You Can Run

by Karen Cleveland

  “Did you get both tips from the same source?” he asks.

  I grip the bottle in my hand tighter. “Yes.”

  “Someone who claimed to know the percentage of reporting we’re getting from a specific source. Someone who now claims to know that we have a fake source?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alex, that’s…” He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “I know.” I don’t know what to say either. I pick at a loose thread on the cushion beside me. “So, hypothetically, who would be doing something like that?”

  He examines his bottle, looks deep in thought. “The hurdle would be getting the source encrypted, getting him COVCOM. Once the COVCOM’s in hand…” He shrugs. “Anyone could be using it.”

  “But to get to that point…”

  “Well, it would have to be CIA. The whole recruitment process—it would all be documented in operational channels. No one outside the Agency would have access to the level of detail needed to pull something like that off.” He nods, looking more confident. “But, Alex, we’re not doing anything like that. I’m positive.”

  “CIA as a whole, sure. Could there be some sort of rogue faction?”

  His expression is haunted. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “I know. I can’t, either.”

  I wait for him to say something, but he’s quiet.

  “What if I said there was a Z23 involved?”

  “A Z23? How the hell do you know about that, Alex?”

  “I have my ways.” My ways are Jill. And her contact. I’d never heard of it before. Proprietary CIA scrambling technology. But according to Jill’s friend, it was attached to the COVCOM.

  He looks uncomfortable. “If there’s a Z23 involved, then it’s someone senior.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. No one junior can access those.”

  “How senior? Like your level of seniority?” Beau’s been a Deputy Chief of Station out in the field. Number two in charge. Now he’s a Deputy Group Chief at headquarters, overseeing operations in the Middle East. Pretty damn senior.

  “Oh hell no. I can’t get anywhere near a Z23. Higher. I’m talking about someone who’s read into everything. Every compartment.”

  Apprehension is swirling inside me.

  “Someone at the highest level of the CIA.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s dark by the time I get back to my loft. I step inside, drop my bag onto the table in the center of the room. Hover there in the silence, considering what to do next. I’m too disconcerted to sleep right now. Too damn tense to have any appetite.

  Someone high up in the CIA. That’s Beau’s guess. Before I left his apartment, he pressed for information about my source, but I didn’t have much to give. Told him it was an anonymous tipster. Someone who knew Falcon’s crypt. Knew how much intel he’s providing, knew he was fake. That that’s all I’ve got. And he didn’t press it. I think he’s as unsettled by the information as I am.

  I carry my laptop over to the couch. Sit down cross-legged with it in my lap. Open it up, check ClandestineTips. Nothing. The last thing I got was the request to publish. Do it soon, before it’s too late.

  And my response, still unanswered: Too late for what?

  I set the laptop beside me on the couch and reach for the remote. Turn on the TV. Flip through a couple of channels. A sitcom. A crap reality show. I could pull up Netflix, but I know I won’t be able to concentrate right now. I turn the television back off.

  Silence, again.

  My gaze falls onto the framed picture on the built-ins. The wedding picture.

  I pull the computer back onto my lap and open Facebook. I haven’t checked the site in days. Weeks, even. I log in, and the news feed appears—

  Miles. It’s the first update in my feed. A picture of him with a woman, their arms around each other—

  I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut.

  They’re outside, somewhere sunny and green. He’s smiling, and it’s a genuine one. I know his smiles. The pose-for-the-camera ones, the I’ll-smile-if-I-have-to ones. But this one’s real. He’s happy.

  She’s smiling, too. She’s pretty and young and she looks nice. That’s the toughest damn part. It’d be easier if she looked unpleasant.

  I close Facebook. Stare at the background picture on my screen. The stock photo.

  Then I look over at our wedding picture.

  Don’t you want to have it all?

  Impulsively I open up Word. Start typing. Writing down everything I have.

  It’s enough now, with Jill’s info. Sure, it’d be better with names. More convincing with proof. But she’s not an anonymous source. I know exactly who she is. I know her access. I can tell this story.

  * * *

  —

  The words flow easily. Far more easily than I would have expected. I reach the end and stare at the draft. It’s a damn good piece. Explosive. Front-page worthy. It’s not everything, not the whole story. But enough to make a splash.

  Enough to make sure I’m the one who gets the scoop.

  Jill enters my mind and I try to push her out. But I can hear our conversation replaying in my mind. I made a deal with her. I got that information because I made a deal. I promised to stay quiet until we got to the bottom of this. If I break that promise, if I publish something attributed to her, her kids could be in jeopardy.

  More of my mom’s words run through my head.

  You have such a strong sense of right and wrong.

