The Revisionists (24 page)

At the station, Dalton broke easily, but too easily—into so many pieces it was left to me to put them back together, see what kind of whole they formed. It was messy and confusing.

I was washing up afterward, and my boss, Myers, walked into the bathroom.

“Big night,” he said as I toweled off. “This is catching people by surprise.”

“Me included. The kid certainly got himself involved in something.”

Myers stepped closer, peering at the base of the stalls to make sure we were alone. He turned the sink on full blast.

“You look tired, but we need to talk.” His voice was low. “Any of those names he mentioned register with you?”

I shook my head. “I figured the analysts would be looking into it.”

“They are, but I recognized a few myself. They were aliases, and I’ve seen them in other correspondence we’ve been watching.”

I didn’t like his need for secrecy. This was my boss, a very exemplar of strict regulation and adherence to code, whispering beside the commodes.

“Great,” I said. “We’ll have a head start with them once we bring them in.”

“The alias Echo didn’t register with you?”

He was watching me as carefully as I watched a mark. I was still holding the towel, ratty and thin and tinted red from Dalton’s blood. “No,” I told him. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed my reflection as I tossed the towel into the bin.

He waited, a heavy pause. “That’s an alias that’s been used by your father-in-law.”

I might have flinched. I probably blinked. I had been conscious of how I looked to his eyes, but that last sentence made me descend deeply into my own mind.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course we’re sure.”

My father-in-law was an Archivist, quite senior. That meant he couldn’t say anything more about his job than I could about mine. I always figured that made it somewhat easier for Cemby to understand me; she was used to men who lived within the shadows they cast. My father-in-law, Joseph, had been talking about retirement for years but claimed his colleagues were always begging him to stay on for just another year or two. Cemby worried about his health, the stress, but he said he had little choice.

“How do you get on with him?” Myers asked.

“Fine. He’s quiet, hard to get to know.”

“But you’ve never reported any misgivings about him.”

“I haven’t had any. I’m… stunned.”

He nodded.

“And look, he’s an old man. Maybe he just got confused and misappropriated a few files, or met the wrong person at a conference. This doesn’t mean—”

“Zed, you were the one in there with that kid. This is more than just someone collecting an illegal library—people outside the Government are compiling a history, a vast one. They’re collecting old files and trying to connect the dots. They’re writing something, and they’re being careful about it because they know what it means. What this kid was compiling wasn’t the whole thing, it was a damned
footnote
. There’s no telling how much information they’ve got their hands on. Now, you’re saying that you’re
certain
Joseph’s never let anything odd slip around you? That you’ve never had the slightest inkling—”

“Are you accusing me of incompetence or conspiracy?”

He smiled awkwardly and looked down. When he raised his eyes the smile was gone. “Zed, there are reasons I’m asking you this in the bathroom and not in front of a roomful of counterintelligence officers. Ease up, all right?”

I nodded. “Sorry.”

He turned off the sink and started speaking at a normal volume. “When is Cemby expecting you home?”

Something inside me started to die right then. I felt it in my stomach, a rotting. I’d been so shocked by the news about Joseph that I hadn’t finished tracing all the possible ramifications.

“I told her I’d be all night. She probably figures I’ll be back by lunch.”

“Call her from your desk and tell her you’ll be here for another day or two. Tell her it’s nothing to worry about, but you’ll be a while.”

“You’re bringing him in.”

“Of
course
we’re bringing him in. They’re probably already at his office, so I want you to call her before she hears anything. Call her now, and if she calls you back later, do not answer.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I have a wife too. I’m trying to make this as easy as possible for you.”

I wanted to ask him if Cemby was suspected of anything. If she was on any Lists, if one of those other aliases was hers. But I would have looked like a fool to ask, would have brought more suspicion on myself.

He wouldn’t have told me anyway.

My boss followed me to my desk and stood a few feet away. At the end of the hallway, a briefing room was filled with analysts who wanted to chat with me, presumably about things Dalton had said in his Dark Room, but I was wondering if I myself was a target now. Or Cemby. I told myself not to sit there stewing, not to let myself get nervous. I picked up the comm and called her.

