by Fiona Quinn
Lisa and Rowan were grinning at her.
“My recommendation would be to get a bunch of authors, good authors, the ones with a vast breadth of knowledge and a curiosity to dive into the depth of a subject. Those are the authors I personally like to work with. Stop grinning at me like that.”
“Your mind, Avery Goodyear, is astonishing,” Rowan said.
“Good God, Kennedy.” Lisa blinked at him as if he’d shocked the shit out of her. “Cupid’s arrow pierce you twice? It’s kind of nauseating to watch happen,” Lisa said and turned to Avery. “No offense. And I would say exactly the same thing about you being astonishing, just maybe not in such a sappy tone.” She paused. “The reason we would both say that is because that’s exactly what the CIA did. They developed a group called ‘Red Cell.’ It’s a bunch of creatives whose task and purpose is to look at the intelligence and come up with alternative ways of putting the pieces together. Or as you said, hand them fifteen ways that things could go to hell in a handbasket.”
“I bet they piss off the analysts,” Avery said.
“They do,” Lisa said. “But that’s their job. If they aren’t pissing people off, then they are failing at their mission.”
“So who did they pick for their Red Cell?”
Lisa smiled. “As I hear it, it was actually a pretty hard task to find the right people. They wanted writers.” She nodded at Avery. “They wanted them to be well versed in history, geo-politics, thriller writers, research heavy.”
“Big names, obviously.”
“Why do you say that,” Rowan asked. She was right but why?
“Because one of the super powers of a writer is that they can walk up to almost anyone and say, ‘I’m a writer, and I have some questions for my novel that you have an expertise in, would you help me?’ and people will tell you anything you want to know. When I was writing my last story, my heroine had to steal a plane. I went to an airport to talk to their safety officer and without blinking an eye, he taught me how to steal a plane.”
“You’re a dangerous woman.” Rowan laughed.
“And don’t you forget it.” She reached for his glass and took another sip of his drink, and coughed equally hard this second time.
Rowan reached out and pushed the candle to the edge of the table, so he could order Avery a drink that was easier to swallow.
“Anyway,” Avery continued. “To answer your question, that writer-super-power thing only works but so much when you’re a lesser-known writer. The more prestige you have, the more contacts you have, the more interesting places you get to go to see the behind the scenes. If you wanted someone who really knew what they were talking about, you’d need an international political or military thriller writer who was top of the charts, has all kinds of behind-the-scenes access and has talked to all kinds of people. They know how to ask the oddly detailed questions. The weird little tidbit that will twist the plot hard. It’s those odd details that creates the interest, because it’s the little things that are known to few that are the cracks where things can go so wrong.”
She wrinkled her nose. “But,” Avery said, “there would be a problem with egos, just like with special operators. The only problem is, writers have strong egos, individualized egos, and are not team players.”
“Right again. Avery gets all the gold stars,” Lisa said wiggling the candle around to catch the servers attention. “They start the folks on short rotations, so they can see if they play well in the sandbox with the others.” She turned to the waiter. “Another round please.”
When the waiter left, Avery leaned her elbows on the table. “What’s this got to do with me?”
Lisa grinned. “The FBI would like to start their own Red Cell.” She raised her brows and dropped them to show her excitement about the project.
“And you want me to suggest some authors? I do romance.”
Lisa mimicked Avery’s posture by crossing her arms on the table and leaning forward, closing the space between her and Avery and whispered, “We want a specific author. Taylor Knapp.”
Avery stilled.
Rowan could feel his muscles banding with tension.
“You want me to deliver Taylor Knapp to you. You want to convince Taylor Knapp to work on some newly formed FBI creative team?” Avery looked at the front door again.
Rowan couldn’t tell if she thought someone was going to burst through the doors, throwing flashbang into the room or she wanted to run away.
When she focused back on Lisa, she said, “I bet there is no team. I bet you just think this is the enticement you need to get a special agent and Taylor into the same room.”
Again, Rowan found it interesting and curious that Avery was very careful not to use a gender related pronoun. He doubted sincerely that it was her being PC or that Taylor went by a non-gendered pronoun by choice. Avery wasn’t smooth enough with it. Rowan could see Avery editing her words before they exited her mouth. He was almost a hundred percent sure that Taylor Knapp was a woman. Did that change anything about their approach? He’d have Lisa take that back to the team.
“If that were true, that we need an FBI agent in the same room with Taylor,” Lisa asked, “would you help us?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Avery
Saturday Morning
New York
The plastic seat was hard and uncomfortable. The sun had hit an angle where it glared directly into her eyes, and there was a tantrum-throwing toddler screaming at her feet. Yet Avery felt only relief. The ticket agent overbooked the return flight, and Avery was one of ten bounced passengers.
All right, she volunteered.
