I pull open the sliding glass door and walk back inside. The kids are on the couch in the family room, bowls of Cheerios in their laps, eyes glued to Elmo on the television screen.
Drew’s in the kitchen. He’s dressed for the day now, khakis and a collared shirt, and he’s pacing. He stops when I approach. “We’re going to the police, Jill,” he says quietly.
“We can’t.”
“This isn’t up for debate.”
“You’re right, it’s not. We’re not going to the police.” I can dig my heels in just as much as he can.
He throws up his arms. “Unbelievable.”
“The local police wouldn’t do a thing here, Drew. It’s the FBI we need. The FBI works with the CIA”—I throw a glance toward the family room, but the kids are absorbed in the show, paying no attention to us—“they might be in on this, Drew.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He looks furious. I barely recognize him right now.
“We’re not going to the authorities. That’s all you need to know.”
“I’m so tired of you deciding what I deserve to know. It’s infuriating.” He stares at me, breathing hard, nostrils flaring.
I swear I’m looking at a stranger.
“My son was kidnapped, and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”
The words cut through me. I can’t imagine finding out that something so terrible had happened to one of my children and I didn’t know. That my spouse had hidden it from me. It would feel like the ultimate betrayal.
“I remember that night, Jill. When you came home and said you resigned. I remember thinking you were hiding something from me. I asked you about it. You lied to me. You promised me you weren’t hiding anything.”
I remember it, too. Clear as anything. “I was going to tell you the truth.”
“Yeah? When?”
“That night. It’s just…” I trail off. “I didn’t know what you’d do.”
“You didn’t trust me to do what was best for my son?”
I don’t know what to say. It seemed like the right move at the time. The safest one. But now, from his perspective…If I were him, I don’t know if I’d be able to forgive this.
“Are you going to tell me more now, or not?” he asks.
“I don’t know what you want me to say. The CIA might be behind this. And if we go to the authorities, the information could very well get back to them.”
“So what now? What the hell are we supposed to do now?” His voice is too loud.
Owen walks into the room, a worried look on his face. Mia’s trailing behind him. Neither of them says a word; they just stare at us.
I force a smile at them, one intended to be reassuring, but I can feel how twisted, how pained, it must look.
“I’m not just sitting around waiting for someone to come after us,” he says, more quietly this time.
There’s no way he should be saying that, not in front of the kids. I shoot a glance in their direction. Owen looks flat-out scared now. “I’m not asking you to.”
“Yeah, Jill, you are.”
He stands there, hands clenched in fists at his sides. I’ve never seen him so angry, and it’s not like I can blame him. It’s not like I didn’t see this coming.
“If this is how it is, then we”—he points to himself, and to the kids—“are leaving.”
Leaving.
The word hangs in the air as he storms out of the kitchen. I watch him go, shoulders hunched, tense with fury. He disappears into our bedroom, and the door slams shut behind him.
I look at the kids. Mia’s quiet and still. Owen’s eyes are filled with tears, his bottom lip quivering. I walk over, bend down, pull them both close, hug them. I don’t know what to say to them, so I don’t say anything at all.
We’ve never fought like this. We have a solid marriage, always have. We’ve always been on the same team—
But teammates talk, don’t they? Teammates don’t keep secrets, not huge, life-changing ones like this. Maybe we haven’t been on the same team, not the way I think.
I pull my kids tighter, bury my face in Mia’s baby-soft curls, breathe in the scent of no-tears shampoo.
Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined Drew threatening to leave with them. Or me agreeing to it, not fighting it with every fiber of my being.
But what am I supposed to say? I can’t put up a fight. They’re safer away from me. Away from here.
My own country is behind this.
My marriage is unraveling.
My family is falling apart.
I need to find a way to fix this, before it’s too late.
* * *
—
An hour later the car is packed and the kids are strapped into car seats. They’re going on a surprise vacation, I told them, and Mommy and Daddy were arguing because Mommy needs to stay behind and work. I’ve done my best to say cheery goodbyes, even though my heart is breaking. Drew will barely look at me. He says nothing as he starts the car, backs down the driveway, into the street. As the car pulls away I can see Owen through the window. He cranes his neck to wave goodbye.
Tears stream down my cheeks. I wave and blow a kiss.
What have I done? All I wanted was to keep him safe. Now I’m on the verge of losing everything.
I watch the car until it’s out of sight.
When I walk back inside, the house is incredibly quiet. I head upstairs to Owen’s room, stand in the doorway. His Spider-Man bed is neatly made. The stuffed elephant’s gone. The room looks empty, sterile.
I walk over to Mia’s room next. Everything’s in its place, bed made, books on the nightstand neatly organized. The nightlight’s still on. I walk over and turn it off. Take one last look at the room before I leave.
