But it’s futile, isn’t it? They know where we live. They’ve been inside our home.
I reach our neighborhood thirty-five minutes later, Popsicles no doubt a melted mess, my mind spinning. Why are they back? Just to keep an eye on me? To scare me? I haven’t said a word.
Our street is quiet. No one’s following me. No one’s around. I pull into the garage and close the door behind me. Then I sit in the silence, trembling, feeling like a different person than when I set out from the house just a few hours before.
I carry the kids inside—they’re both still asleep—and lay them in their beds, then unload the groceries and put them away. I feel like I’m in a daze. For the first time in ages, I wonder if they’re listening. If they’re watching, right here, right now.
The kids wake from their naps and the afternoon is as normal as can be. They play with toys, and out on the swing set, and don’t seem to notice that I hover closer than usual, watching our surroundings, looking for eyes that might be watching us.
Later, they sit in the family room and watch a half hour of Sesame Street while I get dinner ready. A casserole, chicken and rice. I feel an unexpected sense of longing for those takeout dinners we used to have in our Vienna home. For that life we used to have, when I had my career, when I wasn’t being watched.
Drew walks in at five-thirty, greets me with the usual peck on the lips. “How was your day?” he asks, loosening his tie, then removing it completely, laying it on the counter.
In my mind I see that woman. Watching us in the produce section, her gaze intense. Then in the parking lot, behind those dark sunglasses, her head turned toward us.
“Fine.” I avoid eye contact, reach for the oven mitt. “Yours?”
“Long. Had that deposition today.”
“That’s right. How’d it go?” I open the oven and reach for the casserole, squinting through the wave of steam that escapes.
“Could’ve been better.” He shrugs. “But could have been worse.”
I nod and focus on the food. Remove the foil from the pan, pull out a knife, stick it in the middle of the casserole. Looks done.
He rolls up his sleeves, starts washing his hands. “Kids have a good day?”
Again I see that woman in my mind. My stomach twists. But the kids were oblivious, weren’t they? “I think so.”
Dinner’s quieter than usual tonight. I’m usually the one driving the conversation, encouraging the kids to tell Drew about their day, asking leading questions. Asking Drew about his day, which invariably is more interesting than my own. But today I’m finding it hard to focus. Or eat. I have no appetite; I’m barely touching my food. I catch Drew watching me with concern.
When the plates are cleared and the kids are back to playing with toys, Drew pulls me aside in the kitchen, out of the kids’ sight, and asks quietly, “What’s wrong, Jill?”
“Nothing.” It sounds like a lie.
“Something’s on your mind.”
What am I supposed to say? I reach for the plates in the sink and begin loading them into the dishwasher. “Just feeling a little off.”
I can feel his eyes on me. “You sure that’s all?”
I reach for the utensils at the bottom of the sink, transfer them into the dishwasher. “That’s all.”
He takes the kids up for baths, and I finish loading the dishwasher, then give the table and the counters a quick wipe, and look around. Clean, just full of the usual clutter.
I can hear the water running upstairs in the bath. Normally, I’d make my way up, help out. But today I head into the study. Drew’s space, really. Law books fill the shelves of the maple bookcase; his diplomas and awards line the walls. My own are in boxes in the attic, a remnant of another life. My retreat is the patio, where I have my easel and my watercolors.
I sit down at the desk that feels foreign to me, open up the laptop. I eye the Google homepage.
I haven’t done this, ever. I’ve stayed completely away from any news from the region. I haven’t wanted to know.
But now? Now I feel like I need to know.
I roll the chair forward. My fingers hover over the keyboard, and then I type.
Syria.
Return.
The results populate immediately, and I click on the first link—Wikipedia—and start scanning. Situation isn’t much different than four years ago, really. Instability, volatility. The country’s still a battleground for the world’s proxy wars. Everyone’s got a dog in the fight: the U.S., Russia, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Iran, and the list goes on. It’s a tinderbox.
I can hear splashing upstairs in the tub. Mia’s giggles.
I dig deeper. News sites. More on the proxy wars, the countries that are competing against each other, using Syria for their own purposes. A few articles mentioning Syria’s nuclear ambitions, and the fledgling biological weapons program.
Biowarfare. I can’t help but think of Falcon.
There’s one byline that keeps popping up, one reporter who seems to have the most detailed information about Syria, the most scoops. The most access; the articles are full of attributions to unnamed government officials.
Alex Charles, Washington Post.
I navigate to the homepage of the Post, search for the name Alex Charles. His most recent article appears on my screen. Dated yesterday, about none other than Syria’s biowarfare program. I’m on the third paragraph when I read a sentence that makes my heart seize.
A single clandestine source has emerged as a primary source of U.S. information.
I read the rest of the article—seems to just be a rehash of other information I’ve read—and close the article, then the Post’s site. The background’s a picture of Owen and Mia at Disney World, in front of Cinderella’s castle, big grins on their faces. I stare at their faces, my mind spinning.
