“About…?”
A wan smile, then she shakes her head again. “How about you? What’re you thinking?”
I think many things. I think of her ankle, and how it felt in my grip, my fingertips touching on the other side. I think of overpriced dinners and laughter. I think of waking before her occasionally and measuring out her sleeping features with my gaze. I think pitifully of years alone in my bed, desperately rebuilding her from the old schematics. I think of what I’m doing to her now, and I wonder if I’ll be able to live with myself, when everything I’m doing is in order to live. I say, “I’m thinking of our history. It’s a good history.”
She blinks a few times, again wiping away the tears, and straightens. She sniffs once and looks at the wine in her glass without touching it. The spell dissipates when she says, “Why don’t you pin it on Owen Lassiter?”
“Excuse me?”
“He killed himself, after all. Three months after the Flughafen. No one ever explained it, not really. There was a love affair gone bad, but it went bad after the Flughafen.” She raises her hands. “Why? Guilt destroys his relationship, then guilt and loneliness destroy him. It’s a perfect little narrative, and he’s not around to defend himself. Much easier than what you’re doing.”
She says this as if it’s something that never occurred to me, though it was the very first thought that came to mind when oily little Larry Daniels approached Vick with his wicked theories. “Wouldn’t work,” I tell her.
“Why not?”
“Firstly, because it’s not true. But that’s not so important. There’s a practical issue.”
“Which is?”
“His family.”
She raises her chin, thinking, then nods. “Right. Senator Lassiter of Wyoming.”
“Two years ago, he ended up on the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee. If I pin it on his nephew, there’s going to be a load of bricks falling on me. And a perfect narrative won’t be enough of a defense.”
“How about Ernst?”
I smile despite myself. I have a feeling she’s going to go through the whole list, just like Bill. No, not just like him—Bill threw out names in desperation, scratching at the dirt to keep from being smothered. There’s no desperation in her voice, and it almost feels as if she’s offering alternatives in order to help me rather than herself. Help me find another way out. Some escape route, so that I don’t have to do this to her. But I’ve been through the options, each and every one, and this is the only avenue left to me. “The problem with Ernst is that he’s still breathing.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Does she want me to say it? Maybe. Maybe she wants me to state the practical reason for flying to Carmel and cornering her after all these years: access. Or: lack of access. She is the only one of us who has built a high wall between herself and the Agency, the only one who no longer has the pull to defend herself. The irony is that the wall she built to protect herself is the very one that will trap her.
I say, “Do you want to go on with your story?”
She cocks her head, taking me in, and I get the sense that she’s going to cry again. Does she really know? Does she realize that, whatever she says or doesn’t say, the course has been set? I have no idea, and her reply gives me no clue. She says, “I have a theory about unhappiness. Want to hear it?”
“I’m intrigued.”
She winks at me. “Don’t worry—it’s nothing brilliant. It’s something I came up with back in Vienna, when we were together. Expectation,” she says, “is the source of all human misery.”
“Expectation?”
“Sure.” A smile. “Like, what did I expect from California? I’ll tell you: relaxation. Some luxury. A little intellectual stimulation. A safe place to mold my children. Most of all, though—the most pressing thing—was a complete escape from the Agency. I wanted to leave all of it behind. Then, about two weeks after arriving here, I get a call from a guy named Karl. With a K. He tells me Bill’s in trouble. What can I do? I ask to know more. So he visits me at a restaurant—yes, this one—and tells me that my Bill, the one I’ve devoted a chunk of my life to, has turned out bad. He’s been selling secrets to the highest bidder. Not to France or England or even China, but to the worst of the worst—the Islamists, the Taliban, al Qaeda. Your heroes, Aslim Taslam.”
“They’re not my heroes.”
“Whatever. My point is that Karl wants me to help bring him down. Bill. My Bill. Wants me to fly to Vienna and draw him out and entrap him. The Flughafen, he tells me, is still very fresh for the Austrians. So I say to him, Karl, are you Austrian? He blinks a lot, wipes sweat off his brow, and says, No, but the Austrians deserve some answers. We’re going to give them answers. What do you think of that?”
