The Travelers

by Chris Pavone

  They’ve come to the shed, where the paths diverge, Will’s wider one toward the hidden car, and the narrow footpath toward the cliff, the water, the boat. The man pats Will’s arm, then turns away.

  “Hey?” Will calls out.

  The man turns back.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t the CIA in Argentina?”

  “I’m positive.”

  The rain is now pounding down on Will’s unprotected head, soaking his hair. He wipes water out of his eyes to get a good look at this man, for the last time. “How?”

  “Because you were already working for the CIA, Will. You just didn’t know it.”

  SNÆFELLSNES PENINSULA

  Malcolm kills the headlights. He lets the car roll up the driveway, his eyes darting between the rutted path in front of him and the distance beyond, scanning for signs of life, for danger.

  He comes around a bend, and pulls to a clearing on the side. Gets out. He abandons the car, sets off on foot, away from the driveway, parallel to the shore and to the main road, tromping over uneven ground, the moss spongy and slippery, the sharp edges of the rocks discernible beneath the leather soles of his custom-made wingtips. Malcolm is really not dressed for this.

  He scampers down the far side of a ridge, finds himself in a gully, a drainage swale of the lava field, hidden from view of the driveway. He starts walking toward the house along this path, picking his way around pools of rainwater. Up ahead he can see Will’s car, lights on in the house, smoke rising from the chimney. There’s no movement visible through the windows, nor outside, anywhere.

  And then there is, but from the other direction, the road. It’s another car, coming to a stop at the top of the driveway, in a position that’s invisible from the house, and from Malcolm’s abandoned rental car. But it’s visible to Malcolm from his vantage in the lava field.

  He can see the woman climb from the passenger seat, the man from the driver’s. It had probably taken a few miles before her car started listing, pulling toward the shoulder, and then finally the tires started to thwump. Did she know immediately what had happened? Then her companion collected her in his own car, from which they both fan out now, taking a similar approach as Malcolm—advancing on the house obliquely, out of sight. But Malcolm’s angle is more indirect; he’s more out of sight. He ducks lower, pushing into the wet moss, the rock digging into his stomach.

  If this were merely a woman who seduced Will in France, she wouldn’t be here, acting like this. No. Something other than adultery is going on. Malcolm is pretty sure that this woman compromised Will with something compelling and undeniable.

  When exactly was it that he started behaving oddly? Early spring? Four months ago, maybe five.

  What has Will been doing on this woman’s behalf for the past half-year? Or did she recruit him in spring but wait until now, until a few days ago, when she demanded that he steal the Travelers files? Why?

  And why now? Why at the exact same time that this woman—it must have been this woman—hired a guy to seduce Malcolm’s wife in order to steal the files from his home computer…?

  This woman is the one who’s assailing Malcolm, attacking Travelers. Who is she?

  Malcolm watches her move competently over the uneven terrain. He doesn’t actually give a shit who she is. But whom is she working for?

  One possibility is that she’s working for the Central Intelligence Agency, for some rogue division with a secret agenda, some strategic mission that led her to investigate Travelers. Perhaps the magazine is suspected by someone of being a front for a foreign entity, or for an American nongovernmental outfit. Someone at Langley wants to find out what Travelers is up to, and this is how they’re doing it: by stealing records, by following current employees, by looking for former ones.

  Another possibility is that she’s working for one of those external entities. Malcolm wouldn’t put it past the Russians or Chinese, nor for that matter the North Koreans or practically anyone in the Middle East. Although it’s a sophisticated play, it’s not prohibitively expensive, nor does it risk much exposure.

  This woman and her team are probably freelance, maybe disaffected ex-military, possibly even ex-Agency. They might be innocent mercenaries, if there is such a thing, with no idea for whom they’re working.

  And who does, really? Maybe the do-gooding NGO is funded by a Swiss account endowed with Nazi loot. Maybe the supposedly pure research lab is financed solely by big pharma that turns a blind eye to fatal side effects.