  I hit save and close Word, frustrated as hell. Nothing’s working out the way I want it to. My marriage is over. A failure. I can’t get to the bottom of this story. It’s my job to figure it out, and I just can’t.

  I pull up the browser again, still open to Facebook. Look at the picture of Miles with that new woman.

  My gaze shifts to my phone. I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t even be considering it.

  But he’s the one I always turned to when things weren’t going my way.

  Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe I made the biggest damn mistake of my life.

  I reach for the phone. Unlock it, find the text chain with him. It’s not at the top anymore, like it always used to be—

  My thumbs tap out a message and I hit send before I can change my mind.

  Can we meet?

  I watch the space below my message and wait for those dots, the ones that show he’s writing back—

  There they are. He’s writing something—

  The dots disappear.

  I watch the screen.

  They’re back. He’s typing again. He must have written something, erased it, reconsidered—

  A reply.

  Sure.

  I stare at the word. He just agreed to meet.

  Want to come by? I tap out.

  I wait for the dots—

  There they are.

  Still there.

  Still, like he’s typing something long—

  The message appears:

  No, Alex. I don’t think that’s a good idea. How about that new place, Bar Ten? Halfway between my place and yours…

  My place and yours. The phrasing hurts, even if it’s true. My place isn’t ours anymore. He has his own.

  I can be there in fifteen, I type.

  See you then.

  I stare at the screen. What the hell did I just do? Why did I do it?

  My gaze shifts to the wedding picture on the shelf. How did we get to this point? How did everything fall so spectacularly apart?

  I glance at the clock, then reach for the laptop. Time to close it up, time to go. I pull up ClandestineTips for one last check—

  A new message, from my source.

 
I double-click—

  They know you’re digging around, and they’re not pleased.

  Be careful.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alex

  It’s a warning. That much is clear. They’re threatening me because I’m digging around. They want me to stop. To stay the hell away from this story.

  But what strikes me even more powerfully is the fact that my source knows exactly who’s behind this—and is close enough to those people to know what they’re thinking.

  Who? I type. Who’s not pleased?

  I stare at the screen and wait, but there’s no answer.

  I glance at the clock again. Fifteen minutes. I’ll check ClandestineTips when I get back. Right now I need to see Miles. I close the laptop and head for the door.

  * * *

  —

  Bar Ten is one of those trendy bars. Couldn’t be more different than Brewster’s. The lighting is dim but strategic, the kind designed for flattering Instagram shots. Everything’s modern, streamlined, minimalist. The music makes me imagine people meditating on a beach. The bartenders look straight out of the pages of GQ.

  Miles is at the bar. In a suit, his tie loosened. He looks good, even better than the last time I saw him. He catches sight of me and stands. I walk over, and we exchange an awkward hug.

  This feels all wrong.

  “This place is great, isn’t it?” he asks, sitting back on his stool. There’s a martini glass in front of him, filled with liquid that looks fluorescent green. I sit down slowly beside him.

  This place isn’t great at all. This is the kind of place I hate, and he should know that.

  “How’ve you been?” I ask in return.

  “Really good,” he says with a smile. “How about you, Alex? I worry about you.”

  The words feel condescending as hell. “Also really good.”

  An awkward silence follows. He reaches for his drink and takes a sip.

  A bartender dressed in all black walks over. “Have you had a chance to look over our martini list?” He lays down a long, skinny drink menu in front of me.

  “No.” I skim it, then look behind him, try to catch sight of a bourbon, or beer taps, but it’s a lost cause. Maybe all they have is martinis? “You know what, just a water would be great.”

  “Sparkling or still?”

  Tap would be fine, but that doesn’t seem like an option here. “Still. Thanks.”

  He purses his lips and turns around.

  “You should get a martini,” Miles says.

  “I don’t like martinis.”

  Another awkward silence ensues. I watch the bartender pour Evian into a stemless martini glass.

  “Alex, why are we here?” Miles asks. “What do you want?” He says it gently, but the words sound harsh.

  What do I want?

  Him.

  The life we used to have.

  “I want things to go back to the way they were,” I say. And the moment the words are out of my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them.

  “Have you changed your mind? About, you know. Kids.”

  “No. Have you?”

  “No.” He shoots me a wry smile, and in it I see the old Miles. The one I used to banter with. The one I used to be happy with.

  “Aren’t you worried your life will be empty without kids?” he asks. He says it lightly, but it doesn’t blunt the blow of the words.

  “That’s a terribly offensive thing to say.”

  “Even your mom wanted you to have kids. You told me about that conversation—”

  “The one where she said there are many different paths to happiness?” He’s not going to use my mom’s words against me.

  “Like what? Like winning some award? That’s going to give your life meaning?”

