The Revisionists (14 page)

“And that’s too much for you.”

“Maybe it is.”

“And maybe that’s why corrupt regimes like yours live on.”

“Have you read their newspapers since you got here? Seen the TV news? Maybe you should leave this city, go to Iraq or Afghanistan, or Sudan or Kashmir. Maybe you need a better understanding of the world you’re trying to save.”

“You like to condemn. You see faults and decide that it can’t be saved. Everything should just be wiped out.”

“This
will be
wiped out.”

“I don’t think so.” He shakes his head. “We know what we’re doing this time. We’ve learned from our mistakes. There’s a moral there, if you care to look for it.”

I wish he would just shut up so I can get this over with. “Open the door and get out of the car,” I tell him. “Keep your hands up.”

He waits for a second, and when he finally opens his door I do the same, mirroring him. I don’t do this well enough, because suddenly his hand is emerging from his pocket and there’s a gun in it.

I fire first and his body spins.

He lands on his back, his gun hitting the pavement. I scramble around the car and kick his gun away. His eyes are wide, and sweat streaks down his face, his hair a wet mop. There’s a hole just off the center of his chest.

“Where are your friends?” I kneel by his side and look through his pockets but find nothing useful. “Tell me so I can get this assignment over with and go home.”

“Go to hell,” he chokes.

“I’m already there, thanks.” Then I snap. It’s the weight of another murder, and all the murders to come. “Why do you people keep doing this? When will you all give up?”

I hear sirens. This area isn’t as abandoned as I’d hoped—one of the last residents in the crumbling neighborhood must have called the authorities.

“Thanks for the memories.” I plant a Flasher on his chest and back up three steps. He clutches at it, tries to tear it off, but they’re not removable once set. I turn around and there’s a burst of light for a second, my shadow stretching halfway down the alley and along the wall of the dumpster, and then it’s gone again. I turn back; beside the car a wide, black circle has been burned into the broken asphalt, revealing an underlayer of century-old bricks. (I’ve certainly left a trace, but one that fits in with this rundown neighborhood.) The hag, his gun, and his blood are gone.

I walk to the edge of the alley, then down a short block until I emerge on a main road. Remembering my Customs lessons, I raise my hand for a taxi. The sirens are getting louder. A few empty taxis pass without stopping, and I wonder if I have this wrong. Finally one stops.

The driver is very dark-skinned and asks me a question with so strong an accent I barely understand him. I tell him to take me back to the Starbucks, where I’ve left my car.

He mutters something and shakes his head and I realize he’s listening to a voice on the radio that’s speaking in British-accented English with a calmness that belies the subject matter. “More than three hundred Hindus have now been killed by Muslim mobs in the Pakistan province of Swat in retaliation for the burning of two mosques last Thursday.” The voice details beheadings, rapes, children trapped in collapsed buildings. I’m almost sick to my stomach at the thought of it all, so incomprehensible, but the announcer sounds bored.

The next report describes a “flaring of tensions” between Ethiopia and Eritrea, new skirmishes between two nations that only recently stopped fighting a war.

“Where are you from?” I ask the cabbie.

“Nigeria.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Thirty years, man.”

“You came with your parents?”

“That’s right. After the Biafran War.”

I don’t know that one, and I think about running it through my Historical Events file but ultimately decide not to bother. There were so many wars. Do the details even matter?

The British announcer is now talking to a woman, American, who is explaining the pros and cons of confronting North Korea on its rumored designs to build nuclear weapons. Which is quite relevant to my mission; I listen intently. I realize I’ve heard this exact report before, during my training—it’s one of the news items the Archivists were able to recover. Then the announcer moves on in the great global banquet of conflict and atrocity, begins discussing heightened tensions in Palestine.

“This is quite a world you live in,” I say.

He glances at me in the rearview and doesn’t respond.

The cabbie pulls over across the street from where the men had done their coffee-shop conspiring. As I expected, the business meeting has concluded and the men are off to the next stage in their geopolitical adventure.

I walk south one block and turn west along a neighborhood of stately row houses with perfectly tended garden plots. I parked my car at the end of this street, which, I see, was a stupid decision. The area was quiet then, but now there’s a swarm of people marching along the sidewalks in that quick, purposeful gait of Washingtonians. I realize (via my GPS) that I’m only a block away from both a Metro stop and one of the Senate office buildings; apparently a train just got in, or a congressional workday just ended, or both. This is not a good environment for someone who wishes to leave no trace, but at least they’re all so busy trying not to bump into one another as they chat on their phones that it’s unlikely anyone will notice me.

My keys are in my hand and I’m only a few feet away from my car when someone says my name. No, not my name—my cover’s name.

“
Troy!
Hey, Troy.”

I look up as a white man with short silver hair approaches me. His unbuttoned suit coat flaps around his thin frame.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, nearly in a whisper.

I’m running his image through my databases in search of a match.
How does he know my cover?

The people in Logistics try to find covers whose racial backgrounds are more mixed than typical contemps’ so our skin shares the same general hue as the people’s we’re replacing. In addition to that, the Engineers surgically alter our appearances so we can resemble the covers as closely as possible. But they tell us it’s never an exact match—we may seem similar to the covers, but we aren’t supposed to be such ringers that friends of the covers would mistake us for them. Yet that seems to be what’s happening right now.

I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You need to get out of D.C.” He’s standing just a bit closer to me than people in this time usually do. “Your little mission’s been blown. I’m putting myself at risk just telling you this, but I—”

“I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else.” The databases find no match, but he seems weirdly familiar. Have I seen him before during my time in D.C.? Or do I recognize him from the Perfect Present, or from some other beat?

The Department always assures us that we won’t be placed near where the covers lived, that the odds of any of us crossing paths with someone who knows the cover are minuscule. Troy Jones is from Philadelphia, hours away from here. So who is this person, and how does he know Troy?

