The question is, what’s he going to do with it?
“I have time,” I say, again with more confidence than I feel. But I do, right? Yury’s not going to burn Matt right away. Lose me. He’s going to try to convince me to follow his orders. That means I have time.
“Time for what?”
I look down at the buttons, line them up, start to fasten them. “To figure out a plan.” To convince him to leave me alone. I just have no idea how to go about doing that.
Matt comes and stands in the doorway of the closet. His hair’s sticking up in the back, like it does when he’s just woken up, before he showers. It’d be cute, if not for the expression on his face. Exasperated. “There is no plan, Viv.”
I look back down at the buttons. There has to be a way. Yury has information I don’t want getting out there. What if I had information he didn’t want getting out? “What about a compromise?”
“A compromise?”
“Like, silence in exchange for silence.”
Matt shakes his head, looks incredulous. “What could you possibly have to trade?”
There’s only one thing I could come up with that would be valuable enough. I straighten the edges of my blouse, then look up at him. “The name of the ringleader.”
—
ONCE THE IDEA LODGES in my head, I latch on. It feels right, like it’s the only way out of this mess. And so I go to work, day after day, stay chained to my desk long into each night, searching for the ringleader.
I come up with another algorithm, same idea as the last one, but tweaked slightly. It casts a wider net, hopefully traps anyone who might hold the critical role, overseeing handlers like Yury, receiving orders directly from the SVR.
I run it, cross-reference it against anyone who’s ever had contact with Yury, or with Yury’s contacts, or even with his contacts’ contacts. And I come up with a long list of potential candidates, far too long. I need a way to winnow it down, but until I think of one, until I can figure one out, I research. I build profiles on anyone who might possibly be the ringleader. Pictures, bio data, operational leads.
I’ve caught Peter watching me a few times, looking confused. Why now? he asked once. I just need to find this guy, I answered.
I’ve barely seen the kids in days; I come home long after they’re in bed. Sometimes after Matt is, too. He hates it, me working these hours. He hasn’t come right out and said it, but I know he thinks this is a futile task. That I should just do what Yury said. But I can’t. I won’t.
I finally print the research, hundreds of pages of material. I flip through it, look at one angry face after another. One of these guys is the ringleader. And once I figure out who it is, once I can convince Yury that I’m on the brink of exposing the whole network, I can buy his silence.
Trouble is, there’s too much information. With a mounting feeling of despair, I continue flipping through the pages. I need some way to narrow it down further, but that’s going to take time. And how much time do I have, really? When will Yury expect me to complete the task? When will I get his next envelope? I feel overwhelmed. Frustrated. Afraid. A compromise is my only hope, though, isn’t it?
I stick the papers into a file. It’s thick and bulging. I place a hand on top of it, sit quietly at my desk. I need something, a way out. Finally I place the file into one of my desk drawers, lock it, and gather my things.
I go home that night more dejected than usual. I expect a dark house, quiet. But there’s a light on in the family room. Matt’s there, awake, on the couch. The TV is off. His hands are clasped in front of him, and one of his legs is bouncing up and down, a nervous habit of his. I walk over warily.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Yury’s willing to make a deal.”
I stop. “What?”
“He’s willing to make a deal.” The leg’s bouncing faster now.
I force myself to keep moving forward, to walk into the room, take a seat on the couch. “You talked to him?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know whether to press that point or keep going. I leave it for now. “What kind of deal?”
He’s wringing his hands now, and the leg’s still bouncing.
“Matt?”
He takes a shuddering breath. “It’s the last thing they’ll ask you to do.”
I stare at him. He’s gone suddenly still.
“You do this, Viv, they destroy those screenshots. The whole file. There’d be no proof of what you did.”
“The last thing,” I say, a statement, not a question.
“Yeah.”
I’m silent for several moments. “Betray my country.”
“Go back to normal life.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Normal?”
He leans forward, toward me. “This is enough to let me retire. Viv, we could be done with them after this.”
I exhale slowly. Be done with them. That’s all I want. I want them to go away. I want a normal life. I want none of this to exist. When I speak, my voice is barely above a whisper. “They really agreed to that?”
“Yeah.” I can see the excitement on his face, the feeling that he’s found a solution, figured this out for us. “We’d have earned it, after that.”
We’d have earned it. A shudder runs through me. But at what cost?
And besides, what’s to say they’d honor the deal? I know how these people work. I’ve spent years studying them. They’d come back with something else. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not this year. But someday they would. It wouldn’t be over. And then they’d really have leverage.
He’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond. Waiting for me to agree, to ask what to do next.
“No,” I say. “The answer’s still no.”
The black sedan idles outside the school, parallel-parked on a quiet, tree-lined street. Its engine hums softly, barely audible over the rumble of the nearby buses, the happy shrieks and chatter from the arriving children.
“That’s him,” Yury says. He takes one hand off the steering wheel, points out the passenger-side window. There’s a circular drive there, a line of yellow buses. A low white fence separates school from community.
