Exposure

by Alan Russell

  It had been a long time since Graham had asked her that question. Even when they had been going out, he had always prefaced their phone conversations with those words. It was the kind of question you needed to ask a married woman.

  Graham knew she wouldn’t say his name aloud. Old habits died hard, and he was glad of that. If the cellular phone conversations in the area were being monitored, his might not stand out.

  Doing his best not to slur any words, Graham said, “I know you probably have appointments lined up all day, but I really need to see you.”

  Again, she was slow to answer. “When?”

  “Now. And to add insult to injury, you’ll need to drive. My car’s in the shop.”

  He knew that Paige would be able to pick up that he was only telling part of the story. It helped that in the past their phone conversations had always been cryptic.

  “I can’t get away—”

  Her rejection wasn’t unexpected, but it surprised him how much it still hurt. It was an indictment of his life. He didn’t have anyone on the other end for the call.

  “—for at least an hour.”

  The unexpected reprieve felt like a call from the governor.

  “I’m at my mother’s house,” he said. Paige knew his mother was long dead. “You probably remember that it’s on Briarcrest Lane. That’s one word.”

  He didn’t want to mention Mulholland Drive, wanted to offer as few giveaways as possible to anyone who might be monitoring their conversation.

  “Briarcrest.”

  “Just park on the street. I’ll be looking for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Thank you.”

  While Graham waited, he thought about Paige Harris. Their affair had lasted a year. He had originally sought Paige out as a contact. People magazine had profiled her in an article, headlining Paige as “the Money Manager to the Stars.” Her clientele was a virtual Who’s Who of the silver screen. Graham made a point of getting to know her.

  She wasn’t what he expected, and maybe he wasn’t what she expected. Graham had represented himself as a freelance photographer and said that his agency represented him to a number of magazines and newspapers. While that was true enough, his purported pictorial—“Where the Street Meets the Surf”—was complete fiction. His lunch with Paige was subterfuge for getting an inside track on some of the stars she represented. At the time, Paige was in her early thirties. When Graham first met her, he expected the personality of a bean counter. He knew she had looks; that’s what the People spread had shown. But he hadn’t expected Paige to appeal to him on so many other levels.

  Graham took special pains to do a good job on her shoot, and then sent her the best pictures along with a thank-you note. She called him, and one thing had led to another.

  At the time, Paige had been at a crossroads in her life. She said she loved her husband, Dave, but wasn’t in love with him. Dave was everything Graham wasn’t. He had a high-powered job as CFO for a high-tech company. Dave was steady and reliable, and had a long-range vision for their future. He was a workaholic, but had the money and desire to spoil his wife with material goods.

  On paper it was no contest. Graham couldn’t stack up to her husband. Paige was thinking about a family. She was used to the comforts of a wealthy lifestyle. She and Dave had met at Stanford University’s graduate school of business and had much in common.

  And yet it was Graham she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  In the time they saw one another, neither Graham nor Paige ever felt so alive. And neither ever endured so much pain. Paige was willing to give everything up for Graham—marriage, perks, seemingly her sanity. She knew that he used her to get his photos, knew that their relationship had begun under false pretenses, but she was still willing to forgive him of virtually everything.

  For a year they lived double lives, until she asked Graham to commit.

  He wanted to. He never wanted anything so much in his life. Yet he knew it was wrong. In the bedroom they were perfectly suited for one another. With her, he lost himself. Their hunger was raw and primal and each time they were together it surprised them anew. But Paige made no bones about wanting a family, expecting him to be there like some kind of proper tin soldier.

  Her husband knew that Paige was seeing someone else, but he loved her enough to tell her that he was there for her no matter what. Graham knew he could never be that unselfish. He was too used to being independent, too used to loving himself above all others. Paige needed a stand-up man like Dave, not someone like himself. He decided to bow out of the picture. Graham wanted to think his decision was noble, but maybe he just lacked the guts to commit. Paige had offered him the gift of herself, and he let her slip through his fingers.

  Six months after they stopped seeing one another, Paige became pregnant. The commitment of a child seemed to bring her closer to her husband.

  In the years since they last talked, Graham had kept up with Paige’s life. She was his “what if” game. He knew it was a game he would play until he died.

  From Graham’s vantage point, he watched Briarcrest. He camped under a laurel sumac off the trail, and hoped that no dogs would pick up his scent. As the morning passed, the day grew hotter. The smoke from the fire hung in the air, and Graham felt as if he were slowly being barbecued. His mouth was caked and filmy, but he didn’t have saliva enough to spit. He felt like roadkill, and knew he smelled like it.

  What better present could he give Paige, he thought, than showing her so vividly that she had made the right choice staying with Dave?

  A car slowly circled along Briarcrest, a Lexus SUV, then came to a stop and parked. Its windows were tinted, making it difficult for him to see inside, but he could still make out a woman behind the wheel.

  Graham moved down the trail. Before emerging on the street he looked around and made sure no one was watching the Lexus. Already he was having second thoughts about involving Paige. They had kept their affair quiet, but Graham knew how secrets could be unraveled. That was his business. If someone looked hard enough, they would find her.

