Need to Know (26 page)

He's still staring at the necklace. There's a strange feeling creeping over me, that glimmer of hope intensifying. Maybe this'll work. Maybe it'll be enough.

Finally he places his own index finger on the necklace, but instead of pulling it toward himself, he pushes it back to me. “You'll be needing witness protection, then,” he says.

A tingling sensation runs through my body like electricity. Did this actually succeed? I look down at the necklace, back in front of me now. He doesn't want it. He's not going to take it, to see the fifth name. Matt's name.

I'm trying to wrap my mind around the words, trying to understand if this is really happening. I look at Matt and see his confusion. We didn't talk about this; it seemed so unlikely, and if there really was a chance of it working, I didn't want to jinx it.

“Witness protection?” I say, because I don't know what else to say.

It takes Omar a minute to respond. “You just gave me enough information to disrupt the entire cell. Certainly the Russians wouldn't take kindly to that. And if they're
already
threatening Luke…”

I look down at the flash drive. I shouldn't get my hopes up. Not yet. Maybe he didn't understand. That Matt's the fifth sleeper, that I knew about it. That we both belong in jail.

“I've done some things wrong. I'll tell you everything—”

“Everything we've been investigating,” Omar says, holding up a hand as if to stop me, “everything we attributed to a mole, or to a Russian agent with access to CIC, Peter confessed to.” He drops his hand, looks from me to Matt, then back again. “I'm confident that the fifth sleeper hasn't done a thing to harm national security.”

Oh my God. This is really happening. Omar's going to let us go. It's what I hoped. It's what I thought might possibly keep us out of jail, keep our family together. Give them enough. Information for freedom.

It only works, though, if he can keep the kids safe. “The kids—”

“Will be protected.”

“That's the only thing we care about.”

“I know.”

I'm quiet for a moment, still trying to process everything. “How will it work?” I finally ask.

“I'm going to walk myself right into the director's office with information that'll disrupt the entire cell. He'll give me what I want.”

“But—”

“I'll say Matt admitted to being a sleeper. That he gave me the ringleader's name, gave me his encryption code, let me know about the necklaces. And that, in exchange, we're going to protect him and his family.”

“But what if someone finds out—”

“We'll keep it in compartmented channels. Highest classification.”

“Can you—” I begin, and again he cuts me off.

“It's Russia. Everything's compartmented.” I hear the words I myself have spoken so many times, the ones I know are true. The ones that mean maybe, just maybe, this could work.

“Will the director agree?” I ask, my voice almost a whisper. Even if Omar wants to do this for us, there's no guarantee he can, right?

He nods. “I know how the Bureau works. I'm confident.”

Hope is radiating through me. Hope that maybe we'll be safe, and together, after all. I look at Matt and see the same emotions mirrored on his face.

“What now?” I finally ask.

Omar smiles at me. “Pack your bags.”

I sit in the sand on the little crescent beach and watch the kids. Chase is running along the edge of the surf, sturdy little toddler legs churning across hard-packed sand, a seagull skipping along in front of him. Caleb stands behind him, blond curls glistening in the sun. Watching, squealing in delight as the gull takes to the sky. Ella's farther up the beach, packing sand into bright turret-shaped buckets, concentration on her face, an elaborate sandcastle in front of her. And out in the ocean is Luke, belly-down on a boogie board, waiting for the next wave. Water glistens off his back and the legs that seem to lengthen by the day, tan from the sun and the hours spent out here in the surf.

A warm breeze blows by, swaying the fronds of the palms that dot our little beach. I close my eyes and just listen for a moment. The soft crash of waves, the rustle of the palms, the sounds of my kids, content and happy. The most beautiful, mesmerizing symphony that could possibly exist.

Matt comes up behind me and sits down in the sand next to me, close, his leg touching mine. I look at them, our two legs, both tanner than they've ever been, almost brown against the fine white sand. He smiles at me, and I at him, and then I turn back to watch the kids, content to sit in companionable silence. Luke catches a big wave, rides it in, all the way onto the sand. Caleb takes a tottering step, then another, then sinks down to the sand and scoops up a large shell, examines it.

Twenty-four hours after we sat at our kitchen table with Omar, we were on a private plane, heading for the South Pacific. At first, when Omar said to pack our bags, the thought was terrifying, packing up our lives into suitcases, knowing that anything we left behind, we might never see again. And so I focused on the things most important to me, the things that were irreplaceable: photos, baby books, that kind of thing. As it turns out, that's all I really needed. All the other
stuff
in our house—the closets full of clothes and shoes, the electronics, the furniture—well, I still don't miss it. We started over here, simply. Bought the essentials. We have one another, and our memories, and that's all we really need.

