Loose Lips

by Claire Berlinski

  “I can’t get my kids to come fishing with me for love or money,” said C/O ROSENBLATT. “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  RAINBOW gave him pointers on tying his flies to the tippet, teaching him to hold the fly up to a pale, single-colored background. C/O ROSENBLATT admired his skill. They fished in manly silence for a while, wading through the gentle rapids and taking in lungfuls of loamy northern air. There wasn’t another soul in sight. In the distance, the indigo of the water shaded into a cerulean sky, and the air was piney. RAINBOW caught half a dozen fat trout before lunchtime, and C/O ROSENBLATT caught three more—big ones, too.

  Shortly after dusk, the men built a campfire and cleaned their fish. C/O ROSENBLATT began plying RAINBOW with beer and then broke out the Jack Daniel’s. The fresh air and sunlight had left them tired and contented.

  After dinner, C/O ROSENBLATT asked RAINBOW how things were going back home in the Slough.

  RAINBOW looked pained. “Not good,” he said. “Not good. I don’t know how they’re going to make it. One of my nephews just broke his arm when he fell off a jungle gym, and he’s going to need physical therapy—and it’s not covered by Medicare. I don’t know what they’re going to do.”

  C/O ROSENBLATT leaned in. “Dirk, I’ve got some great news for you. Wanted to save it for a moment like this, ’cause this is gonna knock your socks off. I just got permission from my managing director to offer you a little consulting job. I told them that you were the person we needed. We need someone with insight into what’s going on in that whole salmon mess—someone who knows what the government is up to and where this whole thing is going to go. If you can write a thirty-page report for us, say, once a month, I can get you a cool five thousand per, if the information is good.”

  RAINBOW was so stunned he nearly spilled his Jack Daniel’s.

  Exactly forty-eight hours after I received Paul’s postcard, Janet called me at my desk. She told me to report to the Special Investigations Branch at two. She didn’t say why.

  I arrived on time. The receptionist ushered me into the interview room, opening the door wide, as if not wanting to get too close to me. She left me alone in the bare room. I sat on the metal folding chair, unsure whether to face the door or the small camera on the wall. I decided to face the camera. I crossed my legs and uncrossed them. I looked at my watch, and wondered how long Janet would make me wait. I rummaged through my purse, found some aspirin, and swallowed the tablets dry. I decided to sit with my back to the camera.

  This, I thought, is how the chimps must feel when the Bad Man approaches their cage, brandishing the electric paddles.

  Twenty-three minutes—that’s how long it took for Janet to arrive. The door opened slightly. I rose halfway from my chair so I would be standing when she walked in, but the door remained where it was. I heard Janet’s voice in the hallway asking someone to schedule Peterman for four-thirty, and I heard a male voice reply, “That’ll be fun.” The door opened fully and Janet backed into the room. I stood up all the way and began to offer her my hand when I saw that her right wrist and hand were in a plaster cast. I was unsure what do. She offered me her left hand, which I held clumsily with my right. I let go of her hand and sat down. Janet sat down as if her whole body, not just her hand, were fragile.

  I hadn’t seen Janet since the investigation began, almost four months ago. In my dreams she had been athletic, chasing me down on foot as I tried to flee. But she was older than I remembered her, and she looked tired.

  “Thank you for coming by,” she said.

  “Thank you for having me,” I replied. I wondered how she had managed to pull her wrist through the sleeve of her suit.

  Janet cleared her throat. She pulled a pen out of her purse with her left hand and offered it to her crippled right hand. The right hand accepted it awkwardly.

  She said, “I have conducted a careful audit of the information on your computer.”

  “I won the Crewdson thesis prize, you know.”

  Janet tilted her head slightly. “I’m sorry?” she asked. I waved the comment off. “Our investigative team has concluded that you have committed security violations. I am sure that this comes as no surprise to you. I have not yet formed a recommendation to offer the adjudication committee, and this investigation will be continuing.”

  I felt relieved and disappointed at once. It was as if my doctor had informed me that my disease was not, thank God, terminal—but my excruciating symptoms were incurable.

  “Your case is more complicated than we expected. At this stage, your continued cooperation would be appreciated. There are certain evidentiary issues outstanding which we need to resolve.”

  “It’s the Dhammapada, isn’t it?”

  Janet tilted her head again.

  “It’s my field notes on the Dhammapada. They’re not really meant for a lay reader. I didn’t bother to translate the source materials. Janet, I’d love to help you, but Pali took me almost four years to get the hang of. There’s just no substitute for time and work. Pali’s not only an inflected language, but highly metaphorical—it’s a whole other way of thinking—”

  She held up her good hand to silence me. “Selena, I don’t have time for this. Believe it or not, I’m your new best friend.” She fixed me with a long, unblinking stare. I wondered how long it had been since she’d been someone’s best friend.

  “Of course I’ll cooperate.”

