Need to Know Read online

  —

  I GET TO MY DESK the next morning and see the little red flashing light on my phone. Voicemail. I flip through the call history. Three calls from Omar, two yesterday and one this morning. I close my eyes. I knew this would come, didn’t I? Or should have, at least. If I’d thought it through.

  I pick up the phone, dial his number. I need to get this over with.

  “Vivian,” he says when he answers.

  “Omar. Sorry I missed your calls. I left early yesterday, just got in this morning.”

  “No worries.” There’s a pause.

  “Look, about Yury’s computer.” My nails are digging into my palm. “It’s not looking very promising. I’m afraid there’s nothing there.” I hate this, lying to him. I picture the two of us, all those years ago, commiserating over the Bureau’s rejection of his op plan. And all the times since, at O’Neill’s and our offices and even our homes, sharing our frustrations about our inability to find anything worthwhile. Our conviction that the sleepers are a genuine threat, and we’re powerless to stop it. A friendship cemented over a mutual feeling of futility. And now I finally have something, and I have no choice but to lie to him about it.

  He’s silent on the other end of the phone.

  I close my eyes, like somehow it’ll make the lies easier. “Obviously we need to wait for translation and exploitation. But so far I haven’t found anything of interest.” My voice sounds surprisingly confident.

  Another pause. “Nothing?”

  My nails dig in even harder. “There’s always the chance there’s something embedded in the files, steganography or something like that. But so far, nothing.”

  “You always find something.”

  Now it’s my turn to pause. Disappointment I understand. But this is something more. This is unsettling. “Yeah.”

  “With the other four. You found something with each of them. Enough to warrant expedited translation.”

  “I know.”

  “But with this one, you didn’t.” It’s a statement, not a question. And there’s an unmistakable tone of skepticism in his voice. My heart’s racing now.

  “Well,” I say, and fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Haven’t come across anything yet.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “That’s not what Peter said.”

  —

  I FEEL LIKE I’VE been punched in the gut, the wind knocked out of me. It’s got to be the pictures. He found the pictures. Whatever Matt did, it wasn’t enough. And then suddenly I’m aware of someone behind me. I turn, and it’s Peter. Standing, silent, watching me. Listening.

  “I didn’t know he’d found anything,” I say into the phone, my eyes on Peter the whole time, letting him hear what I’m saying. My mouth is very dry.

  Peter nods. The expression on his face is impossible to decipher.

  Omar’s speaking, something about coming to headquarters, a meeting, but I don’t hear the words. My mind is racing. Did Peter find Matt’s picture? Impossible, because he’d have already gone to security. Did he see that I deleted the file? Again, security. He wouldn’t be standing here talking to me.

  “Vivian?”

  I blink, try to focus on the conversation, Omar’s voice in my ear.

  “See you later?”

  “Yeah,” I murmur. “See you later.” I hang up the phone and put my hands in my lap so Peter won’t see them shaking. Then I turn to him, wait for him to say something, because I can’t make my mouth work.

  He takes a moment before responding. “You got on the phone before I could catch you. I went into Athena this morning, had a look around. Figured you could use a hand, someone to lighten the load.”

  Oh God. I should have figured he might do that.

  “I found a file. It had been deleted.”

  My kids. I see each of their faces in my mind. Their smiles, looks of joy and innocence.

  “…called Friends…”

  Luke’s old enough to understand. How many times have we told him not to lie? Now he’s going to know his father’s whole life, his parents’ marriage, all of it was a lie.

  “…five photos…”

  And Ella. Ella worships Matt. He’s her hero. What will this do to her?

  “…meeting at ten with the Bureau…”

  Chase and Caleb. Too young to understand, too young to have memories of our family before this.

  “…Omar will be there…”

  Omar. Omar knows Matt. I introduced the two, when Omar and I started spending so much time together. He’s been to our house, we’ve been to his. Maybe Peter didn’t recognize him. But Omar would. And in any case, if I’m in the room when they show his picture…

  I need to pretend. Feign surprise.

  “Vivian?”

  I blink. Peter’s looking at me with raised eyebrows.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “What?”

  “You’ll be there? At the meeting?”

  “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

  He hesitates a moment longer, a concerned look on his face, then leaves, back to his office. I stare at my screen, try to remember how I felt when I first saw Matt’s picture, because I’m going to have to replicate it. Disbelief. Confusion. Fear.

  Then my rationalization: He’s being targeted.

  I could ask to see the file now. Pretend to see it for the first time, in front of Peter. But better to let a bigger audience see my reaction, see me process these emotions.

  If I can do it convincingly.

  Not if. When. I need to do it convincingly. Because if I give them even the slightest indication I already knew, it won’t take them long to figure out that it wasn’t Yury who deleted the file.

  That it was me.

  —

  PETER COMES BACK AT five minutes before ten. We walk down the hall together, to the suite that houses the CIC executive offices. “You okay, Vivian?” he asks as we walk, peering at me over his glasses.

  “Fine,” I say. In my mind, I’m already in the conference room, seeing Matt’s picture.

