Need to Know (18 page)

“It's Vivian,” I say when he answers. “I need a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I need you to run a plate for me.”

“Okay.” For the first time, he hesitates. “Can you tell me why?”

“There was a car on my street today.” Truth, so far. “Just sitting there. Seemed suspicious. It's probably nothing, but thought I'd check it out.” The lie comes more easily than I expected.

“Yeah, of course. One sec.”

I hear shuffling in the background, and I picture him opening up his laptop, navigating to a Bureau database, something that pulls in registry information from everywhere, all the data that's out there. The plate will give me a name and address. Whatever alias Yury's using in the U.S., if I'm lucky. And if not his actual address, then at least a lead. Something to run down.

“Ready,” Omar says. I read him the plate number and hear the click of keys on his keyboard. There's a long pause, followed by more typing. Then he reads the number back to me, asks if I'm sure that's it. I double-check the scrap of paper, tell him I'm sure.

“Hmm,” he says. “That's weird.”

I hold my breath, wait for him to go on.

“I've never seen this before.”

My heart's thumping so loud I can hear it. “What?”

“There's no record that the plate exists.”

THE NEXT MORNING,
I'm pulling a coffee mug from the cabinet when I catch sight of the tumbler. Shiny metal, just sitting there on the shelf. I freeze.

That license plate was my only lead to Yury. I have no idea how to find him, how to destroy the evidence that could land me behind bars.

Slowly, I reach for the tumbler. I take it down from the shelf, place it on the counter.

I could do it. I could bring that flash drive in to work, put it in the computer. Just like last time. And then this would all be over. Matt said so; Yury said so.

We'll pay. Enough for you to provide for your children, for a long time to come.
Yury's promise runs through my mind. That was a big part of the reason I didn't turn Matt in to begin with—the fear that I couldn't provide for the kids, on my own, if he were gone. Now he's gone. And Yury just offered me a way to do it.

And then Matt's words, from so long ago, that day in the car.
If anything happens to me, do whatever it takes to take care of the kids.

Whatever it takes.

“Vivian?”

I turn, and it's my mom. I didn't even hear her come into the kitchen. She's watching me, a look of concern on her face. “Are you okay?”

I look back at the tumbler, see my reflection in it, that distorted image. That's not who I am, is it? I'm different than that. I'm stronger.

I turn away from it, back to my mom. “I'm okay.”

I SIT AT MY
desk, a mug of coffee in front of me, bits of grounds floating on top. I stare at my screen, open to an intelligence report, something random, so if anyone glances over it looks like I'm reading, when I'm actually not. I try desperately to get my mind to focus.

I have to find that evidence. I have to destroy it. But I have no idea how.

Omar checked more databases, still came up empty on the plate.
Vivian, what's going on?
he asked.
I must have written down the wrong number,
came my reply. But I knew I hadn't, and the fact that there's no record of the plate terrifies me.

I think fleetingly of taking the kids and running, but it's not an option. The Russians are good. They'd find us.

I need to stay here and fight.

LATE THAT NIGHT,
after the kids and my parents are asleep, I'm alone in the family room, mindless television for company, to avoid the heavy silence that descends on the house when it's off. A dating show, dozens of women competing for a single man, all of them madly in love, even though not one of them can really, truly know who he is.

My phone begins to vibrate, dancing ever so slightly on the couch cushion beside me.
Matt,
I think, because that's the whole reason I keep it on now. But the screen says
UNKNOWN
instead of displaying a number.
Not Matt
. It continues to vibrate, a nagging buzz. I mute the TV, then reach for it and answer, holding it to my ear carefully, like it's something dangerous. “Hello?”

“Vivian,” he says, the distinctive voice, the Russian accent. My stomach twists into a knot. “Another day, and
still
you haven't completed the task.” The tone is friendly, conversational. Unnerving, really, since the words are threatening, accusatory.

“There wasn't an opportunity today,” I lie, because in this moment, stalling seems to be my only option.

“Ah,” he says, one thick syllable that somehow lets me know he doesn't believe me. “Well. I'm going to patch you through to someone who”—he pauses, as if searching for the right words—“might convince you to find the opportunity.”

