When it’s over, I wipe the back of my hand against my mouth. My legs are trembling; my whole body, weak. I stand, breathe deeply, try to calm my nerves. This worked, it has to have worked. And I have to calm down, get through the rest of the day.
I finally force myself to leave the safety of the stall back up to the row of sinks. Stand in front of the nearest one, wash my hands. There’s someone else at the far end of the row, a girl who looks fresh out of college. She gives me a small smile in the mirror. I return it, then glance at my own reflection. Dark circles under my eyes. Pale skin. I look awful. I look like a traitor.
I avert my eyes, pull off a section of scratchy brown paper towel, dry my hands. I need to calm down. I need to look calm. I’m surrounded by CI analysts, for God’s sake.
Deep breaths. Deep breaths, Viv.
I let myself back into the vault, wind my way through to the back, try to tune out the conversations, the nervous chatter about the outage. My teammates are gathered in the aisle; I join them, hovering near my cubicle. They’re talking, but I’m barely paying attention, catching snippets here and there, nodding at the right time, making the right exclamations; I hope so, anyway. I can’t keep my eyes off the tumbler, or the clock. Can’t wait to get out of here and go home. To hand the flash drive back to Matt, get rid of the evidence, be done with this.
“Who do you think it was?” Marta asks, half-joking, her voice piercing through the fog in my mind. “The Russians? Chinese?”
She’s looking around at all of us, but it’s Peter who answers. “If the Russians had a chance to get into our systems, they’d do more than erase our work for the past two days.” His eyes are on Marta, not me, but the expression on his face is enough to send a chill through me, nonetheless. “If it’s the Russians, this isn’t all. Not by a long shot.”
—
I’M ON MY WAY HOME, and the tumbler’s back in the cup holder beside me. Some of the tension is dissipating, draining away from my shoulders, but it’s done nothing to loosen the knot in the pit of my stomach. What have I done?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. A storm of emotions is swirling around inside me. Relief, uncertainty, regret.
Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll keep me out of jail. But won’t I always live in fear of being caught? I’ll get to watch my kids grow up, but won’t everything be tainted? Every sweet moment just a little less sweet?
Should I have taken my chances with punishment?
I have a vague sense that I should have thought this through more than I did. That I acted impulsively, even if I thought I didn’t.
I pull up to the house. Matt’s car is out front, like it always is. It’s dusk, and the interior of the house glows bright. The curtains in the kitchen are open, and I see them there, all five of them, around the dinner table.
So I’ll never be one hundred percent comfortable, one hundred percent happy. My kids can be. And isn’t that what being a parent is all about?
I turn off the ignition, get out of the car, walk down to the mailbox. There’s the usual stack of envelopes and ads. And on top, a thin manila envelope, curved to fit in the narrow box, wedged in. I pull everything out, my eyes on the envelope. No postage, no return address, just my first name, black marker, block letters. VIVIAN.
My whole body goes cold. I stare at the envelope, immobile, and then I force my legs to move, to bring me to the front stoop. I sit down, set the rest of the mail beside me, hold just the envelope in my hands. I turn it over, slide a finger under the seal.
I already know what it is. There’s only one possibility, really.
I pull out the contents—a slim stack of papers, three or four, nothing more. My stomach is in a knot. There, on top, is a screenshot. My computer. Classification bars at the top and bottom, my employee ID number. Athena is open, and inside it, the image of Yury’s laptop. A file, open. Friends.
I lift the first sheet so that I can see the next one. Same classification bars, same employee ID number, same file. Only this time, one of the images is open, and a close-up headshot fills the screen.
I’m looking, once again, at the face of my husband.
I can’t breathe. I erased this. I did exactly as Matt said, took that risk, inserted that flash drive. Yet here it is, in front of me. On my lap. Evidence that could get me locked away. That someone brought here, to my house.
