The Athena Protocol

by Shamim Sarif

  As we approach Aleks’s house, Hala gives my clothes a sharp tug—an indication to stop. We are still about a hundred feet back. I obey and slide the bike off into a side alleyway behind someone else’s house so that we can proceed on foot. We’re both wearing baseball caps and scarves around our necks that we pull up over our faces.

  As soon as we reach the edge of Aleks’s home, Hala drops to one knee and boosts me up to go over the wall into his garden. It’s about twelve feet high, and without that leg up I’d have no chance of making it. I drop to the other side, using the branch of a small apple tree to help me down. It doesn’t take Hala long to follow, and I’m only sorry that from this side I didn’t get to watch her scale that wall with no help. Even her descent to meet me almost defies physics. She doesn’t use the tree like I did—she just moves like she’s suctioned to the wall, and about five feet from the ground she finally jumps and lands without making a sound.

  With a couple of strides, Hala’s already moved ahead of me. Through the shrubs, we can see a short driveway, and two guards in suits hanging around. Hala pulls out a small ball from her pocket and rolls it beneath Aleks’s car, which is parked close to the house. A stream of smoke starts pouring from it, and eventually the guards notice.

  As they turn and run toward the car, guns out, Hala stalks silently behind them, lifts the pistol, and dispatches both of them into unconsciousness. They crumple to the ground unceremoniously in the middle of the driveway. Hala pats their pockets and finds the car key. She opens the car and leans in to plant a couple of tiny listening devices, wafer-thin dots that they’ll never find. Then she locks the car and replaces the key.

  Meanwhile, I’m heading for the back door of the house. Hala catches up and trots behind me. The wooden door has four small panes of glass in it, through which I can see Aleks’s housekeeper at the stove. This must be Elena, the one who called the ambulance, probably too early for Aleks’s liking. She is facing away from me, watching some kind of TV show streaming on a laptop while she cooks. Quietly, I try the handle, and the door is locked. I glance at Hala, and she nods. Knocking out the lowest pane of glass, I put my hand in, and open the door from the inside.

  We’re quick, and by Elena’s side before she’s barely had time to turn around at the sound of the breaking glass. I give her a small shot in the arm. She passes out pretty quickly, and Hala catches her, lowering her gently to the ground. Then she reaches back for a cushion from the nearest kitchen chair and places it under her head.

  Meanwhile, I pad into Aleks’s study, which is the usual cliché of wood paneling and rows of political books. I dot a couple of listening devices around—one under the desk, another under the chair. Then I lift all the paintings, looking for a safe. It turns out to be in the bottom drawer of the desk. Very basic, and easily accessible with an explosive gel tab that leaves a blackened ring on the base of the drawer. And provides enough space for me to slip a hand into the safe and pull out a bunch of papers. Some of that paper is cash—US dollars, which I leave on the floor. The others are the documents I am looking for—printed keys, or long strings of letters, symbols, and numbers. These will be the only way Aleks’s stash of cryptocurrency can be retrieved. I tuck them into my jacket and hurry back to the kitchen, because I can hear Aleks calling Elena from upstairs.

  When she doesn’t come running, his footsteps descend toward the kitchen.

  “Elena?” he calls. “Where are you?”

  He speaks English, not Serbian, and so I guess Elena is South or Central American—hardly a genius deduction considering the video stream she was watching on the laptop is in Spanish. Even as Aleks walks in, Hala takes a moment to walk over to the computer and pause the soap opera. Presumably so Elena won’t have missed anything when she comes round. Then she looks up at Aleks, cool as anything.

  “What— Who are you?” he asks, looking from Hala to me. “I have security.”

  His eyes go to the window, hoping for rescue.

  “They’re taking a nap,” I say.

  Aleks begins to panic. On the counter beside him, a large kitchen knife lies right next to his hand. I move closer to stop him from even thinking about it, but he snatches up the blade, using it to wave me away. He doesn’t even know how to hold it properly.

  Meanwhile, Hala flicks on the recording from Peggy’s phone: I can blackmail Gregory and partner with him for a while. Then retire. . . .

