to happen to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s bullshit!” she shouted.

  We both were surprised; it was exceedingly uncharacteristic for her to speak to me as she just had. A few moments passed and she composed herself. “I’m sorry. But you’re scaring me. And I feel like I’m in the dark.”

  Not knowing what to say, I kept quiet.

  “You want me to take care of them,” she said thoughtfully.

  “It’s one of the reasons I came here. To ask you.”

  “They’d have to live here, at least until they go to college.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean it. I’m not going back to New York.”

  “I want them to stay here. They’ll be safer out of the country.”

  She sighed. “I can’t say no, can I?”

  “Pop would be happy to take them. He’s good with them.”

  “Your father?”