  He kept low to the ground, approaching the rear of her SUV. He sidled up to the back door and tapped on the window.

  Paige started. She took a long look at him before unlocking her car. Graham had seen his reflection in the window and understood her delay. In the best of circumstances, he probably would have disappointed her. The last few years had aged him; the last few hours had made him even more unrecognizable.

  Graham hunched down on her backseat. Instead of turning, Paige looked at him through the rearview mirror. Perhaps it was easier for her to view him that way. In the enclosed space Graham’s odor dominated. He reached for the car window control and lowered the back window nearest him.

  “A few hours ago I was in a car accident,” Graham said. “I know I smell like a distillery that’s burned down, and that I look like shit. I’ll tell you that my current condition isn’t my fault, but I don’t want to tell you any more than that, because it’s best that you don’t know. Not that I really know myself.”

  Paige shook her head. “I’ve imagined this moment for a long time. I always wondered what we would say to one another. I thought of all the different scenarios. None of them resembled this.”

  Graham had a lump in his throat. He was glad he was too dehydrated for tears.

  “One more thing,” he whispered. “I am so parched, I’m ready to pass out. If I do, don’t be surprised.”

  “I have some water,” she said. She reached down to her sports bag and pulled out a bottle of Evian.

  That’s why they weren’t meant for one another, thought Graham. He was a tap water kind of guy. But thank God she wasn’t. She handed him her water bottle. With shaky hands he took it, pulled off the top, then upturned it.

  He drained the water and then fell back, his head resting on a child�
��s car seat. Paige started up the vehicle and began to drive.

  “If you want to stretch out, you can put the car seat in the back.”

  “I’m fine,” Graham said. “I hope Dorothy doesn’t mind my using her seat as a pillow. What is she? Two?”

  “Twenty months.”

  “And how’s Sam?”

  “He’s a treasure.”

  Paige smiled at the thought of her children. She was pleased that Graham had kept up with her life. “I wasn’t even sure that you knew I’d had children.”

  “Each time I wanted to send flowers. But I thought the best thing to do was just stay the hell out of your life.”

  “I’ve watched for your photo credits,” she said. “I saw your war pictures, and recently I saw some Hollywood shots.”

  “Sewer rat returns to sewer,” Graham said, but his brief smile was genuine. They had stepped out of each other’s lives—that was how it had to be—but both had still been watching for the other.

  “Where do you want me to take you?”

  Graham put a hand up to his temple and tried to think through the lingering headache and booze. “To an ATM, and then a convenience store. But they can’t be close to one another. Can the government monitor ATM transactions? I’m sure they can.”

  “Government?”

  Graham realized he had been thinking aloud. “Forget what I said.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  He didn’t want to involve her, didn’t want to have his affairs somehow boomerang back to her. “It’s nothing. I upset somebody’s applecart.”

  Paige bypassed the mirror, turned her head, and in a glance took in the measure of his lie. Neither said anything for a few minutes. Graham finally broke their silence when she pulled into the parking lot of a bank.

  “Don’t park where any security cameras might pick up your car.”

  She did as he said.

  “Thank you,” said Graham. “Thank you for everything.”

  “I was glad to finally hear from you.”

  They chose a convenience store several miles from the bank. Because of how he looked, Paige shopped for him. When she returned to the car, the first thing Graham did was drink the better part of a gallon of water. He dumped cologne on his face and body, chewed breath mints, and devoured some candy bars and chips.

  “They only had T-shirts fit for the subteen crowd,” Paige said. “I thought I’d stop at a clothing store and get you an outfit.”

  “Bless you.”

  “Thirty-three waist,” she said, “thirty-two inseam. Collar fifteen and a half, length thirty-four.”

  “If you say so. I don’t even know.”

  “You’ve kept your same trim figure.”

  “So have you.”

  She laughed. “You always were a wonderful liar, Graham. No woman goes through childbirth twice and retains her same figure. It’s one of Newton’s laws. Fig Newtons.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  “You’re deluded.” But she didn’t sound displeased.

  While she shopped for him, Graham cleaned himself with Dorothy’s baby wipes. He almost looked human by the time Paige returned with his clothes. She had bought him some khaki pants, a light blue polo shirt, tan socks, and soft leather loafers. Old habits apparently died hard; Paige had always been trying to upgrade his wardrobe in the time they were together.

  “There was no such thing as a generic baseball cap,” she said. “They all came with logos, or words, or team names. The closest thing I could find was a Dodgers cap.”

  She handed it to him. Graham didn’t tell her that he hated the Dodgers. Even though they had lived overseas, his father had kept up with his Giants through the International Herald Tribune. Graham had accepted his father’s team, and the rivalry that went with it, as his own. Still, the cap with the blue LA letters suited his purposes. And he could always look forward to burning it in the future.

  “Perfect,” Graham said.

  “Oh, and I got you some underwear.”

  Graham took off the wrapping. Mickey Mouse smiled from the boxers.

