by Sara Rosett
I decided to intervene before the truce crumbled, but Abby beat me to it. “Well, I want to hear all about Taylor and Georgia because it’s our next assignment,” she said. “We got the news this afternoon.”
Nadia squealed, sounding like one of Livvy’s toys. I don’t know many people who actually squeal, but she did. “This will be so fantastic. Are you going to teach after the baby? I’ll put in a good word for you at our school. I shouldn’t say this”—her voice dropped to a whisper—“but it really is the best school in the area. I’m so excited. When will you get there?”
“Sometime in the fall. We’re going to try and time it so we move after the baby. November, probably.”
Nadia put down her napkin and turned on her camera. “It’s southern. Lots of ‘good old boys,’ but there’s tons of suburbanites moving in since we’re close enough to commute to Atlanta. It’s humid. Very green. I’m terrible with words. Here’s some pictures.” She passed the camera to Abby.
“What’s the base like?” I asked, thinking of Lena and Alan Archer’s conversation.
“The base is nice. Not that old. There’s a new commissary, but base housing is tiny.”
“When is it not?” Gina asked.
“Oh, she’s right,” Nadia said. “We live off-base. It’s a pretty small community around the base. Very tight-knit, probably because the city depends on the base so much. If the base closed…” Nadia shook her head. “I don’t know what North Dawkins would do. Everyone we meet down there works at the base. Tons of civilian employees. Anyway, the whole town is on pins and needles, waiting for the base closure list. It actually looks like they might close it because of the runway issue.”
“Something wrong with the runway?” Jeff asked.
“No,” Nadia’s husband, Kyle, said. “It’s the encroachment issue. There’s been a lot of growth around the base and one of the things the commission looks at is how much of a buffer there is around the base. Airspace congestion is getting to be a problem, too. Atlanta seems to get busier every day.”
This was the most serious I’d ever seen him. The few, brief times I’d been around him before, he’d been smiling and cracking jokes, like he had earlier today when I’d borrowed Nadia’s laptop. “It doesn’t look good for Taylor,” he concluded.
Abby turned to Jeff. “If it does get on the closure list, what will happen to our assignment?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, probably. It takes years to close down a base. We’d probably finish the assignment and move somewhere else before it actually shut down.”
“Probably,” Abby said darkly. “My least favorite word when it’s associated with our future.”
Nadia said, “Because ‘probably’ usually means ‘probably not.’”
The conversation moved on as everyone listed the bases they thought would be on the closure list. I realized I hadn’t eaten much of my food and now it was cold. I’d only been pushing it around on my plate as I listened to the conversation and thought about the contrast between what Nadia and Kyle had to say about Taylor AFB and what I’d overheard Archer say about it.
Mitch leaned over. “You okay? Tired?”
“No. I’m fine, just thinking.” I put my napkin beside my plate and pulled my cell phone out of my purse, which only had room for my ID, lipstick, and the memory chip.
No messages. Had Summer really been on her way home? Or had she just said that? She should have been back by now. The phone rang in my hand just as a group of people approached the microphones on the stage.
An Everything In Its Place Tip for an Organized Trip
Packing
Most of us have a tendency to bring too many clothes. One way to limit how much you bring is to stick with two or three basic colors, which will allow you to mix and match. Layers are always a good strategy if there will be large temperature variations.
Pack for the climate. It’s usually cheaper to purchase umbrellas or sunscreen at home than in the hotel gift shop.
Seal liquids like lotions, shampoo, and makeup in zip-top plastic bags. If pressure changes cause leaks, your clothes will be protected.
To prevent wrinkles, roll or stack clothes and fold gently in thirds. Place folded or rolled clothing on one side of your suitcase and use the other side for shoes, cosmetics, and toiletries. Or, pack clothes in the protective plastic covers that dry cleaners use. Another wrinkle-reducing tactic is to wrap clothes in tissue paper. Unpack as soon as you arrive at your destination.
Downsize your cosmetics and toiletries with travel-size items so you’ll have less bulk to pack and less weight to carry—every ounce counts!
