The Athena Protocol

by Shamim Sarif

  Oh my days. If there is anything I can’t stand, it’s when my mother sounds like a quote from an inspirational calendar.

  Kit picks up her designer bag and prepares to leave. Without waiting for an answer. Infuriated, I follow her to the door.

  “I’m your best agent,” I say.

  “Others are being recruited,” Kit returns.

  Well, that’s a shock to me. As far as I know, it’s only the three of us agents here. Caitlin was brought in because she worked for Peggy at the embassy after leaving the army. I recruited Hala myself. And it’s because I’m Kit’s daughter that I’m trusted here. Was trusted.

  “How do you know you can trust them—these new agents?”

  “We don’t. Not yet. But if they ever make it onto this floor, they won’t disregard orders. Or get into physical fights with their teammates. I’m embarrassed that you—”

  That knocks me, and maybe Kit sees it, because she bites off her anger and stops talking. Both of us are silent for a minute, then I glance at her again, looking for a chink, a way back in, a way to convince her. But there isn’t one; I can see that. Once, when I was much younger, I saw Kit slam the front door after a fight with a boyfriend, then pick up a guitar and smash it onto the floor. At the time it had scared me, but, looking back, I had despised the behavior of my mother, the tantrum of a rock star trading in clichés. Kit turns, and I can see the same flinty spark in her eyes; I can see the effort she is making not to raise her voice again.

  “You’re special, Jess,” she says at last. “But you’re so immature. And nobody’s indispensable.”

  And my mother opens the door and walks out without giving me another glance.

  3

  THAT PHRASE “DRAGGING YOUR FEET” has never meant much to me, because I’ve always loved what I do. Until now. Now, I listen to my own steps shuffling along the gleaming wooden floor, and it’s the sound of misery.

  I always knew Athena was important to me, but now that I have to leave it, it suddenly feels like it means everything.

  It all began, in a way, in Pakistan. Kit was supporting a school for girls, in a northern province where Taliban influences still lingered and girls were hardly ever educated. She contacted Peggy for help pushing it through the UN’s slow approval process. She knew Peggy pretty well. They had met first at a White House lunch, I think, because they were both into women’s and children’s causes. But they ended up becoming real friends, especially once Peggy moved to London to be the American ambassador. Anyway, Peggy got on board with the school and got Li to sponsor it. That was Li’s first shot at major charity work apparently. What a start. No wonder she’s less than thrilled with government agencies now.

  Anyway, they all met up in Lahore and drove for hours to open this school formally. It was a big deal, from what Kit said. UN officials, the whole village out in force, TV cameras. So they open the schoolhouse and attend the first lesson—more than twenty girls, all as excited as anything. Then they eat with the villagers who’ve laid out this huge feast for the three of them. And then they drive back to their hotel to get a good night’s sleep and wait for the flight home the next day. Except Peggy switches on the news in her room while she and Kit are having a congratulatory drink—and they see that there’s been a fire in a northern village. Kit said she didn’t even connect it with their village till she recognized a guy on the TV screen, hauling buckets. A villager who didn’t want his twin girls to attend because the local tribal leader was taking money from the Taliban and he feared for their safety. Kit had spent ages persuading him to send the girls to school. And he did. And now she’s watching him on the TV news, trying to douse ten-feet-high flames with a bucket.

  They hustled a car and driver to take them back up there immediately, and by the time they made it, there was nothing much left of the school. Or the girls. Kit has never spoken about the rest of that night to me—about what she saw or how they faced the villagers—and neither has Peggy or Li. But I saw news pictures online, later. The one I’ll always remember is rows of white sheets, each of them covering a small body. It makes me sick just to remember the photo. I can’t even imagine how Kit felt. So when she came back from Pakistan and hit the bottle harder than ever, I cut back on the sarcasm and stopped the fights. I didn’t have a better solution at the time, but I suppose she did.