My parents came with us. Omar offered it up as an option, and I went to them with it, even though I didn't think they'd do it, didn't think they'd want to be ripped away from all they knew. But once they heard they wouldn't be able to communicate with us for a year, maybe more, there was no hesitation.
Of course we'll come,
my mom said.
You're our child. You're everything to us.
And that was it, decision made. One that I understood completely.

And things between Matt and me are solid again.
I forgive you,
he said, the first night in the new house, as we lay in an unfamiliar bed. If he could forgive me for doubting him, for making him feel like he had to kill to earn my trust, surely I could leave the past in the past. I curled up into his arms, the place I knew I belonged.
I forgive you, too.

I hear a helicopter in the distance, the faint whir of the propellers. I watch as it comes into view, growing more distinct as it approaches, louder, the gentle whir becoming a rhythmic
thump-thump-thump
. The kids have all stopped what they're doing to watch. It passes right over us, so loud that Ella and Luke cover their ears; Chase and Caleb just stare in wonderment.

Helicopters aren't something we see here. They settled us on a remote part of the island, two houses set on bluffs overlooking the ocean, bookending a little crescent stretch of beach below. I never knew how Omar managed to do it—the houses, the living expenses, all of it. He told me not to worry, that after all we'd done for our country we deserved it. And I didn't press it. It was the first time in as long as I could remember that I didn't have to worry about money.

I look up at my parents' house now and see my mom step outside. She slides the glass door closed behind her and starts walking down to the beach, the breeze billowing her long skirt around her legs. I turn around and see the helicopter hovering above the bluffs behind us, coming down slowly, perpendicular to the ground, for a landing.

Matt and I exchange a look. Wordlessly we both stand, brush the sand off. We wait for my mom to reach us. “Go ahead,” she says. “I'll keep an eye on the kids.”

The sound from the propellers quiets as we trudge up the hill to our house, over white sand dunes that slide away with each step until we reach the wooden stairs, dusted with more sand. We walk up until we reach the top, the patchy grass that passes as a lawn, the square two-story house with the sharply slanted roof, terraces all around. I see Omar approaching the house from the direction of the helicopter, wearing khaki cargo pants, a flowered Hawaiian shirt. He breaks into a smile when he sees us.

We reach the front of the house at the same time. I embrace him, hugging hard, and Matt shakes his hand. There's something oddly thrilling about seeing him here; he's the first person from back home we've seen in a year. He warned us, told us we'd be on our own for a year, possibly longer, but still we were unprepared for the strange sensation of being completely cut off from everything—the people we knew, the routines, even things like email and social media. He'd given us a cellphone, but with strict instructions to power it on and use it only in case of emergency. Short of that, we were just to wait. Wait for him to make contact. And now, here he is, a year to the day later.

“Come on in,” I say to him, opening the front door and leading the way. The house is airy and full of light, all white and blues. And it feels more like home than our home ever did. Seashells adorn the place, ones we've gathered from walks on our beach. And photographs. So many photographs. Black-and-white shots of the kids, of the palm trees, of anything that catches my eye. It's nice to have time for hobbies again. Most of all, though, it's nice to have time for my kids.

I lead him into the family room and sit down on the couch, a well-worn blue sectional, the one we all crowd onto for movies and game nights. He sits on the opposite side. Matt comes in a moment later, a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses in his hands, and sets them on the coffee table. He gives me a smile. “I'll give you two some privacy,” he says. I don't stop him, and neither does Omar.

When he's out of the room and we hear a door close upstairs, Omar leans forward. “So how's life here?”

“Wonderful,” I say. And I mean it wholeheartedly. I'm happier than I've ever been. I don't feel trapped anymore, stuck in a life that's just happening to me. I feel in control of my life. And my conscience is at peace. I'm going to finally have the life I want.

I pick up the pitcher and pour lemonade into each glass, ice cubes clinking against the sides.

“School? I know you were worried about that.”

I hand him a glass. “We've been homeschooling. It's not a long-term solution, but it's been working. The kids are actually learning a ton.”

“And Caleb?”

“Doing so well. Walking, even saying a few words. And he's healthy. You were right, the cardiologist on the mainland is fantastic.”

“I'm glad. You have no idea how often I think of you guys. How much I've wanted to check in.”

“Me too,” I say. “There's so much I want to know.” I pause. “How have you been?”

“Great, actually.” He takes a sip from his glass. “I'm the new deputy director, you know.” He's trying—and failing—to contain a grin.