I lift the page to see the next one, and the one after that. Computer syntax, strings of characters I don’t fully understand. And I don’t need to. It’s a record of my activity, my searches. Proof that I saw Matt’s picture. That I deleted the file.
I hear the door open behind me. “Viv?” Matt says.
I don’t look up. Can’t make myself do it. It’s like suddenly any shred of energy I had is gone. There’s a pause, and I can picture him behind me, hovering in the doorway, looking down at me, at the papers, catching a glimpse. Will it shock him the way it shocked me?
I feel him come closer, and then he’s there next to me on the stoop, sitting down beside me. I still haven’t looked at him. I can’t.
He reaches for the papers, and I let him. He looks through them, flipping the pages quietly. Not a word. Then he slides them back into the envelope.
More silence. I focus on breathing, watch each puff of air form, then disappear. I don’t even know what to ask him. How to process the jumble of thoughts in my mind into something coherent. So instead, I wait for him to speak, to answer my unspoken questions.
“It’s insurance,” he finally says.
Insurance. It’s not, though. It’s something more than that. Much more than that.
“A warning,” he goes on. Then, more quietly, “They want to make sure you don’t tell.”
I turn toward him. His cheeks are flushed, his nose red from the cold. He’s not wearing a jacket. “It’s blackmail,” I say, my voice cracking.
He holds my gaze momentarily, and I desperately try to read his expression. Troubled? I don’t know. He looks away. “Yeah, it’s blackmail.”
I look down the street, the sidewalk where we push the twins’ stroller, where Luke learned to ride a bike. “They were here,” I say. “They know where we live.”
“They always have.”
The words feel like a blow. Of course they have. Suddenly nothing seems safe. “The kids…,” I manage to choke out.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him shake his head, an adamant shake. “There’s no danger to the kids.”
“How do you know?” My voice is a whisper.
“I work for them. In their mind, the kids are…theirs.”
I know the words are supposed to reassure me, but they leave me even more terrified. I wrap my arms around myself and turn back to the street. There’s a car coming our way, engine rumbling, headlights swinging into view. The Nguyens’ car. Their garage door opens, and the car pulls up the driveway, into its spot. The garage door closes behind it, before the engine’s even off.
“What I did today…,” I say, and then lose my words. I try again. “It was supposed to erase this.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me they’d have this?”
“I didn’t know.” His forehead has those wavy lines; his brows are knitted together. “I swear, Viv. I didn’t. They must have access to the program somehow. Or someone who can tap into the search records.”
Another set of headlights. A car I don’t recognize. It drives past, continues on its way. I watch until the taillights disappear.
“It’s not like they’re going to do anything with it,” he says. “It would blow my cover.”
There’s a thought beginning to crystallize, something that makes sense of all this. I try to let my mind process it.
“They’re not going to just throw away twenty-two years…,” he says.
My mind is still processing the thought, forming it into words. Three of them. Three words that explain everything. I voice them, slowly, one syllable at a time.
“They own me
.”
How could I be so naive? I’m a CI analyst, for God’s sake. I know how these intel services work, the aggressive ones. They get you to do something, and then they own you. They blackmail you into doing more. More, and more, and more. There’s no way out.
“It’s not like that,” he says.
“Of course it is!”
“They own me. You’re my wife. They wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Really?” I look pointedly at the envelope. Because that’s not what this looks like.
Something crosses his face—uncertainty?—and then just as quickly vanishes. He turns away from me, faces the street. We’re both quiet. Those three words are almost overpowering now, reverberating in my brain, taunting me. They own me.
“They’ll ask me to do something,” I finally say.
He shakes his head, but not adamantly, not like he means it. Probably because deep down, he knows it, too. They own me.
“It’s only a matter of time,” I say. “They’ll ask me to do something, and then what am I supposed to do?”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says, but the promise sounds hollow. “We’re in this together.”
Are we? I think. I watch a streetlight flicker, then burn out.
Have we ever been?
