The Seventh Floor, page 34
“I’ll add it to the list for the docs, the ones who might tell us what’s wrong with you.”
“I think it’ll still be pretty unclear,” she said.
“Even so,” Sam said. “Even so.”
55
ON THE RUN
Irene slid back into her American skin. She was an everywoman, a wanderlust darkening the distant corners of her native and forsaken land. In front of cracked hotel mirrors, she perfected a big friendly smile. On stained hotel desks she scribbled out her legend, her backstory, reciting it to herself when she was behind the wheel. At night, lying in bed, she rehearsed conversations with men, hinting that the favors she sought might be repaid with her body, but they never would be. As she moved, she acquired: documents, references, cash, car. And this most of all: A vision of a new home. A place far from these grubby motels, poisonous food, and soulless people. A hope that soon she would not feel the sting of abandonment, nor the rockslide through her chest at the sight of an idling police car or the blare of a siren.
Years later, breastfeeding her five-month-old son from her favorite chair, the one in her bedroom facing the windows out into the woods, with her husband asleep on the bed and her daughter in a bedroom down the hall, Irene will think, as she often does, of a night in a motel in Jacksonville, Florida.
Thousands of miles and a few years removed from that rathole, and the memory will resurface of the mildewy smell of the room, the wet crunch of a belly-up roach beneath her feet, the taste of pure terror in her throat, and the sight of the lifeless eyes of the dead boy as she stowed him in the trunk of his own car before she stole it. She plunked down her duffel, sat on the bed, and checked for messages from the Spaniard’s people. There weren’t any, there hadn’t been any the day before, and she knew then there wouldn’t be any ever again. They were cutting her off. After the disaster at the trailer, after their failure—she was a liability. There would be nothing from Moscow or the Spaniard. On a pad of paper, she scribbled the relevant bits of information—addresses, phone numbers, full names—committed it to memory, and thought about what she might do. Turn herself in, kill herself, hide, press on with the fight; that night she weighed each one with great care. By dawn, she knew.
The Marble Spring Motel: birthplace of her new life.
She went to Texas to torch their old one. She cried once on that trip and it was for her dog, Stalin, dropped in a box outside a shelter on her way out of town. She visited a dozen other states, searching, wandering. Three months on, and she had not seen her face on television, on the FBI’s website, or anywhere. Six months on, and the only stubborn connection to her dead self was Peter’s parents, who often emailed him—sad, angry, confused, or some combination—and who could not comprehend how she had so thoroughly brainwashed their perfect son to the point where he would not speak to them.
And in that new home, far away, her baby suckling from her breast, she would sometimes wonder if Peter would hate her for what she had done. Or if, like a true soldier, he would have understood that she’d been forced to sacrifice everything. The price for her future was their old life, and with it his honor.
By summertime a bell was jangling on a door, and she was walking inside, that glowing smile planted on her face. She was driving a car with Iowa plates. Her purse boasted an Iowa driver’s license with her picture and someone else’s name. She had three months’ rent in cash, and pocket money to cover her bills. She was looking for work, she said. She carried two reference letters, both impeccable: One from a restaurant in Old Town Alexandria. Another from a bar in Orlando. “I’m a wanderer,” she offered, as she had rehearsed, when the owner asked how she’d found her way here. “Hard time sitting still, I guess you could say.” Flash of that smile. In those days, visions of her future—the home yet to be seen, the daughter and son yet to be born, the husband yet to be met—propelled her onward. These gave Irene hope in a coming metamorphosis, that soon she would writhe free of the American heartland. That she would, at last, be wrapped in her true skin.