I walk back into the kitchen, sit down at the table. The silence is overwhelming. I don’t think I’ve felt this powerless since the day Owen was kidnapped.
The U.S. is doing this. Fabricating a story about Syria possessing a virulent strain of anthrax, making up intelligence that’s leading us to war. And keeping it a secret, at any cost.
Whoever’s responsible, they took my son. And they’re coming back. Soon, because Alex is going to publish tomorrow. And really, they’re here already, because they’re Americans. Insiders. And that might be the most terrifying aspect of all. Because it means I can’t go to the authorities. How can I depend on the government to protect my family when they might be the very ones threatening my family?
I look down at my phone, at the background picture. Owen and Mia in the yard, arms around each other, big smiles on their faces.
If I can’t go to the authorities, can’t get them to protect my kids, I need to do it myself. I need to find the truth, get to the bottom of exactly who’s behind this. And I need to get them locked up, away from my kids. Whatever it takes.
I’ve been quiet for too long. I’ve been scared for too long.
Owen and Mia are in danger, one way or another. Whether I’m silent, or whether I talk. As much as I hate to admit it, as much as it terrifies me, it’s true.
I’m done following their rules.
I unlock the phone, pull up a number, and place the call.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alex
I wasn’t expecting the call. The change of heart. This willingness to talk, to come clean. And I certainly wasn’t expecting her to fly to DC the next morning, show up at my loft. I don’t know what she’s going to say. But I know that whatever it is, I sure as hell need to hear it. It’s a lead. And right now I don’t have anything else.
I open the door. She steps inside, and I close and lock it behind her.
She looks different to me. I try to pinpoint what it is.
And then it hits me. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s looked afraid. She doesn’t look afr
aid anymore. She looks determined.
“Coffee?” I ask. There’s a pot ready.
“Sure.” She’s standing near the table, looking around the loft. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thanks.”
I pull two mugs from the cabinet, fill them both. “How do you take it?”
“Black.”
I add cream to mine and carry them both over to the table. “Want to sit?”
She nods and pulls out a chair. I sit down across from her.
“What is it you want to talk about?” I ask. I’ve never been one for small talk. She doesn’t look like she wants to chat, either.
“I need you to promise me something first,” she says, wrapping her hands around the mug.
“What’s that?”
“What I’m about to tell you—you can’t publish a word of it until my kids are safe.”
I raise my mug to my lips slowly, watching her face the whole time. She looks deadly serious. “They’re in danger?”
“Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate. And she still doesn’t look afraid. Surely they’re not in any immediate danger—
“Where are they right now, Jill?”
“With Drew.”
“At home?”
“No.”
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.
“What kind of danger are they in?” I press. Because she can’t say something like that without elaborating.
“I need that promise first.”
I take another sip of my coffee and eye her. “Have you gone to the police?”
“I can’t.”
The way she says it makes me want so damn badly to hear what she has to say. “Well, I can’t agree to sit on a story.”
“You should make an exception.”
“Why?”
“Because, trust me, you want this story.”
Absolutely I do. I can’t think of anything I want more right now. But still…“I don’t make deals like that.”
“And I don’t talk to journalists.”
“Then why are you here?”
She never breaks eye contact. “Because I’ll do whatever it takes to keep my kids safe.”
A.J.’s tearstained face in that video floats through my mind, unbidden. I just wanted so badly to protect you.
This is connected, isn’t it? She thinks they’re going to hurt her kids. Did they threaten her kids?
This is why she ran in the first place. Why she’s planning to run again.
I want to hear what it is. I need to hear what it is.
“You came to me looking for a story,” she says. “This is the most explosive story you’ll ever find.”
My gaze drifts to the framed picture on the shelf. My mom, smiling. I can hear her voice in my head. I never did. But you. You’re another story, Alexandra. You can.
I turn back to Jill. “And you’ll tell me everything you know?”
“Everything.”
I believe her. She’s telling the truth.
I feel that itch of excitement. Adrenaline running through me.
“Deal.”
* * *
—
Jill tells me a shocking story. One that will sure as hell make the front page. A child was kidnapped. His mother—a CIA employee—was coerced. A source was planted.
And then she gets to the kicker. The U.S. is behind it. The CIA, most likely. Our own government. Fabricating intelligence. Explosive intelligence. Intelligence that’s leading us closer to military conflict.
When she’s done, she goes quiet. I try to process what to say.
“Who’s responsible?” I finally ask.
“That’s what we need to figure out.”
I stare down at my mug. The coffee’s long since gone cold.
My mind is racing. I need names, and I need proof.
“Your turn,” Jill says.
“I’m sorry?”
“I came clean. Will you?”