There's a click on the line, then another. Some sort of shuffling. I wait, tense, and then I hear it. Matt's voice. “Viv, it's me.”

My fingers tighten around the phone. “Matt? Where are you?”

A pause. “Moscow.”

Moscow.
Impossible. Moscow means he left. Left the kids alone that day, without a parent. I hadn't realized until this moment that I didn't truly believe it. That I was still holding on to hope that he'd make his way back to us, that he hadn't really left.

“Look, you need to do this.”

I'm numb. Speechless.
Moscow.
This doesn't feel real.

“Think about the kids.”

Think about the kids.
How dare he say that? “Did you?” I ask, my voice hardening. I picture Luke, alone at the kitchen table, the day Matt disappeared. The younger three, waiting by the front desk at school.

There's no response. I think I can hear him breathing, or is it Yury's breath, I'm not sure. And in the silence, I picture us on the dance floor at our wedding, those words he spoke in my ear. I give my head a shake. I don't know what to believe anymore.

“They'll pay you,” he says. “It's enough that you can leave your job.”

“What?” I breathe.

“Spend more time with the kids. Just like you've always wanted.”

This isn't how I wanted it. Not at all. “I wanted
us,
” I whisper. “You and me. Our family.”

There's another pause. “I did, too.” His voice is heavy. I can picture the look on his face, the creases in his forehead.

My eyes are filling, my vision blurring.

“Please, Vivian,” he says, and the urgency, the desperation, in his voice sends a rush of fear through me. “Do it for our kids.”

I'm still holding the phone to my ear long after the line goes dead. Finally I set it down, back on the couch cushion beside me, and I stare at it. The last words he spoke are ringing in my head, the way he said them, the fear in his voice. Something isn't right.

I should just do what they say. The promises are stacking up: It's the last thing I'd have to do. I'd be paid well. I could provide for my kids. Be there for them. All I'd have to do is stick that flash drive into that port, the same thing I'd already done once before.

But I can't. I can't be responsible for bringing harm to our assets, to my country. And I can't trust that they're sincere, that they won't task me with something else, whenever the opportunity arises.

I'm supposed to feel like I have no choice. Like I'm alone, and I'm not strong enough to do this on my own.

But they're wrong. I do have a choice.

And when it comes to my kids, I'm stronger than they think.

I WAS EXACTLY TWENTY WEEKS
pregnant when I got the call. On my cell, as I was driving home from work. A local number; the OB's office, probably. I'd had another ultrasound that morning—the anatomy scan, the one I'd looked forward to for weeks.

A long string of fuzzy black-and-white photos lay on the seat beside me. Faces that finally looked distinct, arms and legs and the tiniest fingers and toes. The sonographer caught one of them smiling, another sucking a thumb. I couldn't wait to show Matt.

And the envelope. Plain, white, the word
genders
scrawled on the front. Sealed, because I didn't trust myself not to peek. We'd open it together when I got home, Matt and the kids and me.

“Hello?” I said.

“Ms. Miller?” I heard, and it was a voice I didn't recognize. Not the receptionist, the one who called for routine matters like this, to say that everything looked good. My hands tightened on the wheel. I had a vague sense that I should pull over. That whatever this was, I wasn't going to want to hear it. I'd almost started to believe that everything was going to be okay, too.

“Yes?” I managed to say.

“This is Dr. Johnson, from pediatric cardiology.”

Pediatric cardiology. I felt like a weight settled down around me, unbearably heavy. They'd run a fetal echocardiogram today, after the ultrasound.
Don't worry,
the nurse had whispered as she led me across the hall.
Sometimes with twins they just want to get a closer look
. And I believed her. I believed I shouldn't worry. I believed that the sonographers were just standoffish, that they weren't allowed to tell me anything, that everything was okay.

“One of the fetuses showed no anomalies.” Dr. Johnson's voice was heavy.

One of the fetuses
. There was a dull thought pounding at the edges of my brain.
That means the other did
. “Okay.” My voice was barely above a whisper.