Pack a tote bag inside your luggage so that if your purchases overflow your suitcase, you’ll be able to carry on your new items on the return trip. Or, ship purchases home if it’s not too pricey.
Chapter Twenty-two
“It’s Livvy,” I said to Mitch. “Do you want to talk?”
“No. I talked to her this morning during one of my breaks. You go ahead.”
Photos flashed on large screens on either side of the barn as the first notes of Aaron Copeland’s “Hoe down” filled the room and almost drowned out Livvy’s voice. “Hold on, sweetie. I have to go outside,” I said as I squeezed behind Mitch’s chair. I made my way to an exit and then into an empty hallway out of the range of the music.
“Okay, now I can hear you. What did you say?” I asked.
Livvy’s high-pitched voice said, “I’ve got dirty feet.”
“You’ve got dirty feet?”
“Yep,” she confirmed confidently.
“How did they get dirty?”
“Outside. We planted—”
The phone cut out and I said, “What? Are you still there?”
“Yep.”
“What did you plant? I couldn’t hear you.”
Her exasperated sigh came over the line. “I told you. Tuna. We planted tunas. And I watered. Grammy let me water everything. I got to hold the hose.” Her voice was filled with pride and a bit of recrimination. She never got to hold the hose at our house. “Grammy says I’m a good gardener.”
“I bet you watered everything.” I could just picture my parents’ garden. It probably looked like a swamp. “So are you going to take a bath to get your feet clean?”
“Nope. Not until my ice cream. I get ice cream with chocolate every night.”
I had a feeling that the transition home was going to be a tough one. Ice cream with or without chocolate wasn’t on the menu every night at our house. But the grandparents had to spoil the grandkids. It was a rule, so I wouldn’t say anything.
“So what else did you do today?” I asked as a few people walked by me.
“Well…” She drew out the syllable, took a deep breath, and launched into a minute-by-minute account of her day. “First, I woke up, then Grammy made pancakes with bananas, and then…”
When she got to about eleven o’clock (trip to the hardware store for plants) my mom finally took the phone away from her.
I could hear her say, “Here’s your spoon. You can tell your mom the rest tomorrow.”
When my mom came back on the line I said, “If she combines what happened today with her day tomorrow, it’ll take her three hours to tell me everything.”
My mom laughed. “She has done an about-face with the phone conversations, hasn’t she?”
“You really got her to eat banana pancakes? Did she know they had bananas in them?” Livvy liked everything plain. She was a no additives or preservatives kind of kid and she’d always refused to eat bananas, saying they were too mushy.
“Yes, of course. It’s all in the way you present it, darling.”
I had a feeling Livvy was eating banana pancakes because the presenter was Grammy, not Mommy. “So you planted tuna, huh?”
“Petunias. And Livvy was an excellent helper. She followed directions really well.”
“That’s great. I’m glad she’s behaving.”
“Although the bathtub may take a while to
get clean.”
“Just hose her down outside,” I joked.
“Excellent idea. No, Livvy don’t lean on the walls. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. I was kidding about the hose—” I stopped talking when I heard the click. Livvy would probably want to be hosed down now instead of taking a bath at home.
“Ellie!”
I turned and saw Summer charging down the hall, her mass of red hair bouncing with each step. “Summer, I’m so glad to see you, but you could have just called.”
“Oh, I had to bring this up here for Mr. Archer anyway.” She held up a file folder. “A fax came in for him at their house after they left. Ms. Archer called and asked me to bring it with me.” She made a face. “A couple of days ago I’d told her I’d be here, so I figured I’d better show up. Emma’s room looks divine, by the way. Thanks.”
“So you’ve already been by your apartment and everything was okay?”
“Yes. Mitch told me you were a worrier and I can see what he means. Everything is fine. Tony wouldn’t do…anything like you’re thinking.”
I opened my purse so she could see the memory chip. “Is this his?”
“It looks like the kind we have at the office, but ours are all labeled, so this one can’t be Tony’s.”
