by Chris Pavone
Omar relayed all this intel to Inez, who encoded it, then sealed it within a PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL envelope, which she left for Will at his hotel on his way back to New York, where he handed it to Malcolm.
For better or worse, there was no way to prosecute someone like this ex-asset within the law, not without exposing the entire Travelers operation, which itself was illegal. And not just marginally illegal, not on a technicality, but illegal in a way that could bring down the director of Central Intelligence; in a way that could result in life-sentence imprisonment, or worse, for the head of the operation: Malcolm Somers.
No, such a compromised Travelers operative couldn’t be brought to justice in the legal system. Nor could he be allowed to roam the globe, continuing to trade on a valuable cache of secrets. There was only one solution to this sort of problem. And that solution was now Chloe’s job.
Taylor Lindhurst in Capri was the first of these problems Chloe had ever solved.
Her second was this woman, this ex-Agency sociopath who called herself Elle Hardwick. Though Chloe isn’t sure if Elle really qualifies as her second kill. Yes, Chloe was the one who fired the crossbow. But the arrow probably wouldn’t have been lethal if Will hadn’t driven it deeper into the woman’s body. Did it pierce her heart? That would be something.
A joint effort, then. Like being credited with a half-sack of the quarterback. Or like the ad hoc surgery on Malcolm’s leg that Chloe and Will performed together, with household thread, a needle sterilized in whiskey and a cigarette lighter, three boxes of gauze, a couple rolls of tape, and an irresponsible quantity of over-the-counter pain meds mixed with the booze. All this happened in the backseat of Malcolm’s rental car, parked on the edge of a lava field.
Malcolm is clearly still woozy as they walk through the airport terminal, trying not to draw too much attention. Will is bringing up a distant rear, fifty yards behind. A woman with a staggering man, that might arouse suspicion; add an extra, nonstaggering man, and they’d definitely be detained immediately.
In the middle of the vast hall, Malcolm mutters, “I have to sit,” grimacing, limping, sweating. They make their way into the big café, and he collapses onto a chair.
This seems like a mistake, trying to board a commercial flight. But Malcolm is going to do what Malcolm is going to do.
—
He spilled a lot of secrets to that woman, and to Will, and to Elle. Malcolm didn’t do it because he was being tortured; he did it because he’d been beaten. Besides his fucked-up right knee, this is the main thing Malcolm took away from his years playing quarterback in competitive full-contact football: sometimes simply not losing your shit is half the battle. Malcolm never loses his shit.
He made a quick, reasoned calculation that the only way he was going to survive was to tell the truth. That calculation turned out to be wrong—it looked as if the woman really was going to kill them—but, hey, he tried. And in the end, he survived.
Is it possible that he survived unscathed professionally? The woman who knows the Travelers secrets is dead. Her colleague is dead. Does the man who hired her know anything? Have any evidence? No, probably not.
Maybe Malcolm isn’t thinking clearly, but it seems to him that if he can continue to manage his own people from within, the threat from without might be neutralized.
He plugs his dead phone into an outlet, and waits for the device to revive itself, and to start transmitting new problems. He still has a business to run, on the other side of the ocean. This is the middle of the business week.
Malcolm’s resuscitated phone starts to buzz at him, as if excited to be alive again. Who wouldn’t be?
—
Will walks across the vast hall, aware of gazes falling on him, examining, assessing. He wonders if he’ll ever again feel completely unwatched.
Chloe’s eyes tell him that it’s okay to sit at the table she’s sharing with Malcolm, who’s turned away, his mouth to his phone, one hand covering his nonlistening ear.
“Is he all right?” Will asks.
Chloe looks at Malcolm. “Honestly, I don’t know. Are you?”
In the past day Will has been subjected to an overwhelming shift in every one of his paradigms; he’s not sure who anyone is anymore, including his wife. And he’s not sure how to answer Chloe’s question. But before he can figure it out, Malcolm turns to them, sets his phone down on the table. He looks at Will, then at Chloe.
“That was Paris. One of our stringers is nearly certain he saw Jonathan yesterday.”
“My God. Where?”
“Helsinki. An international ferry terminal.”