“Ms. Miller, there's no easy way to say this. The other has a critical congenital heart defect.”

I don't remember pulling over, but the next thing I knew, I was in the emergency lane, hazards flashing, cars whizzing by on my left. I felt like I'd been punched in the gut.

She was going on and on, and little snippets were connecting, reaching my brain.
“…pulmonary valve…cyanosis, trouble breathing…surgery immediately…that said, there are options…if you decide…two male fetuses…selective termination…”

Two male fetuses.
That's what stuck, what lodged in my mind. It was two boys. There would be no huddling around the envelope, no excited yelps from Luke and Ella. But there wouldn't have been, anyway. What did gender matter when there was news like this?

“
Ms. Miller?
Are you still there?”

“Mm-hmm.” My mind was racing. Would he have the same life as the other kids? Would he run, would he play sports? Would he even survive?

“I know this is difficult news to receive. Especially over the phone. I'd like to schedule an appointment as soon as possible. You can come in, we can talk about options….”

Options
. I looked down at the pictures beside me, the smile on one baby's face, the thumb in the mouth of the other. I closed my eyes and saw them wiggling around on the ultrasound screen. Heard the sound of one heartbeat,
thub-thub-thub-thub,
and the other,
thub-thub-thub
. Then I laid a hand on my belly and felt it shift, the two of them in there, jockeying for space.

There weren't options. This was my baby.

“Ms. Miller?”

“I'm keeping him.”

There was a pause, brief but long enough that I could hear the judgment in it. “Well, in that case, it would be good to sit down and discuss what to expect….”

I hated her. I hated this woman. I knew, with absolute certainty, that every appointment I had from here on out, I'd make sure it was
not
with her. He was my son. He was going to reach his full potential. I'd keep him safe, I'd give him strength. Whatever it took, I'd do it.

Her voice drifted through my thoughts.
“…
a series of surgeries in the future…potential for delayed development…”

I felt like I'd been punched again. Surgeries. Therapy. All of that would take money. A stable paycheck, one that would keep growing. It would take good health insurance, the kind I got from my job. Not the kind we'd have to pay out of pocket for, that would bankrupt us, that wouldn't provide the same level of care.

The plan to stay home with the babies evaporated, just like that.

But whatever it took, I'd do it. This was my son.

I'M STILL STARING AT
the phone on the couch cushion beside me. A plan is starting to take shape in my mind.

It could work, or it could blow up spectacularly in my face. But right now I don't have another option. I need to find Yury. And I finally have another lead.

I remove the battery from my cell, then find the burner phone. I dial, hold it to my ear, hear Omar pick up.

“I need to talk to you,” I say quietly. “In private.”

Two heartbeats before I hear him say, “Okay.”

“How about the Reflecting Pool? Tomorrow morning at nine?”

“That works.”

I pause. “Just you and me, okay?”

My eyes drift to a photo on the mantel, Matt and me at our wedding. I hear Omar's breathing.

“Okay,” he says.

I ARRIVE BEFORE HE DOES,
sit on a bench near the center of the pool. The park is quiet; the trees, still. The air is cool, but holds the promise of warmth. Tourists mill around up near the Lincoln Memorial, little specks of color, but this section of the park is deserted, except for the occasional jogger.

There are three ducks in the water, a little straight line, ripples cascading around them. How nice it would be if I were here with the kids, if they were throwing little chunks of bread into the water, watching the ducks swim over and gobble them up.

I don't see Omar until he's there beside me. He sits down on the opposite end of the bench, doesn't look at me right away, and for a moment I feel like I'm in a movie, like none of this is real. Then he looks over. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I meet his eyes briefly. There's some suspicion there, but not like there was months ago, when we first broke into Yury's computer. I look away, back to the water. One of the ducks has trailed off, turned himself in the opposite direction.

“What's going on, Vivian? Why are we meeting out here?”

I twist my engagement ring around my finger. Once, twice, a third time. I don't want to do this. “I need your help.”

He's silent. I've spooked him. This will never work.

I swallow. “I need you to trace a call. Tell me everything you can about the number.”