  We don’t have time for the full rerun, so Hala switches it off and I take a step toward Aleks.

  “What did you give Peggy?” I ask.

  Aleks refuses to answer. I step closer still, and he waves the blade around like crazy, like he’s chopping imaginary vegetables in midair. It’s the work of a moment to grasp his wrist midwave. Then I cuff the side of his head, punch him right in the solar plexus, and twist the knife out of his hand. He leans forward to recover from the punch, both palms spread on the counter, gasping for breath.

  “What did you give her?” I ask again, losing patience.

  Still, he hesitates. His breathing is ragged, and it reminds me of Peggy, desperate for air while Aleks watched her suffer. The thought of it, of his lying face, pretending to be Peggy’s friend while he slipped her poison, makes my blood boil. I look down at his fingers on the counter. The fingers that were so quick to touch Peggy’s that night in the restaurant . . . How could he? I raise the knife and slam the tip down into the countertop. Through Aleks’s hand.

  He stares at it for a moment, at his hand pinned to the counter, then he screams like a baby. Swiftly, Hala whips another knife out of the wooden block by the stove and holds down Aleks’s free hand like she’s ready to skewer that one too. He freaks.

  “The cupboard behind me, at the top. Taped to the side.”

  Hala drops the knife, grabs a tea towel, and reaches up to check. She brings down a small bottle of fluid that she drops into a plastic bag. I’m close enough to watch the sweat beading on Aleks’s forehead before it slides down his mottled cheeks. He’s panting with fear and, I suppose, the pain from the knife.

  “Antidote?” I ask.

  He directs us to another cupboard; another bottle, more tape. A regular pharmacy. While Hala is finding this one, I lay out the plan for Aleks.

  “You’re going to arrest Gregory Pavlic immediately. As in, this morning,” I tell him. “And you’re not taking over his business. You’re releasing those girls and closing that hospital.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “Nothing worth having is.”

  Hala’s got everything we need, and she jerks her head at me to say we should go. I give Aleks one more look.

  “If you fail, you’ll be extradited for attempted murder but, most likely, we’ll kill you first. Got it?”

  “Yes.” He looks fearfully at the blade in his hand. I pull the knife out and toss it on the counter while he lifts his bleeding palm and pants with pain.

  “We’ll be watching to see what happens,” I tell him as we get to the door.

  “Who are you?”

  Seriously? What does he expect me to do? Whip out a business card? I can’t stand to look at him anymore. I walk out ahead of Hala and listen with satisfaction as she slams the door behind us.

  As soon as we’ve delivered the vials to Peggy’s doctor, Hala and I check in with Amber to make sure she has all she needs to take over surveillance of Aleks. The audio feeds we planted in his home and car, combined with her existing access to his work computer, are all up and live. She’ll be able to make sure he’s following through on the promise we extracted. But now, it’s like Hala and I don’t know what to do with ourselves. There’s an energy you get from this kind of work—from the adrenaline, I suppose—and having subdued Aleks’s guards, turned him to our side, and then driven at high speed to the hospital, it’s hard to just switch it off.

  Hala manages, of course. She retreats back into her own private world as we sit down in the waiting room. Half the time, being with Hala is like being alone. She doesn’t
show much emotion and demands no energy from anyone around her. She’s enclosed and contained, and, most times, I’m grateful for it. Working with her again, to get the poison and antidote from Aleks, felt good—like rebuilding something that had broken between us. While I’m thinking about all this, I’m pacing, which is a habit Kit can’t stand, so she sends me downstairs to fetch some tea for her, and I motion to Hala to come along to keep me company.

  We’re on the ground floor when her phone pings. Pulling it out of a pocket deep inside her leather jacket, she glances at it and then tells me she needs to go to the bathroom.

  “Is it your brother?” I ask. I feel like this whole secret-phone-call thing has dragged on for long enough, always pushed aside for something more urgent.

  “None of your business,” she says. This has to be one of her favorite phrases, but her eyes shift away from mine, and it feels more like an excuse than the usual brush-off.

