Need to Know (24 page)

We get the kids fed and bathed and into bed, and then we fall back into our normal routine—Matt cleans up the kitchen, I pick up the toys in the family room—except none of this is normal, because we've just been through hell, and there's a threat to the kids, and Matt won't even look at me.

I watch him, see the top of his head, the little spot on the top where the hair's starting to thin, just the smallest bit. He's scrubbing something in the sink. I sit back on my heels. “We need to talk.”

He doesn't turn. Keeps scrubbing.

“Matt.”

“What?” His head jerks up and he gives me a look, one that's sharp and pained at the same time. Then he looks back down.

“We need to talk about Luke,” I insist, and I hear the desperation in my voice. I need to talk to him. I need a partner in this.

His hands go still, but he doesn't look up. I can see the rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath. I focus on that spot where his hair's thinning, so different now than it was a decade ago, when we first met. So much is different now.

“Fine.” He turns the water off. The rush stops, and there's only a slow drip, the last droplets finding their way into the sink.

I exhale, grateful for this opening, then force my mind to focus. “Did Luke say anything else about the man who talked to him at school?”

He swings the dish towel over his shoulder, walks into the family room. He perches on the armrest of the couch, his body tense. “I pressed him on it. Had him tell me everything he could possibly remember. It was a Russian accent, for sure. I pulled up some audio clips on my phone, different accents. There was no question in his mind.” There's a coldness to the way he's speaking. I try to ignore it, try to focus.

“Okay.” Russian accent. Another Russian agent. There's a thought pricking at the edges of my mind.
The ringleader.
Could it be? Could Yury have reached out to his handler? Asked for help?

“And appearance: He said dark brown hair, brown eyes. Average height and weight…”

It makes sense, though. Almost more sense than anything else. Yury's not supposed to have contact with any other Russian agents; no one except the ringleader.

“…wearing jeans last time, black pants this time. Button-down shirts both times. A necklace…”

A necklace.
He continues to talk, but the words are a blur. My mind's churning again. “A necklace?”

He pauses midsentence, whatever the sentence was. “Yeah. A gold chain.”

Without thinking, my hand lands on the front pocket of my pants, feels the hardness of the pendant inside. And then just as quickly, I pull it back to my lap, clasp it with the other. My eyes find Matt's—do I look as guilty as I feel?—and I see confusion in them. Hurt. Like he knows I'm not telling him something, that I don't trust him enough to do so.

He stands and turns away from me. “Wait,” I say. He stops, and for several long moments I don't know what he's going to do. Then he turns back around.

“I lied to you, Viv. And I am truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.” His chin quivers, just the smallest bit. “But I have let you hate me for weeks. I can't do it forever.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” It feels like a goodbye, and how can it be, when we need to get rid of this danger, protect Luke from this threat?

“I thought we were strong enough to get through this. But I'm not sure anymore.” He shakes his head. “I'm not sure you'll ever trust me.”

Confusion swirls inside me.
Should
I trust him? He lied to me, for years. But I understand why he did it. He was trapped. And ever since I discovered the truth, he's been nothing but honest.

I picture him walking down the stairs in Yury's apartment, fresh from the shower. But he was there because he couldn't leave. Because Luke was in danger. The only reason he was even there in the first place was to protect Luke.

He didn't leave us, like I'd feared. He'd gone to keep our kids safe.

And he didn't tell the Russians about Marta and Trey, either. Peter admitted to that.

“I murdered him, Viv. I murdered him and you
still
don't trust me.”

I remember the horror on his face when he realized he'd killed Yury. And not because it was
Yury,
but because he'd killed a man.

He did something he'll regret for the rest of his life. And he did it for me.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper. I reach an arm out toward him, and he just looks at it. The gulf between us has never been this wide.

The way he's looking at me, the hurt that's there, is so intense it frightens me.

I think I trust him. The reasons
not
to trust him seem to be evaporating. And I need him on my side right now. It's what's best for Luke. For all of us.

My fingers find their way into my pocket, grasp the pendant. I pull it out and extend it toward him, almost like an offering, a way to prove my trust. “I took this off Yury, right before Peter arrived.”

He says nothing, and his expression stays wary.

I turn the pendant over, find the four tiny screws on the back. “Could you get a screwdriver?”

He hesitates, then nods. Leaves the room, comes back moments later with a toolbox. I pull out the smallest screwdriver. It fits. I loosen all four screws, remove them, then use my fingernail to pry open the edges of the pendant. It comes apart in my hands. Wedged in one side is a mini flash drive. I give it a shake, and it falls out, into my hand. I hold it up to the light, then look at Matt. “I think the names are on here.”

“The names?”

“Yury's five sleepers.”

He gives me a blank look. And then it clicks: He doesn't know what I know. I hesitate, but only for a second.

“Each handler has the names of his five sleepers in his possession. If something happens to him, the replacement's supposed to find the names, contact Moscow for a decryption code, take over. It's how they protect the sleepers' identities.”

His brow furrows. “Why don't they just ask Moscow for the names?”

“The names are not in Moscow. They're only stored locally.”

He's quiet, and I can almost see the wheels turning. “They're not in Moscow?”

I shake my head. I can see the truth is dawning on him.

“So when we were told the new handler would get in touch with us…”

“That's only if they find the names,” I say.

“And that's why we have those plans for recontact, if a year passes.”