She couldn’t catch another plane until one-thirty. She’d already called Fanny with the heads up that she’d be delayed getting home. And Fanny was going to pick up their mom at the end of Sally’s shift.
Maybe Avery could finagle it so she could go home and have some peace and quiet to process before she let Fanny know that she was home.
As a matter of fact, Avery just didn’t think it was wise to try to handle Taylor and the FBI on zero sleep. She dialed the bed and breakfast in Warrenton where she had her reservation and changed her arrival date to this evening. It was on the Windsor Shreveport bill. There was no reason not to go now, besides ticking off her sister.
Avery’s gaze skimmed the waiting area. A handful of restaurants clustered nearby. She checked her watch, 11:20. Lunch would be nice, but every place looked crowded, and Avery was loathe to give up her seat. As awful as it was, at least she wasn’t sitting on the floor like many of those around her. And she had the good luck of being positioned next to a wall socket.
Avery plugged in her laptop and booted it up, using her hot spot.
Scanning through her emails, Avery saw nothing urgent. Thank you letters from the authors she’d met over the last three days comprised most of them. She’d asked for the first two chapters from most of the writers. It was hard not to, they were so earnest about their work.
The truth was, not a single plot line interested her. What they needed at Windsor Shreveport was something exceptional—a stand out. Something bound to hit the New York Time Best Seller list. If only she could find it, then George might take her off the Taylor Knapp book.
That would be a miracle.
The Uprising—what nonsense. Horrible. And now the FBI was involved. Avery brushed her hair from her face, twisting it up into a knot and sticking a pencil in the bun to hold it secure.
Avery wished Taylor would get finished writing the manuscript so Avery could do her job, then move on. Like swallowing down cod liver oil, she’d pinch her nose and do what had to be done.
Staring past the luggage carts on the runway, where men and women in their florescent green jumpsuits scurried about, Avery focused on the horizon, and sighed deeply. She seemed to do that a lot. Lolly thought it was a sign of depression. But Avery didn’t feel depressed, just…overwhelmed.
An arctic blast from the air-conditioning system swept the room.
Pulling her suit jacket closer, Avery leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes. The Uprising, can you imagine? Why were the FBI involved? That’s the part that Avery couldn’t fathom.
Her phone beeped. Avery looked at the screen: George. Booking issues didn’t affect his seat. He’d probably already landed in D.C. That’s what happens when the boss flies business-class, and she was relegated to the back of the plane, flying coach. George had no idea what a favor he’d done for her by leaving her behind. Avery smiled and turned the ringer to vibrate.
Then she thought about Rowan and his toe curling, breath-stealing kiss good-bye. He was going to take her to brunch Sunday, and they were going to go for a walk along the river if the weather was nice. She pulled up Twitter. Her hand hovered tentatively over her laptop keys.
Her inbox dinged and Avery saw it was a file from Taylor.
With a sigh, she opened it.
It was long. Fifty thousand words long. Half the word count for the contract.
Too long, too soon.
There’s no way in this world that Taylor could have typed this many words in the last few days even if she snorted a nose full of cocaine and dictated this into an voice to text app.
Avery changed the zoom level to thirty percent and scrolled through the hundred and seventy pages. These were notes not prose.
This information wasn’t dictated. This was carefully thought through and arranged under chapter headings. Lists.
On this page the goal is
This character sends message X
This character send message Y
This character contradicts the X and adds Z
In the world of writing there were three basic ways that authors figured out their plots. “Pantsers” sat at the keyboard to see what came to them. They were as surprised as the reader at how things unfolded. “Planters” were writers who had a good feel for the story and a basic trajectory, but they let the characters develop and unfold as the story took shape. And “plotters.” Plotters knew exactly how the story would transpire. They might put their story on sticky notes, or on white boards, or Excel spreadsheets. It didn’t matter. There were tons of ways to plan. And they could be excruciatingly detailed plans.
But Avery had never seen anything like this. This level of plotting was absurd.
And then Avery remembered Taylor’s old college roommate who for a thousand dollars sent her notes for The Unrest.
A Russian here in America illegally.
A PhD candidate in Germany who wrote code to help Taylor harvest personal data about the players.
Patrick Windsor’s wife, Inge Prokhorov, from Bulgaria.
And the FBI.
Avery was assigned to help Taylor put out that book.
Chill bumps raised on Avery’s arms, and she felt sweat form on her brow.
She looked through the notes. She looked at the descriptors. While the English was very good, Avery knew these weren’t written by a native English speaker. But what was it that Taylor had said about her Russian roommate? She’d been here since she was a baby. She’d lived here until high school. The roommate would speak English like a native.
These notes were from someone else.
And, Avery could show the FBI how she could tell that Taylor Knapp, or whoever she was, was getting the basis of her work from somewhere else. All Taylor was doing was turning bullet points into prose, using the vast wealth of language that she’d developed as a child memorizing poems. Pulling up Milton with ease.