  Maybe the magazine group is undergoing a corporate takeover orchestrated by a megalomaniacal sociopath. Someone who wants to know what he’s buying before he buys it. And maybe it’s this sociopath who hired a mercenary to infiltrate Malcolm’s operation.

  Maybe that sociopath already knows precisely what’s he’s buying. That’s why he’s buying it. And that’s why this is happening now.

  Yes. That must be it: this man who’s staging a takeover of the American Periodical Group is doing it for one reason, and it has absolutely nothing to do with publishing. He wants to buy the Travelers intelligence network. He’s spending two billion dollars of corporate leverage to purchase his own privately controlled international spy service.

  Now it all makes sense.

  —

  Looking back, Malcolm can’t believe how naïve he’d been, how oblivious to the way the world works.

  It was four months after his knee surgery, the procedure that the doctors were hoping wouldn’t be necessary. The possibility hadn’t yet occurred to Malcolm that he’d never again suit up, never pull the shoulder gear over his head, tuck the pads into his pants, snap the chin guard onto his helmet. He was still doing a lot of physical therapy, but it was the off-season, and his academic load was heavy, and he was trying hard to be an assiduous student at an elite university.

  Financial aid wasn’t in the forefront of his consciousness when he met with his adviser, a month before the end of the school year. For five minutes they had a perfectly pleasant pro forma chat—grades were fine, handling pressure okay, nothing much wrong except this leg, and two big papers were due on the same day.

  Then there was a rap on the door. “Come in!” the professor called out.

  Standing in the door was an unfamiliar man wearing a business suit. Not one of the sorts of suits you’re used to seeing on college campuses, the old rumpled suits that always need dry-cleaning, or the fastidious tweedy types. This was a low-lapeled two-button loose-fitting sack suit, the uniform of politicians and bureaucrats, of lawyers and lobbyists, a navy suit and white shirt and red tie, shined black shoes that match the black belt, a pin to prove your patriotism, or your fealty to people who require that you prove your patriotism by wearing a pin.

  “Malcolm Somers, this is Gerard Hastings, an old friend who works for the government.” The professor stood up. “Gerry, it’s good to see you.”

  The grown-ups shook hands. Malcolm’s adviser said, “I need to run to the men’s room, back in a couple minutes.” He left.

  Malcolm thought it was strange that the professor shut the door behind him, and even stranger when Hastings took the seat behind the big desk, said, “I hear you had some tough luck on the field, Mr. Somers. You were starting varsity quarterback as a sophomore? That’s impressive.”

  “Yes, I was having a decent season.”

  “But surgery hasn’t been entirely successful, has it?”

  “Oh, my recovery’s coming along fine.”

  Malcolm had grown accustomed to saying things like this, things that weren’t true but were simpler for him to say, and for other people to hear. He’d said these things so frequently that sometimes he mistook them for the truth.

  “Your financial aid is year to year, isn’t it?”

  There was no such thing as an athletic scholarship in the Ivy League, but on occasion those schools were willing to construct aid packages that approximated the charity of more sports-minded institutions. Otherwise there would have been no way for Malcolm to afford Ha
rvard. His parents had reverse-mortgaged their house for a family health crisis that wiped out their salaries, both of them tenured at neighboring universities; they themselves had been college sweethearts, classmates in the English department. Their wedding invitation specified the date as Bloomsday, and tough luck to you if you didn’t know when that was. They were hoping that their son would become a writer of the intellectual sort, fellowships and residencies and prestigious prizes from little magazines. Look what they got instead.

  “And your parents, do they have the, um, wherewithal to cover the expenses here?” This was an odd conversation to be having with some stranger. “Tuition? Room? Board? Textbooks? None of it’s cheap, is it?”

  This man was asking two different questions, and Malcolm wasn’t sure which he was answering when he said “No sir.” But the answer was the same to either.

