“And how old are you, Owen?”
“Four and a half. But I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“I’m not a stranger. I know your mom.”
“Oh.”
It’s too damn easy. “Is that your sister over there?”
“Yes. Mia.”
“How old is Mia?”
“Three.”
“Owen!”
I look up, and Jill’s hustling toward me, Mia on her hip. Her face is unnaturally pale. Her eyes look wide and panicked.
I watch her calmly. Why so scared, Jill?
What are you scared of?
She reaches for Owen. Pulls him toward her. Steps in front of him, like she’s shielding him.
“Who are you?” she says. “And what do you want?”
“I’m Alex Charles. And I want to talk about Falcon.”
The color drains even further from her face. Leaves it a ghastly shade of white. She reminds me of a deer caught in headlights.
Yes, Jill Bailey—Jill Smith—knows about Falcon. There’s not a doubt in my mind.
“We’re leaving,” she says. She grabs the boy’s hand, practically drags him away.
I watch her go. That’s her instinct, isn’t it? To flee. The same instinct that brought her to Florida, I’d bet. That led her to change her name from Jill Bailey to Jill Smith.
What are you running from, Jill?
“I’ll be at the Starbucks on Shore Drive tomorrow at ten,” I call. She doesn’t turn around, but she must hear me. “If you don’t show, I’m going to press with the story I have.”
I say the words with as much confidence as I can muster. I don’t know if I’m overplaying my hand. If she knows I’m bluffing.
I don’t have a story, not yet.
But I’m sure as hell going to find one.
CHAPTER NINE
Jill
I get to Starbucks at nine-thirty and sit in the parking lot, watching, waiting. It’s habit, from my Agency days: arrive early, scope the place. I need to make sure that no one’s watching us. That no one sees me talking to a journalist—and a Washington Post reporter, at that.
I didn’t sleep last night. How could I? This reporter, this Alex Charles, she knows about Falcon. She knows about me. Does she know I approved the source? That Owen was kidnapped? Whatever she knows, it’s too much, that’s for sure.
And she threatened to go public with it, whatever it is.
It’s dangerous, being here. But I’m terrified it’s more dangerous not to be. That voice from the past has been echoing in my head, on an endless loop: If this ever comes out, we’ll be back. We’ll take your son. And we’ll kill him.
I called work this morning, said I’d be in late. I hate lying, but it’s what I’ve been doing for the last four years. Maybe not directly, maybe not in actual words, but the very fact that I’m in Florida, that’s because I’m living a lie, isn’t it?
I need to figure out what story this journalist thinks she has. And if it’s the one I think, the one I fear, I need to find a way to stall. Stall, and convince her she doesn’t have a story, make sure she doesn’t publish anything. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I have to.
She pulls up at nine forty-five in the same white sedan I remember from the grocery store, parks in the first row, near the door. She sits for a few minutes with the engine off, looking at her phone. Then she heads inside. I watch as she orders something, then hovers near the pick-up area, tapping on her phone. When her drink is ready, she carries it to a table in the back, out of my sight. At least she’s got enough sense to pick the back, away from the windows.
I look around one last time, then leave my car, walk inside, head down. I bypass the counter and walk straight to the back. She’s at a two-seater, her coffee cup in front of her. I sit down across from her.
“Hi, Jill.”
“Hi.”
“Coffee?”
“I’m fine.” I don’t want to be here longer than I need to be.
She takes a sip of her coffee, watching me the whole time. This woman, she’s not afraid to stare at people, that’s for sure. There’s something unnerving about the way she’s looking at me, like she’s trying to read me, or can read me.
“You mentioned going to press,” I say. “What’s the story?”
“You tell me.”
“I have no idea.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
I fold my hands on the table and stare directly at her. I’m not going to blink first. If she wants something from me—and she wouldn’t have asked me to come here otherwise—she’s going to have to give me something.
There’s a clang in the kitchen, something falling to the floor. Then quiet again, just the distant din of activity at the counter, the soft strains of background music from the speakers.
“I know the U.S. is entirely too reliant on Falcon,” she finally says.
I fight to keep my face impassive. “Why do you think that?”
“A source.”
“Who?”
“Doesn’t matter. The information’s correct, isn’t it?”
I say nothing. If that’s all she has, fine. It’s not the real story, the one they want me to keep secret. And it couldn’t possibly be attributed to me, wouldn’t look like I broke their rules and talked. I’ve been out of the game for four years. I have no idea how much the U.S. relies on Falcon, or what he’s providing—
“And I know Falcon’s not a real source.”
Dammit.
That voice rings in my head again. If this ever comes out, we’ll be back—
“And I know you’re involved in this.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I say it automatically, like a reflex, one born out of fear.
She takes another sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving mine. “When did you find out he wasn’t a real source?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did you know from the beginning?” she presses. “Because you were a reports officer. You worked Syria. You worked Falcon.”