It was midmorning and she sounded tired, an extra exhalation when she said hello. Like she was letting go of something.

“How was Laurynn this morning?” I asked.

“Normal.” Our daughter had developed an aversion to waking up on time; Cemby literally pulled her out of bed to get her ready for school, she told me. They’d had to eat breakfast in the pod.

I told her I was sorry she’d had to do so much on her own and that I loved her. I mentioned that the project I’d gotten sucked into was going to keep sucking at me for another day, possibly longer.

“They’re letting you sleep at least?”

“A little. In shifts. I’m okay, it’s nothing serious. They just want me here until it’s over. I’ll get a few off days next month in return. Maybe we can escape the city for a vacation.”

“Are you all right? You sound sad.”

“Just a temporary crash.” I wondered how long it would be until she found out about her father. I wondered how quickly she’d realize that I had known during this call.

I wondered what she knew about what her father was doing, and I hated myself for thinking that.

She said she had to go, she was late on a deadline of her own. On my vidder was a still image of her from a few weeks earlier—video calls were banned in the office, for obvious reasons. In the image she was smiling, her arm around Laurynn, who grinned beside her like a miniature, idealized version of Cemby.

I told her, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I understand.”

I couldn’t tell her what I was really apologizing for. One of the analysts was already walking to my desk to hurry me along.

She told me she loved me too, and I didn’t realize that I’d never hear her say that again.

  * * *

After dinner (I surprise, and borderline amaze, Tasha by confessing that I’m vegetarian) and a gratuitous dessert, we step outside, the air cool and the wind surprisingly strong. Her braids snap against my face for a moment. We walk alongside each other and she holds my hand. I hadn’t expected that and I tense up despite myself.

“We should do this again sometime,” she says. I’m not even sure where we’re walking.

“That would be great.” Wanting to tell her,
You have so little time. But thank you for tonight just the same.

Traffic is sparse and the only pedestrians on the street are hurrying toward the shelter of a Metro station or an ATM kiosk. No suspicious watchers are loitering anywhere I can see.

“Do you have a phone number yet?” she asks.

Technically I don’t, but I’ve trolled the network for dead numbers and have appropriated one for my own use, linking it to an internal switch in my brain. I even set up a voice-mail greeting, so I give her the number. She says she’ll call me soon.

She leans in and kisses me, a peck, but not a quick one. Funny how similar certain rituals are through time. I wonder if it’s attraction she feels or just pity, if she sees in me something she needs, or if the story about my wife and daughter has made her feel sorry for me, sorry enough for this consolation prize. But I do feel consoled.

And then she’s stepping into a cab that has magically appeared before us, and she’s gone. I stand and watch the taillights fade.

“Enjoying yourself, Zed?”

I must have been standing here and staring for longer than I thought, because I didn’t even hear him coming. He’s good at what he does. We all are.

“Having fun with all that 21st-century womanhood has to offer?” he continues, not smiling. I don’t recognize the face—he too has had his appearance altered—but I do recognize the voice. He has a not entirely time-appropriate fedora pulled low over his eyes, and a dark trench coat. I’ve seen a few of the black contemps dress like this, but not many.

“Wills?” If I look closely into his eyes, I can recognize him, despite what the Engineers have done to the rest of his face. “What are you doing in my beat?”

“Funny,” he says, glancing up and down the street. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

13.

W
hen Leo’s cell rang at 11:45 one night, he knew who it was before he checked the caller ID. He answered with hello in Bahasa.

“Hello.” Her voice quiet, as it was the last time. “I’m sorry, am I calling too late?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He’d been staying up late all week, hoping she’d call. “How are you?”

“I am well.” She was a good liar—that would help. “Um, I was wondering if you’d like to meet me again tomorrow?”

“Of course. What time?”

“I think it will be three o’clock. The mistress wants the shopping finished before dinner—she’ll probably send me when the twins are napping.”

“Has she given you the grocery list yet?”

