You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  There it is, there’s the kicker. As long as you stay quiet. Because I’m not going to stay quiet. Now that Owen’s safe, I can admit what I did, make things right—

  “But if this ever comes out, we’ll be back. We’ll take your son. And we’ll kill him.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A horn blares behind me, blasting through the fog in my brain. The traffic light in front of me is green. I set down the phone—the caller has disconnected, Owen’s grinning face is back on the screen—and my gaze darts to the rearview mirror. A car behind me, the driver clearly muttering a string of profanities. I raise my hand in an apologetic wave and press down on the gas, the car lurching forward.

  Owen gurgles happily in the backseat.

  Owen.

  These people just threatened to kill my son if I come clean—and I have to come clean.

  They’ll be back. I might have Owen, but this isn’t over. Not even close.

  Witness protection. Surely there’s something like that available to us. We’ll disappear, Drew and Owen and me. The Agency will give us new names, new identities. We’ll start over somewhere, just the three of us—

  My parents. Drew’s parents. Our siblings. Oh God, we wouldn’t be able to see them again.

  I tighten my hands on the steering wheel.

  And our jobs—what would happen to our jobs? With new identities, our résumés would be blank, our educations worthless. Drew wouldn’t be a member of the bar, wouldn’t be able to practice law. How would we make ends meet? How would we pay our mortgages, our student loan debt, our car payments?

  But it would just be temporary. Until we figure out who took Owen, who’s threatening us. Once they’re arrested, locked away, then we’d be free to return to our lives.

  Would we, though?

  Because it’s not a couple of individuals behind this, or a small band of criminals, is it? It’s a foreign intelligence service. A government. An adversary.

  I glance at Owen in the rearview mirror, feeling sick to my stomach.

  That’s the only thing that makes sense. This is all centered around Falcon. Making sure I don’t dig into his background, making sure he becomes a CIA source.

  Most likely scenario? He’s a dangle. A planted double agent. He’s not actually a disillusioned Syrian defense official, doesn’t actually want to assist the U.S. Someone’s just making it look that way, and they knew that once I started digging around, I’d learn the truth.

  I’ve done it before, several times in fact, discovered prospective sources weren’t who they claimed to be. It’s started with a thread, a piece of information that didn’t check out. An address that didn’t exist, or a degree that was never earned, and it’s unraveled from there. And thank goodness it has. It’s saved us from being duped by an adversary, fed false information—or worse. Having our officers targeted, or our technology used against us. We don’t always know what the end game is, but this much is clear: nothing good comes from trusting a double agent.

  And this one’s sophisticated. This is someone who knows how we operate, how we vet sources. Someone who knew about me.

  My name’s out there, on the dark web. One of those intelligence leaks, years ago. Security notified me once. I never worried much about it; Jill Bailey’s a fairly common name, and all it says is that I’m a reports officer, working Syria.

  But these people, they knew I was working Falcon. That sort of information should never fall into the hands of an adversary. The whole point of having a headquarters-based reports officer is to prevent a scenario like this. And they knew exactly when the cable arrived in my queue. They knew before it happened; they already had Owen by the time it was sent.

  A chill runs through me. These people are aggressive, and they’re good.

  Who’s behind it? Syria makes the most sense, if the dangle’s a Syrian guy. Syria’s an adversary, for sure: a state sponsor of terrorism, a human rights violator, and a friend to our enemies. But are the Syrian intelligence services sophisticated enough to pull this off? In that respect it seems more like China, or Russia. Or what about a dark horse, a service that’s sophisticated, but flying just under the radar? Iran, Ukraine?

  Numerous intelligence services are operating in Syria; the country’s practically overrun with proxy wars. It’s a battleground for the U.S. and Russia, for Iran and Saudi Arabia. Israel’s active there, and Turkey, and Qatar, and the list goes on.

  My head is starting to ache. There’s no way to know who.

  What about why?

  My first thought is COVCOM. Our covert communications system, the way we communicate with our sources. Foreign intelligence services are desperate to get their hands on it, to infiltrate it. What better way to ferret out spies? What better way to find our case officers operating in their country, and neutralize them?

  But double-agent operations—they could serve any number of purposes. Could be to plant false information, something that would somehow benefit the country running the source. Could be to learn more about how we operate. Could be to identify our officers, or to target them, kill them, like what happened years ago in Khost, Afghanistan.

  Here’s the thing that doesn’t make sense. They had me. I approved that cable, went back to my car, and waited for their call. They didn’t have to return Owen right away. They could have asked for more. Names of assets, of case officers. Information from our most sensitive compartmented reports. Anything. As much as I don’t want to admit it, there’s a good chance I’d have done it, given it to them. That’s how terrified I was, how desperate.

  But they didn’t ask.

  Why?

  * * *

  —

  Ten minutes later I pull into the driveway of our home in Vienna, Virginia. It’s a small place, a boxlike little ranch built in the sixties, with a giant backyard, tons of huge trees. When we bought, the neighborhood was all older ranches; now, at least a third have been torn down, new McMansions erected in their place.