  “If you need more time off, more time with Caleb…”

  I shake my head. Words won’t come right now. I should have done what Matt said. I should have turned him in. He’s going to be discovered anyway, and now I’m in trouble, too. Why didn’t I listen?

  We walk in, and the secretary ushers us into the conference room. I’ve been here a few times before, and each time it’s as intimidating as the last. Darker than it needs to be, heavy gleaming wood table, expensive leather chairs. Four clocks on the wall—D.C., Moscow, Beijing, Tehran.

  Omar’s there at the table, along with two other Bureau guys in suits. His bosses, I think. He nods at me, but not with his usual grin. Just a nod, doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  I sit down on the other side of the table and wait. Peter goes to the computer, logs on, and I see the large screen on the wall come to life. I watch him navigate to Athena, launch the program, and then I stare at the clock, the one that shows the local time. I watch the second hand tick around, focus on that, because I know if I think of Matt, of the kids, I’ll fall apart. Everything will fall apart, and I’ll never get through this. And I have to get through this.

  Tina strides in moments later, followed by Nick, the chief of CIC Russia, and two assistants, each in a black suit. She gives curt nods around the room and takes her seat at the head of the table. There’s an unpleasant look on her face. Unpleasant and intimidating. “So we’re inside laptop number five,” she says. “More luck than the first four, I hope?” Her eyes scan the room and land on Peter.

  He clears his throat. “Yes, ma’am.” He gestures up at the screen, the Athena home page. He double-clicks on the icon with Yury’s name, and moments later I see the mirror image of Yury’s laptop, the blue bubbles, so familiar at this point. My eyes go to the last row of icons, the place where the folder should be and isn’t.

  Peter’s talking, but I’m not hearing the words. I’m focusing on how I’ll feign surprise, trying to keep my face impassive
, because I know Omar’s watching me. I watch as the screen morphs into strings of characters: the data recovery program at work. Moments later the folder reappears. Friends.

  This is it. Life as I know it is over.

  I try to push my kids’ faces from my mind. Breathe through my nose, in and out.

  He double-clicks, and I see the list of five images. He moves the cursor up to the top, changes the view from text to large icons. At once, five faces appear on the screen. I’m dimly aware of round glasses on the first, bright orange hair on the second. But my eyes focus on the third. On Matt.

  Only it’s not Matt anymore.

  It’s someone who looks like Matt. At least a little. Dark hair, dark eyes, straight smile. And it definitely looks like the picture of Matt that had been in this very place, with this very file name. Same tilt of the head, same distance from the camera, same background. But the features are unmistakably different. It’s a completely different person. Not my husband at all.

  I blink. Once, twice. Disbelief courses through me. Then it morphs, slowly, into a wave of relief. An overwhelming, utterly exhilarating wave of relief. Matt did it. He fixed this, just like he said he would. I don’t know how he did it, but his picture is gone. Our family is still intact.

  We’re safe.

  I finally pull my eyes away from the picture, shift them left, to the first and second pictures, the man in the round glasses, the woman with the orange hair. My breath catches in my throat. The man has sharper features than yesterday, a squarer chin. The woman has higher cheekbones, a broader forehead. These are different people, too.

  I look right, to the last two images, the pale woman and the man with the spiky hair, even though I already know what I’ll see. Similar features, similar camera angles, but not the same people as the day before.

  Oh God.

  Matt was one thing. But four other sleepers?

  My chest feels tight, a crushing pressure inside. And I don’t know why, either. I deleted the other four pictures when I deleted Matt’s. I was willing to hide them to protect my husband. So why does it bother me now, seeing the pictures replaced? How is this any different?

  I hear voices through the fog in my head. A conversation, Tina and Peter. Whether these could really be sleepers. I blink again, try to focus.

  “But the file isn’t encrypted,” Tina says.

  “True, and all our intelligence indicates it should be,” Peter replies. “But it was deleted.”

  Tina cocks her head, frowning. “Some sort of mistake on Yury’s part?”

  Peter nods. “Could be. The file was accidentally loaded, or the encryption failed, or something along those lines, and Yury’s response was to delete it.”

  “Not realizing it would still be there,” Tina adds.

  “Exactly.”

  “And that we’d find it.”

  He nods again.

  She raises an index finger to her lips, bright red polish catching the light. Taps once, twice. Then she looks over at the Bureau contingent, the three agents sitting in a row, dark suits, hands clasped in front of them. “Thoughts?”

  The one in the center clears his throat and speaks. “Seems reasonable to approach this as a lead to Russian sleepers.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We’ll do what we can to identify the individuals, ma’am.”

  Tina offers a curt nod.

  There’s a throbbing in my head. These aren’t sleepers. They might not even be real people. Digitally altered compositions of individuals, leads the Bureau will be chasing in vain.

  And ultimately I’m responsible. I disclosed classified information. I did it to protect my family, sure. But now we’ve lost our insight into the identities of four other Russian agents. I grip the armrest of my chair, suddenly light-headed. What have I done?

  There’s more conversation. I try hard to focus, hear Yury’s name.

  “…in Moscow,” Peter says.

  “Do we know where in Moscow?” Tina asks.

  “We don’t. We’ll certainly devote extra resources in the coming days to determining his whereabouts.”