“About?” I ask.
“Your source, for one. How’d you know about Falcon? How’d you know about me?”
“I don’t reveal my sources.”
“I don’t expect you to. But was it someone in the Agency? Do they know more?”
She’s right; she did come clean, and she wants to work together. My best chance of getting to the bottom of this—our best chance—is if we work together.
“I got an anonymous tip,” I say. “I don’t know who the source is.”
“Can you find out?”
“I tried.”
“What did he—or she—tell you?”
“Falcon’s crypt,” I say. “That ninety percent of our intelligence on Syria biowarfare comes from him. And that you would know more.”
“He gave you my name?”
“Yeah.”
Her brow furrows. “Do you know where he’s getting his info?”
“No.”
She doesn’t respond. The loft is exceptionally silent.
“I want you to see something,” I finally say. And I reach for A.J.’s phone. Pull up the video. Press play.
She watches in silence. When it’s over, she looks up at me.
“What do you make of it?” I ask.
She’s quiet for several moments. “My guess is he learned the truth. That Falcon was a fake. That’s what he meant when he said ‘People aren’t always who they seem.’ ”
“He was telling her what was going on, without saying it in so many words.”
“Probably thought it would put her in more danger to know the truth,” she says. “He sent the encryption cable. Handed over the COVCOM. That was the mistake.”
“That’s why he said he should have been stronger.”
“And I bet they threatened to hurt Blaire. ‘I just wanted so badly to protect you.’ Just like they threatened to hurt Owen.”
“And A.J. caved.”
Jill nods. “Can you blame him?”
I sure as hell can blame him. He had a responsibility—
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, watching me carefully. “But until you’re in that position, you don’t know how you’d react.”
Sounds like a load of crap to me. But there’s no sense arguing with her.
“The video makes it seem like he was going to come clean,” I say.
“He was probably just trying to figure out how to make sure they wouldn’t come after Blaire.”
We both go quiet. In the distance, down below on the street, I can hear the wail of a fire engine.
“He never got a chance to tell the truth,” she says. “They killed him first, didn’t they?” She wraps her arms around herself like she’s suddenly cold.
The thought of the truth dying with him makes me sick to my stomach. “He waited too long.”
“So what do we do now?” she asks.
“Get to the bottom of it. Figure out who’s behind it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
“You’re a journalist. Isn’t that your job?”
“You’re CIA. Isn’t it yours?”
“Maybe it’s up to both of us,” she says, and goes quiet.
Maybe it is. Silence falls over the room.
“What’s the endgame?” she finally says. “War?”
“Could be. Wouldn’t be the first time fake intelligence led us into a conflict.”
In the distance a car horn blares.
“But we’ve learned our lesson, haven’t we?” she asks. “We wouldn’t go to war over unverified intel, would we?”
Unease creeps through me, because she’s right. Intelligence alone wouldn’t be enough.
And whoever’s planting this information, they know t
hat.
* * *
—
After Jill leaves, I open up my laptop. Tap the touchpad, bring the screen to life. Every fiber of my being wants to start typing this story. To publish this damn story. But I need names. I need proof. And I made a promise to sit on it. To wait. Her kids’ safety depends on it.
I navigate to ClandestineTips, scan the inbox. Another message from Timothy Mittens, and one from the UFO guy. Neither of which I bother reading.
Nothing from my source.
I start typing a new message:
Who’s fabricating the intelligence?
I hesitate, then add:
We have reason to believe it’s someone on the inside.
I watch the screen, even though I know the odds of an immediate response are next to nil.
And then a message appears:
I’ve given you enough. Any more is a danger to me.
A tickle of excitement runs through me. My fingers find the keyboard:
I protect my sources.
I stare at the screen. Wait for a new message to appear. But there’s nothing. No response.
I type again:
Who’s behind this?
I watch the screen as seconds turn into minutes. Still there’s nothing.
Finally I close the program and open an Internet browser. Pull up Google. Type a single word.
Anthrax.
I start reading. Syria and numerous other countries—and non-state actors, like terrorist groups—have reportedly worked on strains. It’s not difficult to produce. The U.S. and the Soviet Union used to have stockpiles but destroyed them.
I type in another search term.
Super strain anthrax.
I find an academic article on the characteristics of the most lethal strain of anthrax. Resistant to penicillin and antibiotics. Weaponized spores delivered by aerosol and inhaled. Engineered to quickly kill ninety percent of those exposed.
The symptoms: chest pain, shortness of breath, high fever.
Death within twenty-four hours.
I close the browser, uneasy. Then I open ClandestineTips again, search the inbox in vain.
Nothing from my source.
I look at the last message sent, the one that hasn’t been answered.
You Can Run Page 14
