Almost Thirty Years

 

February 11, 2033

 

Watching my mom in the kitchen is an odd experience.  She’s not exactly Betty Crocker.  I mean, she can cook.  I didn’t starve growing up.  And it’s not like we ate frozen dinners and boxed mac and cheese every night; she kept me and my brother and sister well nourished.  She just doesn’t really like to cook.  She doesn’t have the patience for it.

 

Less so since my dad passed away.

 

It’ll be five years this spring and with Danni now away at college in Georgia, and Jamie at grad school in Boston, I’m the one Mom relies on most.

 

People who don’t know her as well as we do wonder how she does it.  “She’s such a trooper,” they say.  “Such incredible strength.”  “She’s been through so much.”  “How does she do it?”

 

I just shrug and say, “She’s Trixie Belden.”

 

Belden is my mom’s maiden name but it’s always been a part of who she is.  Always will be.  She uses it more often than her married name these days.  Maybe it hurts less.  I don’t know.

 

So, Mom is bustling around the kitchen right now, looking oddly domestic, putting a dinner on the table which makes it look as though I’ve been on a hunger strike for a month.

 

“It’s a shame Isabelle and Katie couldn’t be here,” she says. 

 

I wonder how much more food she’d be preparing if my wife and daughter were here.  But they’re in sunny Florida right now, enjoying Harry Potter World without me. 

 

I hate my job.

 

“You should’ve gone with them,” I tease.  “Become a snowbird.  Katie would have fits if you had a winter home in Florida and she could go to Disneyworld every year.”

 

Mom says simply, “This is my home.”

 

Crabapple Farm has been in the Belden family for generations.  I was already a teenager when we moved here, but it’s always felt like home to me, too.

 

Mom plunks down a plate of buttermilk biscuits in front of me.  It’s Grandmoms’ recipe and Mom pulls it off like a master chef.  I shun the butter, the honey, even the homemade crabapple jelly because these biscuits don’t need any adornment.  I have one in my hands, splitting it open and watching the steam roll out, my mouth watering in anticipation, before Mom even speaks.

 

“Start with those.  There’s plenty more of them and the chicken needs a few more minutes in the oven.”

 

As I savor the light, fluffy biscuit, Mom puts more food on the table.  Green beans and carrots from the garden—Grandmoms comes every summer to help her with the canning—macaroni salad, stuffing, and my favorite, holiday potatoes.  It’s a dish my mom rarely makes because mashed potatoes are so much easier and take so much less time.  But she knows they’re my favorite and can often be cajoled into making them for me, even on minor holidays like Columbus Day.

 

“What’s the holiday?” I ask.

 

Mom raises one sandy blond eyebrow and looks at me as if I’m off my rocker.

 

“Your birthday,” she says dryly.

 

“Oh, yeah,” I reply with a rueful grin.  “I forgot.”

 

I’ll be thirty on Monday.  Thirty.  Remember when you were a kid and thirty seemed positively ancient?

 

I still feel that way.

I hate my job.  It’s made me old before my time.  I really ought to quit and do something else.

 

“How are things at work?” Mom asks.

 

Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow.  My mom knows everything.  I know it’s kind of a given that mothers know everything.  But my mom especially.  My mom and me especially. 

 

I’m not saying that my mom loves me the most or that she doesn’t have the same kind of relationship with my brother and sister.  It’s just that my mom and I have a special connection.  I think it has to do with my father.  I look just like him.  Except for the eyes, which are distinctly Belden.

 

“Fine,” I mumble.  “You know I don’t like to talk about work.”

 

“You don’t like to talk about work when everybody’s around,” she corrects.  “But it’s just you and me at the moment, William.”

 

I make a face and reach for another biscuit.  She’s using the bossy mother voice now.  William.  Sheesh.  All I need to hear now is William Edwin Mangan and if I don’t open up, she’ll probably ground me.

 

“Work is why you’re not in Florida right now,” she says, a statement rather than a question.

 

I nod, even though she has her back to me as she stares out the kitchen window.  “And it’s why I won’t be here for my birthday Monday.”

 

“Where are they sending you?”

 

I hesitate and she turns to await my response but, to her credit, she doesn’t even blink when I answer.

 

“Well, I guess you can look up some family while you’re there,” she says.

 

I roll my eyes.  “Yeah, Mom, I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time for a family reunion.  I’ll have them sign my ‘Wish you were here’ postcards.”

 

“Don’t get smart with me.” 

 

There’s a twinkle in her blue eyes as she reprimands me.  She won’t admit it, but she loves that I’m a smart ass like my father.

 

“How about you and Aunt Honey?” I ask, trying to change the subject.  “Are you working on anything big?”

 

“Certainly,” she answers with an equal amount of sass, making me wonder just where my smart mouth actually comes from.  “There’s tons of crime in Sleepyside.”

 

Mom and Aunt Honey opened their own detective agency several years ago, long after they had first conceived of the idea as teenagers.  After high school, they put aside their childhood dreams and pursued careers that made more sense to them, got married and raised families.  And then, one day, they decided that dream hadn’t died, after all.  My mom’s career with the U.S. Treasury and Secret Service and Aunt Honey’s security work with Wheeler International turned out to be perfect building blocks for opening their own business.  Looks great on their credentials, too.

 

“Gee, if only there was a city with nine million people within an hour’s drive of Sleepyside,” I remark.

 

I don’t duck fast enough to escape the whack on the back of my head.

 

“People don’t drive out from New York City to hire a couple of old ladies to perform their investigations, Will.”

 

My mom is 55.  Not exactly old.  But she does have a serious Angela Lansbury complex.  She flips through the cozy mysteries Aunt Honey loves so much and grumbles about defending herself against criminals with knitting needles and walkers.

 

Like my mom would ever have knitting needles within fifty feet of the house.