  I unstrap Owen and carry him inside, past the American flag hanging out front, flapping gently in the breeze. I set him down on the floor in the living room, on his brightly colored foam mat, the one that’s there to cushion him from the inevitable topples. He sits well on his own—the newest skill he’s mastered—but sometimes he reaches too far for a toy and loses his balance. I move some of his favorite toys close to him. Stackable cups, a shape sorter. Then I perch on the edge of the couch and watch him.

  He’s safe. He’s here, at home, playing contentedly.

  Everything seems chillingly normal.

  But nothing’s normal, and it never will be again.

  Owen’s oblivious to it all, banging the blue plastic cup against the play mat, babbling happily. He’s fine. Happy, healthy. But my God, how close did I come to losing him?

  How close am I still to losing him?

  I stand abruptly, walk into the kitchen. Wash my hands, scrubbing too hard, the water hot, like I can somehow wash away this cloud hanging over us.

  I set to work preparing a bottle, because it’s something to do, because he was without one earlier, wasn’t he? I gather him into my arms, give him the bottle. He takes it hungrily.

  He falls asleep in my arms, and I carry him to his room, lay him down carefully in his crib. He sighs and rolls over onto his belly, his eyes never opening.

  I stand near the crib and look around his room. The rocker that belonged to my grandma, and then my mom. The shelf full of books: treasured favorites from my own childhood, and Drew’s; gifts we opened at our baby shower; books we spent years collecting on our own for the baby we longed to have. The framed photographs of Owen as a newborn. The plaque on the wall with his tiny footprints molded into clay.

  We’re going to have to leave all of this, aren’t we? Leave our home, start over from scratch.

  If it’s a hostile foreign intelligence
service behind this…My God, how will it ever end? How will it ever be safe to come home again?

  I leave Owen’s room and walk through the rest of the house. The kitchen and bathroom, in desperate need of updating. The guest room that’s been overtaken with big plastic toys. The dining room table that doubles as Drew’s home office. All of the things that irked me about the house. Now they just seem homey. And fleeting.

  Now I realize how desperately I’ll miss it all.

  My phone rings, startling me. Screen says 703, nothing more. A call from Langley.

  “Hello?”

  “Jill, it’s Jeremy. Hey, Violet just came by, looking for you. I wasn’t sure what to tell her. You said you just went back to the car to get your keys…” He trails off, the question clear: Where in the world are you?

  I just took off, didn’t I? I was so preoccupied with going to get Owen it never occurred to me to tell my boss that I was leaving.

  “Daycare called,” I say, the first lie that pops into my head. “Owen’s sick. I went to pick him up.”

  “Oh.”

  “I meant to call Violet, totally forgot. Would you mind letting her know? And tell her I’m sorry….”

  She had warned me I’d burn through sick leave like crazy this first year. Her kids are older now, but she remembers these days. It’s the perfect excuse.

  “Sure,” Jeremy says. And then, after a pause: “Hope Owen feels better.”

  “Thanks, buddy.”

  I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and stare at it. Did they hear that call? They must have, right?

  That was why I lied, wasn’t it?

  A white lie, a necessary lie. Just to get me by until it’s safe to come clean, until I’m out of their earshot, until they’re not listening.

  Are they watching, too? I glance around furtively. The bookshelves in the living room, the television mounted on the wall—it’s a smart TV. Those can be hijacked, just as surely as a phone.

  My home—this place that’s supposed to be a haven—isn’t safe.

  * * *

  —

  Drew comes home at five with a bag of Chipotle. He gives me a peck on the cheek, his stubble scratchy against my skin, then tousles Owen’s blond fuzz. He deposits the food on the kitchen table, pulls his cellphone from his back pocket and places that on the table, too, then collapses into a chair.

  “Rough day?” I ask, because it seems like what I’m supposed to say.

  Because they’re listening.

  He pulls off his loosened necktie, tosses it over onto the counter. “Leo’s on a warpath lately.” Leo’s one of the partners, the tough one. “He’s going to start cracking down on this.” Drew gestures toward the table in front of him, and I know exactly what he means, even without him saying it. Drew and a few other associates try to make it home for dinner with their families, then work at home long into the night. He rarely sees the inside of a courtroom; his work is tedious and solitary, and it can be done from anywhere. But Leo hates it.

  Any other day, this would get me spun up. But now? Now it seems so very minor. Still, though, they’re listening. “That’s ridiculous. You put in just as many hours as anyone else there.”

  “More,” he mutters, standing up and making his way to the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands.

  It’s true. He’s a hard worker, always has been. Contract law, that’s his specialty, with a focus on the international. Worked out well early in our relationship: When I was posted in Turkey, he did a stint in his firm’s Ankara office. When I was in China, he secured an assignment in Beijing. It wasn’t easy for him; foreign languages don’t come easily for him, the way they do for me. But he worked at it, persevered. I know, though, that he was relieved when I gave up the field postings once and for all. He’s never felt the same longing for those days that I have.

  I strap Owen into his high chair and open a jar of pureed carrots while Drew grabs forks and doles out the burrito bowls.

