Spy Mom (25 page)

“Who's that?” he asks, spitting out a soggy sweatshirt tie.

“Grover.”

“No it's not.”

“Yes it is. I swear that is Grover.”

“No it is not,” he insists.

“Fine, it's not Grover,” I say. I'm not really paying attention, thinking more about how I'm going to get into Malcolm's lab than which furry blue monster is doing what on the television.

“Yes it is Grover. He's the blue one,” Theo says, exasperated.

“That's what I told you.”

“No you didn't. I know everything.”

How do I argue with that? I go back to thinking about getting caught breaking and entering. I'm not sure exactly how I would explain this particular set of circumstances to my friends and relations. Will would be especially ticked off if he had to fly home to bail me out of jail. And getting rescued by Simon Still is plain out of the question. I'm slowly coming to the conclusion that this whole thing is stupid, that maybe I should sit back and follow Simon's dim-witted plan about drawing Blackford out.

There is a little secret among the covert agencies of the United States and that little secret is that we rarely know what we are doing. Half of our success can be attributed to good luck and the other half to timing. Our plans and strategies are far less elaborate than the ones that spies come up with in the movies. We are usually making it up as we go along. Anyone who tells you differently is lying.

Theo is fast asleep when Pauline shows up, dressed exactly as she was earlier.

“How do you keep your shirts looking so pressed?” I ask.

“I changed into a new one,” she answers. Of course she did.

“Theo is asleep. Will is in D.C. I should be back in a few hours.”

“Where are you going?” she blurts out. I am wearing black pants, a black T-shirt, and a black jacket. For a second, I consider telling her.

“Bar hopping,” I say finally and head out the door.

This time, when I sneak back around and into the kitchen, Pauline is standing there, wielding the cast-iron frying pan.

“Nice,” I say. “You're getting it.”

“Are you going to do this every time you leave?”

“I haven't decided yet. But your reaction time is improving. You should be proud.”

She gives me a look that can only be described as hostile.

“Okay. I'll see you in a couple of hours.”

She doesn't move or put down the frying pan or say anything. She just waits for me to leave.

I sit in the university parking lot with my lights off, trying to remember how to do this. I feel ridiculous, like an imposter, a fraud. I don't remember ever feeling this way before.

“You used to be good at this,” I remind myself. The car remains silent. “Well, sitting here hyperventilating is not going to get you into Malcolm's lab anytime soon.” I kick open the door and step into the crisp night air. There is no fog tonight. I almost wish there were so I could hide in its mist and disappear. I walk toward the lab deliberately, like I have a reason to be here. Simon falls into step beside me.

“Out for a stroll, Sal?”

“Are you stalking me?”

“Yes. I'm stalking you and your nanny. Have to cover all the bases,” he says. “Actually, Pauline is under orders to report her activities directly to me, and I made the logical leap that in the middle of the night this might be your destination.”

“You're a genius. What is her real name?”

“You know I can't tell you that.”

“Yes, you can. But you won't.”

“Same thing.”

“Not at all.”

“What are you planning on doing here, Sally?”

“Your work for you, it looks like.”

“Resources are limited these days, Sal. I can't throw everything I've got at this.”

“Is that why I'm involved? I'm the cheapest solution to the problem?”

Simon doesn't answer. He pops a piece of Nicorette gum into his mouth and starts chomping.

“You sound like a cow,” I say.

“Your support for me while I attempt to improve my health is overwhelming,” he says. “I'm touched.”

“You know, Simon, my resources are somewhat restricted too, but even if they weren't, I'd still find it strange that Blackford comes back to life and suddenly strikes up a relationship with a guy you've never heard of who is concocting who knows what in his hermetically sealed laboratory.”

Simon glares at me. “You need to save me from myself, Sal,” he says, mocking, “like before.”

“Oh, forget it.”

We walk on in silence. After a few minutes, he asks me if I remember anything about breaking and entering.