 

And Sleepyside isn’t as sleepy as she likes to pretend it is.  She should know that better than anyone.  Even me.

 

The delicious scent of roasted meat wafts from the oven as Mom pulls out the bird.

 

“Mom!”

 

“What?”

 

I gape at the gargantuan roasting pan in her hands.  “What kind of steroids is that chicken on?”

 

“Chicken, turkey, whatever.”  She waves carelessly, the kitchen towel in her hand flickering against the window over the sink.

 

My mother is not absent-minded.  And she certainly knows the difference between a chicken and a turkey.  But she cooks whatever she finds in the fridge and it’s immaterial to her whether it’s a chicken, a turkey or an ostrich.

 

“Are you trying to make me fat?”

 

“That’s never going to happen; you have your father’s genes.”

 

“Then why on earth did you cook enough for the entire county?”

 

She smiles at me, her cat-that-ate-the-canary smile.  And I suddenly realize she’s kept her back to me most of the time I’ve been here and that she’s been unusually focused on her cooking.  Not because she’s suddenly decided to give Uncle Mart a run for his money in the culinary arts, but because her poker face is the worst on the planet.

 

“Because thirty years is a big deal and we should celebrate.”

 

The back door flies open and suddenly the kitchen is filled with family shouting, “Happy Birthday!” and flinging themselves at me with hugs and kisses and gaily wrapped presents.

 

Isabelle and Katie promised to celebrate with me when they return from vacation.  Valentine’s Day, my birthday, also happens to be her parents’ anniversary.  I was supposed to be celebrating with them in Florida this weekend, before my job interfered.  The family gathering in Sleepyside was supposed to be next weekend.

 

I allow myself to be engulfed by aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins, and people we’ve been close to for so long I sometimes forget they aren’t technically family.

 

Family doesn’t have to be related by blood or marriage.  That’s what my parents taught me.  That’s the way we operate.  That’s the way I like it.

 

The Road Home

 

“We’ll still have the big family party next weekend as planned, when Isabelle and Katie are back from vacation,” Mom tells me later that evening as she hands me a cup of coffee and takes a seat on the couch with her own cup.

 

“I figured as much.  I didn’t think Uncle Mart would miss a spread like that.”

 

Uncle Mart and Aunt Sally live on the other side of the state.  Their kids are grown and scattered but their youngest, Nate, is at NYU and he came out from the city to join in the birthday party prelude tonight.  He’s close with Uncle Brian and Aunt Honey’s youngest.  In fact, they’ve been talking about doing their spring break together, tailing some obnoxious rock band during their southeast tour.  I doubt my aunts and uncles know about this plan yet.

 

“Ah, to be seventeen again,” I mumble wistfully.

 

My mother snorts.  “Yeah, old man, you’d better be thinking about retirement soon.”

 

I don’t believe she’s serious, but I am.  I’ve been thinking about it—well, about changing careers, anyway—for a while now.  And not just because I missed Harry Potter World.

 

Iz and Katie Skyped with us during the party, Katie’s face flushed with joy as she chattered on and on about pumpkin juice and Olivander’s Wand Shop, the Quidditch t-shirt she bought for me and treacle fudge—Ohmigosh, Dad, the treacle fudge!

 

Damn, I wish I had been there with her.  They’re on their way Iz's parents' place today for a couple of days enjoying the beach, sailing…

 

I hate my job.  I need to quit, for the sake of my family.

 

It’s not that I don’t love all of my family passionately, but everything changed once Iz and Katie came along.  Loving a family is different than knowing you’re providing for a family, that you’re their anchor, their center, their being.

 

That, I know my mom understands.

 

I take a sip of my coffee and contemplate my options.

 

I graduated with honors from MIT with a mathematics degree.  Yeah, I know, my mom was shocked, too.  Actually, everyone who knows my mom was shocked.  Anyway, I knew I didn’t want to teach but I wasn’t sure exactly what I wanted to do.  There are a lot of options with a math degree but nothing that sounded all that interesting to me.  Grandpa pushed banking and I agreed to give it a try.  It seemed like a good starting point for … something.  Maybe something to fall back on.  Not exciting, but steady work with good benefits.

My mom clears her throat slightly and I look up to see her blue eyes intently on me.  My poker face is a million times better than Mom’s.  It would have to be.  But I don’t care if you’re a London beefeater; no child can stand up to a mother’s penetrating gaze.

 

I set my coffee cup on the end table and rise, hoping my height advantage over her can give me the upper hand.

 

“Well, I’d better get going.  I’ve got an early flight and I still have to pack.”

 

“It’s not that late and you travel light,” she counters without moving from her seat.

 

“Mom…”

 

She sighs, but it’s an understanding sigh, not a mother’s guilt trip sigh.  That’s one of my mom’s best qualities.  She doesn’t give me grief about my job, though she certainly has every right to.  I’m not sure my dad would’ve reacted the same way but, lucky for me, he never found out.

 

“You’ll be all right while I’m gone?” I ask, earning a scathing look.

 

“Do you think I’m a helpless old widow who’s afraid to be alone?”

 

My mom is all of five foot two inches tall, deceptively petite, maybe carrying a few extra pounds since her knee surgery last fall.  I’m six foot three, lean but all muscle from my daily, high-intensity workouts.  Still, I’d hesitate to take on my mom.  She’s freakishly strong, even for a middle-aged woman.  Actually, she’s freakishly strong for any age … man or woman.

 

And whether she uses her favored Glock from her Secret Service days or today’s more modern weapons, her accuracy is uncanny.  Dad used to say she could shoot the wings off a housefly at fifty yards.

 

“Mom, nobody would ever use the word ‘helpless’ to describe you.”  I lean down to buss her on the cheek and taunt, “Now, ‘old’ on the other hand…” and quickly jerk back before she can smack me.