I think that it’s strange that Vick never told me about this, then I think that maybe it isn’t. He wouldn’t have been proud of trying to pin our failures on an over-the-hill veteran just to ease relations with the Austrians. I say, “I think that’s quite a story.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I believe everything you say,” I lie, then give her a smile to emphasize this. “What did you do?”
“I told him to go stuff himself. I told him that Bill never sold us out to the Islamists. Maybe he shared things with allies—he wouldn’t be the first—but there are certain lines he would never cross.”
“You really believe that?” I ask, even though I share her belief.
“I go by evidence, Henry. I go by what I know. And I’m not going to turn my life, or Bill’s, upside down based on some stranger’s speculation.”
“Good for you. Did he accept that?”
“What could he do? He gave me his card and told me to call if I changed my mind.” She shrugs, lifting her glass. “My point, dear Henry, is that the experience soured things for me here. For a long time I was disappointed in California. It wasn’t as peaceful and laid back as I’d been led to believe. Not for me, at least. I became darker here, disconnected. I felt like a ghost. I told you about my visits to the doctor. I started depending on Xanax to keep me level. My life was good, but I couldn’t see that. I was blind to it; I was miserable. Why? Because I’d expected too much out of this life. Had I come here expecting only a change of scenery, I would’ve been pleasantly surprised. But no. I had to demand everything out of my new surroundings, and I felt like I’d been cheated.”
“Even with the Xanax?”
“Even with the Xanax. Until Evan. And do you know why?”
“I do not.”
“Because I had no idea what to expect from him.”
“Maybe I should have a kid.”
She smiles at me. Neither kind nor mischievous; I can almost read pity in it. “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. I don’t know. It’s not for the feint of heart.”
“Think I’m too self-centered?”
“Yes.”
“Ouch.”
She drinks, and I drink, and I know that she’s tipsy because I’m pretty buzzed, and I’ve got at least twenty pounds on her. I cough into my hand and find a splash of pink spittle, a hint of blood. I clear my throat and feel the burn deep in my gut, the gases rumbling. I wonder if fine California cuisine, the kind that requires an education, is no good for me. I wonder if I’ve gotten too old for rich food.
“You know, Cee, I get the feeling you’re trying to educate me, but I’m not sure what the subject is, or why you’re doing it. Are you afraid I’m going to spread my seed somewhere? Maybe you’re interviewing me to replace Drew?” She gives me a look, and I raise my hands. “Hey, a guy can dream. I’m just noting a trend in this conversation. We start with the Flughafen, and now you’re steering it toward the little ones.”
“Am I?” She purses her lips, as if surprised by this. “I suppose I am, aren’t I? Christ, parents are such bores. Where was I?”
6
EVIDENCE
Federal Bureau of Investigation
Transcript from cell phone flash
card removed from premises of Karl Stein, CIA, on November 7, 2012. Investigation into actions taken by Mr. Stein on October 16, 2012, file 065-SF-4901.
HENRY PELHAM: Ahmed’s last message. You were looking into the phone records.
CELIA FAVREAU: Right. Well, it was odd, wasn’t it? I mean, it wasn’t just the sentiment—the idea that we should call off the attack because of some cameras attached to the outside of the plane—but it was the grammar. Completely different from before. Bill had left to go be with Sally, and I sat at his desk wondering about this. I looked at the four messages we received, laid them out next to each other, and the difference jumped out at me. I knew it was a different person.
HENRY PELHAM: And you were right.
CELIA FAVREAU: Yes—well, maybe. Because we never found out for sure. We know he was discovered, but we don’t know when he was discovered. That’s a crucial point. But I had to follow through with the thought. I asked Gene for the phone records, and as he stared at my breasts instead of my eyes he refused. Since Vick wasn’t in, I went to Sharon. I didn’t have to explain a thing—I simply said that I wanted to take a look at the call records. She cleared it with Vick. Though he never said anything, I assume Vick suspected what I was up to. Do you know?