“Not much. You?”

Simon shakes his head. “I've not been out in the field lately, at least not doing anything interesting.” We stand in front of the lab building.

“Of course,” I say, pulling the security cards out of my pocket, “these might help.”

Simon grins. “You know stealing is illegal.”

“I've always been better at theft than straight out breaking and entering. It's good to know your strengths. I think you told me that.”

The lab is quiet, but all the lights are still on. It smells faintly like Theo's pediatrician's office, clean and sterile. I try to put Theo out of my head. I have to remember how to concentrate. We head to the second floor, third anonymous door to the left. The security card gives us the green light, and we swing open the massive door.

“I hope he cleaned up whatever nastiness he's been cooking in here,” Simon says with a shudder. “I'd hate to have my eyeballs melt out of my head.”

“You really have lost your edge,” I say, looking around the lab. It gleams white and silver, everything tightly organized. “You think maybe the good professor is available for housecleaning?”

Automatically, Simon heads right and I head left. We will cover every inch of this lab as fast as possible, meeting in the center on the other side.

In the second drawer of a huge filing cabinet, I find lab notebooks, completely full of notations in pencil. I pull out the most recent, flip to the last page with writing, and start trying to translate, which is almost impossible, Chemistry 101 being the pinnacle of my training. At this rate, I will be here all night. I take a tiny camera out of my pocket and snap pictures of the last twenty pages or so of the notebook.

“You kept that camera?” Simon asks.

“Of course,” I say, “it never failed me.”

“Old technology, Sal. You should see the stuff we have now.”

“So show me,” I challenge.

“Well, I didn't bring any of it with me,” Simon says.

“Then don't gloat about your cool spy gear.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” We both go back to our respective sides of the lab. In the drawers and cabinets, I find an assortment of microscopes, lenses, petri dishes, labels, droppers, syringes, chewed-up pencil nubs, a pack of gum, a pack of cigarettes, and several Chinese take-out containers. A single pizza box is stuffed in the garbage.

“There is nothing here, Sal,” Simon says after an hour of searching. “I told you there was nothing here.”

“Simon, something is here. We just can't see it.” I touch the camera in my pocket. There is definitely something here. There has to be. A final sweep of the room assures us that nothing is out of order, and we head out of the lab, running smack into a security guard on regular patrol.

“Good evening, officer,” Simon says. “Nice night out?”

“Yes,” the man says. “Enjoy it, Professor.”

“I certainly will.” Simon takes my arm and we walk confidently down the hall. I've seen him do this before, take a situation that looks wrong all over and make it seem completely normal. The security guard did not even think to question what this strange man was doing in this restricted-access building in the middle of the night. If Simon had remained silent, it would have registered for the guard that something was off. But Simon acts like he belongs and almost commands others to believe the same. I was never as good a liar as Simon Still.

Back in the parking lot, Simon pulls out another piece of Nicorette.

“That's almost as bad as smoking,” I say.

“I might keep doing it just to annoy you,” he says. “Now that you're done with your little exploration, can we get back to the original plan? You hang around and draw out Blackford, and we drop the net.”

I give up. “Sure. Tomorrow we will do it your way and see what happens.”

“Thank you for humoring me.”

“What makes you think he's not hiding in the bushes right now, watching our every move?”

“Nothing. It might, in fact, be true. That's why I thought I should accompany you on your obviously pointless fishing expedition.”

“Well, thanks for chaperoning but I have to go home now.” I get in my car and without saying good-bye head back toward the bridge.

When I get home, Nanny Pauline is asleep on the couch, sitting up straight. I don't know how people can sleep that way. I give her shoulder a little shake, and her eyes fly open.

“It's okay,” I say quietly. “I'm back.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about Simon,” she says, rubbing her eyes like Theo after a nap.

“You work for him,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “What are you supposed to do?”