  “I couldn’t decide between Mickey and Goofy.”

  “Yeah, it’s always tough to choose between a small rodent and a dumb dog.”

  “A cute rodent. You don’t approve?”

  “My first choice wouldn’t be to have a mouse covering my privates.”

  “My mistake.” She tried to keep a straight face, but failed.

  “Payback,” Graham said, “for that time I took you to Disneyland.”

  “You made me go on all the rides alone.”

  “I was working.”

  “You were waiting for Godot.”

  “The star I was hunting was disguised.”

  “Poor boy.”

  Disneyland management worked with stars to make sure they weren’t bothered. Before Michael Jackson’s death, he used to slip into the park through a private gate. Few people inside Disneyland ever recognized Jackson. He wasn’t one of those stars who settled for dark glasses and a scarf. Professional makeup artists always gave him a different look.

  He took off his shirt, glad to be rid of it. “I know you have to get back to work,” he said. “Would it be too much of an imposition to ask for a lift out to West LA?”

  “Got an address?” she asked.

  He gave her the name of a major intersection near where he lived. Paige started the engine, looked back in the mirror, and noticed his bare chest. She whistled softly, and then started driving.

  Twenty minutes later, Graham had her pull over at a spot about a half mile from his apartment. That was as close as he wanted her to get to what was going on in his life.

  “I think you are safe,” Graham said, “but if anyone comes and asks you about getting a call from me, just tell them the truth: an old friend asked for help, and you gave it.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “That’s something I have to find out myself.”

  He paused before leaving her car. His dirty clothes were tucked in a bag under one arm. He saw his reflection in her rearview mirror. He had dark circles, a few bruises, and a one-day beard, but he looked presentable enough save for the Dodgers cap.

  “I wanted to call you a million times before,” Graham said. “I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to see you. I didn’t want you to think I had forgotten. I’ve never forgotten.”

  “I’ll always love you, too, Graham.”

  That’s what he had meant to say. She just said it better.

  “Thanks for being there. Thanks for being you.”

  From the backseat he reached for her hand, and squeezed her fingers. Then he opened the door, tapped the child’s safety seat, and stepped outside.

  “I’ll look for you in pictures,” Paige said.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Blackwell used his mouse to click off his “safe-deposit box.” Communicating electronically sure beat the days of mail drops, and the electronic bank was much better than talking through a so-called secure line. For a long time the National Security Agency had been the biggest eavesdropper in the world, although few had known it. Edward Snowden had outed the world’s largest intelligence organization—what had once been called the “No Such Agency”—telling the world of its domestic spying. Now everyone knew that NSA supercomputers worked day and night monitoring domestic and international telephone calls coming in and out of the United States.

  Most of the NSA’s operations were conducted in its thousand-acre complex in Fort Meade, Maryland. But the really interesting stuff was buried underground where they kept over twenty-seven acres of computers. The machines were listening, always listening, taking in information from satellites and microwave towers. And their techs and cryptoanalysts liked nothing more than decoding digital signals sent over �
��secure” phone lines.

  As an insider, Blackwell knew how difficult it was to beat the system. That’s what made the challenge—and his David versus Goliath game—so appealing. Where a giant would be noticed, a mouse was not. You just had to know where and how to creep. There were plenty of pickings to be had, but Blackwell desired more than to graze off the crumbs. He wanted a seat at the main table.

  The news wasn’t what Blackwell had hoped. Pilgrim was apparently still alive. Monroe had tried contacting the paparazzo, but without success. Pilgrim was probably running scared, was likely holed up somewhere. It was possible that he had gone to the police already. But even if that was true, the authorities wouldn’t know what to do with his wild story. They would probably view his tale as an attempt to escape culpability for the fire his vehicle had caused.

  No, there was no immediate threat, but Pilgrim’s continued existence posed problems. Jaeger would have to recall his two operatives, or at least have them disappear for a time. They were Pilgrim’s only link to what had occurred. Jaeger would have to clean up any loose ends they left behind.

  You had to expect glitches like this. Thus far everything had gone unbelievably well. Blackwell’s plan had been a pipe dream at first. He had proceeded carefully, slowly. It could have been derailed a countless number of ways. What Blackwell had liked from the first was the simplicity of the plan. The expenses hadn’t been inconsiderable, but he had profited enough from other ventures to look at them as necessary research and development. As Stalin had supposedly said, you need to break some eggs to make an omelet.

  He was willing to break eggs—or legs—whatever it took. He was close now, so close.

  Blackwell tapped out his message on the computer. It was cryptic, but not coded. Jaeger would understand.

  CHAPTER

  NINETEEN

  Graham was used to staking out homes, but not his own. He studied all the likely spots where someone could be watching for him, and then he looked at the unlikely spots. He was used to working with good surveillance equipment, and tried to analyze the area using his own experience, but he knew the Feds had gear that put his to shame. They could be using satellites for all he knew, but if that was the case they still needed people on the ground to intercept him, and Graham didn’t spot any likely agents.