  Or, rather, Peggy did. Because somewhere in the ashes of that brutal fire, the idea for Athena was born. Li had the money to bankroll a private agency that would fight for women and children. And after growing up under Chinese communism, she’d probably had enough of waiting for governments to solve the world’s problems. Like Peggy, she was completely disillusioned in Pakistan. And like Peggy, she probably had some skills and experience with intelligence work. Kit was the last on board, and I’m pretty sure that was because Peggy wanted to help her out of the darkness that she was stuck in after Pakistan. And soon after that, Kit asked me to help her—and I was happy that she asked. Not that I wanted her to be as crushed as she was—just that I wanted us to be there for each other, like a real family. So I agreed. Everything I was learning in the Program—weapons, coding—could only be useful to Athena, and this would be something where, as Peggy told me, I wouldn’t be just a hired operative with no idea of whose wars I’d be fighting and why.

  Except now. Now, the fight will go on, but I won’t have anything to do with it.

  At the elevator, Thomas is waiting. His glance slips away from mine as I approach.

  “I’ve arranged a ride home for you,” he says.

  I’m about to snap at him that he can keep his ride, that I’ll take the tube back, when Peggy’s voice interrupts.

  “Got a minute?”

  Peggy bustles toward us. She wears a gray tweed suit flecked with pink. Her hair is immaculate, her accessories perfect. She must have had lessons on how to dress, growing up in New York on the Upper East Side. Which is fine if you want to look like Jackie Kennedy or Michelle Obama, I suppose, but sometimes all that perfection is just annoying. I’m also sure Peggy went to etiquette school, or something, somewhere along the way. But she’s not snooty about any of it. It’s just who she is; kind, decent, correct.

  As Peggy reaches me, she gives Thomas a nod to get lost, and he glides off. Then there’s an awkward pause, and I try to keep my eyes on the floor, but Peggy takes advantage of a moment of slippery eye contact.

  “Your mother’s worried about you,” she says.

  “First time in history.”

  Peggy’s gaze holds enough disappointment to make me feel ashamed of myself briefly. My sarcasm’s become a habit, I realize. I remember Kit’s regular admonishments that good habits lead to success and bad habits lead to failure. Another maxim my mother appears to have picked up in the past couple of years, no doubt from a support-group meeting.

  “If you won’t talk to her,” Peggy says, “talk to me.”

  “About what?”

  “How you’re feeling.”

  Peggy’s tone is so kind that I actually want to cry. Maybe she sees that, because she takes my arm and guides me aside, into a smaller office where we are really alone, away from all the glass. But I refuse to cry here, in front of Peggy. I’m not unhinged or traumatized, even though the others think I am. I turn to Peggy, newly energized by anger.

  “You really want to know how I feel?” I say. “I’m happy. Happy Ahmed is dead. Happy he’ll never abuse or kill another girl.”

  “You don’t look happy,” Peggy says. She hesitates. Then she speaks again, her voice lower.

  “Your first kill is never easy, and it always gives you nightmares.”

  Right, then. So maybe the CIA job was more than just desk work and surveillance. I shift a bit under her gaze. It’s like she knows everything about what’s really going on inside me.

  “That’s why we have a protocol, Jessie,” Peggy continues. “To protect, not to kill. Unless absolutely necessary.”

  “Yeah, I read the manual,” I tell her. “It sucks
on the ground though.”

  I feel Peggy inhale and hold back a reply, and I take the chance to ask a question—something that’s been bugging me since this whole Ahmed thing began.

  “Peggy, what if you can’t finish people like Ahmed by putting them on trial? What if you have to fight fire with fire?”

  “An eye for an eye?” The soft brown of Peggy’s eyes turns to steel, but I shrug.

  “That’s what Ahmed understands.”

  “Perhaps, but this isn’t about him; it’s about Athena.”

  “I get it,” I tell her. “We have orders, and I broke them.”

  But Peggy shakes her head.

  “No, I mean Athena, the Greek goddess of war. Also, of justice. And wisdom.”

  I’m not imagining the emphasis Peggy puts on that last quality. Clearly implying that I lack it. We all know this classical reference because it forms the backbone of the work we do here, but I’m not in the mood for the Athena pep talk.