Pauline casts her eyes toward her shoes. She has too much morality. She will die one day because she pauses too long to consider the consequences of her actions.

“You can sleep in the spare room, if you want,” I offer. “It's late.” Pauline looks at her wrinkled shirt.

“No, I'd better go. I'll see you tomorrow.” As I let her out, I see a light go off in my neighbor Tom's living room. He's been watching the comings and goings at my house, but I'm pretty sure he won't say anything. It's a hard thing to admit you've been spying.

The next day, I go about the difficult business of being a stay-at-home mom, with no job and a nanny. I make an appointment to get a haircut, a facial, lunch with Avery. My first stop is the nail salon. When I show the lady my nails, she frowns.

“You bite,” she says harshly. “No biting.” I look at my ragged cuticles and cannot think of a witty retort. I started chewing on my cuticles the first day I went into the field for the USAWMD and I have never stopped. I take immense satisfaction in gnawing them down to a bloody pulp. And I'm the first to admit it is a horrifying sight.

I smile apologetically and don't bother with any excuses. “You need come here more,” she continues in disgust. “Nails very bad.”

How do women do this? How do they go out and get insulted in the pursuit of beauty and perfection day in and day out? I want to draw my hands back from this woman and hide them in my pockets. As she gets busy, she starts in on me in Vietnamese. Why can't a woman like me take care of myself? What am I doing all day? Her coworker nods her head and comes back with a question about how come we always dress like slobs. Jeans, tennis shoes, never heels, never anything nice. So much money and so little taste, she says.

“Why wear nice clothes,” I ask in rusty Vietnamese, “if some kid is inevitably going to wipe his greasy hands on your cashmere?” My manicurist's face turns red.

“This only happens on TV, right?” I continue. “Where the client actually knows what you are saying about her in a language most Americans have no hope of understanding. I'm right, aren't I?”

One of the women starts laughing. “Where did you learn Vietnamese?” she asks.

“In Vietnam, of course.”

“You speak very well. You are the first white person to come in here and speak it. I've been here for ten years.”

My manicurist apologizes for insulting me. I dismiss it. “You're probably right,” I say. “I wear the same thing every day. Except when I'm breaking and entering. For that, I wear black.” They both laugh, although it is clear they have no idea what I'm talking about. The Vietnamese feels funny on my tongue and in my mouth. It has been a very long time. By the time I'm ready to leave, my nails look better than they ever have and my toes are positively gorgeous, which is some sort of miracle. I am advised to come back again soon and visit with my new Vietnamese friends. I promise I will, thinking it will probably take Theo's graduation from high school or some event like that to get me to go back. I have an hour to kill before I meet Avery for lunch, so I sit outside a coffee shop with a double espresso loaded with sugar. I close my eyes and think of Rome.

I was there because a United Nations official was using the World Food Program to transport weapons to rebels in Africa. It was a brilliant strategy. Bury the guns under the rice and no one was the wiser. However, he was making certain people very angry and we were asked to stop him. And I did, borrowing a page from Blackford's playbook. I lured the gentleman in question back to my very lovely hotel room and handcuffed him to a chair. When I told him the handcuffs were actually meant to restrain him until EU officials arrived rather than for deviant sexual acts, he was very disappointed and called me all sorts of names. After he left with his escorts, I filled the giant bathtub and submerged myself up to my chin. I thought it might help me relax, which was, of course, a ridiculous idea. I never relaxed. I was not even sure how it was done. I closed my eyes and tried to quiet the ringing in my ears.

Ian Blackford chose that moment to appear in my bathroom doorway. He was dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater, and he eyed me like prey.

“What are you doing here?” I screamed, practically levitating out of the tub. I grabbed one of the huge fluffy towels from the rack and covered myself as best I could while still in the water. “Get out,” I demanded. “Now!”

“You have fantastic breasts,” he said.

“That is so cliché,” I sputtered, furious. “It's like James Bond and those fucking martinis.”