HENRY PELHAM: I don’t know.
CELIA FAVREAU: That’s strange.
HENRY PELHAM: Strange?
CELIA FAVREAU: You work with him every day. And you haven’t quizzed him about all this?
HENRY PELHAM: He gives me direction.
CELIA FAVREAU: Which is another way of saying he’s washing his hands of this. Putting it all on you.
HENRY PELHAM: No comment. But I do know he suspected a leak as well.
CELIA FAVREAU: Really?
HENRY PELHAM: Bill told me. [Pause.] It’s not unheard of. If an administrator isn’t sure if he can trust his staff, the best move is to lay low and watch everyone.
CELIA FAVREAU: Christ. I’m glad I’m not there anymore.
[Noises—glasses, drinking.]
CELIA FAVREAU: Well, Gene finally gave them to me, and I wasted an hour going through them.
HENRY PELHAM: When did you finish?
CELIA FAVREAU: One? One thirty? Something like that.
HENRY PELHAM: Then you came to my place.
CELIA FAVREAU: Yes. Well, no. First Gene and I saw the end of Ahmed on the computer. Then I came to your place.
HENRY PELHAM: And afterward?
CELIA FAVREAU: What?
HENRY PELHAM: In the morning, after I headed off, you disappeared. You have to admit it was odd. That was it for us. We’d decided to move in together, and then … nothing.
CELIA FAVREAU: Are you really going to do this?
HENRY PELHAM: What?
CELIA FAVREAU: Bring up us in the midst of an interrogation.
HENRY PELHAM: It’s not an interrogation. [Pause.] Look, I’m just going through the history. You left me.
CELIA FAVREAU: I told you, Henry. I got cold feet. Standing in your kitchen while you were showering, it fell on me like a ton of bricks. You. Me. Together. Joined at the hip. Maybe not forever, but right then it felt like it would be forever. And I freaked out.
HENRY PELHAM: And within seven months you’d run off to California with Drew.
CELIA FAVREAU: Yes.
HENRY PELHAM: How does that work? A guy you’ve known for years terrifies you when he wants to share an apartment, but you go off and marry some joker you barely know?
CELIA FAVREAU: Henry. Stop. Don’t ruin a pleasant meal.
[Sound of coughing.]
CELIA FAVREAU: Hey—are you all right?
HENRY PELHAM: [voice muffled] Shit. Just … I thought I was going to throw up.
CELIA FAVREAU: Here. Drink some water. [Pause.] Better?
HENRY PELHAM: Yeah. [Pause.] Anyway.
CELIA FAVREAU: You sure you’re okay?
HENRY PELHAM: Yes. Go on.
CELIA FAVREAU: Okay. Well, I left your place. Then I went to the office and watched as everything crumbled.
HENRY PELHAM: What were you working on at the office? Were you making progress?
CELIA FAVREAU: I was making phone calls. Getting no answers. Listening to the noise of everyone trying to find Ilyas Shishani. You were looking for him, yes?
HENRY PELHAM: The best I did was track down another one of his safe houses, out in Penzig. But he changed places twice a day, never doubling back. He was impossible to catch.
CELIA FAVREAU: Just like you told Ernst.
HENRY PELHAM: Just like.
CELIA FAVREAU: But we did pick him up eventually, didn’t we? In Afghanistan. Now he’s sitting in Gitmo.
HENRY PELHAM: So you do keep in contact with the inside.
CELIA FAVREAU: Karl told me.
HENRY PELHAM: When?
CELIA FAVREAU: In June. He thought I might like to hear about it.
HENRY PELHAM: Kind of him. [Pause.] But it’s old news by now, because he’s since passed on to the land of forty virgins.
CELIA FAVREAU: Well. That’s fortunate, isn’t it?
HENRY PELHAM: Is it?
CELIA FAVREAU: [Pause.] I remember being surprised.
HENRY PELHAM: About what?
CELIA FAVREAU: You, Henry. Your background with Shishani. I was sure that you’d be the one to track him down, not some soldiers in Afghanistan. [Pause.] I sometimes wondered if he chose Vienna because of you.