 

“Remind me to ground you next week,” she teases.

 

I wonder if I can use that get out of this trip.  Sorry, I can’t go.  My mom won’t let me.  I grin at her and when she smiles softly and lowers her eyes, I know she’s seeing my father in me.

 

I kneel on the floor next to her and take her hand in mine.  I don’t say anything.  Mom and I never really need words to communicate.  The bond between a mother and her first child is made even more special by my resemblance to my father and the bittersweet memories it brings back for her.

 

With an expression of devoted love, she murmurs, “Be careful.”

 

“Always.”

 

So It Begins

 

By the time I get home, it’s pretty late.  The winter darkness is made more so by the cloud cover and the fact that our house is well back in the thickly wooded Wheeler preserve.

 

The house where Isabelle, Katie and I live was my great-grandfather’s old cabin.  He died shortly before I was born, leaving the cabin to my father and mother in his will.  Isabelle and I have made some updates, added on a few rooms, but even though I got my mother’s blessing to do with it as I would, I couldn’t bear to actually raze it and start over.  Even though I never knew the man who was my father’s official guardian and unofficial grandfather, I can feel his spirit here.

 

But it’s not his presence I’m feeling now as I step onto the porch and reach for the doorknob. 

 

I hesitate but push open the unlocked door anyway and step inside.  I flick on the light switch just inside the door.

 

The room is totally and completely trashed.

 

Chairs are overturned.  The couch cushions have been sliced open by somebody’s knife.  The mantel over the stone fireplace has been swept clean of framed photos and knickknacks, their shattered glass and ceramic pieces now littering the hearth.  The bookshelves have been stripped bare, draperies torn from the windows, pictures askew on the walls.

 

To my right, the kitchen has been equally ravaged, cabinets opened, dishes and glasses smashed to the wooden floor, pots and pans scattered across the counters, garbage strewn over the hooked rugs.  The round table where we eat our meals has been flipped upside down, as if somebody was looking for something that might be taped underneath its polished surface.

 

Instinctively, I reach for the weapon that I always carry, but I know whoever was here isn’t any longer.  I use the attached scanning device to confirm that.  It doesn’t pick up any body heat or heartbeats other than my own, so I tuck it back in my waistband and move around the cabin.

 

Isabelle will be devastated.  She was reluctant to give up life in the big city to move to the tiny hamlet of Sleepyside, even more reluctant to live so far off the beaten path in this isolated cabin.  But she grew to love it as much as I did and we gradually made it our home.  Every item in the cabin was chosen with great care.  Many of them have special meaning and are irreplaceable.  Most of those items are now destroyed. 

 

I know our intruders didn’t find what they were searching for.  I’m more concerned about Isabelle and her feelings right now.  Once again, I find myself considering my options.

 

I could call my mom to clean up the mess.  She’s the one person I can trust to keep this incident under her hat.  But I’m not crazy about her being out here alone when I’m halfway around the world.  I know she’s not helpless, but these people wouldn’t hesitate to use her, or anyone I love, to get to me.

 

I dismiss the idea of calling the Sleepyside Police.  No point.  They won’t find anything and can’t do anything.

 

I can call work.  They have more sophisticated equipment than the local law enforcement.  But they’ll probably make a bigger mess, too, and I have no idea if I can get home before Isabelle and Katie do to clean things up.

 

And the people who were here are pros.  They know who I work for and they won’t have left any evidence behind.

 

Still, there is protocol to follow.

 

I make my way across the living room, half-heartedly picking up a few items but not really knowing what to do with them.  Pillows from the couch, handmade by my grandmother, are now torn and gutted.  Katie’s Harry Potter books, signed first editions from London, shredded.  Damn, that makes me mad.  Not because of the cost of replacing them, but simply because I spent a lot of time tracking them down and still remember the pure joy on Katie’s face when she opened them this past Christmas.

 

A crunching under my feet has me taking a quick sidestep.  It’s a picture from our wedding.  Everybody so happy, Isabelle so beautiful it still takes my breath away to look at that picture.  The same way she takes my breath away every time I lay eyes on her.  The glass is shattered, the frame bent, the photo torn in two.

 

Bastards.

 

The storage closet door is open, board games, sports equipment, and camping gear thrown out.  But that’s as far as they got.  My fingers trail down the left side of the wall until I find what looks like a knothole.  I press my thumb to it and a panel in the back of the closet, verifying my fingerprint, swings silently outward.  I duck my tall frame through the small opening and descend a narrow spiral staircase into the subterranean communications room.

 

It’s funny how many bright and imaginative people have tried to see into the future in books, television and film and yet no one ever gets it right.  We have no flying cars, droids do not perform the majority of our work, aliens have not yet visited Earth, and Mars has not become the hottest vacation spot in the galaxy.

 

And my communications room is not filled with floor-to-ceiling monitors, blinking lights and a transporter chamber.  It’s actually just a phone on the wall.

 

Kidding.  But there is no transporter chamber.

 

I do keep my work computers in here, both of which are set up for video conferencing.  There’s also the secure phone, my weapons, and any gadgets I can manage to keep my hands on without Tech priggishly asking for them back.

 

We may not have flying cars, but we do have great gadgets.  James Bond would be jealous.  My mom is jealous.  I think the presence of the gadgets is the only reason I haven’t just up and quit my job.  But I don’t have time to play with them now.

 

I sit at the domestic computer and call my boss.  After I enter my personal identification code and wait for the confirmation that the video feed is secure, I connect with Theo Reuter.

 

The head of our division is an intriguing man.  His mother is from Egypt, his father from Germany.  The political ramifications alone are fascinating but, naturally, he doesn’t talk about his family.  The unusual racial mix is striking.  Reuter’s skin is a dark olive hue which makes his icy blue eyes pop in startling contrast.