56
LANGLEY / MOSCOW
Mac Mason was put out to pasture with a stilted formal ceremony in the first floor CIA Awards Suite, spread catered by Corner Bakery, plaque presented by the Deputy Director because, though Finn Gosford was doubtless thrilled by the departure of a potential rival, he was otherwise occupied and unable to attend. In truth it was unimaginable that he might speak generously of Mac in public for any sustained period of time. Others would be forced to do so in his stead. Theo, drearily sober, offered a grindingly formulaic speech, vaguely recounting a buffet of Mac’s adventures and contributions to CIA. Gus was more glowing, even by the stiff standards of a Langley awards ceremony: he spoke of Mac’s valor in Afghanistan, his feats to earn the Intelligence Star; their long friendship and Mac’s decades of public service.
After, in the windowless din of the Awards Suite, a crowd of two hundred—the Russia House faithful, old colleagues from the Farm, long-lost friends from the salad days in Afghanistan and the Counterterrorism Center—waited patiently in a proper breadline for rubbery sandwiches and a mess of a pastry spread. Everywhere Mac was mobbed. Every word was kind, respectful, awe-filled.
That afternoon, surrounded by well-wishers and friends, Macintosh Mason completed his walk-out ceremony. Loulou at his side, he handed his badge to the SPO on duty in the marble-floored lobby of the CIA’s Original Headquarters Building. Mac was full of cheer and nostalgia; a few tears, plenty of smiles. Stopping three times for official photos, Mac walked across the marble seal and out the door of CIA, Loulou on his arm.
Many pondered the abruptness of the departure. Mac had grumbled, as had all of them, about the new regime; about the weakening of CIA’s influence in the world; about the youngsters mucking up a perfectly decent espionage outfit. He had more money than they did, a fat reptile fund courtesy of Loulou’s family, on which they could spend a splendid retirement, and that surely helped. What Mac Mason’s dearest friends, Gus Raptis and Theo Monk, thought of the departure, no one could quite figure. When pressed by a few Russia House hands in the run-up to the ceremonies, both men had demurred. And, oddly, neither had materialized for the post-ceremony festivities at the Vienna Inn. This was most unusual, given their long-standing friendship and, for Theo at least, the cold fact of an open bar. Come to think of it, one Russia House hand mused, watching the Masons’ Porsche putter out of the parking lot, neither Theo nor Gus had even been present in the lobby when Mac had walked out of CIA for the last time.
That same week, in Moscow, Rem Zhomov’s illustrious career fizzled to a similarly whimpering end. With Dr. B’s ominous retirement message, the Director had pounced, said it was, at last, time to go. Rem had no clue what would happen to his Special Section, but, at the Director’s explicit direction, he’d focused his last energies, as he supposed all old men must, on making himself irrelevant. He spent his final days digging his own grave.
The Dr. B case had given Rem purpose in his final years in the Forest. Here had been a shot that he would not fade into irrelevance but might manage, like almost none before him, to go out with a bang. What would become of Dr. B? What improvements in security might Russia see from his work? What gains might be reaped from the trade of his material to the Chinese? Rem would not be around to answer these questions: he would be gone.
Rem spent five days washing Dr. B’s material, retaining its fundamental essence while obscuring its true origin. Any shred of intelligence that might link SVR to the good Doctor was carted off to the incinerators.
Rem himself ventured downstairs while they burned the compendium of hard-copy operational notes. He took the privilege of rereading the first letter passed from Macintosh Mason to Rodion Vissarionovich Pletkov, eventually known to CIA as REMORA, during their time in Paris. The note, quite short, explained Mac’s desire to meet with Pletkov away from my friends. It had been the first true line Macintosh had crossed. Rem read it in a solemn silence. You had to be delusional to betray your country and your service, he thought. But to betray your friends? Well, that happened every goddamn day. He set the note on the stack. The clerk pressed the button. The papers slid into the flames.
The formalities commenced in the SVR banquet hall where, for two hours, colleagues, friends, and enemies alike trotted onstage to laud Rem’s accomplishments and victories. There were stories from his service in Afghanistan, from his first days in London, from the tour in Rome. The Director pinned on his left breast the ruby cross of the Order of Alexander Nevsky, awarded to recognize those who have “achieved personal merit in nation-building” following at least twenty years in the civil service. Well, then, maybe I should have received two, Rem thought, watching the Director fumble with the pin. Rem lost count of the toasts. His friends and colleagues put back vodka like water, and by nightfall the celebration had crawled to one of the events dachas on the Forest campus, accessible by a walking path curling deep into the pine and ash.
