Children of the Underground (25 page)

“Get in the car,” I ordered. “In the driver's seat.” He nodded. He moved slowly, trying not to scare me into shooting him in the back. As he lowered himself into the driver's seat, I climbed into the backseat directly behind him, matching him movement for movement. I kept the gun pointed at him, not pulling it away for even a moment. When he couldn't see it, I'm certain he could still feel it.

“Now what?” he asked as he sat in the driver's seat.

“Close the door and start the car,” I ordered. I felt powerful. He reached out and closed the driver's-side door. I watched his hand, careful to make sure that he wasn't trying to grab anything from the pocket in the door. Once his door was closed, I closed mine. He put the key in the ignition and started the car. An open laptop sat on the passenger's seat. He had to come back to the car to input or check something on his computer. It was the only thing that made sense. The Underground was using technology that the two sides in the War were afraid to use. They needed to stay a step ahead.

“Now what?” the man asked again. He hadn't begged or cried. He reacted the way only someone who had been expecting something like this to happen would react. Even so, I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead through the rearview mirror.

“Turn the air-conditioning on,” I answered, “and drive.”

“Where to?”

“First, away from here. And then to Clara.”

He looked at me in the rearview mirror. For the first time since the moment he first noticed me, he looked scared. He didn't move. I lifted the gun and jammed it into the back of his neck. “Drive,” I said. “Now. Don't try anything funny.” He reached down with his right hand and put the car into gear. I peeked at my watch. The next visit to the statue would be in less than four minutes. “Go north.”

He pulled out onto Twenty-third Street and began driving. I looked behind us to see if anyone saw anything. Everything seemed normal. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline. I almost smiled. I eased the pressure of the nozzle of my gun off the man's neck and leaned back, all the while keeping the gun aimed at the back of his head. I made sure that he could see where I was aiming the gun when he glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

We drove straight up Twenty-third Street. I watched the street in front of us. It was full of ordinary traffic. We were part of it now, driving away. I wanted to get more distance between us and the Einstein statue. I wanted to make sure that they couldn't find us, even if they tried following us. “Take your next left,” I said. “Drive into Virginia.”

The man did as he was ordered. When he turned the car, he looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Who are you?” he asked. What he was really asking me was, Why are you pointing a gun at me? In his world, they were the same question.

“My name is Maria,” I answered. “You've heard of me. You've all heard of me.” I looked into his eyes in the mirror as I spoke. “They kidnapped my son and killed his father. I met Clara a few months ago and asked her for help. She refused. Then someone else promised me that you guys would help me. That person is dead now. I'm here to make sure that Clara honors that person's promise.”

“Dorothy,” the man said. I could hear the sadness in his voice. I nodded.

“Once we get into Virginia, take me to Clara.” He didn't answer. He simply kept driving.

We crossed into Virginia only a few minutes later. I felt safer. The last time I made this drive, I was locked in the trunk of a car for two hours. I couldn't hold the gun in front of me like I was for two hours. I looked at the driver in the rearview mirror. “I'm putting my arm down,” I said. “You might not be able see the gun, but, trust me, you don't want to try anything. Keep driving. It would only take me a second to pull the trigger.”

“I can't take you to where you want to go,” the driver said. His eyes met mine in the mirror.

“What do you mean,
you can't take me
? You have to. You don't have a choice.” I could still see fear in his eyes, but I suddenly realized that he wasn't afraid of me. He was afraid of Clara.

“We're not allowed to bring anyone to the compound unless Clara targeted them for recruitment.”

“But I've already been there,” I told him. I could see the surprise on his face.

“Not like this,” he said, shaking his head.

“No. The last time I went to see Clara, two of your friends threw me in the trunk of a car.”

“I can't bring you there,” he repeated.

I lifted the gun again. I leaned forward and pressed the nozzle of the gun into the back of his neck so that he could feel the metal. “You people don't know when to let go. You're willing to die for this?” I couldn't believe his stubbornness. He didn't answer me. He knew I wouldn't appreciate his answer. “Didn't you leave the War to stop this foolishness?”