 

“Mangan,” he greets in his typical gruff tone.  “You ready for the trip to Surat?”

 

I nod, feeling a small twinge of guilt for lying to my mom.  Only a little one, though.  I’m sure she knows that I lie to her about my job.

 

“I’ve got a bit of a problem,” I tell him.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“They’ve been here.  They broke into my house.”

 

Theo sits back in his black leather chair and thrusts his chin out in a truculent manner.  “You sure?”

 

I offer him a slight grin and try not to sound condescending.  “Yeah, we don’t get a lot of break-ins in my neighborhood.  Besides, the big screen TV and the Play Station 8 are still here.”

 

Theo snorts in amusement and waits for more data.

 

“They were thorough.”  I pause for effect.  “But unsuccessful.”

 

“You’re sure about that?”

 

It annoys me that he’s always questioning my convictions but I simply grit my teeth and answer, “I’m sure.”

 

“Nobody was home?”

 

“No.  Iz and Katie are in Florida.”

 

“Do we need to send somebody down there?”

 

“No.  They’re with her parents.  They’re safe.”

 

He nods in agreement.  “If I send a crew over, will they find anything?”

With a shrug that shows I’m not really sure, I say, “Doubt it.”

 

“I can send Jillian.”

 

Jillian Porter is part of our forensics team.  She’s also a closet neat freak.  While she doesn’t compulsively clean up after herself at every scene she’s sent to, she’d feel obliged to do so at my place.  She’d probably go well above and beyond the call of duty to put my rustic little cabin, which she loves almost as much as she adores my wife and daughter, back to rights.

 

“I was going to call my mom,” I offer tentatively.

 

“She knows Jillian.  I’m okay with that.  But she comes in after Jillian is finished with her work.”

 

I nod agreeably, feeling better that the two of them will be here.  Iz is pretty sharp, but Mom and Jill might be able to do enough restoration that she won’t notice.  Much.  Okay, she will notice but maybe Katie won’t.

 

The first edition Harry Potters.  Crap.  There’s no way I can get those replaced before Katie comes home.  And there’s no way she won’t notice they’re missing, even if she wasn’t just getting back from Harry Potter World.

 

“Mangan?  You got your head in the game?” Theo growls at me.

 

“Yes, sir,” I reply sharply, pushing Harry Potter out of my head.  I’ll just have to deal with it later.

 

When national security is at stake, personal matters have to be set aside.  When you’re an international covert agent with the CIA, family often has to take a backseat.

 

I hate my job.

 

The Confession

 

I was first approached by the CIA my senior year at MIT.  In the past, CIA mostly recruited from law enforcement and military, as well as occasionally targeting likely candidates from all walks of life, the only prerequisites being that they had a streak of patriotic loyalty and little to no family.  But as the world grew smaller and technology grew larger, things changed.  Three key aptitudes the CIA looks for in today’s agents are computers, foreign languages, and mathematics.

 

I was on track to graduate with honors with my advanced mathematics degree.  Nobody in my family understands where this gift came from.  They all wonder if my mom had an affair with Rain Man.  My grandfather was a banker, but that’s not the same thing as what’s in my brain.  Numbers.  Formulas.  Ciphers. 

 

In addition, on a dare from my roommate—so I guess I can blame him for this mess—I decided to take a foreign language class.  Not something as simple as French or Spanish.  No, I signed up for Japanese, one of the most difficult languages to master.  And I picked it up rather easily.  Emboldened, I looked into studying other languages and quickly became proficient at Russian and German as well.  Arabic took a bit longer but was well worth the effort.

 

Yeah, you can see why the CIA came calling.

 

The problem was I wasn’t a loner.  I have a large, close-knit family.  A family that doesn’t keep secrets from one another and doesn’t lie to one another.  And a family with at least a few members (my mom, Aunt Honey, Uncle Mart) who are inherently curious.

 

Uncle Mart’s duties at the Winthrop School for Boys in Indian Lake, New York are involved.  At the time I was at MIT, he was working on his first novel.  Plus, he has five children.  That all conspired to pretty much quell his nosy nature.

 

But my mom and Aunt Honey live next door to each other and spend quite a lot of time together.  They had just opened their long-deferred detective agency and were hungry for their first official case.

 

I didn’t want that case to be me.

 

So I politely declined the recruiter’s offer, graduated college, and returned home to begin my career at the First National Bank of Sleepyside.  Because my grandfather had worked there for so many years, I was welcomed with open arms by people who had watched me grow up.

 

I know what you’re thinking.  MIT graduate working at a hometown bank in Westchester County?  Well, the job market wasn’t great in those days so I jumped at the first shoe-in opportunity I had, thinking I’d move on from there once the economy improved.  A guy with my skills in both math and languages should have had an easy time moving on, even if it was just to another bank, one of the colossal financial institutions in the city that cater to international clients.  But there I was, two years later, still stuck in Sleepyside.

 

And then I met Isabelle and her precocious daughter…

 

“Hello.”

 

I glance up from my work but see no one.  Taking a second look, I have to lower my head a bit to come eye-to-eye with the little girl in my guest chair.

 

“I would like to make the ’posit, please.”

 

She thrusts out a chubby hand with a crumpled ten dollar bill in it.

 

“You would, huh?”

 

I’m not really in the mood for socializing with a child.  I’ve had a crappy week.  My job sucks.  My life sucks.  And it’s a gorgeous Indian summer day out and I’m stuck here with these freaking ledgers.

 

“I don’t think I can help you,” I say shortly, hoping she’ll move on. 

 

“Why?”  There’s a note of belligerence in her otherwise angelic voice.

