He had no choice but to reach for the red button.
Chapter Sixty-six
Charlie and Julie settled into their seats on the plane, silently busying themselves with their belongings. Bags, tickets, passports, a week-old copy of The Economist . . . everything seemed so ordinary, so familiar, so routine. Julie had bought a toothbrush and a change of clothes inside the Tashkent airport and now they looked like any ordinary pair of Westerners—albeit ones whose bruised and weary faces indicated that they might have recently been in a car wreck.
A small television set played CNN from the nearby bulkhead as they belted themselves into their seats.
“In what was some of the most stunning work by the international intelligence community in recent years,” the reporter said, “terrorist suspects were arrested today in cities across the United States, Europe, Australia, and Japan.” Images of elite antiterrorism units flashed across the screen, arresting bewildered-looking suspects in a variety of different locations. “Apparently a coordinated series of so-called dirty bomb attacks was planned for four p.m. Eastern Time today. In what highly placed sources have indicated was a multipronged, coordinated international operation, executed with clockwork precision, all nine terror cells involved in the plot were simultaneously taken down. No bombs were detonated and all of the low-grade nuclear material held by the terrorists was recovered.”
The television showed a sequence of shots—men in suits standing at podiums in front of various flags making solemn statements about the superior skill and determination of their respective intelligence services.
“In an unprecedented gesture,” the reporter’s voice-over continued, “the CIA and MI6 released a joint statement announcing that it was their mutual cooperation and that of their counterparts across the globe which made the sting possible . . .”
A flight attendant poured each of them a glass of water from a chipped plastic pitcher. The engines began to wind up, the cabin lights dimmed and the little television went dark.
When the cabin lights came up again, the flight attendant switched off the TV with a clunky remote control about the size of a paperback book.
Charlie supposed that he ought to be angry that the most powerful intelligence services in the world were crowing about doing something that had actually been accomplished by a pair of amateurs. But he couldn’t seem to muster even a shred of exasperation. Right now he was too damn tired to care.
He turned and looked at Julie. Now that everything was over, he had no idea how they would begin again.
Julie knew what Charlie had to be thinking. She had violated his trust and it would be a long road back to regaining it. She looked at him, trying to read how deep the damage went. And when he smiled, her heart nearly broke. Eyes brimming with remorse, she took his hand. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. For lying to you, for not trusting . . . for endangering all of us, I thought I was doing something good, but—”
“You were,” Charlie conceded. “Look at what we did.”
“I was going to tell you. That night. As soon as I got home from Disneyland. I was going to tell you everything.”
Charlie nodded, no doubt wondering what exactly was encompassed in the “everything.” As he looked away, Julie grabbed his face, forcing him to look her in the eye. “I never loved him. Not the way I love you.”
“I read the emails.”
“He reminded me of a time and a place. That was all, Charlie. A time and a place. When we were different.”
Charlie sighed and looked at the blank screen. The plane began taxiing up the runway.
He thought about all of the ways in which he had let Julie down over the years, what he must have done to drive her toward Byko, what she’d sacrificed to give him the life that he said he wanted.
“I threw in the towel,” he said heavily. “I left you no choice but to throw yours in, too. And then I never asked you how you lived with it because I didn’t want to hear the answer.”
Julie grabbed his hand and kissed his palm. “No more secrets,” she said.
“No more secrets.”
The engines wound up to a high whine, then the plane lumbered forward and took off. The air was turbulent—bags rattling in the overhead bins, magazines spilling on the floor. Charlie clasped both of her hands in his. Then, abruptly, everything steadied and the plane began to climb as smoothly as if it were on rails.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Charlie and Julie deboarded the plane at Heathrow and were met at the gate by a small neatly dressed man with a military bearing and a brush mustache of the sort once favored by British Army officers.
“Frank Hopkins,” he said, extending his hand toward Charlie. “We’ll need to go over a few things, I’m afraid.”
“We’re going home,” Charlie said firmly, taking Julie by the arm, then pushing past him toward the American Airlines gate at the far end of the terminal.
“We have a private plane,” Hopkins insisted. “Eleven hours in the air. We can get it all done by the time we touch down. Then you’ll never hear from us again.”
Charlie stopped, scowling at the man.
“Let’s just be done with it,” Julie said.
Ten minutes later they were airborne again, climbing out of London in a spacious and well-appointed jet bearing Royal Air Force markings.
“I’ll show you some photographs,” Hopkins said after they’d reached cruising altitude.
Charlie identified a series of faces, all of them men in Byko’s coterie of personal guards.
The mercenary in the Escalade.
“Dead.”
The driver crushed by the boulder.
“Dead.”
Hasan.
“I shot him,” Charlie said. “But his body was burnt in the missile complex when Byko blew it up.”
Hopkins paused and looked at Julie curiously. He seemed astonished that some untrained journalist had managed to eliminate all of these hardened killers.