  “How was your day?” he asks, taking a bite from his bowl. I eye his phone, on the table. Mine’s nearby, too, because it always is, because I can’t do anything out of the ordinary right now.

  And then there’s the television, watching, listening.

  “Oh, fine,” I say quickly, offering Owen a spoonful of carrots. “You know, the usual.”

  I set down Owen’s spoon and pick up my fork, avoiding eye contact with Drew.

  “Busy?” he asks.

  “Sort of.”

  “I feel like I’m pulling teeth here, honey.”

  I shrug and take another bite.

  “Owen have a good day?”

  Owen. My chest tightens. “I picked him up early. He was sick.” I don’t even know why I say it. Because I already said it once, to Jeremy?

  Drew turns toward Owen, his brows knitted with concern. He presses the back of his hand against Owen’s forehead. “Fever?”

  “A touch.” It’s unnerving how easily the lies are flowing.

  “Feels okay now. Looks okay.”

  “Maybe one of those twenty-four-hour bugs?”

  “Maybe.”

  I take another bite of my burrito bowl.

  “That means he can’t go back tomorrow, doesn’t it?”

  It does. Twenty-four hours, fever-free. That’s the rule.

  But all I can think about are those words: Go back. I can’t imagine bringing Owen back there. Ever. That place let a stranger take him away.

  “I can stay home with him,” Drew says. “Leo might have a fit, but you picked him up today….”

  “That’d be great,” I murmur. And I stare at my food, because what little appetite I had is gone, completely. Tomorrow I need to go to work, and I need to come clean, and set this all in motion—

  “Jill, is everything okay?” Drew’s watching me with concern.

  Of course it’s not okay. Our son was kidnapped today. The people that did it, they’ve threatened to come back. They will come back, unless I stay quiet, and I can’t stay quiet.

  We’ll have to leave everything we know, everything we love, for God knows how long. Our lives are about to change forever.

  And I can’t say a word of that right now.

  I force a smile at my husband, and then I lie. “Everything’s fine.”

  * * *

  —

  I spend the rest of the evening waiting for an opportunity to tell Drew the truth. Bath time for Owen seems like a possibility, at first. We’re away from the television, the faucet’s running noisily, my phone’s still in the kitchen. But Drew’s phone is in his back pocket. And he’s wearing his smartwatch—I’d forgotten all about the smartwatch. They could be listening through that, too.

  Then it’s on to reading Owen books, putting him to bed. The usual bedtime routine, and one we do together each evening; neither of us wants to miss out on more time with Owen than we have to. But it’s another missed opportunity. Drew’s phone and watch are still on him.

  As soon as Owen’s asleep, Drew heads to the dining room table, gets back to work. I head into the kitchen. There’s no dinner cleanup tonight, no bottles to prepare for tomorrow. I stand there awkwardly, because usually I zone out in front of the TV after this, and the last thing I want to do is sit there staring straight into their cameras.

  I go to bed early and lie awake, staring at the ceiling fan. My phone’s plugged into the charger on my nightstand, because that’s where it always is, and I can’t change my routine. Drew’s will be charging on his own nightstand, anyway.

  He comes to bed three hours later, and sure enough, plugs in his phone. “You still awake?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  He scoots closer, curls his body around mine. “Good.”

  Could I whisper something? I could get out of bed, find some paper, write him a note.
But what if he asks where I’m going? What if I bring it back and he says, What’s that? Or what if they see it? I don’t know what sort of cameras they’ve planted, or where.

  His hands start running the length of my body, and I tense.

  “What’s wrong?” he murmurs.

  “Nothing,” I say, loud enough for them to hear.

  His hands start roaming again, and I shift away from him.

  “Owen’s asleep,” he says. “I’m done with work…” He trails off, leaves the rest of the thought unspoken: Why in the world not?

  Because it’s not just us here.

  “Not tonight,” I say.

  He rolls away from me, and I can hear his disappointment in the silence that follows.

  If he knew, he’d understand. But it’s not worth the risk, telling him right now. I’ll come clean at work first. And then we’ll have security. People to watch over us, get us resettled in a protection program. Once they’re around, I’ll tell him everything.

  Tomorrow I’ll tell him everything.

  * * *

  —

  When I get to my desk the next morning, the first thing I do is search for the cable, the one I approved yesterday. COPS approved it, too, and now it’s waiting for the Director of Operations to sign off. It hasn’t even gone all the way through the chain here at headquarters, hasn’t been sent back to Damascus Station.

  Next I pull up the accompanying cable, the addendum with the stripped-out details. There’s Falcon’s real name, Junaid Abdul Al-Noury. His fingerprints. And photographs. I stare at the headshot. About my age, round face, thick bushy brows, even thicker beard. Wide-set eyes, intense, almost a hazel tone. I linger on those, trying to read him. Who are you? What do you want?

  Only a select handful in the Agency will know his true name. A slightly larger cadre will be aware of his crypt. But most analysts and policymakers will know him only as a clandestine source with firsthand access, blindly trusting that he’s been properly vetted. To the general public, he’ll be invisible; his reporting, the truth.