 

I don’t answer immediately.  Instead I scan the bank, seeking deliverance.  There are two women with their backs to me, conducting business at the teller windows.  Another stands in line, her focus solidly on whomever she’s chattering with on the other end of her hot pink cell phone.  Any one of them could be her mother.  Not one of them seems to notice they’re missing a toddler.

 

“Why?” the toddler persists.

 

“Because I don’t deal with new accounts,” I say plainly.  “And I don’t think we can open an account for a three-year-old.”

 

“I’m three-and-a-half!” she proclaims adamantly.

 

“Oh.  Well, then…”  I wonder if three-and-a-half is old enough to grasp the concept of sarcasm.

 

There’s a flash of spirit in her eyes, beautiful hazel eyes with flecks of green, framed by eyelashes that seem impossibly long and thick for such a little girl.

 

“Ten dollars is a lot of money,” I tell her.  “You rob a bank or something?”

 

She glowers at me for a moment but gives in to the giggles.  She has an appealing gap between her two front teeth.  “No.  Grumpa gived it to me.”

 

“For your birthday or something?”

 

“No.  ‘Cause I’m … ear … sister … bull.”

 

I fight to hold back a smile.  She is pretty irresistible.  Maybe not enough to turn my day around but at least it’ll be a cute story I can share with my family tonight at dinner.

 

“Katherine Irina!”

 

Ah, the mother.  Not the yakker with the cell phone, but one of the other two women.

 

“That you?” I ask the little girl, keeping my voice stern.

 

She nods, her blond pigtails bouncing along in agreement.

 

“Good.  Then you can go now.”  I try to return my attention to my work as the mother comes up to take charge of the little urchin.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

 

I’m not.

 

Katherine Irina’s mother quite literally takes my breath away.  I try to suck enough oxygen into my lungs to give me the energy to propel myself out of the chair.

 

“It’s all right,” I manage to mumble, too awestruck by the goddess in front of me to come up with anything better.

 

She has long, dark chestnut hair that billows around her shoulders as she leans over to sweep the little girl into her arms.  She smiles apologetically at me.  Her face is somewhat long, but not unpleasantly so, and I think I catch a glimpse of a dimple.  I definitely don’t catch a glimpse of a wedding ring.  Single mom.

 

Turning to her daughter she scolds, “You know you’re not supposed to walk away from me, Katie.”

 

“I wanted to make the ’posit, too.  But he was mean to me.”  She jabs an accusing finger my way.

 

Instantly, the hope of seeing a full-dimpled smile is gone and the dark chocolate eyes of this beautiful woman are narrowed at me.  She’s in full momma bear mode now.  I was mean to her darling cub and I’m about to be torn from limb to limb.

 

I scowl at the little princess.  “I wasn’t mean to you,” I argue.  “I simply said that you were too young to open an account.”

 

“You said I was three!” she retorts.  “And I’m three-and-a-half!”

 

A muffled noise makes me dart a quick glance at the mother.  Her eyes are twinkling with amusement now and I relax and grin.

 

“I can’t argue with that,” I admit sheepishly.  “I did call her a three-year-old.”

 

“And-a-half is very important at this age.”  Hoisting the little girl to a more secure position on her hip, she puts her hand out.  “I’m Isabelle and you’ve already met Katie.”

I shake her hand and instantly feel the electricity between us.  “Will.  Will Mangan.”

 

I’d like to say I was charming and suave and got up the nerve to ask her out then and there, but I didn’t.

 

She asked me out.

 

Smooth operator that I am, I immediately blurted an over-eager yes, then remembered the family dinner.  It wasn’t anything formal or long-planned, but it was important.

 

On a whim, I asked her to join us.  After she said yes, I realized how stupid that was.  Meeting the family on a first date?  That reeks of disaster in a normal family and my family isn’t what I’d call normal.  But we didn’t scare Isabelle away and six months later we were married.  We’ve been together four and a half years now.  And, yes, that and-a-half is very important.

 

Rendezvous

 

My plane lands in Surat, India just after ten thirty on Monday morning.  I adjust my watch for the time difference while waiting for the flight attendant to open the door.  I’m traveling first class today as part of my cover, so I’m able to grab my bag and get off the plane almost immediately after the jetway is cleared.

 

A chauffeured car is parked at the curb and my team is waiting for me inside as the driver shuts the door behind me and takes us into the heart of the busy city.

 

Keith Dayton is from the New York office.  We’ve worked together on a number of occasions, though he’s been traveling in Europe and South Asia for the past several months.  Like me, he’s young and bright, but there the similarity ends.  Keith was a high school wrestling star.  He’s blond and athletic, a bulky bulldog to my racing greyhound.  He’s also surprisingly aloof for a guy who looks like the All-American boy next door.  He’s all right once you get to know him, but he doesn’t make it easy.  His code name, derived from his surname, is Buckeye.

 

The veteran of the team is Lawrence Becker.  He’s been with the CIA for almost thirty years and looks it.  What’s left of his hair is white and the bags under his eyes just might be over the size limitations for carry-on travel.  He’s our tech guy on this assignment—not so much a gadgets guy, unfortunately, but a serious computer whiz who seems to be intimately familiar with every software system ever created.  His code name is Analog.

 

Our local contact is Seeta Avninder, code name Mongoose.  She’s a few years older than Keith and I, between us height-wise and whip thin.  Her face is leathery from years in the sun and, along with her hard eyes, makes her look older than she is.  She’ll be my “translator” when we arrive at the bank.

 

I’m posing as wealthy American entrepreneur Grayson Finch.  I’m wearing a dark gray, custom tailored, three-piece Hugo Boss suit and blue silk tie.  My very expensive briefcase is affixed to my wrist via a pair of uncomfortable handcuffs.