His passenger, Anatoly, looks down at the arm that’s reaching across his chest, then out the window in the direction of the extended finger. He raises a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
“The one in the blue shirt,” Yury says. “Red backpack.”
Anatoly focuses the binoculars until the boy becomes clear. He’s standing on the sidewalk, just past the doors of the bus. Bright blue T-shirt and jeans, a backpack that looks almost comically large. He’s laughing at something his friend said; the gap where he’s missing a tooth is visible.
“A miniature Alexander,” he murmurs.
The boy’s speaking now, talking animatedly. His friend’s listening, laughing.
“He’s here every morning?” Anatoly asks. He looks at the fence closest to the buses, a stone’s throw from where the boy stands.
“Every morning.”
Anatoly lowers the binoculars into his lap. Then, unsmiling, unblinking, he continues to watch the boy.
At work the next day, and the one after that, Matt’s words keep floating through my head. This is enough to let me retire.
Viv, we could be done with them after this.
Each time, I try to push away the words, the thought. It’s what I want, to be done with them. But how could I do it, the thing they’re asking me to do? Load that program. Be responsible for the Russians learning our secrets, bringing harm to our assets. I can’t. I just can’t.
And so I work. I type names into my search bar, one after the other. Read everything I can find on each of these guys. Search for something, anything, that suggests one of them might be the ringleader. Or something that lets me eliminate them from the list, winnow the file.
But by the end of the week, I’ve barely made a dent in it, barely crossed off any names, haven’t come up with a single person I think
might be the ringleader.
It’s hopeless.
I drag myself home that night, once again after the kids are in bed. Matt’s there, waiting up. He’s on the couch, a show on TV—one of those home repair ones. When I walk in, he aims the remote at it, and the picture disappears.
“Hi,” I say, coming into the room, hovering near the TV.
“Hi.”
“Kids all okay?”
“Yeah.” He seems off. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s wrong. He’s not himself.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I open my mouth to speak, to argue the point, but I catch myself, close it again. “Fine.” I have enough to worry about, and I’m exhausted. Fine.
We look at each other for a few awkward moments, then he gets to his feet, picks up the baby monitor from the counter, heads for the stairs. He pauses at the first step, turns back to me. “Have you thought any more about just doing it?”
“Inserting the drive?”
“Yeah.”
I watch him closely. He’s definitely off. Something’s bothering him. “I can’t do it. I know you think I should, but I just can’t.”
He gives me a long look, his forehead creased. “Okay.” And there’s something about the way he says it, so resigned, so final, I catch myself staring after him, long after he’s out of my sight.
—
THE NEXT DAY AT WORK is as futile as the ones before, and tonight I don’t stay late. I come home early in the evening, and when I walk in, the house is quiet.
It’s almost dinnertime. Luke and Ella should be arguing, Chase and Caleb screeching, banging. Matt should be in the kitchen, cooking, refereeing, somehow juggling it all.
Instead, it’s quiet. A feeling of dread begins to settle over me. Something isn’t right.
“Hello?” I say into the void.
“Hi, Mom,” I hear. I walk farther in, and I see Luke at the kitchen table, his homework in front of him. I look around and don’t see Matt anywhere. Or the other kids.
“Hi, honey. Where’s Dad?”
“He’s not here.” Luke doesn’t look up. His eyes are on the paper in front of him, a pencil poised above.
“Where is he?” Panic’s taking hold. Luke’s seven. He can’t be here alone. And where are the other kids?
“I don’t know.”
Panic feels like full-blown terror now. “Did he pick you up at the bus stop?”
“No.”
I can barely breathe. “Is this the first time he hasn’t been there to pick you up?”
“Yeah.”
My pulse is hammering. I search my bag for my cellphone, pull it out, find Matt on speed dial. As it rings, I glance at my watch. School closes in nineteen minutes. Are the kids still there? The call goes straight to voicemail; I end it.
“Okay, honey,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Let’s go pick up your sister and brothers from school.”
In the car, I try Matt’s cell again. Still it goes to voicemail. Where is he? I’m flying by other cars on the road, my foot like lead on the pedal. Are the kids still there? I don’t even know why I’m thinking that, but I am. Please, God, let them be there.
I can’t wait until I get there to find out. I pick up the phone again, tap another entry on my speed dial. School. The secretary picks up on the first ring. “It’s Vivian Miller,” I tell her. “I can’t reach my husband, and I’m just wondering if he’s picked up our kids.” There’s a silent prayer running through my head, on repeat. Please, God, let them be there.
“Let me check,” she says. I hear the shuffle of papers, and I know she’s checking the clipboards at the front, the ones we use to sign the kids in and out. “Doesn’t look like it,” she says.
My eyes flutter shut, relief coursing through me, along with a new kind of fear. “Thank you,” I say to her. “I’m on my way.”