  “Good. As you know, a case officer is entrusted with truly extraordinary responsibilities. Out in the field, a case officer makes decisions—critical decisions—that will affect the security of every American. We must be confident that case officers are capable of assuming that responsibility.” Her speech was measured and slow, as if she were narrating the introduction to a television drama. She continued, “I believe you might have information relevant to other investigations. If you share it with me, that cooperation will work in your favor.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you, but I’ll work with you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  Janet tried to open the manila folder but couldn’t. The thumb and forefinger of her right hand didn’t touch, and she had no way to hold it while unhinging the clasp. After struggling for a few seconds, she handed the whole thing to me. I opened it and pulled out two pieces of paper. They were photocopies of the postcard Paul had sent me, both front and back. “Do you recognize this document?” she asked.

  “Of course I recognize it. It’s addressed to me.”

  “Is this the same Paul who resigned from your class of trainees?”

  “I presume.”

  “We understand that you and Paul had an intimate relationship. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any idea what he meant in saying that it was better on the other side?”

  “He meant that it was better not to work for this goddamned place.”

  “Have you had any other contact with Paul?”

  “None.”

  “Do you know where he is right now?”

  “No.”

  “Did Paul ever say anything to you that might indicate a counterintelligence concern?”

  “No.”

  “Did he exhibit mood swings?”

  “No.”

  “Did he have any unusual spending patterns?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did he ask questions about classified information to which you had access?”

  “Never.”

  “Thank you.” Janet wrote a few words on her legal pad and winced. She stopped writing.

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked.

  “Yes. We understand that you live with another case officer from your class.”

  “Yes. I’ve had intimate relations with him, too.”

  “Can you tell us whether Stan has ever said anything to you that might indicate a counterintelligence—”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” I exploded. “Stan wants to be the president of the United States.
His grandfather fought at Okinawa and lost his leg below the knee! The pitcher, the catcher, and the first baseman never came home, and he raises the flag outside the schoolyard every morning even if it’s a thousand degrees below zero! What are you guys after?”

  “Selena, if I were you,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t worry too much about defending Stan. I’d say you don’t owe him any—”

  I’ll always wonder how she meant to finish that sentence. But she stopped herself and said, “I know it’s difficult to be asked questions like this about someone you care for. I can’t tell you the reason we’re asking this, because it would—”

  “—contaminate your investigation.”

  “That’s right. But I do want to assure you that we wouldn’t be asking unless we had a good reason. Please remember we’re in a tough business here. It’s not paranoia to believe that people who wish harm to the United States would like nothing more than to have access to the things you and Paul and Stan know, or to believe that members of this Agency do not always act in accordance with the laws of our democratically elected government. We all have to put what’s best for America ahead of our personal feelings. No one likes to be scrutinized the way we are here. But we can’t afford to be naïve. Something you know—even something very small—could be the missing piece in a puzzle.”

  We looked at each other, and I looked at the photocopy of my postcard. At last I said, “I love my country as much as you do. Quite possibly more. But I know nothing, and I do mean nothing, that could help your investigation—or that would help you get yourself promoted by destroying yet another career for no good reason. I have nothing else to say.”

  Janet met my stare evenly. “Take some time to think it over. Maybe you’ll remember something. Call us if you think there’s something we ought to know. Remember that cooperation will work in your favor.”

  I handed Janet the manila envelope and the photocopies of Paul’s postcard. When I left the room, she was still trying to put the evidence back where it belonged.

  I was a trained professional spy. My job—my métier, my calling, now my life’s work—was to ferret out secrets. All my life, I had been good at it, better than I’d ever been at Sanskrit. My babysitter’s diary had been thoroughly penetrated, numerous times. I had known all about my parents’ divorce proceedings, known much more than they had told me, because while my mother was at work, I had systematically perused the court documents that she kept in the small filing cabinet in her bedroom. In college, I’d known that my Shakespeare professor slept with his graduate students, both male and female. I also knew that my introductory Sanskrit professor would not be getting tenure—and I knew it long before he did. I had sublet an apartment in New York for a summer while I was in graduate school from a couple who taught in the Department of English. They were vacationing in Tuscany. By the end of the summer, I knew that she was trying to have a baby (letter, desk drawer), that he was carrying almost two years’ salary in credit-card debt (Excel spreadsheet, computer), and that someone needed a little discipline (whip, bottom of the closet, box marked TAXES, 1993–1995). In my little village in India, I knew who didn’t have enough money to marry off his daughters, and I knew who was beating his wife. I squatted on my heels with the high-caste women and learned which men were impotent. I had always thought of myself as curious.

  But I had lost a lot of my curiosity since my first day at CIA Headquarters. The knowledge that it was a felony to root out the wrong secrets had a chilling effect. I still followed my classmates’ gossip with avid interest, but it never occurred to me to risk jail in order to find out the conclusion of the PINEAPPLE drama. Did the CIA sell crack in the ghetto? I didn’t have a need to know, and ten years in a federal penitentiary marked the limits of my curiosity. How did we topple the Allende government? Beats me. I wasn’t curious enough. I wondered if Stan had betrayed me, but I told myself I wasn’t curious enough to find out. I remembered my mother searching through my father’s wallet, looking for motel receipts. I didn’t want to be like her.

  But I also didn’t want to be a fool.

  That night, when Stan asked me how my day was, I began telling him about my interview with Janet. “I think she’s gone nuts,” I said. When I told him who the postcard was from and what it said, he stiffened.