 

“I’ve been tracking Itsuki Hashimoto for months,” Keith says, passing around surveillance photos of the hard-nosed Japanese arms dealer.  “He has accounts under various names in Switzerland, the Caymans, Tokyo, London, and New York.  We’ve gotten into every one of these accounts but haven’t found anything to link them to him or the illegal arms.  But he comes to the bank here in Surat personally once a month, never on the same day of the week, never at the same time of day.  He interacts with a different employee every time as well.”

 

No pattern because he doesn’t want to be tracked, I think.  By being deliberately random, he’s made himself noticeable.

 

“I’ve been keeping in touch with the freelance agent who’s here in Surat doing surveillance,” Seeta says.  “Snapshot called just before you arrived to let us know that Hashimoto got into town yesterday morning and left the bank about half an hour ago.”

 

“Is this Snapshot someone we can trust?” I ask.  I’m always leery of non-agency people.

 

“Yeah,” Keith answers.  “Snapshot’s done work for us before.  Just doesn’t want a permanent position with the CIA.  Family.”

 

It’s one word, but it says a lot.  Many CIA agents have family, but most of them don’t do field work.  I shouldn’t be in the field, either, but, as it turns out, I’m too damn good at my job.  They don’t want to let me go.  Sometimes the CIA feels like the Mafia.

 

I hate my job.

 

“You’ll take this with you into the safety deposit box area,” Lawrence says, handing me an innocuous-looking, stainless steel case with a flip-top—like a cigarette lighter but slightly larger.

 

I open it and reveal the personal key card issued to me by the bank.  Well, issued to Grayson Finch.

 

“You’ll be allowed to take that in.  It looks like a standard protection device against random scanning.  We’ve been able to determine that Hashimoto has Box No. 15983.  Put this up against the box and it’ll release the locks.”

 

I raise my eyebrows in feigned surprise.  “A gadget from you, Analog?”

 

He shrugs, an irritated look on his face.  “Only because I haven’t been able to get through the bank’s firewalls.  If I was inside, I could get that box open but, apparently, Reuter doesn’t think I have the skills to be quite the consummate liar—er, actor—you are.”

 

Seeta grins and even Keith lets out a snicker.  It turns out that high school drama classes were an unexpected learning experience for my future career as a secret agent.  Not inheriting my mother’s blushing tendencies and lousy poker face was an extra bonus.

 

“So how fast will this thing work?” I ask Becker, slipping the card case into my breast pocket.

 

“Under thirty seconds,” he answers smugly.  “Security into the premier safety deposit box area is tight.  No electronic devices allowed, including laptop computers, cell phones, and digital cameras.  This won’t be picked up.  I guarantee it.”

 

And that’s why I’m on this assignment.  They don’t need to worry about a digital camera when they’ve got me as their eyes.  Where numbers are involved, I have a photographic memory.

 

Keith’s instructions confirm it.  “Get into the box, make note of anything you see in there.  Presumably it’s encrypted and in Japanese.  Right up your alley, Matrix.”

 

The car pulls up to the bank and Seeta, Keith and I get out and enter the lobby.

 

“Mr. Finch to see Mr. Korrapati,” Seeta says in Hindi to the woman behind the front desk, handing her a business card.

 

I stare straight ahead, my face impassive.  Keith is behind me, posing as my bodyguard, and I know he’s taking care of assessing the bank’s video surveillance.  I’m wearing tinted eyeglasses and have swept my hair back, combing in a little gray coloring at the temples, but otherwise wear no disguise.

 

In a matter of seconds the bank manager is there, bowing and smiling and generally pandering to the wealthy American who has graced his establishment with his presence and his money.  He speaks in rapid Hindi, a language I haven’t mastered but can somewhat interpret.  Still, I’m glad Seeta is with us and I play clueless in the language barrier game.

 

We are led to the safety deposit box area.  Within the heavily guarded vault is a second vault—the Gold Star boxes—even more heavily secured.  Here, Mr. Korrapati accesses the fingerprint pad and types in a series of passwords.  He turns and apologizes to me, via Seeta, but makes it clear that neither my bodyguard nor my interpreter will be allowed to accompany me.  I place my keys, wallet, and cell phone into a tray, then set my briefcase on a high table just outside the vault door.  I unlock it from my wrist, open it, and remove some papers and two discs, which Mr. Korrapati examines before returning to me.  I’m patted down by the security guard and Mr. Korrapati converts to halting but clear English as he escorts me into the vault.

 

“Mr. Finch.  You have key card for box?”

 

I nod and withdraw the card holder.  I remove my key card and hold it out for him.

 

He runs it through his hand-held scanner and reads the results aloud.  “15985.”

 

Becker is good.  The box he’s acquired for me is just inches from Hashimoto’s.  Moreover, neither Korrapati nor the guard even gives a second glance to the stainless steel case that I slip back into my pocket.

 

The key card opens the secured wall niche that contains the safety deposit box.  After that, it’s pretty standard, a double key system—one mine, one Korrapati’s—to remove the box from the wall and my own personal key to open it.  Banks are one of the few places in the world where actual keys are still being used.

 

“I will leave you to privacy,” Mr. Korrapati says and with another bow backs out of the vault.

 

I open my box and deposit the papers and discs.  I quickly lock it back up again but leave it on the table.  Returning it to the wall niche will trigger the security system and alert Korrapati that I’m finished.

 

I fish Becker’s gadget out of my pocket and hold it up against Box 15983.  True to his word, I count off eighteen seconds before the door silently pops open.  No lights, no beeps, nothing to signal that the system has been compromised.  Becker is good.  Really good.

 

I repeat the case-against-box process to remove the safety deposit box from the wall and again to open the lid on top.  It takes a bit longer versus the key locks, almost twenty-five seconds.

 

There is only one item in the box, a single piece of ruled notebook paper.  And they didn’t need me to interpret or memorize it.