The kids are there. Thank God the kids are there, although I’ll feel a thousand times better when I can lay eyes on them. But why are they still there? The place is about to close. Matt knows the rules. And he also had no way of knowing I’d be home in time to get them. If the recent past was any indication, he should have assumed I wouldn’t have.
There’s a terror running through me like electricity. Luke, alone at the bus stop, alone at home. The other kids, left at school far beyond their usual pickup time.
Matt’s gone.
Oh God. Matt’s gone.
“Mom!” Luke’s voice from the backseat startles me. I glance in the rearview mirror. He’s looking at me with wide eyes. “It’s a green light!”
I blink at him, then look ahead. Green light, turning yellow. Someone behind me blasts their horn. I slam my foot down on the gas and accelerate through the light.
I think about the last words we spoke to each other last night. Me, saying I still wouldn’t do what they want. The way he said Okay, the look on his face. Did he realize, finally, that he couldn’t talk me into loading the program, and there was no longer any point in sticking around? But that would mean he left the kids on their own, didn’t care what happened to them. That’s not Matt.
We pull up to school, bouncing over the curb. I pull into a spot, barely between the lines, press down too hard on the brakes, sending my purse sliding from passenger seat to floor. I grab the keys out of the ignition, hurry Luke out, rush up to the front door. Out of the corner of my eye I see the clock—two minutes late, strike two and a fine, five dollars per minute per child—but I don’t care. I see the three of them as soon as I step inside, up by the front desk, waiting with the director.
Relief floods through me, and I don’t know why. I don’t know why I’m so relieved to see them. Did I think the Russians might hurt them? It’s not like I thought Matt would take them or anything, did I? I don’t know. I can’t make sense of the jumble of thoughts in my mind right now, and I don’t care.
I wrap my arms around them, bring them all in close to me, not even caring how crazy I must look to the director, the family hug in the lobby that probably just cost us another minute, another fifteen dollars. All I care about right now is that they’re here, with me.
And I am never, ever letting them go.
—
IT TOOK US FAR LONGER than it should have to make a will. We should have done it before Luke was born, really. But it wasn’t until we already had two kids that we trekked into D.C., to the law firm high in that building on K Street, and sat down with a lawyer.
The will itself was easy, barely took any time at all. We named my parents executors of our estate, if anything should happen to both of us. Guardians of the kids. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but neither of us has any siblings. There weren’t any friends we’d trust enough, any other relatives.
I brought it up on the drive home from the lawyer’s office, the fact that they’d have the kids if anything happened to us both. “I don’t know how they’d do with Luke’s tantrums,” I said with a smile, turning around to look at him in the backseat, fast asleep. “We better make sure one of us is always around.”
Matt kept his eyes on the road, didn’t look over. The smile faded from my lips as I watched him. “Are you okay?” I asked.
The muscles in his jaw clenched. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Matt?”
He shot a quick glance my way. “Yeah, yeah. Fine.”
“What’s on your mind?” I pressed. He was acting strange. Was it the will? My parents being the guardians?
He hesitated. “Just thinking about, you know, what if something happens to me?”
“Huh?”
“Like, just me. What if I’m not around anymore?”
I gave a little laugh, a nervous one.
He looked over, and his eyes were intense. “I mean it.”
I turned away, looked out the windshield, watched cars pass us on the left. The truth was, I hadn’t ever really considered it. The kids, sure. From the ver
y beginning, when they were newborns, leaning over the crib to make sure they were still breathing. When they started solids and would gag on their food. The ever-present fear, irrational as it was, that I’d drop them. Their lives always seemed so tenuous, so fragile. I never thought about losing Matt, though. He was my rock, the constant presence in my life, the person who would always be there.
I thought about it now. I thought about getting a call, a trooper telling me he’d died in a car crash. Or standing in front of a surgeon, hearing he’d had a heart attack, that they did everything they could. The gaping hole that would be in my life, the incompleteness. And I answered honestly. “God, I don’t know. I don’t think I could go on.”
And then the fact that I said it, the fact that I thought it, shook me, made me feel like I no longer knew myself. What happened to the girl who’d traveled through four continents on her own, who’d worked two jobs in grad school to afford a place without roommates? How, in a handful of years, had I become so intertwined with someone else that I couldn’t imagine being alone?
“You’d have to,” he said quietly. “For the kids.”
“Yeah, I know. I just mean…” I looked over at him. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw muscles working. I lost my train of thought, went quiet, looked back out the windshield.
“If anything happens to me, Viv, do whatever it takes to take care of the kids.”
I glanced over at him, saw the creases in his forehead, the worry etched on his face. Did he not believe I’d be able to take care of our kids without him? Did he really think that little of me? “Of course I would,” I said, defensive.
“Whatever it takes. You’d need to forget about me and just do it.”
I had no idea what to think, why he was saying all this, thinking all this. No idea how to respond. I just wanted the conversation to be over.
He looked at me, took his eyes off the road for an uncomfortably long stretch. “Promise me, Viv. Promise me you’d do anything for the kids.”
Need to Know Page 14