  “Take me to Belgrade,” I say desperately.

  Peggy studies me. “I’m as unhappy about this as you are,” she says. “We’ve prepared for this mission for months, and it was planned with three operatives. We didn’t expect to be down to two.”

  “Then take me with you. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “You just told me you were happy Ahmed was dead.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  “You know, we were on the fence with you,” Peggy continues. “Whether to fire you or just try desk duty for a spell. It’s not great for us to lose your skills. But, Jessie—fighting with Hala in the situation room? In a meeting?” She shakes her head, reproachful. “Self-control is nonnegotiable in what we do.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” I say. My voice comes out as a whisper, my eyes are on the floor.

  “What do you mean?” Peggy says.

  I stare at my shoes, looking for words. But I can’t explain it. Peggy and Li and Kit can’t get what it’s like to constantly fight physically against people who’d kill you in a heartbeat. Something savage, kind of raw, flips a switch in my mind and I can’t just turn it off and think clearly the moment I’m done. None of us can. Caitlin and Hala are just better at hiding it than me.

  Peggy’s still waiting for me to speak. But I can only shake my head. She reaches out a hand and pulls me toward her. Before I know it, she has me in a hug. I relax into it after a moment.

  “Come with me,” Peggy’s voice says by my ear. She pulls back to look at me.

  “Where?”

  “To the Cameroon High Commission. I need an assistant to take notes, and you can see how you’ve changed the lives of those girls you saved.”

  Ten minutes ago, taking notes like someone’s PA in a stuffy embassy would have been my idea of boredom. But right now, I don’t want to go home and stare at the walls and think about the rest of my life. I nod, and Peggy walks me back out to the elevator and down to the basement garage, where her car and driver are waiting.

  While the rest of us finish a job and then go straight on to the next one, Peggy usually ends up still working on the previous mission for some time. Her idea coming into Athena was that it’s fine to rescue women and girls, but then what? Most of them don’t have the education or training to move forward, so they end up vulnerable to the same people we’ve tried to get them away from. So Peggy uses her political contacts and her charity connections to arrange long-term solutions in each case. Sustainable is one of her favorite words, and everyone thinks that Peggy is nothing more than a do-gooder; a well-meaning retired ambassador with too much time and money on her hands.

  Peggy starts explaining how she’s raised funding to provide counseling for the girls Ahmed kidnapped. It’s pretty amazing to hear—and yet, I stop listening after a bit because my mind is replaying that moment I pulled the trigger on Ahmed, trying to remember what I felt.

  I blink, watching a different London pass by outside the car window, more spacious and genteel than the heart of the City, with its clustered, modern buildings. Now we’re cruising through leafy streets lined with trees, past redbrick homes similar to Peggy’s own Chelsea apartment building.

  One minute, I wish I hadn’t killed Ahmed; the next, I can remember only that poor dead girl on the floor—he took her life, and so many others, so brutally—can it really be a bad thing that he’s dead? My mind is racing all over the place; I’m relieved when the car pulls up. But, if you can believe it, who’s standing there but Jake Graham, the TV news guy. Talk about bad luck. We get out of the car, and there he is, in this iron-railed London square, right outside the Cameroon High Commission. He reported from here two hours ago, so what on earth is he hanging around for? Behind him, a cameraman winds up cables. If we’d arrived ten minutes later, he would probably have been gone.

  Peggy hands me some files, and I follow her to the steps of the building. We are already partway up when Jake strides over and steps up next to Peggy. His eyes flit across me briefly and I turn away, moving ahead as if we’re late. Peggy giving me the files was a smart move, and I’m grateful I bothered to put on my blue jacket. It dresses up the jeans and shirt enough that I might be some meaningless assistant.

  “Mrs. Delaney,” he says. “What are you doing here?” His tone is pleasant, but he’s on her like a ton of bricks.

  “Lovely to see you, Jake,” Peggy responds. “Good report this morning.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been waiting around to get a comment about who killed Ahmed and saved those girls.”