 

BVI P47 27.11.12-14

 

I commit the short sequence to memory and even as I’m putting Hashimoto’s box and mine back into place, I’m running ciphers through my head.  Sometimes the shortest codes are the hardest to break.  I haven’t cracked it by the time I’ve triggered the system and Korrapati has reentered the vault to escort me outside.  I give no indications of what I found to either Seeta or Keith.  I simply gather my things, secure the briefcase back on my wrist and thank Mr. Korrapati for his time.

 

We step outside and that’s that.  Unlike what you see on television and film, agents rarely set off alarms or flee from buildings with armed gunmen chasing them.  A bank, a hotel, even a private residence is usually a controlled environment with known security factors that we can monitor and bypass.  Today, stepping from the tranquil bank environment out into the bright Indian sunlight and concentrated noise of the dense city crowd is about as much of a system shock as we’ll get.

 

Or so we think.

 

A Dark Turn

 

“Where the hell is the car?” I grumble.

 

“Where the hell is Becker?” Seeta adds.

 

We try to remain composed, just in case anybody is still watching from the bank, but the fact that there is no car, no driver, and no Becker is more than a little disconcerting.

 

Keith is already on his comm-link, uttering several words worse than “hell” as he tries to ascertain Analog’s whereabouts.

 

I can hear a faint buzz of static from his earpiece.  I try to look haughty and irritated by the substandard service I’m experiencing in this dirty foreign country.  Seeta catches on and is appropriately fawning to her rich American employer.  We’re both gritting our teeth.  Even a little thing like a car not being where it should can signal disaster.

 

“There’s no answer.  I have to assume we’ve been compromised,” Keith says, his eyes already darting around the vicinity for trouble.  “I’m going to search for Analog.  You two get out of here.  We’ll meet at the safe house after two o’ clock.”

 

He doesn’t explain how he thinks he’s going to find our tech guy in a city of some six million people and we don’t have a chance to ask.  Before either of us can blink, he’s gone.  Seeta and I turn and move briskly in the opposite direction.

 

So much for the fictitious scenarios you see on film.  At least nobody’s chasing us with guns blazing.  Yet.

 

Seeta has her hand on my arm and is almost dragging me through the congested streets of the marketplace, dodging through the crowd.  She seems to know where she wants to go, even though we’re heading in the opposite direction from where the CIA safe house is.

 

Finally, she ducks into a dark courtyard and we have a moment to catch our breath.

 

“Where are we?” I ask.

 

“I grew up in this part of the city.  I know it well.  We’ll lie low here for a few hours before we start for the other side of the city.”

 

I nod but my brain is going in about ten different directions.  Part of it is still trying to work out the cipher from Hashimoto’s safety deposit box.  I haven’t come up with anything, but I won’t give up until I do.  Part of me is wondering about the purpose of keeping one single piece of paper and nothing else in an ultra-high security safety deposit box.  Part of me is cursing my job and hoping I don’t get myself killed before I can replace Katie’s Harry Potter books.  The sensory part of my brain is taking in everything around me, staying alert so I don’t get myself killed.

 

And part of me is trying to work out how I’ll accomplish my second objective.  One that has nothing to do with Keith, Seeta or the missing Becker.

 

The item the ransackers were looking for in the cabin Friday is on my person.  I’m supposed to be meeting with an unnamed CIA operative and passing it along.  I haven’t yet gotten confirmation on when or where the exchange is to be made.

 

And if the reason Becker and the driver are missing has anything to do with this secondary objective, it could mean serious trouble for both of them, for me, and for my unknown contact.

 

“Are we just going to hang out here in the dark alley all day?” I query.

 

Seeta hesitates before answering.  “No, but you can’t roam the streets dressed like that.  Stay here and I’ll go see if I can round up some local garb for you.”

 

She’s gone almost before I nod my assent.  The courtyard is deserted and I drop farther into the shadows of the nearest doorway, unlock the briefcase from my wrist and open it.  From underneath the false bottom, I pull out my weapon and tuck it into the back of my pants.  Then I discard the briefcase in a nearby trash bin.

 

Although I’m currently alone, I still feel conspicuous in my business attire.  And it’s ungodly hot out.  I shed the jacket and tie and pitch them in the dumpster, too.

 

I pull out my cell phone and, on impulse, call Isabelle.

 

“Hello, darling,” she greets.  She’s American, the product of two American parents, but she grew up on a remote tropical island and sometimes I can still hear the lilt of the Caribbean in her voice.

 

“Hi, sweetie.  How’s the beach?”

 

“Divine.  Much better than home this time of year.  But I am missing an important element of my relaxing vacation.”

 

“Me?” I ask, putting a teasing note of wistful hope in my tone.

 

“Of course you, silly.  How’s work?”

 

I’m honest with her, if not exactly specific.  “It’s not going well.”

 

“How not well?” she asks, not in an off-handedly curious way but intently, sternly.  She was very young when her parents quit the CIA but she’s heard all the stories.  They’re not exactly bedtime fairy tale fodder.

 

“How’s our daughter?”

 

“How not well?”

 

She’s stubborn, but I am, too.  I’m my mother’s son, after all.  I don’t answer her question, making it clear by my silence that I want her answer first.

 

Isabelle sighs.  “She’s with Mom and Dad on her uncle’s sailboat.  She’s as brown as a berry and having the time of her life.  How … not … well?”

 

“Nobody’s threatening my life,” I answer, trying to sound light-hearted.

 

“Well, I suppose that’s something to be positive about,” she says dryly.  “When are you coming home?”

 

“Just as soon as I possibly can.  Promise.”

 

“Your mother called today.  She wanted to know if all of K’s Harry Potter books were signed.  Why is she asking?”

 

I grimace.  Gleeps, Mom!  Subtlety never was her strong suit.

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe she’s trying to come up with a great gift for her granddaughter’s birthday.”