Will notices Chloe close her eyes, and roll her neck, like a boxer getting ready for the opening bell. His wife has apparently been a CIA operative for the entirety of her adult life, recruited while still in college, just like Malcolm, like Gabriella, like Jonathan before them, who knows how many others. Does that make Chloe a different person? Did Will himself become a different person when he became a spy? When he thought he became a spy?
“The possible destinations,” Malcolm says, “were Mariehamn—”
Will notices Chloe open her eyes, and find the departure board.
“—St. Petersburg, and Tallinn.”
She takes a deep breath, exhales, nods: okay, got it.
“Chlo, are you ready for this?”
“I am.” She turns to her husband, leans forward, takes his hands in hers. “Listen, Will, I have to go. I don’t know—”
“I’m coming,” he cuts her off. “I’m coming with you.”
Chloe turns to Malcolm, who asks, “Are you sure about this, Will?”
He’s not. But his old life doesn’t exist anymore, his old wife. This is what’s next, he can accept it or reject it. Will always says yes to everything. He nods.
“Okay,” Chloe says, “good.” She stands, straps on her backpack. “I’ll explain on the plane. Now, we have to hurry.”
They start to walk away, but too fast, too conspicuous, so Will grabs Chloe’s elbow, gently, says, “A little slower.”
They make it only a couple of steps before Malcolm yells, “Hey!”
They freeze, look over their shoulders.
“Let’s be careful out there.”
They both attempt smiles, then resume walking.
Will realizes that without making the conscious decision, he is carefully scanning the terminal, an involuntary new habit in his involuntary new life, looking for people who are looking for him, his eyes playing across the same crowd that’s always in airports, tourists in sensible walking shoes and businesspeople in wrinkled worsted wool, everyone resigned or restless or exhausted or excited, on vacation or on business or on the run, but not one of them seems to be searching for Will, they’re a crowd of thousands occupying their own private worlds, deep inside their own plans and problems, thinking about their own destinations, all of us travelers, all on our way to someplace else.
The Travelers is a novel about work, about labor, and I’m typing these acknowledgments over Labor Day weekend, so I’d like to thank all the people whose labor has made my life easier or better during the two years I’ve been working on this book, and, in particular, those who educate my kids in one way or another:
At P.S. 41, fourth-grade teachers Chris Strouse, Katie Zarkin, and Kristian Blum; fifth-grade teachers Nancy Wahl, John Baird, and Emily Cacciapaglia; guidance counselor Bob Caputo; parent coordinator Michelle Farinet; and principal Kelly Shannon.
At Greenwich House Music School, Joseph Ries; at Gilsports for Kids, Gil Rubin; at Greenwich Village Little League, Todd Irwin, Rob Magill, Tom Mullarkey, Frank Saracino, and Carin Ehrenberg; and at Veritas, Alex Wenger and Lee Reitelman.
At OYC, Willa Cassidy-Gardner, Allison Ferraris, Cooper Nefsky, Sarah Morton, and Cindy McKinney.
And, in general, Vera Pavone, Harriet Rhine, Susan McIntosh, and DeCourcy McIntosh.
And, of course, thanks too to the people who helped make this book better, or at least less bad
: Matt Bromberg, Angus Cargill, Terry Deal, David Gernert, Adam Goldberger, Hannah Griffiths, Pat Herbst, Jane Lauder, Nate Roberson, Adam Sachs, Lindsay Sagnette, Molly Stern, Zachary Wagman, and, as always, Madeline McIntosh.
And to those who helped launch the book into the world: Sarah Breivogel, David Drake, Kayleigh George, Maya Mavjee, Donna Passannante, and Rachel Rokicki.
Finally, thanks to my son Alex for coining the name Stonely Rodriguez, which he invented for an actual stone that he adopted from a beach in the summer of 2014, a stone that his brother Sam later dropped from the car window on Main Street in Belfast, Maine, where we hope Stonely is living a long happy life.
Chris Pavone is author of the New York Times bestsellers The Accident and The Expats, which won both the Edgar and Anthony awards for best first novel. Chris grew up in Brooklyn, graduated from Cornell, and was a book editor for nearly two decades before moving to Luxembourg, where he started writing The Expats. He now lives again in New York City with his wife and children.
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