  “Are kids? Why do you think my life can’t have meaning without kids? And no, I don’t mean some award. I mean love, like the love I feel for you, and for her—”

  “You don’t owe her anything,” he says. “Certainly not some award.”

  “I owe her everything. She never accomplished her goal because of me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Alex.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “But she had you. Didn’t she always tell you that was better?”

  “Well, of course she’s going to say that to me.”

  “You don’t believe her?”

  The bartender sets down the martini glass full of water. I’m pretty sure he heard that.

  “I don’t want kids, Miles. I never have. You didn’t, either, remember?”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Well, I’m not going to.”

  “Then this is where it ends, Alex.”

  The bartender pretends to examine the row of mixers just to the right of us, clearly listening to our conversation.

  “And besides,” he says. “I’m seeing someone. I told you that.”

  “You do remember we’re still married?” I’m not sure if I say it more for the bartender’s sake or his. Or maybe mine.

  “Our marriage has been over for a long time.”

  “It might have been useful to share that information with me.”

  “I filed for divorce.”

  “Was that before or after you got a girlfriend?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yeah, I’d say it does.”

  “You had this damn quest. I could never compete.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Finding the biggest story. It mattered to you more than anything. Even me.”

  He swirls his drink around in its glass like it’s wine, watching the martini instead of me.

  “So you were jealous of my career?”

  “I wanted to matter more.”

  I stare at him, this man I once knew. “No, you wanted my career to matter less.”

  The bartender slinks away. This conversation is too much even for him.

  “My career makes me happy,” I say. “I shouldn’t have to apologize for that.”

  Miles says nothing.

  “You made me happy, too.” I realize I’ve just used the past tense. And it doesn’t sound wrong.

  “You didn’t,” he says.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t make me happy. Not toward the end. Not the way she does.”

  The words cut like a knife. And looking into his eyes, I’m pretty damn sure that’s how he intended them.

  I’ve forgiven a lot of what he’s said. Given him the benefit of the doubt. Tried to get past it.

  But I’m done now. And frankly, I should have been done a long time ago.

  “I’m going to go,” I say, sliding off the stool.

  “Alex—”

  “I’m leaving.”

  He glances over at the bartender. “Alex, stay and talk. Don’t run out on me.”

  I shake my head and continue toward the door.

  It’s all about him, isn’t it? He doesn’t feel guilty about what he just said. He’s not worried that I’m leaving, upset. He just doesn’t want to be left alone at the bar.

  It was always all about him, wasn’t it?

  Maybe not always. Maybe not right in the beginning. Or maybe I just didn’t see it. But in any case, our problems ran deeper than just whether or not to have kids.

  Why the hell didn’t I want to admit that?

  I push open the door, and I answer my own question. Because I didn’t want my marriage to fail. Because he’s the only family I’ve got left. Because he’s been trying to paint me as the selfish one in this relationship—and maybe, just maybe, I was starting to believe him.

  “You can’t hide from the truth, Alex,” he calls after me.

  “I know,” I say, without ever loo
king back. Because for the first time I feel like I’m actually facing the truth.

  It just doesn’t look the way I wanted it to.

  * * *

  —

  Tears blur my vision, turning streetlights and headlights into giant puddles of brightness. I blink them away, focus on my surroundings. The street outside the bar, cars whizzing past. A group of women in their early twenties, scantily clad, heading for another bar, one that’s sending a low pulse of bass out onto the sidewalk. One of them says something funny, and the others laugh uproariously.

  I turn away and start walking toward home.

  My marriage is over. But it’s been over for a long time now, hasn’t it?

  Miles is right. I can’t hide from the truth.

  Being true to myself doesn’t make me selfish, no matter what he wants me to think.

  Choosing not to have children doesn’t mean I don’t care about other people.

  I gave that relationship my all. I gave my mom my all. And my sources, and my stories.

  In my mind I see Jill. Her kids. If all I cared about was breaking a big story, I’d have published one by now.

  I care about doing the right thing. How dare he say otherwise?

  I cross the street and veer right into the park. Quickest route home, a cut-through. It’s lush and green, a fountain in the center, shut off for the night. There’s a statue beside it, some war hero I can’t remember.

  I pass a row of empty benches. The whole park’s empty at this hour. Completely deserted. The streetlight just up ahead is flickering, casting an eerie glow on the park. I pick up my pace—

  Footsteps, behind me. Loud, and heavy. A quick pace. Close, like someone approached without me hearing. Too close, since there’s no one else around—

  A wave of apprehension washes over me.

  I turn my head and catch a glimpse of the man. Large, with a thick beard. Wide-set eyes staring directly at me—

  The apprehension morphs into full-blown fear.

  He lifts something over his head—

  And then everything goes black.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Alex