Avery’s mind went to the CIA Red Cell, and she juxtaposed that with a conversation she’d had with Rowan about Russia. Rowan had told her that Russia knew it couldn’t beat the West with typical military warfare. Long ago they had taken their military financing and had rerouted it away from bullets and armor and toward psychological operations. Or as Rowan called them ‘psy-ops.’ The Russians had been working since the end of the Soviet Union to take down America from the inside.
While America had been dancing and patting herself on the back for the victory after the fall of the Soviet Union, getting drunk on the U.S.’s superiority, Russia plotted.
The battleground had shifted, that was all.
Rowan had a PhD in propaganda. Surely, the same kinds of men and women did the same kinds of jobs in Russia. Each country was trying to increase the power and safety for their citizens. Disinformation. “Tech wars” was what Rowan said.
If we had a Red Cell, why couldn’t they?
Avery needed to reach out to Rowan, like a touch stone, as she contemplated the fact that somehow she, Avery Goodyear, a romance editor from the suburbs, had become a player in an international game of psychological warfare.
How terrifying was that?
Avery wasn’t at all surprised when her phone buzzed with a text.
Rowan – Are you home safely?
She looked at the message for a full minute, wondering how she should reply.
Avery – It’s very odd, don’t you think, that whenever I’m about to send you a message, you beat me to it?
Rowan – Ha! I’ve noticed that myself. I guess I’m pulled to your magnetic personality.
Avery – That sounds like it might hurt.
Rowan – Not so far. Not for me anyway. Are you okay? You don’t feel okay to me. Your words feel tired and uncomfortable.
Avery – See? You are psychic. I’m stuck at the airport for the next few hours.
There was a long pause, and Avery felt her muscles tighten.
Rowan – No. It’s more than that. I’m worried now.
Avery – I have a question for you.
Rowan – Shoot.
Avery – You know what? It can wait. I have a lot to think about, I’m having trouble sorting it out.
Rowan – I’d be happy to help.
Avery – Thank you. I wish you could. But again, I have that NDA. And I need to decide what to do next.
Rowan – Maybe we could find a way to talk about it without actually talking about it? Maybe we could talk about hypotheticals?
Avery – Maybe. Let me sit with this. I need to think this through.
She tucked her phone away. She read through the plotting notes. Avery could see quite clearly how the us-them narratives were constructed. How, whatever you believed, would be supported. And whatever you believed, you were endangered.
These notes were quite genius—evil genius.
Like a Bond film.
Avery wasn’t equipped to play on that kind of cliff’s edge.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Avery
Saturday Afternoon
Washington DC
When Avery landed in D.C. at four, the traffic was bumper to bumper. There was no way she could get home by the time that Sally got done for the day. Avery called her sister to tell Fanny she needed to go and sit with their mother until Avery could get there.
Fanny wasn’t thrilled. She said she only had this weekend break, and then she was “doing Mom” for the rest of the month.
“I didn’t plan the traffic, Fanny.”
Until Avery could figure out a better living arrangement for their mom, their mother would be living with Fanny’s family.
And when she got home, Avery was going to spring it on Fanny. She would be leaving to stay in Warrenton Virginia tonight. one point three miles from Taylor. Avery was going to facilitate the project, so she could keep her job.
And she was going to spy for the FBI.
Despite how bad she knew she’d be at the job of being a spy, her mind was made up.
***
Avery seemed to have magicked her way home. She had no idea how she’d gotten all the way to her house by five o’clock. She pulled in beside Fanny’s car.
Curtis and Fanny were holding hands as they walked up the sidewalk.
Fanny’s face changed from anxiety to relief as she saw Avery.
That wouldn’t last.
The two walked back to their car like they’d just pile in and he
ad out.
“I need to talk to you,” Avery called, climbing from her own car. She caught up to them as Fanny was waiting for Curtis to unlock the car door.
Avery left her purse and bag where they were and rounded the car with her keys in her hand. “Late notice, I’m sorry. But I have to grab my bag and go. I’m expected out of town tonight.”
“Tonight? But you said Monday. Sally isn’t working tomorrow.”
Avery shrugged.
“We have church tomorrow. I can’t miss service,” Fanny said. “I can’t take Mom with me, she’d tell everyone they were going to hell for being Baptists.”
Curtis laid his hand on Fanny’s shoulder, he’d take over the arguments now.
Avery worked to stop herself from rolling her eyes.
“I’m concerned about bringing your mother into my home. I think it’s too dangerous for my children.”
“Fanny’s mother.” Avery crossed her arms over her chest. “Fanny’s home. Fanny’s children. Fanny’s problem. I won’t be here to take up the slack. I’m just grabbing my suitcase and walking back out the door.”
Avery wondered how Curtis could gyrate his face into that bizarre combination of surprise and fiery brimstone.