Charlie felt like telling the neatly dressed spy that anybody would have done the same thing if their wife’s life had been at stake. But then, he supposed, that probably wasn’t true. And sitting here in the comfortable leather chair of the RAF jet, it seemed almost as though it had all been done by someone else.
There were several more before Hopkins handed him the photo of John Quinn.
This time, Charlie glanced at Julie before answering. “That one was a joint effort. I’d give Julie most of the credit there.”
Hopkins looked at her with unabashed admiration.
“There were some others, ” Julie said. “They were chasing us at the Square. They must have gotten away.”
Hopkins nodded, then laid down a picture of a thin boy wearing a gray prison jumpsuit.
“And what about him? The man who shot Byko?”
Charlie stared at the photograph. “It was Salim?”
Hopkins frowned curiously. “You know him?”
“He was one of the people who helped me. I never would have made it out of Byko’s compound if it wasn’t for him.”
“As you can see, he was arrested by Karimov’s police.”
Charlie felt a flash of anger. “Well, you’re going to get him out.”
Hopkins leaned back in his leather seat. “There are three dozen witnesses who saw him do the shooting. And he hasn’t denied it.”
“Give me a break!” Charlie said. “Karimov’s thrilled to have Byko out of the way. This should be an easy one for you.”
Hopkins smiled perfunctorily. “I’ll do what I can.”
Charlie laughed without humor. “You know, there’s a rumor that CIA was there when Byko’s sister was being tortured . . . that in fact they may have orchestrated it. And that MI6 tipped off Karimov about the Andijan demonstration six years ago, knowing that Karimov would go in with force. You add that up with John Quinn—a fo
rmer CIA man—being Byko’s operational man . . .” He paused, letting this sink in. “It’d be pretty grim publicity for the security agencies if all that came out.”
Hopkins looked at Julie as though asking for her help.
Julie glared at him. “Is it true?”
“I don’t think that matters to your husband.”
“It matters to me,” she said edgily.
“I have absolutely no idea. But we all know that anything is possible,” Hopkins admitted.
Charlie took the man in for a beat, appreciating his candor.
Hopkins rose. “I’ll have our Foreign Minister make the call himself.”
“I know guards inside that prison,” Charlie warned. “They’ll let me know when Salim is released.”
Hopkins regarded Charlie for a long moment, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing.
In fact, he was. But Charlie had a damn good poker face.
And apparently Hopkins couldn’t afford the risk. He walked to the far end of the plane, picked up a handset and made the call.
Charlie watched him for a beat, then turned to Julie. “For the record, next time you decide you want to save the world, I think we ought to talk about it first.”
Julie smiled and they both allowed themselves to laugh. Then she laid her head on his shoulder. He kissed her hair and she closed her eyes.
Charlie smiled and felt himself melt against her. It would be good to see the kids again. It would also be kind of fun to walk into the homicide bureau of the LAPD and watch Reamer’s and Alvarez’s faces when he introduced them to the woman they thought he had murdered.
Chapter Sixty-eight
As Charlie pulled into their driveway and came to a stop, Julie burst out of the car before he’d even had a chance to put it in park.
By the time he did, Meagan and Ollie were rushing from the house.
“Mommy!”
Meagan leaped into Julie’s arms while Ollie attached himself to her leg. Julie was laughing and crying at the same time, hugging and kissing both children in turn.
For a moment Charlie didn’t move, his entire body sagging into the upholstery of the car. It was done. He’d brought her back and saved his family.
As Charlie climbed out of the car to join the homecoming, the front door of the house opened again and Becca appeared. He knew she was taking in the cuts and bruises on his face when she smiled ruefully at him, a silent acknowledgment of what he had endured.
“Am I gonna have a makeup birthday . . . ?” Ollie squealed, “Since you missed my real one?”
Julie wiped her eyes on her sleeve and kissed him on the forehead. “I think that can be arranged!”
“With more presents?” Ollie jumped up and down with excitement.
Julie looked at him with mock sternness. “We’ll see.”
They ran inside, Ollie sprinting to be first, Meagan tugging Julie’s hand. Julie turned and flashed Charlie a broad, thankful smile then disappeared inside.
Charlie looked around the yard. He noted with a mix of fondness and annoyance that the grass needed mowing. Most of his neighbors hired lawn services, but Charlie had always enjoyed doing the work himself. There was something about coming inside for a beer late on a Saturday afternoon, the smell of new-mown grass and sweat clinging to his body that reminded him of his old man. And of Youngstown.
Becca was still standing on the porch, holding the door open for him. He walked slowly toward her, still soaking in what it meant to be home.
When he reached the door, he paused and spoke softly to her. “Thank you. For holding down the fort.”
Becca nodded stoically, then allowed herself to break down, clinging to Charlie’s neck and silently sobbing. After a few moments, she pulled away from him, seemingly embarrassed by her outburst.