Single clandestine source.
Falcon?
It’s possible, isn’t it? Possible we never recruited anyone else with that same level of access, or never retained them.
Falcon might be our primary source of information on Syria’s biowarfare program.
I pull up the browser window again and google the name Alex Charles. I click on the first result, Twitter. The icon’s a black-and-white picture of a typewriter. The most recent entry:
Working on something big. The people deserve to know the truth.
I hear a creak on the stairs, Drew walking down. The kids must be in bed. I better go say good night before they’re asleep.
I close the browser window and shut the laptop. Then I head out of the study, completely unsettled.
The people deserve to know the truth.
* * *
—
I awake the next morning to light streaming through the blinds. Drew’s side of the bed is empty, just an indentation in the sheets. I can hear kitchen noise downstairs, and a kids’ show on television. I stretch my arms—
And then yesterday comes flooding back into my thoughts.
That woman, watching us at the store.
That article by Alex Charles. Single clandestine source.
And his tweet: Working on something big.
Maybe that’s why they’re back. Maybe this Alex Charles is sniffing around the Syrian biowarfare program, getting too close to Falcon.
Maybe they want to make sure I’m not one of those unnamed government officials.
I get out of bed, somewhat reassured by the thought. Because I’m not.
When I come downstairs, the kids are watching Sesame Street in their PJs and Drew’s standing over the skillet, spatula in hand, making pancakes. He gives me a kiss and hands me a mug of steaming coffee. “Heard you get up,” he says with a smile.
I take the mug into the family room and sit down carefully between the kids, lean over and give each of them a kiss. “Morning, kiddos.�
��
“Morning, Mommy,” Owen says. Mia’s too absorbed in the television to respond.
I sip my coffee and stare, unseeing, at the television. My mind is still churning, and I just keep coming back to this: I haven’t broken their rules.
And why would I? If I came clean now, told the authorities what I know, what I did, I’m guaranteeing myself jail time. I can’t stay silent about something like this for four years and expect not to face consequences. Of course I’m going to stay quiet. They’ll see that. They have nothing to worry about.
After everyone’s dressed for the day, bellies full of pancakes, Drew heads to Home Depot and I bring the kids to the park near the library. It’s surprisingly empty for a beautiful Saturday.
Mia’s in pigtails and rainbow-striped leggings. Owen’s in his favorite Superman shirt, the one with a little cape attached to the back. I watch them scamper up the ladder of the play set, dart through tunnels, down a slide.
They climb up a different ladder this time, cross a bridge, toward another slide. I trail behind them, down below, keep an eye on their progress.
Down the twisty slide again, laughing gleefully. They clamber up the ladder and slide down again, Mia first, then Owen. He bounces up off the bottom of the slide and runs over to me. “Mommy, can I go on the monkey bars?”
I glance over at Mia, who’s halfway up the ladder. “Sure.”
I lift him up to the monkey bars and he grabs on, hangs awkwardly for a few moments, then lets go, darts off toward the swings.
Mia’s at the top of the play set, crawling through a tunnel toward the higher, straighter slide, the one with one side partially open to the ground below. I walk over and stand below it, just in case. I’m always afraid she’ll lean over and fall out.
“Look at me, Mommy!” There’s a huge smile on her face.
“Be careful, honey.”
I look over toward the swings, where Owen’s rather unsuccessfully pumping his legs. I wish they could just play together, do the same thing at the same time, but it never ends up working that way, not for long anyway. And it’s stressful, trying to keep them both in my line of sight at all times, trying to keep them both safe.
She takes her time sitting down at the top of the slide, then stares down the length of it like she’s working up the nerve to start sliding.
I glance back toward the swings, but Owen’s hopped off, and he’s running toward the rock wall. “Owen, wait for me before you climb.”
He obeys, stands still near the wall, and Mia finally slides down the slide. I meet her at the bottom with a big smile, and she runs toward the seesaw as I head to the rock wall. I stand below Owen while he climbs, ready to help if he falls—
Mia bursts into tears. I reach up and lift Owen down, set him carefully on the ground, then rush toward her. She’s bumped her chin on the seesaw. I bend down to her level, examine her chin. No blood, nothing too bad. I put my arms around her, pull her close, but she continues to wail, so finally I pick her up, let her bury her head in my shoulder, let her sobs subside. I turn around and look toward the rock wall—
Owen’s not there.
I scan the play set, the slides, the bridge. Nothing.
The tunnels: I look at each one, wait for Owen to come out the other side—
Still nothing. My eyes dart around the playground, panic rising.
“Owen!”
I don’t see him.
“Owen!” Louder this time, more desperate.
“There,” Mia says. She points, and there’s Owen, off to the right, beyond the playground equipment, at the edge of the soccer field.
There’s a dark-haired woman beside him, bending down at the waist, talking to him. As soon as my gaze lands on her, she straightens, and looks directly at me.