I nod. “Because if the replacement can't get the names, it's the only way they have of getting back in touch with you.”

“I had no idea,” he murmurs. He takes the flash drive from me gingerly. Holds it between thumb and forefinger, studies it, like it somehow holds all the answers. Then he looks up at me. I know we're thinking the same thing. If these are the names, Matt could stay out of jail.

Yury's dead. The blackmail's gone. The five names are gone. Whoever Moscow sends as Yury's replacement won't be able to get his hands on the names. He'll have to wait for the sleepers to make contact. And if Matt doesn't, then he'll be free, once and for all.

It would be enough to keep us both safe, to keep anyone from finding out who he is and what I did. It would be a sweet victory if not for the cloud hanging over us. It doesn't matter in the least if Matt's safe, or I'm safe. Someone's planning to hurt our son. Our children. And I have no idea who.

Then a thought hits me with such tremendous force I'm breathless.
But Luke might
.

THE LOBBY'S EMPTY WHEN
I arrive, except for a lone security officer near the turnstiles, one who looks vaguely familiar. My footsteps echo in the cavernous space as I approach. I nod at her as I badge in, pass through the turnstiles. She nods back, expressionless, watching me.

I walk through silent halls to the door of my vault. Touch my badge to the reader, enter my PIN. There's a beep, then a click as the lock disengages. I push open the heavy door. It's dark inside, and silent. I turn on the lights, flooding the space with harsh fluorescent lighting, and walk to my cubicle.

I unlock my desk drawer and pull out the file, set it on the desk, near the corkboard pinned with pictures of my family, drawings by the kids. It's thicker even than I remember, full of research into possible candidates for the ringleader.
Pictures
of possible candidates.

I sit down, pull the file in front of me. Start sorting quickly, separating out the pictures and bio data from the other research, winnowing the pile by almost half. Luke might recognize someone. If we can identify him, we can protect the kids. It's no longer a nameless, faceless threat. It's a person, one we can go after and destroy.

But the pile—it's still too big. How can I hide all this? My bag is too dangerous. All I need is for the security officer to stop me, rummage through it. I haven't come this far to get caught smuggling out classified material. My gaze drifts from the file to the picture of Yury, pinned to my cubicle wall, and my mind drifts, too. The necklace. On his body, at all times, just like Dmitri the Dangle said.
On his body
.

I stand, grab the pile of papers, head for the table in the back of the vault that houses the printers, the copier. There's a thick roll of tape there. A large envelope. I grab both. I slide the papers into the envelope. Pull up my sweatshirt, stick it flat against the small of my back, start wrapping tape around myself.

If anyone catches me like this, it's game over. All of this will be for nothing. But it's also the only way I can think of to try to figure out who the threat is. The Bureau would never show Luke a bunch of classified photos. So it's worth the risk, isn't it? Of course it is. And besides, they're not looking for people smuggling out paper. They're looking for electronic media. The odds of them finding this on me are slim, aren't they?

I pull the sweatshirt back down. This might work. It actually might. I walk back to my desk to get my bag, sling it over my shoulder. I'm ready to leave when the drawings catch my eye. The one Luke made, me in the cape, an
S
on my chest. Slowly, I sink down in my chair and stare at it. Supermommy. That's how Luke sees me, isn't it? For all my faults as a mother, he still sees me as a superhero. Someone who can solve any problem, take care of him.

I think about the man who visited him at school. Who threatened him. How frightened must my little boy be? How much must he be craving a superhero right now, someone who can protect him, fight off the evil, fight the bad guys. “I'm trying, buddy,” I whisper.

And then my gaze shifts to Ella's drawing, the one of our family. Six happy faces. That's the whole reason I'm in this mess, isn't it? Trying to keep those faces happy, all six of us. Is there still a way to have that? Gears are turning in my head, shifting, trying to sort through how this all might play out, how I can possibly keep my kids safe and keep my family together, at the same time.

And then I have an idea.

I bend down to the drawers below my desk, the heavy metal ones bolted to the floor. I spin the dial, first one way, then the other. Find the numbers. Unlock it, pull out a drawer. Flip through the hanging files until I find the one I'm looking for. Inside, a report, red cover sheet, long classification string at the top. And another, farther back, just like it.

I open them up, first one, then the other. I scan until I find what I'm looking for. A long string of numbers and letters, and then another. I copy them down on a Post-it, fold it, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I head for the exit.

IT'S THE SAME SECURITY OFFICER
on the way out. She's at the desk near the turnstiles, a small television on in front of her, one of the twenty-four-hour news channels. She looks up as I approach.

“Leaving already?” Her face is serious.

“Yes, ma'am.” I flash her a smile. I try to place her. I used to see her here in the mornings, I think.

“Just a quick visit in the middle of the night?”

“I couldn't sleep.”

“Some people turn on the television.”

My heart's pounding now. “I know. Nerdy analyst here.” I raise my palms in mock surrender.

She doesn't laugh, doesn't smile. “I'm going to need to take a look in your bag.”

“Of course.”

She walks over, and I'm sure she'll be able to hear my heart thumping, see my hands shaking. I fight to keep my face impassive and hold the bag out for her, open. She peers in, then sticks her hand in, moves a few things out of the way to get a better look. I catch sight of a pacifier, a baby food pouch.

Then she pulls a wand from her belt, starts wanding my bag. “You work nights now?” I say, trying to pull her attention off the search, onto me. Trying to make myself appear less suspicious.