—
SOMETHING CHANGED IN ME the day Luke was born. I was completely unprepared for the overwhelming, crushing, all-consuming love I felt for this tiny person. This need to protect him, to be there for him.
The first month of his life was bliss. Exhausting, sure. But wonderful. The second and third, not so much. Every day I woke up knowing I was one day closer to going back to work. To leaving him in the care of someone who wasn’t his parent, someone who couldn’t possibly love him the same way I did, for all those hours, those oh-so-long days. And for what? I didn’t feel like I was making a difference. Not anymore.
I wished I still worked on Africa. But that position was gone, filled by someone else, and this was the next best thing, wasn’t it? When the day finally came, I was as ready as I could be. We were sending Luke to the best day care center in the area, the one with the longest list of accreditations, a flawless reputation. I had a freezer full of pumped breast milk. Bottles, carefully labeled. A sheet for the crib, diapers and wipes, all the essentials, packed and ready to go. And I had a new outfit picked out for myself, silk blouse and pants, something that made those last few pounds of baby weight all but disappear, something I hoped would give me the extra confidence I needed to tackle one of the most difficult days of my life.
As it turned out, I wasn’t ready at all. Nothing could have prepared me for the feeling of handing Luke off to a woman I didn’t know. Turning back at the door, seeing him watching me, alert, almost confused, his eyes glued on me, the question that was in them: Where are you going? Why are you leaving me?
I broke down the moment the door to the infant room closed. Cried the whole way to work, arrived with red puffy eyes and tearstains on my silk blouse, felt like I was missing a limb. Three times that morning someone came by, welcomed me back, asked about Luke. And each time, I started crying. Word must have finally gotten around, because colleagues studiously avoided me the rest of the day, which was just fine with me.
When I came home that evening, Luke was asleep in his crib. He hadn’t napped at day care, so bedtime came early. I’d missed it. I’d missed an entire day with him. A day I’d never get back. How could I possibly handle this five times a week? Seeing him for just an hour a day? I broke down again in Matt’s arms. “I can’t do this,” I said and wept.
He held me, stroked my hair. I waited for him to agree. I waited for him to say that it was my choice. That if I wanted to stay home with Luke, we’d make it work. If I wanted a new job, we’d survive the pay cut. We’d sell the house, we’d move out of the area, we’d do without trips and savings and meals out. We’d do whatever it took.
When he spoke, his voice was strained. “It’ll get easier, honey.”
I stilled. Then I looked up at him. I wanted him to see my face, to see how serious I was. He knew me. He’d understand. “Matt, I really can’t do this.”
I could see in his eyes my own pain. I buried my head back against his shoulder and felt myself begin to relax. He understood. I knew he would. He stroked my hair again, quietly.
A few moments later, he spoke. “Stick with it,” he said, words that cut through me like a knife. “It’ll get easier.”
—
DAYS PASS, THEN WEEKS. I’ve gone to work each day, this job that’s now a lie. If there’s been any saving grace, it’s that there’s no sign they’ve traced anything back to the Restricted Access computer. The flash drive doesn’t seem to have done any major damage, aside from those two lost days; I’ve paid attention to all the rumors floating around, read the reports I’ve been able to lay my hands on. And I haven’t heard anything else from the Russians, Matt’s people, beyond that envelope.
The Agency was focused on Yury at first. Trying to track him down, in Moscow. And the Bureau was wrapped up in trying to identify the five people in those pictures—until a week or so ago, when an analyst stumbled upon the same five photos in the possession of a known recruiter. With details. The Bureau tracked down the five people, interviewed them, determined they had no connections to Yury and were probably just individuals the Russians hoped to recruit. Yury quickly faded from the Bureau’s agenda—just another low-level recruiter—and the Agency’s soon after.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The less focus on him, the better. Plus, after the Bureau determined Yury wasn’t involved in the sleeper program, Omar’s suspicions seemed to subside, at least a bit. I’ve talked to him a handful of times since then; our conversations have gradually become friendlier, more normal. I still suspect he doesn’t fully trust me, but things are improving.