  I turn and walk off toward the cafeteria, and behind me, Hala goes the opposite way into the restroom. I collect a paper cup and select a bag of green tea for Kit, but then I stop. Maybe it’s the remains of the power rush I felt when dealing with Aleks, but I feel like it’s time to sort this out. I leave the tea on the counter and follow Hala.

  20

  WHEN I WALK INTO THE restroom, I’m really hoping to overhear more of the conversation between Hala and her brother or whomever. But she’s just leaning against the sinks, texting. Everything around us is very white, from the tiles to the doors—well scrubbed and antiseptic. Another woman comes out of a stall and washes her hands. Hala and I stand around, looking at each other, until the woman leaves.

  “Stop hounding me,” Hala says.

  “Feels like it’s Omar who’s hounding you.”

  So maybe that wasn’t the best move. Don’t criticize anyone’s parents, siblings, spouse, or children—even if they do. It’s a good rule of thumb, but I can never seem to remember it in the moment. Hala slams her hand against the mirror, making it rattle.

  “Can’t I have a private life?” she demands.

  “I just want to know what’s going on. I heard you. Twice. Talking about plans. Is your brother pressuring you about something?”

  “How dare you listen to my calls,” she says. “You don’t respect anyone’s privacy.”

  Hala pushes past me to leave. But I stop her, grabbing her arm. She’s surprised that I did that, and so am I. But, really, what’s racing through my mind now is the terrible thought that maybe I missed something when I vetted Hala. The way I did with Aleks. Her brother is still in Syria. For all I know, he became an Islamic militant, or maybe he’s blackmailing her for money, or maybe—

  Hala wrenches free of my grip, and suddenly it becomes a struggle. I feel stupid, fighting with her yet again, but we’re in it now, and both too arrogant to give in to the other.

  But then it’s like a switch flips in my mind, and I realize it doesn’t have to be this way. I drop my arms and stand still, just raising a hand in peace; to calm her. And she steps back, breathing hard, still defensive.

  “What?” she asks.

  “You’re not someone I’m ever supposed to fight with.”

  I turn away and wash my hands. And Hala doesn’t try to leave. There’s a long pause, as if she’s looking for words. Whether to decide what lie to tell me or just to get over the stress of sharing her thoughts with anyone, I’m not sure. Then she speaks, her voice low.

  “I’m trying to get my brother to London. To live with me.”

  “What?”

  “He made it out of Syria and into Pakistan. But UK immigration is a mess. Here.”

  She taps a few buttons on her phone and hands it to me. It’s a series of scanned letters from the UK Home Office, spanning the past few months and, ultimately, declining Omar’s application for asylum.

  If ever I felt like an idiot, this is the moment. All that bravado and pushing her around when all she wants is to see the brother she hasn’t seen in years.

  “Why won’t they let him in?” I ask quietly, stepping back, giving her more space.

  Hala glares at me accusingly.

  “Same reason they block most young men from the Middle East. Because they worry he’s a terrorist. Even you thought it. Just now.”

  She’s right, of course, and I can’t even look at her. And then, to try to make her feel better, I start to deny it. Which is truly lame, I’ll admit.

  Hala just turns and walks out, leaving only the echo of the door slam bouncing around the cold white tiles.

  Leaning over a sink and splashing water on my face gives me something to do while I come to terms with doubting her and, worse, letting her know that I doubted her. Surely there’s something Peggy could do to help Hala’s brother—she knows everyone. But then I remember that Peggy is upstairs in a coma. Li could sponsor Omar maybe, offer him a job . . . but I’m clutching at straws. I look at myself in the mirror.

  “You idiot,” I say. I kick at the base of the sink, but my heart’s not in it. I’m tired of myself, and my big mouth. I’m tired of being wrong about everything. I want to do better, to be the person everyone knows they can trust to do the right thing. And follow orders. Because maybe, just maybe, I don’t know it all.

  I dry my hands and take a breath. A lot of what I’ve done this morning looks courageous from the outside, but to me, going back upstairs to that waiting room and facing Hala again takes the most guts, and it’s a few minutes before I can gather the will to do it.