It’s her, the woman from the grocery store.
“Owen!”
I rush over, heart pounding, Mia tight on my hip. The woman just watches me, impassive. And Owen doesn’t move.
As soon as I’m close enough to touch him, I pull him to me, behind my leg, shielding him from her.
“Who are you?” I demand. “And what do you want?”
She watches me, expressionless, emotionless, like she’s taking it all in.
“I’m Alex Charles,” she finally says. “And I want to talk about Falcon.”
* * *
—
I stare at her, my heart still pounding.
She’s Alex Charles?
It’s a reporter who’s watching us, not them—
She said Falcon. The realization hits me like a slap. How does she know an asset’s crypt? That information is classified. A journalist should never know that information.
I was right about one thing. Alex Charles is sniffing around, getting close to a story. But he’s a she, and she knows way more than I would have thought.
And she’s here, talking to me.
Oh my God.
“We’re leaving,” I say. I grab Owen’s hand and start walking.
He’s jogging to keep up. “Wait, Mommy, I didn’t say goodbye.” He twists at the waist, raises his little hand in a wave. I pull him along and grip Mia tighter.
My heart is pounding.
What if they’re watching? I need it crystal clear that I’m not talking to her, that I don’t want her near me.
I walk as fast as I can, Owen running beside me, desperate to put as much distance as I can between this woman and myself.
She can dig around all she wants, but she’s not getting anything from me—I haven’t been at the Agency in four years.
And about Falcon—How does she know I have anything to do with Falcon?
What does she know?
“I’ll be at the Starbucks on Shore Drive tomorrow at ten,” she calls after me.
I don’t turn, don’t slow, but I hear every word, and she knows it.
“If you don’t show, I’m going to press with the story I have.”
ONE WEEK EARLIER
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex
The encrypted message comes in through ClandestineTips, the Post’s new platform for anonymous leads. Our own version of WhatsApp. More secure than anything on the market, apparently. I sat through a training a few months ago when they rolled it out. Didn’t understand all the technical crap. Still don’t. Here’s what I do know: Tipsters are guaranteed anonymity. They choose a handle, and their IP addresses are masked. We can chat privately. And there’s absolutely no way for me—or anyone else, for that matter—to find out who I’m conversing with.
This one comes directly to my inbox. Most of the tips end up in the general inbox, but users have the option to send to a specific reporter. Every day I get a handful sent straight to me. Usually they’re addressed to Mr. Charles. Wouldn’t be, if my byline said Alexandra. Or if I used a picture on my Post profile, or on Twitter. But I’ve been around this business long enough to know life’s a hell of a lot easier as an Alex.
I glance at the framed picture on my desk, beside the computer. My mom, Imani. Different newsroom, different era. She’s about the age I am now. Shorter than me, hair long and relaxed. But otherwise she looks a lot like I do. High cheekbones. Angular features. She was able to trace her roots back to Senegal. I like to think mine are there, too.
I open this tip at lunchtime. I’m at my desk at the Post, sandwich from the deli across the street open in front of me. Pastrami on rye, my favorite. Only reason I’m checking the inbox is because the office is so obnoxiously loud at the moment. Phones ringing, twenty-four-hour news blasting, someone laughing too damn loud.
To: Alex Charles
From: Afriend123
Message: Ninety percent of US human intelligence on Syria’s biological weapons program comes from a single clandestine source.
It’s the figure that catches
my attention. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that figures mean facts. It’s the figures that separate the legitimate tips from the garbage. And let’s be honest here, most of them are garbage. But this one…
This one has a figure.
I take another bite of my sandwich and chew slowly, eyeing that number. Ninety percent. Then I place the sandwich back on the paper wrapper, wipe my hands on a napkin. Fingers on the keyboard:
To: Afriend123
From: Alex Charles
Message: Thank you for the tip. How do you know this information?
I press return and hear a ding. Sent. I stare at the screen. The user might be online now. Might respond immediately.
Nothing.
My eyes drift back up to that figure. Ninety percent. I feel a familiar itch of excitement.
Abruptly I reach for my phone and scroll through the contacts. Doesn’t take long to find the entry I want. CIA Public Affairs. I tap the number and the call connects.
“Public Affairs, this is Kassie.”
“Kassie, it’s Alex Charles, at the Post.” I’ve dealt with Kassie before. Not that it really matters who I’m dealing with. They’re all the same.
“Hi, Alex.” Her voice is guarded. Strained. It’s clear she wishes it wasn’t me. That it was anyone else, really.
“I’m working on a story. Just wondering if you could verify something for me.”
“Certainly.”
That was a reluctant “certainly” if I ever heard one. “Does ninety percent of your human intelligence on Syrian biological weapons come from a single source?”
The expected beat of silence. And then: “The CIA cannot discuss sources and methods.”
Standard response. Public Affairs is usually a dead end. But it’s a box I need to check, nonetheless.
You Can Run Page 6