 

“Everybody knows K has all seven books in first edition, signed by Rowling.  The only way you managed to keep that secret safe from her until Christmas was to tell every other person related to you what you had gotten her.  How has your mother forgotten that?”

 

“I don’t know.  Maybe she’s showing early signs of dementia.”  I spot Seeta at the end of the alleyway.  “Look, I gotta go.  Work beckons.”

 

“Do you need me to talk to Mom or Dad about it?”

 

“Of course not.  What could they do?”

 

Isabelle says nothing but I can hear her dubious sniff on the other end of the line.  Michael Vaughn and Sydney Bristow wouldn’t hesitate to come out of retirement to rescue their son-in-law.  Not because they loved being agents and not even because they love me so much, although both statements are true, but because they’d do nothing short of moving heaven and earth for their daughter and granddaughter.

 

“I love you.  Give my little girl a big hug for me.”

“We love you, too.  Call me as soon as you can.”

 

“I will.”

 

I hang up the phone and shove it into my pants pocket.  Seeta gives me a meaningful look as she hands me a dark blue achkan and matching sandals.  She doesn’t make any comment about the phone call but says simply, “These should be fine over your dress pants.  I had to guess on size.  Luckily, they're pretty flexible on that matter.”

 

I slip the light fabric over my head.  It reaches to my knees and is loose-fitting and comfortable in the decidedly uncomfortable heat.  I kick the shoes and socks off and Seeta tosses them in the trash bin while I slip the sandals on.  My feet are pretty pale—I don’t get a lot of sun in New York winters—but hopefully, nobody will notice.

“Well, you could use some sun on your pale Irish skin but it’ll do,” Seeta concurs.  “Let’s round up something to eat and try to blend into the crowd.”

 

Food sounds great.  My nervously rumbling stomach agrees.  We start to head out of the alley and into the bustling marketplace.

 

“Oh, crap,” I mutter suddenly, spinning around to face my partner.

 

“What is it?”

“My aunt.”

 

“What?  Where?”  She looks past my shoulder into the crowd.

 

“Dark hair, camera.”

 

“Camera?”

 

“Yeah, she’s a photojournalist.  Shit!  She notices everything.”

 

It never occurred to me to ask why Aunt Di wasn’t at the impromptu party Friday.  She travels a lot for her job.  But of all the cities in the world she could be in, she has to be in Surat.  Today.  In one of the most heavily populated cities of the world, she has to be standing within twenty yards of where I am.

 

Iz’s grandfather used to say that the spy game was about 90 percent skill.  The other 10 percent was luck.  I think my luck factor is much higher than that.  And all of it bad.

 

Unveiled

 

Before we can come up with a plan, however, Seeta’s phone hums.  It’s so quiet in the alleyway as we ponder our dilemma that we both start at the noise.

 

“This is Mongoose,” Seeta answers tersely.

 

I watch her face and after a few seconds see it relax somewhat, though her eyes are still unreadable.

 

“Buckeye,” she tells me.  “He has Analog.”

 

She listens for a moment then turns the phone over to me.

 

“This is Matrix,” I answer.  Code names are essential.  We know that mobile phones can’t always be secure.  It’s why Iz and I have learned to leave out specifics and proper names during our phone calls.  “Analog okay?”

 

“He’s fine.  Beat up a little, but he’ll live.  It was the driver.  Somebody paid him to turn on us.”  Hashimoto, I think as Keith continues.  “Anyway, change of plans.  Forget the safe house.  Get to the extraction point as soon as you can.  If I can’t make contact with the pick-up team we’ll just have to lay low until they arrive.”

 

“That could be an issue,” I say, darting a glance out into the marketplace where my Aunt Di is still busily photographing the local culture.

 

“Why?”

 

“Personal problems.”

 

“Of what nature?”

 

“Unplanned family reunion.”

“Are you effing kidding me?  Here?  In Surat?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Seeta grabs the phone from me.  “I can get rid of her, Buckeye.  Don’t worry about it.”

 

My own phone starts vibrating.  I know it’s not Buckeye and it better not be Isabelle.

 

“Matrix,” I answer.

“Vermont.  Verify identity.”

 

It’s my CIA contact, Agent Vick Whittemore, a real piece of work.  He sits behind a desk and acts like the puppet master of all the field agents.  He shuns original thinking and innovation.  It’s his way or the highway.

 

Seeta is trusted but identification codes are the most secure and personal part of our covers.  I turn and walk briskly away from my partner, lowering my voice and relaying my identification code.

 

“Identity verified,” confirms Agent Whittemore.  “Has the primary objective been accomplished?”

 

“Yes, but our security has been compromised.  We’re heading to the extraction point now.”

 

“You must turn over the acorn to our carrier before leaving Surat.”

 

The acorn is the code name for the special delivery item in my pocket.  I’m guessing it has something to do with growing mighty oaks.  Whatever those mighty oaks might represent, this tiny item is integral to their development.

 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” I bark back.  “I don’t even know who he is or where I’m supposed to meet him.”

 

“You’re meeting Snapshot there in the marketplace.  Pass the item and get to the extraction point.”

 

I don’t ask how he knows where I am at the moment.

 

“The freelancer?  Our team has just been compromised and you’re not concerned about the freelancer?  You don’t think it’s possible that he’s somehow connected to this?”

 

“Snapshot is trustworthy.”

 

Agent Whittemore is a pompous prick, but nobody in the CIA says a free agent is trustworthy unless they’re one hundred percent damn sure of it.

 

“So how will I recognize him?  Or will he recognize me?”

 

“You’ll recognize each other.”  There’s a pause, a deliberately lengthy pause.  “Provided Mongoose isn’t about to chase her off.”

 

“What the hell are you—?”  I stop suddenly and whip my head toward the end of the alleyway.

 

No way.  No freaking way.

 

 

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