There's a beat of hesitation. “Okay.”

I clear my throat. This is a risk. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. But I do know it's the only idea I've had, the only way I might be able to track down Yury. And he's the only one I can turn to. “It was to my phone, last night. Unknown number. Patched through from Russia.”

His mouth opens into a little circle, then quickly closes. “I can talk to my boss—”

“No. You can't tell anyone.”

His expression darkens. He raises an eyebrow. I can read the question on his face, even without him saying a word.

I can feel pinpricks of sweat on my brow. “You know how you said there's a mole in CIC? Well, there's a mole in your department, too. The Agency's investigating one.” I fight to keep my expression open, honest. Omar knows how to look for lies. I can't give him any of the signs.

He looks away, shifts in his seat, visibly unsettled.

“You're the only one I trust. We need to keep this between the two of us.”

He's staring straight ahead, out into the pool. I look that way, too. The ducks are back in their straight line, far from us now, moving fast.

“What you're asking me to do—trace a call to your cellphone, not document it—it's illegal.”

“I need help. I don't know where else to turn.”

He shakes his head. “You gotta tell me more.”

“I know.” I realize I'm twisting my engagement ring around my finger again. It feels wrong, what I'm about to do. I can hear Matt in my head, those words from so long ago.
Whatever it takes. You'd need to forget about me and just do it.

“It's the sleeper cell. I think I'm close to breaking in.”

“What?” he breathes.

“Someone's wrapped up in it.” I hesitate. “Someone who's important to me.”

“Who?” His eyes are searching mine.

I give my head a shake. “I need to be sure first. I'm not ready to talk about it. Not yet.”
Not until I've destroyed anything they can use to blackmail me.

There's a jogger approaching on the path, bright pink shorts and headphones in her ears. We watch her pass, her footsteps pounding the dirt in front of us, then trailing off in the distance. Finally I turn back to him. “I'll tell you everything, I promise. Just let me get to the bottom of it first.”

He runs a hand through his hair, and when he lifts his arm, I can see the bottom of his holster under the edge of his shirt. I stare at it.

“I can't let you do this on your own,” he says.

I pull my eyes back to his face and give him my sincerest look, try to channel all of my desperation into it. “Please.”

“I won't tell anyone. Just you and me, Viv. We can—”

“No.” I pause. “Look, we're friends. That's why I came to you. You said that if I ever needed help…”

He runs a hand through his hair again. Gives me a long look, hard and worried at the same time. He'll do it, right? He has to do it.

He looks hesitant.
Too
hesitant, like he's going to say no. I need something else. Something he'd care enough about to bend the rules for me. I think back to the conversation in the elevator, months ago.
There's a mole in CIC.

If you're in trouble, you know where to find me
.

My throat feels tight. “You were right about the mole. In CIC.” I need to promise him something. I need to buy time. “I'll learn more if you trace this number for me.”

“The number's connected to the mole?
And
the sleeper cell?”

I nod. His eyes search mine, and I can see the excitement, the hunger. I've dangled a carrot in front of him, and he wants it. He wants it enough to do anything, right now.

“Just give me a little time,” I say.

Finally he exhales. “I'll see what I can do.”

HE'S GOING TO LOOK
into the number on his own. I know he will; there's not a question in my mind. I've started a ball rolling, started a timer that's going to give me the smallest of windows to get to Yury before the Bureau closes in. I just need to get to that evidence before they do.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, going to Omar. But I'm in an impossible situation. That call is the only real lead I have. I need to exploit it.

Back in the office, I stare at the phone, waiting for it to ring. I catch myself doing it, force myself back to the folder of potential ringleaders, the one that's growing ever so slightly more slim, but only just barely. Every time I hear a phone, I jump, but it's never mine. I try to imagine what Omar's doing, pray he's not telling his superiors, that they're not calling mine, because someone would make me talk, someone would track down Yury on their own, and then where does that leave me? Prison.

Another ring, this one finally mine. My hand's on the receiver, lifting midring. “Hello?”

“I have what you need,” Omar says. “O'Neill's in an hour?”

“I'll be there.”