  “You didn’t tell me you got a postcard from him.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “Does he write often?”

  “Nope. First time I heard from him since he resigned.”

  “Do you still think about him?”

  “Stan, for God’s sake—isn’t it bad enough that I have to explain my personal correspondence to Janet?”

  “Have you been writing to him?”

  “Christ. There wasn’t even a return address. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Janet was on a fishing trip. Don’t sweat it. Tell me about the rest of your day.”

  I decided not to tell him anything else about Janet’s line of questioning. After all, I didn’t want to contaminate the investigation.

  If Stan had betrayed me—this was just an academic exercise—who would know? Janet and Nancy, to be sure. Janet looked lonely, and I pictured inviting her to a girls’ night out, maybe at the Toledo Lounge in Adams Morgan, where we’d drink cosmopolitans and chatter. I imagined giving her tips on makeup and dating. Janet, I’d say, just between us girls, should I be looking for a new boyfriend?

  I didn’t think it would work.

  Maybe my supervisor had access to my security dossier. What did I know about Bob? He liked me, didn’t he? Perhaps Christ could help me through some difficult times. I tried to imagine how it would play out. Knocking gently on his door. Bob, I really need your advice. This whole experience has left me feeling so empty inside. I saw myself on my knees asking the Lord Jesus to save my ass, hustled off to the Agency’s Christian prayer group, baptized in the Potomac. And now that I’ve renounced Satan, Bob, there’s one small thing I’d like you to do for Jesus. The Lord wants me to know what’s in my security file.

  No, I knew in my heart that wouldn’t work either. And I just wasn’t curious enough. Three days later, I found Stan at the cafeteria. I had told him that I wouldn’t have time for lunch, but I had finished my morning cables early and decided to surprise him. On his tray was a Philly cheesesteak, accompanied by french fries, a tall Coke, and a slice of Boston cream pie. Whenever we had lunch together, he ate a green salad with fat-free vinaigrette.

  “So this is what you do when I’m not around,” I said. “I guess the dieting is getting a little old.”

  “Talk to me about it when you quit smoking, kiddo,” he said.

  “Stan, I just meant that you were looking great.”

  “I know just what you meant.”

  “Want to share my salad?” I asked. I was horrified at the thought of Stan eating that pie.

  Stan looked at me like he was protecting his young. “I lost weight because I love you, but don’t tell me what to eat,” he said in a low, angry voice.

  “I’m not, Stan.” I said. “Cool down.” I pretended to be offended, but a part of me liked the way he wouldn’t let me push him around.

  And another part of me wondered what kind of man has so much anger in his voice over a slice of Boston cream pie.

  Brad, Iris’s ex-boyfriend, was a security officer in the Central Eurasia Division. Stan now belonged to the Central Eurasia Division. Security officers might have access to security files. Brad had a weak spot—Iris—and I suspected I could exploit it. Iris had told me that Brad was making a nuisance of himself, calling her late at night, pleading for another chance.

  I am not doing this, I told myself sternly. No. That would be completely beneath me. I have my pride.

  I just wasn’t curious enough.

  · · ·

  Stan asked me if I had heard anything from Janet or Nancy.

  “How do you know about Nancy?”

  “You told me—she’s like a mom. Selena, stop this.”
>
  I couldn’t remember what I had told him.

  I got curious enough.

  CHAPTER 9

  Down on the Farm, recruitments had been telescoped. We’d go from first handshake to first substation wiring diagram in a matter of hours. The instructor would mumble, “Son’s dying, pension wiped out in a pyramid scheme, they don’t appreciate me at the office,” we’d wink, he’d wink, we’d propose, he’d accept, and voilà. But in the field, they told us, it wasn’t like that. In the field, patience was the key. Traitors must trust their handlers, and trust takes time. It’s not as if we would have diplomas on the walls of our plush, professional offices testifying that we’d graduated cum laude from the Harvard Espionage School and were certified by the American Tradecraft Association. My diploma from the Farm was classified and stored in a secure facility. Nobody finds a handler by word of mouth. Abdul, you must see my man about that dirty-bomb plot. He is a real artist with dirty bombs. I’d trust him with my life. The Chinese were known to cultivate developmentals for more than a decade, although this Confucian forbearance was regarded among CIA officers as wholly unsporting. Stan was aiming for eight recruitments in his six years in the field. That was hugely ambitious. But I didn’t really understand what my instructors had been telling us about patience until I spent two weeks listening to Brad talk about his achy-breaky heart. Man were they ever right. There is nothing so dull as a man with a broken heart—except, perhaps, a woman with one.

  The door to Brad’s tiny, windowless office was open. He was sitting at his desk, staring intently at his computer screen. He was a good-looking man, with thick sandy hair and blue eyes. His jaw was impossibly square; he had a broad, muscular carriage. He was the kind of guy who has to stoop to get through doors and complains bitterly about the size of the seats in economy class.

  “Brad!” I said brightly, knocking on the open door.

  He whipped around. I had never been in his office before, and he seemed surprised to see me. “Selena!” he said. “Long time no see. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”