Pletkov sidled up to Rem while he refreshed his sparkling water. Even Rem had begun to think of the man by his CIA cryptonym: REMORA. “A fine send-off,” he said, and clinked his vodka to Rem’s glass. “What’s next?”
“You’ll have to ask Ninel.”
Pletkov gave him a wan smile. “I don’t envy you.”
“You shouldn’t. I’m going to be bored.”
“But you have Ninel. You shouldn’t get bored. Shame on you if you do.”
Rem flicked his hand through the air. “Still.”
“I’m looking forward to retirement,” Pletkov said. “Travel, fishing, reading. A younger mistress, perhaps. I have a decade left and it is already calling me. But you, Rem? That freedom quite literally starts tomorrow and you don’t have a plan?”
“I’ll figure it out, Rodion Vissarionovich.”
“Think of it this way, Rem Mikhailovich: What would you do, if you could do anything?”
Rem clapped Pletkov on the shoulder, raised his glass to a passing well-wisher, and took a long drink. “I would work.”
57
SHERMANS CORNER, MINNESOTA MONTHS LATER
Sam Joseph slid into his regular booth. From the waitress he ordered black coffee, scrambled eggs, and toast. He worked through two newspapers over his meal and the first half of a novel over three refills of coffee. The breakfast crowd drifted into lunch. He ordered a fourth cup of coffee, plugging away at the book. Such was his discomfort with the actual world that he’d averaged around a novel a day for going on three months; Sam felt that a reckoning with reality might pull the life right out of him. Reading kindled hopes that there would be something else. That other worlds existed.
A plate bearing a roast beef sandwich and fries—his usual—clanked onto the table; he looked up. He’d not ordered it. The waitress was smiling. “On the house today,” she said. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”
“Thanks. You sure?”
“Totally sure.”
The waitress had foolish brown eyes and jet-black hair and he did not remember once seeing her smile. He’d never asked her name and felt bad about that now; he’d been a regular for months, since he’d come to spend time with his parents. “Sam, by the way,” he said, and offered his hand.
“Melissa,” she said. “Everyone calls me Mel.”
Her hand was soft and dry; he noticed the heat of her skin when they shook. She treated him to another broad smile, smoothed her apron, dawdled for a half moment, and said: “So. Whatcha reading, Sam?”
“A book.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head and laughed; a hearty, chesty one that threw its arms around him. “I figured you’d be a dick,” she said, voice tinged with play. “Now I’ve got proof. Enjoy your sandwich, Sam.” She turned for the counter, and he stole a glance at her ringless left hand. He also took note of what could possibly be curves, cloistered under her sensible slacks and the black long-sleeved shirt required of the waitstaff.
“Mel,” he called. “When does your shift end?”
She turned around and looked up at the clock hung above Sam’s booth. “Fifteen minutes.”
“Have lunch with me?”
“I don’t like eating here.”
“Why not?”
“Company’s bad. Food’s worse. You suggest somewhere else and you stand a chance at a yes.” She was smiling again. She righted a tipped-over saltshaker on one of the neighboring tables.
“But I’ve already got my sandwich.”
Fifteen minutes later the sandwich was in a to-go box in the backseat of his car and the engine was running. Mel emerged from the diner, walking toward her own car. He called to her across the lot. “I can drive,” he said.
She laughed. “I’m not getting in the car with you,” she said. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer? Or a perv?”
There was a knot in his belly, pulled taut at the thought of Mel. First time in months he was excited about someone’s company.