“I doubt a terrorist would label his research.”
“What?” She reached to take it, but I pulled it out of her reach. “No, leave it there. There’s some dangerous stuff on this. Detailed info about D.C. landmarks.” I outlined what I’d seen.
“You think this belongs to Tony?”
“Well, who else could it have been? One of the wives who helped out? The muralist? She worked on the other side of the room the whole time and Ivan spent all his time on a ladder around the edge of the room. He didn’t lower himself to doing something so menial as making up the bed. Tony and I did that. It was on the floor under the dust ruffle where he’d tossed his jacket. And it couldn’t have been there before the makeover, because it was on top of the new carpet. Besides, there’s a memo with his name on it.”
“There’s got to be some mistake,” Summer insisted. A cell phone rang and we both checked ours.
“Mine,” Summer said as she answered. “Yes. I’m here. I’ll bring it right in to you.” She slipped her phone back into her purse and repositioned the papers that were sliding out of the file, but not before I’d seen the bold title on the cover of the fax sheet, BRAC. “Let me drop this off and we’ll figure out what’s going on with the memory chip,” she said.
“Wait. Mr. Archer. What does he do?”
Summer took a few steps toward the doors into the atrium. “He works at the Pentagon. Most of the time it’s very hush-hush, but for the last couple of months he’s been working for the BRAC Commission. Wait for me here. I’ll be right back,” Summer said as she headed for the doors.
“Okay, but I have to find a restroom first. I’ll meet you back here.” After this trip, I could write a travel book, The Pregnant Woman’s Restroom Guide to D.C.
I went down the hall and around the corner, following the sign for the restroom. BRAC stood for Base Realignment And Closure, a commission that would recommend base closures. Earlier, Archer had promised Lena that Taylor wouldn’t be on that list. One person couldn’t make that kind of promise.
I had reached out to push open the door when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. A hand closed firmly around my outstretched arm and another hand pressed into my back.
“What the—”
“This way.” I processed that the quiet voice was deep and masculine behind my ear as I was propelled to the next door down the hall. The man kicked it with his foot. I struggled, but couldn’t break his grip on my arm. I braced my feet, but the slick granite floor didn’t give me any resistance. The pneumatic door sighed open and I was shoved into a tiny room.
Chapter Twenty-three
Atier of metal shelves rocked as I slammed into them. Bottles, cans, and paper towels rained off the shelves as they swayed. The sharp odor of bleach stung my nose. I gripped one of the shelves and turned. The man was pushing the door closed, narrowing the swath of light from the hall.
My brain struggled to take everything in. The door closed and the blackness was complete. I swallowed. My throat felt dry and my heartbeat hummed in my ears.
I heard the click of the lock and felt a frisson of panic run through me. This cannot be happening. My phone was in my purse. Where was it? Had I dropped it in the hall when he’d grabbed me? Or was it on the floor in here?
I spread my foot around cautiously, but only felt the hard metal cans that had fallen off the shelves. It didn’t matter. I didn’t think the man would wait politely while I made a 911 call. I could hear him moving around on the other side of the tiny room. I squished into the corner where the two sets of shelves met. There was a thud. “Damn it.” More thumps sounded as the ping of metal cans hit the hard floor.
I ran my hands over the shelf behind me. Stacks of paper towels. Next shelf. Paper towels. Lower shelf. More paper towels. Good grief. This wouldn’t do me any good. I reached down, grabbed one of the metal cans off the floor just as the overhead fluorescent light flickered, then came on.
I didn’t wait. As soon as I saw where he was, I aimed the nozzle and sprayed. I had no idea what I was spraying him with, but it seemed to work pretty well as a defensive weapon.
He ducked, threw up one arm to block the spray, and covered his eyes with his other hand. “Ellie. It’s me. Tony.”
If he moved a bit to the side, I could get out. “I know who you are.” In fact, his identity had just registered. The sleeve of his suit jacket bubbled with white foam. I stopped spraying and shook the can. The sloshing sound and lightness of the can told me that there wasn’t much left.