How does she know that? Does she know that, or is she guessing?
“I worked a ton of different sources,” I say. “That name doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Didn’t look that way yesterday. At the playground. Looked like that name most certainly did ring a bell.”
My pulse is racing. I don’t know what to say, how to get myself out of this, how to shut this down.
“It would have been up to you to vet the source. So how’d you miss it? That he’s not real.”
If she publishes this, they’ll come for Owen. Mia, too?
I need to find a way out of this. Stall. Convince her this isn’t a story—
“If I missed something, it was an accident.”
She nods. “You were just back from maternity leave, weren’t you? Probably tired?”
It’s an out, isn’t it? A way to convince her there’s no story here, or at least that I’m not part of it. Distance myself as much as possible from whatever she’s going to write—
I nod.
“I thought the name didn’t ring a bell.”
Shit.
“Truth is, you remember that name very well. You approved the source, and then you changed your name and fled to Florida. Why?”
Oh my God. How is this coming out now, after all this time?
“Did they pay you?”
“No!”
She shrugs. “I didn’t really think so. Blackmail? Did you have some kind of secret affair?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, here’s the thing. If you don’t tell me why, the story’s just going to be full of speculation.”
I stare at her. She can�
�t publish this. Can she?
“If anything happened on my end, it was a mistake.” If I can convince her of that, maybe it’ll force her to keep digging. Maybe it’ll delay her going to press, or at least keep my name out of it. “I’m not your story.”
“So what is the story?”
“I don’t know.”
“Give me something.”
“I have nothing to give.”
“Then you’re the story, Jill.” She leans back, folds her arms across her chest.
That voice is back again, in my head. If this ever comes out—
“Why’d you run?”
“What?”
“You ran. Changed your name. Moved. Why?”
I don’t know what to say, so I just stare at her.
“Let’s say it was a mistake. Why did you run?”
A young guy in all black ambles toward the back of the shop. He sits down three tables over, opens up a laptop.
Alex leans forward and speaks more quietly. “Let’s put it this way. Hypothetically, if someone made a mistake, why would she run?”
“Maybe she didn’t want to be in a position to ever make a mistake like that again.”
That part, at least, is the truth.
Alex leans back, eyes me. “She thought she was doing the right thing.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
She watches me a moment longer. Then she reaches down into her bag, pulls out a folded piece of paper. Opens it, lays it on the table between us, facing me.
It’s a list of names, a half dozen. Most are familiar to me, case officers who worked Syria over the years. A. J. Graham is second from last.
“Where’d you get these names?”
“They’re online. Dark web. They were part of one of those big leaks, years ago.”
I look up at her and say nothing.
“Now, I’ll be honest,” she says. “I think there’s a bigger story here. I think you screwed up, and you know it. But I think there are others who did much worse.” She taps one manicured fingernail against the paper. “Give me a name.”
“No.”
“I’m going to track down each of these guys, and I’m going to talk to them.”
Good. That’ll take time. “Knock yourself out.”
“But first I’m going to press with what I have. You. And your source.”
“You can’t do that—”
“I’ll hold the story. For three days. If you tell me who recruited him.”
I look down at the list again. She’ll find A.J. eventually. She has his name. All this would do is buy me time. Time to disappear, to keep my family safe.
“Whoever it was, he put you in this position.”
She’s right. He did put me in this position. Because if Falcon is a fake source, A.J.’s to blame. A.J. didn’t do his due diligence and properly vet his source. Or worse, A.J. was in on it, knew Falcon wasn’t real. The idea’s been in the back of my mind for years, but I’ve tried not to dwell on it, mostly because it inevitably led me to question who Falcon was, and why, and I didn’t want to think about either. Didn’t want to think about what I’d done.
“A week,” I say.
“Four days. That’s it.”
My eyes settle on the name, and I feel like I’m betraying him, but then, he betrayed me, didn’t he? How else did they know I was the one with the cable in my queue?
And she already has his name. I’m just buying myself enough time to protect my kids.
I point to A.J.’s name.
She nods, and I stand to leave.
“Here’s the one thing I don’t understand,” she says evenly, folding the paper carefully in half, and then half again.
I wait, and finally she shifts her gaze to me, gives me a steely look. “If you made a mistake, and that’s all it was—a mistake—why didn’t you just admit it?”
The way she’s watching me sends a chill through me. I turn and head for the door without saying a word, because I don’t have an answer for her, not in the least.
* * *
—
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. I go through the motions at work, by rote. It’s hard to focus on my students, on anything besides Alex.
Four days. Four days until she goes to press, until this comes out. I tried to convince her that I’m not the story, that at most it was a mistake, but she saw through me. When she writes this story, I’ll be part of it.