“That's amazing.”

The grin breaks free.

“And you deserve it. Totally.”

“Well, this case did a lot for me. Not gonna lie.”

I wait for him to say more, but he's quiet, the smile slipping away. My mind drifts to Peter and I wonder if his has, too. Finally I speak. “Can you tell me anything about the cell?” It's a question that's been at the forefront of my mind for a year now. I'm desperate to hear what he has to say.

He nods. “You were right about Vashchenko. He was the ringleader. We tracked him down pretty quickly. Found the flash drive embedded in the pendant, just like you said. And decrypted it with the keys you gave us.”

I clasp my hands tightly in my lap and wait for him to go on.

“From there, we arrested the other four handlers. Three days later we had a major operation, arrested all twenty-four members of the cell.”

“We heard about it,” I say. It was a major news story, even here, although everything I read about the operation said twenty-five operatives. Alexander Lenkov was identified as one of those arrested, though details about him were scarce, and the only photograph released was pixelated enough to be indistinct. Luckily I don't think anyone would have recognized him as my husband. “What's going to happen to them all?”

He shrugs. “Jail, prisoner swap, who knows.” He eyes me for a moment. “I'm sure you read that most of them are claiming they were framed? That they're actually political dissidents, enemies of the state, that kind of thing?”

I nod and smile. “At least they're consistent, I guess.”

He grins, then turns serious again. “The Bureau finally approved the ‘Come in from the Cold' op. We got two recruits that way, so far. We're working on using them to disrupt another cell. And we're using your algorithm to try to find other handlers. There's a huge amount of resources devoted to it, FBI and CIA.”

I'm quiet for a moment, letting everything sink in. They disrupted an entire cell, and they're making progress on finding others. I shake my head in wonderment, and then I ask the other question that's on my mind, the one that's more pressing, that frightens me far more. “And Matt? Do they suspect him?”

He shakes his head. “No indication the Russians know he's still out there, or that he had any involvement.”

My eyes flutter closed. A weight lifts itself off my shoulders, freeing me. It's what I'd hoped; the news stories seemed to credit the disruption to Peter, described as a longtime CIA analyst preyed on because of his wife's illness, then blackmailed. And to a Bureau agent identified simply as “O.”

“And as for you,” he goes on, “you're listed as taking a temporary leave of absence. It's pretty well known in CIC and the Bureau that it has something to do with this case, and there's a rumor going around that the Russians blackmailed you and you resisted. But no one at the working level knows the details.”

“Who knows the truth?”

“Me. The directors of the FBI and CIA. That's it.”

I can feel my tension draining away. This conversation couldn't be going any better if I'd written it myself. But at the same time, what does that mean for us, here? I feel a surge of sadness, like everything around me is tenuous, might be pulled away in a heartbeat. I'm almost afraid to ask the next question. “So what now?”

“Well, from everything we've seen, it's safe to return. We can get you back into your house, your job….”

My mind drifts, even though I don't want it to. The kids, at day care all day. Seeing them just for brief snippets in the morning, and again at night—if I'm lucky. I try to push away the thought.

“We'll iron out all the details in the coming weeks. We'll get Matt some new documents—birth certificate, passport, et cetera. Something that'll hold up to any scrutiny.” He pauses, looks at me expectantly, so I offer him a weak smile.

“We'll make the transition back as smooth as possible, Vivian. Nothing to worry about
.
And we'll do some amazing work together, you and I. More disruptions…”

He trails off, looks at me with a strange expression on his face. “That's what you want, right?”

I don't answer immediately. It's odd, being in this moment. Because for the first time, it's actually my choice. I'm not trapped in a job that I'm no longer sure I want. No one's manipulating me, pressuring me to do anything. I can do whatever I want. I can choose.

“Vivian?” he presses. “Are you going back?

I blink at him, and then I answer.

MATT AND I HAD CELEBRATED
our ten-year anniversary at the beach, just as we'd hoped. We sat in the sand on the crescent beach and watched the kids play, toasted with plastic cups of cheap sparkling wine as the sun slipped closer to the horizon, bathing our world in reds and pinks.

“We're here, after all,” he said.

“Together. All of us.”

I listened to the crash of the waves, the squeals and giggles of the kids, and I remembered the last time we'd talked about it, the plans for our anniversary, a trip to an exotic beach. It was the morning I found Matt's picture, just before everything fell apart. I was transported back to my cubicle, the high gray walls, the ever-present feeling of floundering, of failing, of being torn between two things that were so important to me, each of which demanded more time than I could give. My throat tightened, just thinking about it.