  “No.” The man agreed with Malcolm agreeing with him. “Listen, Mr. Somers. I’m sorry for your bad luck. I truly am. But where one door closes, sometimes another opens.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “My suggestion is that you switch your concentration to Near Eastern languages and civilization.”

  “That’s interesting. But I’m pre-law.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “Not officially.”

  “Don’t you think there are already enough lawyers in America?”

  Malcolm didn’t understand what that meant—there were enough everythings in America, that’s America—but didn’t ask. In general Malcolm was not intimidated by adults, but somehow this gray bureaucrat scared the crap out of him.

  “There could be opportunities for you, Mr. Somers. For someone like you: an athlete, a leader, a scholar. A good-looking, well-spoken guy.”

  “Opportunities in what? What would I be doing in the Near East?”

  “Perhaps as a journalist? I wouldn’t be surprised if we had, um, engagements in the coming years. You’d do well. I’m sure of it.”

  Malcolm was starting quarterback at Harvard; he already believed that he could do well in almost any endeavor. He didn’t need anyone to tell him so.

  What he did need, though, was what Hastings said next: “There’s a scholarship.” From his breast pocket he removed a piece of paper, folded in thirds to fit in there. “It’s generous. Covers everything.” He placed the paper in front of Malcolm. “It’s open only to undergraduates in a limited number of concentrations. You’ll see them listed, at the top.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “One minute, please,” Hastings called out, aiming his voice at the door, at a tenured professor knocking on his own door. That’s when Malcolm realized that this really was happening, and his adviser knew what was going on here, because it went on all the time.

  “The deadline is the end of the school year. Decisions announced midsummer.” Hastings tapped the paper. “Think about it, Mr. Somers. It’s a good place to make a career.”

  Malcolm was almost positive he knew what the guy was referring to, but this was one of those situations that called for absolute certainty. “What is, exactly?”

  Hastings stood, extended his hand for a shake. For a second there, Malcolm thought he wasn’t going to get an answer.

  But then he did: “The Central Intelligence Agency, Mr. Somers. I’m talking about a career in the CIA.”

  —

  Will runs up the dirt road, finds the man’s car. He opens the driver’s door and climbs inside, out of the rain, out of view. The car’s exterior is dented and dirty, but inside it’s neat and clean, the automotive version of the little orange house.

  Through the windshield Will can see land’s end, the cliff’s edge. He sees the man hustle past, a blur of blue raincoat and white hair.

  Will sinks lower, sliding down in the seat, trying to stay out of view. But still he feels too visible in here, too trapped, too killable.

  He gets out of the car. His jacket is bright red, a stupid choice. He takes it off, turns it inside out to the gray lining. He sets off through the lava field in the direction of the clifftop path. Halfway there, he stops and drops to his knees, crouching, hiding. It would really be useful if there were some trees on this island.

  Another man rushes by on the path. For a second Will doesn’t register who it is, because last time he saw this guy it was in a windowless conference room in downtown Manhattan; this guy is unexpected here in Iceland. It’s Elle’s partner, Roger. Which means Elle can’t be far behind.

  Of course. Who else would be pursuing him?

  Elle must be furious about the incomplete duplication of the Travelers files. Is she here to punish him? That punishment wouldn’t be lenient.

  Will creeps over the uneven ground, the treacherous volcanic mounds, back toward the house, no discernible movement anywhere in there. Where is she?

  They arrived by car—there’s no other way they arrived, is there?—but that car isn’t visible. The trip-wire alarm must be at the top of the driveway. Which means they must have parked somewhere between there and here. It’s a narrow makeshift driveway, barely wide enough for a single car to navigate without scraping against tire-puncturing rocks, or tumbling into ditches. If their car is parked in this driveway, there’s no way for Will to maneuver around it. He’s trapped.

  What can he do? He can run; he has outrun danger before. He can run up the driveway, he can disable their car—how? spark plugs? fuel line? Will doesn’t know shit about cars—and go for a breakneck jog on the isolated road, hope that a passing stranger picks up a desperate-looking hitchhiker before Elle repairs the car, hunts him down, and kills him.