He lifted his head and stared at me in the mirror. It was a cold, hard stare. “I left the War because I was tired of the killing.”

We rode for another five minutes in silence. I had no idea where we were headed. We were probably getting farther from Clara's with each passing minute. “Do you have a cell phone in the car?” I asked the driver. I knew that your father and Michael didn't carry cell phones, but they didn't travel with laptops either.

“Yes,” the driver answered.

“Then call Clara.”

“I don't know her number.”

“Then call the compound. Call anyone. When they answer, ask for Clara. Say that Maria wants to talk to her about Dorothy. Do it now.”

“The phone is in the glove compartment,” the driver said.

“You can get it. Just move slowly.” He reached over with his free hand and opened the glove compartment. I could see inside. I could see the phone. I could see the Taser. “Don't touch anything but the phone,” I ordered.

“I won't.” I believed him. He wanted a way out. He picked up the phone. He dialed it, taking his eyes off the road as little as possible. He put the phone to his ear.

“Put it on speaker,” I ordered. The driver hit a button and the sound of ringing filled the car.

It rang three times. “Hello?” someone picked up and said after the third ring. It was a man's voice.

“Robert?” the driver asked.

“Roman,” the man on the other end of the line said. The driver's name was Roman. At least that's what he'd named himself. “Where are you? We got word that you disappeared. We thought something might have happened to you.”

“I need to talk to Clara,” Roman said, his voice cracking slightly as he made the request.

“What's going on? Why do you sound like you're calling from underwater?”

“You're on speakerphone,” Roman answered. “I need to talk to Clara. Is there any way you can get her?” Roman looked at me in the mirror. I nodded. “Tell her that Maria wants to talk to her about Dorothy.” Silence. It sounded like Robert had put the phone on mute. The name Dorothy meant something to all of them.

I could hear when Robert unmuted the phone. “Give me five minutes,” he said. “Do you have five minutes, Roman?” Roman looked at me again. I nodded again.

“Yeah,” Roman answered. We were put on mute again. Two minutes later a new voice, one that I recognized, came over the phone.

“Are you okay, Roman?” Clara's voice was crisp and authoritative.

“He's okay,” I answered for him, “for now. I need to see you, Clara.”

“Is this Maria?” Clara asked. I wanted her to recognize my voice the way I recognized hers. She didn't. Our meeting didn't mean as much to her as it had to me.

“Yes.” I swallowed and continued. “I've politely asked Roman to bring me to you, and he refused. I don't want to become less than polite. Will you give him permission to bring me to you?”

It took a moment for Clara to answer. “Bring her in,” she finally said. “When will you be here, Roman?”

“Two and a half hours,” Roman replied, stepping on the gas. He was eager to get out.

“Okay,” Clara answered. “See the two of you soon.”

Roman and I didn't speak for the rest of the ride. I took Dorothy's postcard out of my backpack, folded it in half, and slipped it into my pocket. I rested my hand in my lap but I didn't let go of the gun.

They were waiting for us when Roman pulled the car into the compound. At least a dozen of them were standing, with guns drawn, in front of the building. Four were women; the rest were men. Clara wasn't among them. One of the men gave Roman a hand signal to roll down the windows. Roman did. All four of the car's windows slid down, letting in the smell of the forest air. It smelled rich and alive.

“Get out of the car!” the man yelled. “If you have any weapons, hold them out in front of you so that we can see them!”

I did as I was told, not because I was afraid of them but because I knew that all of this was because they were afraid of me. Roman didn't move. I opened my car door. I held both of my hands out in front of me. One had the gun in it. The other was empty. All twelve of their guns were pointed at me. “Place the gun on the ground,” the leader yelled. I knelt down and placed my gun on the dirt road beneath us.

“I'd like to get that back when I leave,” I said as I stood up with my hands in the air. One of the women ran in front of me and grabbed my gun.