And Peter. Peter hasn’t been around much. Katherine’s health took a turn for the worse, Bert told us in one of our morning meetings, on the third day Peter was absent. The room went silent. Helen started to cry, and the rest of us got a bit teary, as well. Days later, Katherine was gone. Peter came back to work eventually, but ever since he’s looked empty. Broken. The last thing that’s on his mind is me.
Matt and I have been walking on eggshells around each other. I blame him for this. Not just the fact that he lied to me for years, got us into this. But that he went to Yury. Told the Russians everything. Sold me out.
Home no longer seems safe. I had our locks changed, installed extra dead bolts. I leave the blinds drawn. I powered off the tablet, the laptop, the wireless speakers, put everything into a box in the garage. When we’re all together, the kids and Matt and me, I turn off my cell, remove the battery. And I make Matt do the same. He looks at me like I’m paranoid, crazy, like it’s all pointless, but I don’t care. I don’t know who’s watching, who’s listening. But I have to assume someone is.
One day, not long after the envelope arrived, I left work early, went to a cellphone store in the mall across town. Made sure no one was following me, paid cash for a prepaid cell, a burner phone that I keep hidden away. I didn’t tell Matt, and wasn’t even sure why I did it. Just seemed like something I should have.
The kids are my only salvation. I find myself just sitting and watching them, soaking in every little moment. Housework, cooking, cleaning—none of that matters right now. I’ve let Matt pick up the pieces, keep our lives together, while I just sit and watch. He owes me that.
And he knows it. He’s brought me fresh flowers every week. Kept the house spotless, meals always at the ready, laundry cleaned and folded. Taken whichever baby’s the fussiest, refereed all the kids’ arguments, done all the chauffeuring to playdates and after-school activities. Like somehow these things can make up for the lies that nearly undid us, that still very well might.
—
IT’S A FRIDAY, FIVE WEEKS after I found the picture, after our lives changed. The days are longer now, the temperature higher. The trees are green again
. The grass, lush. Spring has sprung, at last, and I’m finally starting to feel like it’s a new season for us, too. A fresh start.
I left work a couple of hours early so we could take the kids to the county fair. We parked in a big pasture, long lines of minivans and SUVs ushered into place by volunteers in orange vests. Trekked in, Matt pushing the double stroller through the field, me holding the older kids’ hands. Ella practically skipped along, she was so excited. Chattered away, the whole time.
We spent the evening watching the kids on rides: the spinning cups, the wavy slides, the mini roller coaster in the shape of a dragon. The delight on their faces made the overpriced sheets of tickets worth every penny. We snapped cellphone camera pictures. Split a funnel cake between the six of us and laughed at the twins’ faces, spattered with powdered sugar.
We’re standing in front of the train now, the little cars that circle the tracks. The last ride of the night. All four kids are on it—Luke and Caleb in one car, Ella and Chase in another. And all four are smiling. I think my heart might actually burst.
Matt reaches for my hand, a gesture so familiar and yet so foreign. For weeks I’ve pulled away from his touch. But I don’t today. I let his fingers encircle mine, feel the warmth and softness of his skin. And then, like that, reality comes crashing down. I think of the Russians, the lie. The flash drive and the looming threat of prison. All of the things that have consumed my mind for weeks—but that for the past couple of blissful hours, I actually haven’t thought about.
My instinct is to pull away. But I don’t. I hold on.
He smiles at me and pulls me close, and for a moment it’s just the two of us, like it used to be. I feel the tension I didn’t know I still carried start to fade away. Maybe it’s time to forgive. Time to move on, embrace this life, stop living in fear. He might have been right; the envelope was just a warning. One I didn’t need, because it’s not like I’d ever turn him in. And now that I know the truth, maybe they’ll be done with us. We can find a way to leave all this behind.
Need to Know Page 12