  No, that’s definitely not a plan A.

  And there she is, coming around the near side of the house. He ducks behind the shed, and finds himself on the path that leads to the cliff.

  Will walks quickly, his mind’s eye picturing the locations of the big rock outcroppings that he can crawl around, find a spot to hide, and wait out…what? Wait for what event to transpire? Why would they leave?

  They wouldn’t, would they? Only if they thought he was on the boat, which now that Will is at cliff’s edge he can see is speeding away from the cove. It’s fairly obvious that there’s only one person on that boat, and it isn’t Will.

  Shit.

  Will starts to jog. The first outcropping is a hundred yards ahead, fifteen seconds away, twenty. He can make it. His eyes dart along the path, searching for rocks and ruts, for pitfalls that could trip him, send him crashing to the ground, or tumbling off the side, hurtling to his death; there’s not a lot of room for error. He visualizes two and three and four steps ahead, right foot left foot, right left.

  He’s a few steps from the outcropping when he starts to look over its facets, to figure out where he might hide, and realizes there’s nowhere. Facing the sea, the rock face is sheer; facing land, it’s a gentle slope, nothing steep or angled enough to hide him.

  Will has to keep going. The next outcropping is another fifteen seconds.

  He speeds up. He can already see that this giant hunk will offer hiding opportunities, a crazy-looking pillar formation, plus something like an alcove. It will be hairy to get around to that side, and he’ll have to be extra careful not to sink into some unseen void; this moss hides all manner of ankle-breaking hollows.

  Just another few seconds, then he’ll dart off the path, onto the lava, around the—

  Roger appears. He’s blocking the path, coming around from the far side of the rock.

  Both men come to a stop, ten feet apart. Both of them are just inches from the edge of the cliff.

  —

  Elle peeks in the window of the corrugated-steel shed, dark in there. It’s possible that someone’s hiding.

  She creeps around to the door. Turns the handle gingerly, wary of the squeaks and groans of hardware that lives outside, exposed to the elements. But the mechanism is quiet, well maintained. The door opens without a sound.

  A quick look around. There’s no one in here, not unle
ss there’s a trapdoor down to a secret compartment in the earth. Low-percentage, and she doesn’t have the time to screw around. She turns to leave, but her eye is caught by something, and she takes two long strides across the small room, to the pegboard that’s hung with tools and garden implements, nautical supplies and winter-sport gear.

  She snatches the ice-climbing axe off the wall. She hefts it in her hand. Small, lightweight, rubber grip, nylon strap. This will be more gory than she’d normally choose. But it’ll do.

  —

  Once the woman is out of sight, Malcolm can no longer see anyone, all of them disappeared in the direction of the sea. He creeps toward the house, trying to stay out of sight as much as possible, but there’s really no way. The best he can hope for is to be lucky.

  Of course, he could beat a retreat. Return to his car, turn around, drive away. He could let them have Will, whoever they are. Let them have whatever information Will thinks he stole, which is becoming less and less meaningful with each passing minute, as word spreads to the Travelers network that their numbered accounts may be compromised, as private bankers in Luxembourg and Liechtenstein and Grand Cayman are paid unexpected visits from rarely heard-from clients, shutting down accounts, wiring funds to banks in Hong Kong and Singapore, in New York and London, and then forwarded on to fresh numbered accounts in Andorra and the Isle of Man or simply back to the same exact financial institutions they departed, the trails gone cold in the greed-driven shroud of secrecy that facilitates money laundering and tax evasion all over the globe.

  It’s possible that some stragglers might not make it. Stray operatives who are off the grid, who missed Gabriella’s coded message on TV this morning, won’t catch up with it until it’s too late, until their accounts are frozen. But even so, what’s the worst that would happen? A few people would feel compelled to abandon some money.

  But otherwise there’s nothing to steal; there’s no one to expose. Nothing particularly incriminating can be found in Malcolm’s files. This is—this has always been—half the point of Travelers: no files.