The leader walked up to me. “Is that your only weapon?” he asked, close enough to me now to stop shouting. I nodded. He looked to Roman, still sitting in the car, for confirmation. Roman nodded too. The leader turned me around and made me place my hands on the car. He motioned toward one of the other women, who came over and frisked me from my neckline down to my shoes. She felt the knife, hidden beneath my shirt. I had gotten so used to it that I forgot it was there.

“I forgot about that,” I said. The woman took the knife away. “I'd like that back when I leave too,” I said to the leader. He gave me a frustrated look. He took his gun and put it in its holster on his belt. When he did, the others relaxed their weapons. “I just want to talk to Clara,” I said.

“You have a funny way of asking,” he said.

“You guys don't make it easy,” I answered.

Four of them escorted me into the building. Two walked in front of me, two behind me. They led me down the same hallway that I'd been led down only a few unbelievably long weeks before. It looked smaller now. We passed the stairs that led down to the room where I'd spent the night. The staircase was dark. They pushed me forward, toward Clara's room. I'd put so much hope into my last visit to this place. I was so disappointed when I left. I didn't come with the same expectations. I knew now that no one else was going to find the answers for me, but they made a promise. I planned on holding them to it.

Clara's door at the end of the hall was open. I could see her sitting behind the desk. I was led through the door. Clara didn't look up from her papers until I was inside the room. When she did look up, she looked at my escorts. “You can leave us,” Clara said, and they walked out of the room. Clara seemed tired. I heard the door close behind me. Clara finally looked at me. “You can sit down if you'd like,” she said. I walked around to the chair that Michael had sat in last time I was there. “I wouldn't have expected this from you, Maria,” Clara said, as I lowered myself into the chair.

“You have no idea who I am,” I answered her. “How would you know what to expect?” The leaves on the trees outside the window were still. “I'm sorry about Dorothy,” I said. Clara looked down at her hands. “Do you know what happened to Reggie?” I asked.

Clara looked up at me. “Who's Reggie?”

For a second I thought that Dorothy had been working on her own, that Clara didn't know anything about Reggie. Then I remembered. “Joseph,” I said. “The boy Dorothy was helping to escape. I called him Reggie.”

“He's safe,” Clara answered. “We found him three days after the shooting. He wasn't hurt. We've moved him to a safe place.” Reggie was safe. I saved him. I took a life, but I saved a life too. I kept the balance. “Why are you here?” Clara asked. “You're not here just to check up on that boy, are you?”

I had the postcard folded in my pocket. They hadn't taken it when they frisked me. I unfolded it and placed it on Clara's desk. “Dorothy had promised me that if I helped her hide Reggie she or you would help me find my son.” Clara picked up the postcard. She read it slowly. I said the poem to myself as I watched Clara read.
Every picture is a picture of a picture of a picture of a picture of a scene. Every memory is a memory of a memory of a memory of a memory of a dream.

“Dorothy was always so clever with her poems,” Clara said when she was finished reading. “I don't know what we're going to do without her.”

“Michael found that on Dorothy's body after they shot her,” I said, pointing to the postcard. “I never got another one.” There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. “We tried to save her,” I added.

“I know,” Clara answered. “Joseph told us what happened.” She sighed a weary, exhausted sigh. “Where's Michael now?”

“He's in Turkey,” I answered.

“Are you two not together anymore?”

“No. We are. He's doing a job in Turkey and then we're meeting up again.”

“So, he's fighting again?” Clara asked. She sounded disappointed.

“He never stopped,” I told her, using his line.

Clara laughed a joyless, unflattering laugh. Did she think that her cause was the only just cause? “What do you want from me?” Clara asked, dropping the postcard on the desk.

“I want you to honor the promise that Dorothy made to me.”

“I already told you I can't do that. I don't know where your son is. I don't know where they're keeping that information. I can't afford to have agents rifling through documents to find a child who won't be a part of the War for another seventeen years.”