HENRY PELHAM: Why would he do that?
CELIA FAVREAU: I don’t know. To goad you? To try and get your help? Maybe to give himself up to you. It’s just an odd thing that, of all the towns he could choose for the hijacking, he chose the one where you worked at the embassy.
HENRY PELHAM: Oh, I’ve thought about that, too.
CELIA FAVREAU: And? Any revelations?
HENRY PELHAM: Just that I’m not the luckiest man in the world. [Pause.] Not like Drew.
CELIA FAVREAU: [A laugh.] Henry. You sap.
7
The waiter returns to collect our plates, that garish smile still stuck to his face, and we assure him of the excellent quality of the cuisine. It’s honest praise, though were I the chef I would have put a little less pepper in the sauce—my tongue is still tingling. My stomach has settled, though, and it makes me believe that there’s still hope for me tonight. That I’ll be able to make it through the evening in one piece and, perhaps, emerge stronger than before.
When the waiter offers more wine, Celia surprises me by saying yes for us both. Is it possible she’s really enjoying her time with me, raking through the coals of a tragedy half a decade old? Is it possible (and is this the wine speaking?) that she’s starting to feel the tingle of that old attraction, the easy repartee, the shared food and flesh?
When the wine and dessert menus arrive, I see that the old couple from earlier has left, and other than the businessman from the airport we’re the only people dining here. He’s digging into a steak, the Chronicle laid out on the table in front of him like a prop, and when he glances my way I wonder if it really is a prop, in the clandestine sense. This is what you get for coming to utopia with sinister motives in mind: paranoia. The man’s eyes shift to take in Celia, a hint of lasciviousness there, before returning to his plate.
The waiter pours, and once he’s gone Celia raises her glass. “To what?”
“To empty restaurants, the better for excellent service.”
“Natch.”
“What?”
She grins. “It’s what the cool kids are saying. Natch—short for ‘naturally.’”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You need to visit home more often.”
We drink.
“I really needed this,” she says.
“A night out?”
“Precisely. It’s been—well, it’s been forever. This town is stocked with some of the best restaurants around, but we never seem to make the time.”
“Children.”
She sets down her glass. “Do I detect a hint of i
rony?”
I shake my head, trying my best to look innocent, but my innocence goes unnoticed. Her face changes slightly, darkens.
“I know what I’ve become, Henry. I’m a bore. But what I say is true. About kids, I mean. They change everything. You know that old cliché—I’ve been waiting all my life to meet you? Well, it applies to children. First as babies, but particularly once they’ve gotten old enough to have well-defined characters. It’s completely true—you realize that you really have been waiting all your life to meet this person. There’s nothing to compare to it.”
“Not romantic love?”
She shakes her head no, then clarifies. “Apples and oranges.” She takes another drink. “You think you know what love is. You’ve been in relationships and you’ve proclaimed your feelings and you’ve made plans for a life with someone else. But this is a different animal. There’s no ego getting in the way. It’s evolutionary. It’s…” She hesitates, searching for the word. “It’s complete. Beside it, romantic love is cute. Passion is just a little game. Aspirations for yourself—those, too. Everything is darkened by the shadow of your love for your child.”
I smile at her, and my stomach hurts again. My eyes are watery, and I reach for the wine to cover up my consternation. Because now I get it. I understand the lesson plan she’s been laying out for me. She’s teaching me something so advanced that she has to spell it out for me with the clarity and simplicity of Dick and Jane. She’s teaching me that what we had, and what we lost, means nothing to her, and it hasn’t meant anything to her for years. She was incomplete with me; without me, she’s finally whole.
I don’t know what to say. The infantile, lovelorn part of me wants specificity, wants to press her: Are you really saying that what we had means nothing to you? But that same part is terrified of the answer. If she verifies my fear, then I’ll know that the choices I made, the very ones that have defined me for years, were not only reprehensible but senseless.
If she tells me otherwise, she’ll be lying, and I’ll know it.
All the Old Knives Page 11