  We’re still in the gray-walled waiting room. Of course, the substances we brought in from Aleks’s needed to be tested in the lab before anyone could consider giving them to Peggy. Now that she’s been given the antidote, results are still pending. And we are all in agony, nerves stretched tight as wires, waiting.

  For entertainment, there’s a TV running BBC World News and a Serbian women’s magazine with a picture of steaming meat and potatoes on the cover. Caitlin stands a little removed from us, staring out of the inner glass wall at patients being wheeled through the corridor outside. Kit’s leg is jiggling up and down nervously. Hala hasn’t met my glance even once.

  Though I’m trying to stay out of the way—out of Hala’s way particularly—I just can’t sit still that long. Standing and pacing feels better than sprawling in a chair. Kit looks up as I trudge from one side of the room to the other.

  “Please, God, let that antidote work,” she says to no one in particular.

  “You think there’s a God?” Hala suddenly snarls, her eyes on the floor.

  Of all the careers that Hala wouldn’t be suited to, grief counseling has to be in the top three, along with talk show host and cheerleader. I’m about to say something when Caitlin rounds on her.

  “Shut up, Hala,” she says. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Caitlin speak to anyone like that before. But she stares Hala down, her face white and drawn. The stress in the room feels like it’s at a boiling point.

  “Can we all just stop?” Kit says. “I really can’t deal with this right now.”

  That sends me into a tailspin.

  “Of course,” I say. “Let’s make this all about you. Not Peggy, who’s fighting for her life. We’re all close to her, you know, not just you. She’s been there for all of us whenever we needed her.”

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me, but it feels good to let something out, even if it’s blame at the wrong person.

  Kit stares. “Meaning what? That I haven’t?”

  Kit’s voice is raised enough that the room is silenced. That is, Caitlin and Hala look over at her, and I think twice about talking back. Kit stands up, meeting me eye to eye.

  “I’ve had enough,” she says. “Enough of your accusations and your whining. So I wasn’t there when you were growing up. Do you think I don’t regret it every day? I’ve tried to make it up to you, but nothing I do is ever good enough. Well, you know what? You can blame me for the rest of your life, or you can grow the hell up!”

  I’m stunn
ed. That was out of left field, all that stuff about us, when I was talking about Peggy. But I feel the color rush to my face. Because I wasn’t really talking about Peggy. I was using her as an excuse to have a dig at my mother. And I’m mortified that she said all that in front of Hala and Caitlin. And right at this moment, Peggy’s doctor comes to the door. He looks so wrecked that, for a moment, I’m sure that Peggy is dead. My heart stops, and we all stare at him.

  “What happened?” Caitlin breathes.

  The doctor looks down. “She’s taken a turn for the worse. She’s still breathing, but now we’re having to aid her mechanically. I’m sorry.”

  Silence in the room.

  “Has the specialist from London arrived?” Kit asks the doctor at last.

  Li’s sending out her private plane with someone who’s a whiz with this kind of toxic ingestion.

  “As soon as he gets here, I will tell you.”

  As one, we move out of the waiting room and follow him down the corridors that lead to Peggy’s room. In the tension over Peggy, our blowup is forgotten. I look in through the window, past the smeared marks where we—and perhaps other families before us—have pressed their palms desperately against the glass. Peggy lies there, her mouth hanging slightly open, her skin dry and papery. Her hair, which is never out of place, is splayed against the pillow. She doesn’t look alive, even though the monitor beeping next to her tells us that she still is.

  We go in and gather around Peggy’s bed. We all just stand there, in shock, unable to look at each other. To my right, I feel Kit take some deep breaths and wipe her eyes.

  “I need to tell you all something,” she says. “Li and I are talking about closing down Athena.”

  “What?”

  I pull my gaze away from Peggy and toward Kit.

  “This was never how it was supposed to be.” She gestures to Peggy.

  “Peggy would want us to see this through,” I say. “Athena is her legacy!” I look to Caitlin for support, but she seems overwhelmed.