Stonehouse Coffee was a timbered storefront ten miles north, off Highway 53 on the approaches to Orr and Pelican Lake. She took her coffee black, like him. Mel enjoyed electronica and had done something in marketing for an uncle’s wilderness excursion business until it went under. Her husband had died in Iraq, in 2006. They’d married young. She did not keep pictures, she said; she did not think the past should be granted such power. She possessed a thoughtful intelligence that seemed to float above something scrappier, harder. He wondered if someone, somewhere, had beaten her.
After a few hours he told her about CIA. Nothing specific, of course, but he was out now—what was the point in the charade? Mel at first did not seem to believe him, but he insisted it was no joke, and soon she was asking all manner of questions. And not the ridiculous, cartoonish, awful ones (Have you ever killed someone? Did you carry a gun? Are you like James Bond?) that would have made him want to get up and leave, to say nothing of answering. No, Mel asked the questions that he asked himself. The ones that he pondered in the clockless hours. It struck him that maybe he and Mel had been pulled from the same depths. Heated in the same kiln. Over the table he knotted his hand in hers. She feathered her fingers around his. She spoke openly and casually of her doubts and mistakes, in the way only a stranger can. After a while she inquired after his.
“What do you regret?” she asked, bringing her other hand onto the table so he might take it, which he did. “Or do you regret anything?”
He thought about that. “There was a woman, once,” he said. “We were in love. There were good reasons we shouldn’t have been, but we were. And it didn’t work. It’s hard to explain, but the CIA wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow it. I don’t know what’s happened to her. She was one of those beautiful things you lose along the way.”
“Which do you regret?” she said, brushing his fingers. “Falling in love in the first place, or not making it work in the end?”
“Both.”
“Do you resent CIA for interfering in your love? For forbidding it?”
“No. If it hadn’t been for CIA, I’d never have met her.”
“What do you think of the place?”
“CIA?”
“Yes.”
“Tough question. Complicated.”
“You worked there for a long time,” she said. “Then they threw you out. You’re living at home and picking up the pieces and whiling away the days reading at a diner. Of course you’re thinking big thoughts. Tell me.”
“I stole secrets for a living,” he said. “And what you are asking is a mystery. Not a secret. Not my department. I haven’t considered it once. Might as well ask what I think of planet Earth. I could give you ten answers. They’d all be true. And they’d all be lies.”
“Well, let me put it this way,” she said. “In the end, were you a good guy or a bad guy?”
“That one’s easy,” he said. “Good guy. And not only at the end.”
It was well after closing, and the manager had to ask them to leave. They had refilled their cups four times; they had ordered dinner; they had been talking at the table for nearly ten hours. The moon was bright over the lake and the skyline of pines on its banks. He took her hand in his, and they shuffled into the parking lot. At her car, he drew Mel to him and kissed her. At first she did not kiss him back—shock? guilt?—but soon she was reciprocating, kissing him long and deep. When he pulled back, Mel’s eyes were already open and listless, as if she were asleep behind them. And, really, after all they had talked through and shared, he could make no sense of that.
“Spend the night with me,” he said.
58
ON THE ROAD
Move, Procter thought, just move.
By summer she had carved up much of the American West. Trailing in her slipstream were lovers jilted and relieved and terrified, a quantity of empty liquor bottles sufficient to fill a commercial dumpster, and a shockingly sparse quantity of photographic or forensic evidence. She spoke frequently with Sam and her cousin, Cummings. A few times, Theo checked in. She called Gus once, and spent a few minutes making small talk before she lost reception in a stretch of western Nebraska. Highlights had been the Big Bend country and the parks in Utah. The Grand Canyon she had found mostly underwhelming.
When, as sometimes happened, her mind veered in agitating, senseless directions—in other words, to the past—Procter would stare gravely through the windshield and slam on the gas and imagine those thoughts on foot, vainly chasing the car, hands up, waving, shrieking like an unwanted child that has been left behind. Straight ahead and onward, she thought. There’s a good girl. Move.
Procter was sunk deep into a burger at a brewery outside Denver. Her phone shivered on the table. Unknown number. She ignored it.