“
What?
Troy, listen to me: They know what you’re doing. They’re looking for you, and they’ll find you soon enough. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“You’re confusing me with—”

“
You’re
the one who’s confused, and it’s going to get you
killed,
do you see that? You think you’re stopping them but you’re only
leading them
where they need to go. You need to
leave,
and get as far away as possible.”

I wait a moment, staring into his eyes. It sounds like he’s talking about the hags, my mission.

“Are you with the Department?” I ask. We’re not even supposed to say
the Department
out loud.

He puts his hand on my forearm, but I shake him off. A bit more violently than I meant to. He steps back, nearly falling as his feet get tangled, and people walking past us turn their heads. I’m leaving a trace, and badly. He stares at me in shock or maybe anger, then he hurries away, toward the Metro station.

I feel the gaze of security guards, police officers, sundry other professionals, and their ubiquitous hidden cameras as I open my car door and do my best to disappear from their memory.

7.

T
he alarm was an electric charge flaying the nerves in Sari’s brain. She opened her eyes and already felt hollowed out.

It was 5:15. Her employer left each morning at 6:00 and expected his breakfast to be ready for him in the kitchen. The rice must be freshly prepared, not microwaved leftovers.

She crept past the twins’ room, careful not to wake them, and went into the bathroom. Back home Sari hadn’t always showered every day, but here she craved the peace it afforded, even if it only lasted a few minutes. Above the wooden blinds, the top half of the bathroom window was black. When she’d moved to Korea, it had taken her months to get used to the shortness of the days in autumn and winter, so unlike Indonesia. Here it seemed worse.

She showered in lukewarm water and was shivering before she even turned it off—Sang Hee had complained a few days earlier that there was never enough hot water left for her showers, so Sari had to be sparing. She dressed while standing on the narrow bathroom mat and she brushed her hair, long and thorough strokes, like rowing. Even after so many years, she missed the ocean.

After putting on gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt that she’d bought at a Marshalls during one of the few shopping excursions Sang Hee had granted her, she turned off the bathroom fan and already she could hear the babies crying.

Jung and Seung were ten months old. They were just starting to crawl—a little late, she gathered from what the parents had said, but they’d been born early, the result of a challenging pregnancy. At Sang Hee’s behest, Sari had spent much of the previous day rearranging pieces of furniture and electrical appliances for the newly mobile babies’ safety. Then the husband complained about the unfamiliar layout of his home and insisted that everything be put back.
Babyproofing?
he had scoffed.
If you’re doing your job, the babies won’t hurt themselves.

Her tiny room was next to the twins’ far more spacious one. Sari bumped her head against a red modern-art mobile (
a gift from an American diplomat,
Sang Hee had said,
very expensive
) as she bent down to change Jung’s diaper. Sang Hee forbade the use of pacifiers, so Sari tried to tune out their cries. She picked the babies up one at a time, then sat on the sofa, where with the help of some strategically arranged pillows she’d found a position in which she could feed both of them simultaneously. Jung’s immense head leaned into Sari’s left funny bone; two of her fingers were numb by the time they finished.

She heard movement above. Hyun Ki Shim, the diplomat, tended to glide like a phantom, so this was his wife announcing herself. A hole tore open inside of Sari.

When she finished giving the twins their bottles, she carried them into the kitchen and set them up in high chairs so she could prepare breakfast. Seung started to cry, so she picked him up and held him with one arm.

“They were crying for minutes before you did anything about it,” Sang Hee said as she walked into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I was in the shower.”

“I told you, you take too long in there.”

Sang Hee was wearing her emerald robe, pinned at her armpits by the crutches she’d been using since breaking her ankle a week ago. She had come down only to ensure that the maid was not murdering her infants. This had become her routine, except for those mornings when Sang Hee slept late after drinking too much. She was short, two inches or so smaller than Sari, and her curly hair was cut severely, in a way that reminded Sari of a bush.

“Give him to me,” Sang Hee said, and Sari obeyed. Sang Hee leaned her crutches against the kitchen counter, sat down, and held the baby with both arms. Sari saw the mother offer a quick smile to the little boy, who as usual reached for her necklace.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Sang Hee said, the smile gone. She handed him back to Sari. The babies’ fascination with jewelry had been established for weeks, yet Sang Hee was never without one of her gold necklaces.

“It’s a very nice necklace,” Sari said, compelled to explain the baby’s thoughts.

“I’m sure you think so.”

Later in the morning Sari spoon-fed the babies. Sang Hee had already taken her tea into the parlor to read the
Washington Post
. When they entertained American guests, Sang Hee spoke little, deferring to her husband, and Sari wondered if she spoke much English. Yet every morning there she was, staring at the
Post
. Sari herself studied English by watching television with the babies when she could, which was seldom, so she hardly knew a word of the language.

Hyun Ki walked into the room, his wingtips barely tapping the linoleum. He was tall for a Korean, yet his movements were spare and calm. The first time he’d raised his voice to her, it was as startling as seeing the sea rise up in a tsunami. It had become far less surprising.

He did not say good morning, merely glanced at her to let her know he was aware of her presence. He read a file he’d carried with him and ate the kimchi and rice Sari had placed on the table. Sari needed to hurry and finish feeding the babies before Hana, the rambunctious elder sister, woke up.

“How did they sleep?” he asked.

“Very well,” she lied. They had in fact woken four times, another horrible night for her, as it often took more than an hour to soothe them back down. But she’d learned not to mention this, since she would be blamed.

“I heard them at three,” he said. “They should be sleeping better.” It was unclear what font of paternal wisdom he was drawing from. Sari had never seen him hold either baby, and he acted as if Hana, the four-year-old, were a strange pet whose bleats perplexed him.