We need to run, don’t we? Pick up and leave, again.
All these years, I did what they said. Never breathed a word. Even now, even meeting with Alex, I never said a word about Owen’s kidnapping. Isn’t that what they wanted me to keep quiet about, more than anything?
But it doesn’t matter. All that matters now is this article that’s going to come out, and what those people will do when they see it.
When I get home at five, everything seems normal. I stand in the kitchen and look out the window into the backyard. The kids are playing on the swing set, and I can just barely hear the faint sound of their happy shrieks. The sun’s sinking lower in the sky; the lake is calm.
I open the sliding glass door and step outside.
“Mommy!” Mia yells, bounding over, pigtails bouncing. She wraps her arms around my leg in a hug. Owen’s on the swing, trying hard to pump his legs. He raises one hand in the quickest of waves, grips the chain again, a proud smile on his face.
Drew walks over, gives me a peck on the lips. “How was your day?”
“Fine.” There’s a pit in my stomach when I say it.
I’m going to have to tell him what’s happening. There’s no way around it. What’s he going to say? What’s he going to think?
If I were in his shoes, if he’d kept a secret like this from me, I’d be furious.
“Daddy! Let’s play pirates!” Owen says, slowing himself to a stop with his toe in the dirt, then hopping off the swing.
“Arrgh, matey,” Drew says, giving me a wink.
He jogs off after Owen, who’s waving an invisible sword, heading toward the swing set.
We’re going to have to leave all this. And we’re going to have to do it on our own.
A shiver runs through me. I fold my arms across my chest and watch my family.
How is this even going to work? We can’t leave a trail this time, like we did last time. No credit cards, no ATMs. We’ll have to pull out all our money before we leave town, live off cash. But we don’t have much cash. Most of it’s tied up in the house. And it’s not like we can sell the house before we go.
Where will we live? How will we live? We’ll have to take whatever jobs are available, the kind that don’t require any sort of experience, that don’t check references, or even IDs. Will they pay enough for us to afford housing, and food?
I watch Mia spin in the grass, her head tipped back toward the sun, her arms outstretched, and my heart hurts.
I thought I was doing the right thing for my family all those years ago. But I wasn’t, was I? I should have come clean when the government could have helped us. Settled us, given us stipends, helped us find jobs, made sure we had a safe place to live.
Now we’re on our own. No one to protect us. No one to give us guidance.
Drew picks up Owen, holds him sideways over his head, and Owen dissolves in a fit of giggles, the sweetest sound. So happy, so carefree.
What will this do to the kids? Where will they go to school? What will they think? What about their toys, their books, everything that’s important to them? We’ll only be able to bring what we can fit in the car. How do I fit our whole lives into a car?
And our families. Will we tell them we’re leaving? We can’t just disappear. They’ll be convinced something terrible happened to us. But what in the world would we say?
“Jill? Everything
okay?” Drew’s looking over at me, squinting into the sun.
Four days. I can let them have these last hours of normalcy, can’t I? I’ll tell him tonight, after the kids go to bed. And then we can put plans into motion. Find a way to disappear before the four days are up, before the article hits the press, and our lives change forever.
“Yeah,” I call back, but it’s a delayed response, and he’s already back to his swordfight, laughing with Owen.
Once I tell him the truth, nothing will ever be the same again.
I head back inside, close the sliding door behind myself, look around. I don’t even know where to begin. Packing, maybe? Gathering what little we can take, the most precious things that can’t be left behind?
I walk out into the garage, to the recycling pile, pull out an old Amazon box, one with some packing paper still inside. I bring it into the study, set it down.
I unlock the fireproof safe, take out the folder of important documents: passports, birth certificates, Social Security cards. A diamond pendant that belonged to my grandmother. An external hard drive where I’ve backed up all our pictures. I drop everything into the box.
The back door slides open, and I hear footsteps, then Mia’s high-pitched chatter, Drew’s voice, Owen’s. The door closes behind them. I stop what I’m doing, slide the box to the corner of the room, go out to greet them, a big smile plastered on my face, like everything’s normal. Like I’m not in the midst of packing up our lives.
We make homemade pizza for dinner, with toddler radio playing in the background, the kids on stools at the counter. Drew rolls out the dough, even tosses it clumsily, much to the kids’ delight. Owen spreads the sauce, Mia sprinkles on cheese. I just watch, nostalgic about something that isn’t yet gone, because I know it’s about to be. Because everything’s about to change. We can’t stay here, can’t keep living this life, not when Alex has this story.
After dinner we give the kids baths, get them into PJs. I help Owen with his, but he wants to do it himself, and as he’s struggling into his pajama top, I look around his room. He has a twin-size bed now, with Spider-Man sheets. But I remember when it was a crib, when we first moved in. When I found that note. You can run, but you can’t hide.
You Can Run Page 9