  Peggy’s poker face gives nothing away.

  “And? Who did?” she asks. Really, I love the way she looks at him, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  “Nobody’s talking,” says Jake. “Which usually means somebody’s lying.”

  “Is it an occupational hazard to be so cynical?”

  Jake grins. But he doesn’t let up. “What are you doing here?” he asks again.

  “The ambassador is a dear friend. I want to see if my charity can help get those poor girls some counseling and back into school.”

  “Apparently, they’ve been well taken care of already,” Jake informs her. “They’ve had first-class medical treatment, new clothes . . .”

  Peggy looks mildly interested but starts up the wide stone steps toward me. I’m standing by the door, looking at my watch, like I’m trying to keep her on schedule. But Jake follows her up. Like a dog with a bone.

  “This wasn’t the Cameroon government,” Jake is saying. “They’re taking credit, but I heard reports that women soldiers were involved. They don’t have female soldiers in Cameroon.”

  “Well, perhaps they should.” Peggy’s voice holds slight irritation now, as she turns to face Jake. She stares him down, just a bit. As if daring him to keep going. I’ve been on the receiving end of that look before, and it’s one you remember. Jake backs off.

  “Sorry,” he says. “This has nothing to do with you, but I felt there was more to it.”

  “You’re a good reporter, Jake,” Peggy tells him. “You got there by following your instincts. Don’t feel bad about it.”

  A brave double bluff. He shakes Peggy’s hand and walks back down the stairs. I’ve already stepped into the shadows of the interior door, keeping my head buried in those files but, in any event, Jake doesn’t look at me. By the time Peggy joins me, I can see she’s worried. But she gives me a smile.

  “He’s got nothing,” Peggy says.

  I nod, grateful for her words, but I’ve never felt worse. I’ve jeopardized my team so badly that I’m not going to complain ever again about being kicked out of Athena.

  Home is a weird word. I know the house that it refers to. Large and light, with white-framed platinum albums on the wall and signed pieces of art from Kit’s contemporaries. At times, home has meant a place full of guests, music, and Kit’s effusive affection.

  But mostly, it means a quiet, echoing place—just me and the housekeeper, and stretches of silent loneliness. I was always encouraged to have
friends over. But I was two years ahead at school, so I never had that many friends my age. I guess I’ve never been social in the way Kit was. To me, books and coding were easier to deal with than people—something Kit never understood. But now, in the past few years, Kit no longer tours, or records very much. She’s also quit drinking, and at least three evenings a week she sticks around indoors, reading or watching a TV show. It’s like I always imagined home should be.

  But now, after just half a day of hanging around the house, my resolve not to feel sorry for myself has evaporated and I’m about ready to spit. I’ve flicked through a hundred TV channels, watched some YouTube videos about coding, taken a nap, and made myself a sandwich. A blanket of boredom settles over me like a misty rain, and the feeling soaks through me. All I can think about is that the others are busy preparing to take down Gregory Pavlic’s trafficking empire while I’m cooling my heels here.

  I head upstairs, flip open my laptop, and turn on some music. I don’t use headphones because I want to be able to hear Kit when she gets home, which could be anytime. The Athena founders come and go, combining their work for the underground agency with their regular day jobs. For Li, that’s running her tech empire. Peggy is still one of London’s go-to people for charity and diplomacy. And Kit continues to support different women’s causes.

  Out of habit, not to mention boredom, I try first to log into the Athena communications system. It’s a closed I2P-style network that is really almost impossible for anyone outside the Athena team to trace or monitor because it doesn’t use any external server or software. I go to the correct URL and enter my credentials—but a red skull comes up in the center of my screen to tell me that the computer I’m on is no longer authorized.

  Annoyed, I do some surfing online, but I use a VPN to mask my IP address and a browser that is hidden. Just in case Amber or one of her tech heads have taken it on themselves to try to watch what I do on my own private computer. I start looking up Gregory Pavlic but, really, the level of information out there is too basic. What I really want is to get into the Athena files on him—all the research that I was a part of.