I glanced down at the floor. Plenty more cans down there, if I could get one before he grabbed me. I didn’t really know if I’d be fast enough. I wasn’t all that quick off the mark to begin with, and pregnancy has a way of slowing everyone down a few notches.
He saw my glance. “Ellie, don’t.” He wiped one hand down his damp face and shook off the droplets onto the floor. Tiny beads of liquid dotted his thick eyebrows and one eye was bloodshot. Only a partial hit, then. I must have aimed too high. He kept one hand extended toward me. “I just want to talk to you.”
I shook the can. “Then open the door and let’s go out in the hall.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I obviously startled you, but—”
“Startled me? You startled me? More like scared me half out of my mind. I’m pregnant, you know.” I suddenly felt terrified, not of Tony and not for me, but for the baby. My heartbeat was going crazy. That couldn’t be good. I took a deep breath and willed myself to calm down a bit, but I still felt adrenaline coursing through me like an electric current.
“You’re right,” Tony said. “I apologize. But I had to stop you before you talked to anyone else.”
I shook the can and sprayed again.
He stepped sideways out of the spray and I darted for the door, still coating his arm with the cleaning solution.
My fingers slid over the handle, slipped. It was wet from the cleaning chemicals.
His arm flashed out, and before I realized what had happened, the can was out of my hand and rolling on the floor.
“Ellie. I’m FBI.”
“What?” I turned toward him. We’d changed places in the closet. Now I was beside the door and he was on the side with the shelves. Behind my back, I gripped the door handle with one hand, but waited. Didn’t FBI agents carry guns? I decided not to make any sudden movements.
“I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I’m with the FBI,” he repeated.
I didn’t let go of the door handle. Still no sign of a gun. Just to clarify, I said, “You’re an FBI agent?”
“Yes. You’re going to have to trust me. I’m undercover.” He wiped his chin, which was a drippy white goatee, then ran his fingers through his thick hair to push it of
f his forehead. I’d really doused him good the second time. “I need the memory chip and you can’t tell anyone else about it.” He stood there, both arms extended out, palms toward me like I was holding a gun on him.
I spotted my purse behind him on the floor under one of the shelves. My breath was coming out in puffs and I felt like I’d just stepped off the treadmill. “What memory chip?”
He dropped his hands. “Ellie, please. I heard you tell Summer about it.”
I licked my lips. “Okay. It’s in my purse.” I nodded at his foot. I still had the copy of it that I’d e-mailed to myself. It was more important to get out of here than to keep the memory chip. “Down there. Under the shelf.” I readied myself to swing the door open and get out of there as soon as he reached for my purse. Sure, it was a cute clutch, but no way was I going to wait around to get it back from him. Purses could be replaced.
The only problem was, he didn’t move. We stayed frozen for a few more seconds; then he relaxed, leaned one shoulder back on the shelves, and crossed his arms, looking for all the world completely comfortable. He seemed oblivious of the damp clothes, wet hair, and chemical smell. “I can’t tell you everything, but I need to tell you a small part of it, so you’ll understand what a volatile situation you’re in the middle of.”
My hand was sticky now as the cleaning spray dried. I flexed my hand, then gripped the door handle again. My breathing and heartbeat were returning to normal, but I was still tensed and ready to move if he did.
“What about the man you met on the Mall? Is he FBI, too?”
Tony held my gaze. “No. He’s a terrorist.”
I blinked. He was completely serious. “And you’re not?”
“No. Only pretending to be. I infiltrated their cell.”
“That man on the Mall and Jorge were part of a terrorist cell?”
“Yes. Let me tell you a bit about Jorge Dominguez. His real name was Kazi Agha. He was born in Pakistan, trained in Afghanistan and Africa. He was determined to finish the job in Washington, D.C., that was left undone on September 11. Getting a marriage certificate was part of a strategy to keep his identity secret and let him apply for citizenship, erasing his real origins. Once he was a citizen he’d be able to get a federal job, which would give him access to more sensitive areas, like federal buildings and airports.”