“I made us a good English breakfast,” she said.
“Well let’s get to it,” he replied.
Without another word, she hurried into the kitchen, where she bustled around making final preparations for the meal.
Charlie walked into the dining room, listening to the clatter of plates and pans, the laughter of the children as they competed for Julie’s attention, the strains of an old Simon & Garfunkle song that Becca had put on the stereo.
Later that day, after a long and luxuriant nap, Charlie got up and checked his email. The only message he was interested in came from an unidentified mailbox. There was no note, no subject, just an attached video file.
Charlie clicked on the attachment and a short movie popped up.
A painfully thin boy of nineteen looked into the camera. Salim.
Palonchi Ursalov sat silently next to him with her usual unblinking, stoic expression.
“Hello, Charlie,” Salim said. “I wanted to thank you. I know there is no way they let me out of jail unless you help. I am home now with my mother. We try to make new life here. Maybe you can send us picture of your wife and family. So we can remember you. Good luck in California!”
Salim grinned and waved joyfully, like an excited boy. There was a brief, somewhat awkward pause as he and his mother continued to stare at the camera. . .
Then the screen went blank.
Charlie quickly downloaded several pictures of Julie and the kids and composed a quick note to Salim: “I’m happy you’re home. And thank you for everything. We wouldn’t have made it without you. Your friend, Charlie.” He fired off the email and closed the laptop, experiencing a satisfaction he hadn’t felt in years.
While Oliver cued up his favorite music video in the den, Julie sat near Meagan on the couch and looked around the house, trying to imagine how it ever could have felt so small. Becca had left a few minutes earlier, after a long hug at the door and a cautionary whisper in Julie’s ear: “You have a beautiful family.”
This was not something that Julie needed to hear. She’d always known how fortunate she was to have these children, this husband, this life. But why had this never felt like enough for her? Was it because she truly wanted to give something back to the world? Or was it because she felt the need to leave some kind of mark on things? Perhaps a little of both. One way or another, she had gotten her wish.
And now she was home. Within a couple of days she would return to fixing the kids’ lunches, running the fund-raising drives at Meagan’s preschool and driving Oliver to soccer and baseball practice.
And it all sounded better than she ever could have imagined.
But would it be enough?
She supposed that was something she would need to figure out in the weeks and months ahead, but she knew that no matter how it went, she and Charlie would work it out together. Because they were kindred spirits once again.
Charlie bounded down the steps and could hear Meagan nagging her mother in the den, “I want to see him now!”
“Your father’s taking a nap,” Julie insisted. “And you’re going to let him sleep.”
Charlie slowed as he approached the den, hovering in the doorway, wanting just to watch them. Meagan was dancing around in front of Julie, and Ollie was playing with a pair of action figures on the floor. Sitting on the countertop was a homemade birthday cake (blue and white for the Yankees) that Julie must have whipped up while he was napping.
Charlie had never quite been able to wrap his head around the fact that Oliver’s birthday and the anniversary of the massacre would, for eternity, fall on the same day.
But it occurred to him—now—after all this time, that this was the nature of life. That the agony and suffering and pain were almost always situated too closely to the joy and love and redemption. That it was man’s best hope to make peace with that idea and to somehow go on living. Moving toward the joy and love and redemption no matter the risk, no matter the price.
“Daddy!” Meagan squealed, as she ran toward him and grabbed his leg.
Charlie
lifted her into his arms. “Well, it’s certainly nice to be wanted.”
He came toward Julie, kissed her long and hard.
“Eeeeew!” Meagan cried and squirmed out of his grip.
Charlie leaned down to Ollie and affectionately mussed his boy’s hair. “How’s it going, tiger?”
“Good,” Ollie said without looking up from his Power Rangers.
Charlie’s eyes met Julie’s. She shrugged and gave him a little smile.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Good,” she said. “Really good.”
He ran his hand gently down her back and moved into the kitchen to inspect the eats.
“Sal called while you were sleeping,” Julie said with a hint of suggestion. “He said he needs an answer about Shanghai. Guess he didn’t hear about the last few days.”
“What are you talking about?” Ollie asked, barely looking up from his toys.
“Just work stuff,” Charlie answered as he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down to Sal’s number.
Julie watched him, a look of nervous expectancy in her eyes. He got the impression that she was actually holding her breath.
He waited a beat, made her suffer for as long as he could manage, then cracked a smile. “You okay with me being gone a couple of weeks?”
Julie grinned back. “I think we can work it out.”
Charlie dialed Sal. It was a quick, unremarkable conversation—a few dates, a few details and a last benediction from his boss:
“You’re doing the right thing, Charlie.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
As Charlie set his phone on the table, he felt as though a giant wall between himself and Julie had just melted. A sense of happiness—of rightness—coursed through him.
“Hungry?” she asked.
“Starving!”
“Then have a seat, my lord.”
“I think I shall, my queen.”
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