“No. But she’ll be away in the afternoon when I leave, so she’ll have to give it to me before then, sometime in the morning.”

“Call me as soon as you get the list. If I don’t answer, leave a message and read the entire list—call a second time if it cuts you off. I’ll buy everything and have it ready in my car.” He’d already bought four large coolers and ice packs to keep things cold.

“She always asks me for the receipt.”

“I’ll give it to you. Does she give you a credit card or cash?”

“Cash.”

Perfect. He’d just tear off the bottom of the receipt where it showed time of purchase.

“What if someone sees me driving where I’m not supposed to?”

He assured her he’d thought everything out. He told her to get a pencil and paper, then told her she should drive the first few minutes as if heading to Whole Foods. Next he narrated a detour to a parking lot near Logan Circle, where they’d be able to talk. He told her not to bring her phone, and reminded her to turn it off as soon as they finished this call.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” she said. “I, I appreciate your concern, but if she were to find out—”

“You have to trust me. This is the best way to get you out of there. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Another pause. He worried he’d overplayed his hand. Slow down, he reminded himself. Let her think she’s the one coming to you.

“Of course.”

“Good. Just call me as soon as you get that list.”

“All right. Thank you.”

He hung up. They’d been on the phone for three minutes. His heart was pounding and he had too much adrenaline to think about sleep. He poured himself a bourbon. It was too late to catch the Wizards or the Caps, so he turned the TV to cable news and watched some war.

He followed her to the parking lot the next day. He’d already shopped at Whole Foods, put the perishables in his coolers, and driven back to Mount Pleasant, where he waited two blocks from the diplomat’s house. After twenty minutes he saw the familiar black SUV with diminutive Sari visible through the windshield. He let her pass and waited for another car to fill in between them before he pulled out, curious if anyone was following her. No one was, other than himself.

Traffic was thickening, the long bell curve of D.C.’s rush hour beginning to spike two full hours before its peak. The drive took fifteen minutes, exactly what he’d thought it would. He had timed her departure and knew when she would be expected back at the house.

His chosen parking lot was in the back of an elementary school that had recently closed due to a collapsed roof. Utility trucks and a crane sat outside the building, but there were no workers and hadn’t been for days—the school system’s limited repairs budget had been diverted to a high school in Northeast that had caught fire last week. Leo parked his Accord alongside Sari’s SUV. He smiled at her, then motioned for her to get in shotgun of his car. He doubted the SUV was bugged, but there was no reason to chance it.

Her hair was pulled back, and again some of the strands had broken free. She was wearing a black hoodie and matching sweatpants, both of which actually fit. She looked like any Asian American student at Georgetown or GW, rushing from class to the gym in mommy and daddy’s eighteenth-birthday present, just off the phone with her buds to coordinate which bars to hit that night. He wondered if she had any idea how stunning she was. And he wondered how much longer she’d look this good with a life like hers.

The last time he’d seen her, she had seemed less nervous around him. Her black eye had completely faded, though a certain puffiness of exhaustion had been evident. Still, he had been struck by her beauty. Simply getting to sit with her, being allowed to look into her eyes for those few minutes, felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. He’d had to tell himself to stop leering, to stay focused.

His good-bye kiss on her cheek had been pure impulse. And desire. It was stupid, as it risked scaring her away. He’d spent the next few hours of that day regretting the kiss. And then later, trying to fall asleep, he’d spent the rest of the night imagining all the other things he would have liked to do afterward.

So, in his car with her now, he was relieved by the genuine smile she wore when she said, “Hello, Leo.”

She was brave to be doing this. Or stupid, or desperate. Getting in the car of a man she didn’t know well, in a country she didn’t understand. He tried to imagine what it was like to be an immigrant, one of the only people of your kind in this vast and challenging land, always in the midst of situations whose designs perplexed you. Spooks were supposed to be trained for exactly this kind of disorientation, but they had no idea. Those classes should be taught not by case officers but by first-generation Americans: This is how it feels to stumble off the boat. This is how it feels to smile dumbly when someone says something you don’t follow. This is how it feels to have no friends.