  “The computer? Do we have any location information?”

  “No. He hasn’t used it to connect to the Internet.”

  He’s here, my mind screams. In the U.S., in our own metro area. On false papers. Stopping by a Northwest D.C. bank courtyard every few months, or whenever my husband signals. I clench my jaw shut, and when I look up, I see Omar watching me. Unblinking, unsmiling. The rest of the conversation fades away until all I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears.

  —

  I’M IN THE HALLWAY after the meeting, attempting a hasty retreat back to my desk, when Omar catches up to me, half-jogging to do so. He falls into step beside me. My heart’s racing. I don’t know what to say to him, what he’s going to say to me, how I can possibly answer his questions.

  “You okay, Vivian?”

  I glance over and he looks concerned, or maybe fake-concerned. My mouth is suddenly very dry. “Yeah. Just got a lot on my mind right now.”

  A few more steps, still in sync, and then we’re at the elevator. I push the button, watch it light up, hope the elevator arrives quickly. “Family stuff?” he asks. The way he says it, the studiously blank look on his face, makes me think of an interrogation, one of those early innocuous questions designed to build rapport—or maybe entrap.

  I look away, to the closed elevator doors. “Yeah. Ella’s been sick, Caleb’s had some medical appointments….” I trail off, wondering irrationally if I’m somehow jinxing their health with these lies. Karma and all that.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him look straight ahead, too. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Then he glances over at me. “We’re friends, remember. If you ever need help with anything…”

  I give a quick nod, look up at the numbers above the elevator doors. I watch them light up in sequence, but slow, much too slow. What did that mean? If I ever need help with anything? We stand side by side and wait.

  Finally there’s a ding, and then the doors open. I walk in, and Omar follows. I press the button for my floor, and then I glance over at him. I should say something, make some conversation. We can’t have a silent elevator ride. That wouldn’t be normal. I’m trying to think of what to say when he speaks. “There’s a mole, you know.”

  “What?”

  He’s eyeing me. “A mole. In CIC.”

  Why’s he telling me this? Is it me they suspect? I struggle to keep my face impassive. “I didn’t know that.”

  He nods. “The Bureau’s investigating one.”

  It can’t be me, though, can it? What’s the appropriate response here? “That’s crazy.”

  “It is.”

  He goes quiet and I have no idea what to say next. In the silence, I feel certain he can hear my heartbeat.

  “Look, I vouched for you,” he says, speaking quickly and softly. “I said you’re my friend, that there’s no way you’d do this. That you shouldn’t be a priority in the investigation.”

  I feel the motion come to a stop. I’m not breathing. I’m absolutely frozen. The elevator doors open.

  “But something’s going on. I can see it.” He lowers his voice. “And they’re going to investigate you eventually.”

  I force myself to look at him. There’s concern on his face, and sympathy, and for some reason that feels almost more unsettling than pure suspicion. He puts a hand out on one side, tripping the sensors, holding the doors open for me. I step out of the elevator, expecting him to follow. When he doesn’t, I turn back. His eyes are boring into me. “If you’re in trouble,” he says, removing his hand, allowing the doors to begin sliding closed, “you know where to find me.”

  —

  THE REST OF THE DAY is a blur. Our bay of cubicles is abuzz, chatter about the five pictures, how best to track down Yury, strategy sessions about how to get to his handler, the elusive ringleader. And I want nothing more than for it to all just disappear. To have time alone wi
th my thoughts, time to process everything that just happened.

  The conversation with Omar, for one thing. Why did he warn me there’s a mole? And why did he act like he suspects I’ve been compromised? If he thinks I’m the double, why is he standing between me and an investigation?

  None of it makes sense.

  And then there’s Matt and the pictures. I don’t know how he did it. He wouldn’t have access to Yury’s computer himself, right? It seems more likely he talked to Yury. But Matt wouldn’t betray me that way, would he? He promised he’d never tell.

  A heaviness is settling down around me. A darkness. All five of those pictures changed. If the goal was to protect our family, the only one that needed to change was his. Changing all five did more than protect our family. It protected the sleeper program.

  I look at the picture on the corner of my desk, the one from our wedding. I stare into Matt’s eyes until they look almost taunting. Are you trying to do what’s best for us? I think. Or for them?

  —

  I FOUND OUT I WAS PREGNANT two months to the day after I made the jump to working Russia CI. I remember sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the little stick, the blue line that was slowly darkening, comparing it to the picture on the box, disbelief and excitement coursing through me in waves.

  I’d had all these cute ideas about how to break the news to Matt, things I’d heard about, read about online, mentally filed away over the years. But seeing that line, knowing there was a baby in there, our baby, I couldn’t wait. I practically burst out of the bathroom. He was in the closet, buttoning his shirt. I hesitated for a moment in front of him, then held up the stick, a big smile on my face.

  His hands went still. He looked at the stick, then at my face, his eyes growing wide. “Really?” he said. And when I nodded, he broke into the biggest smile, one I knew I’d never forget. I’d had a niggling fear, ever since the Bahamas, that maybe he didn’t want kids as much as I’d thought, as much as I wanted them. But that smile made any lingering doubt disappear. It was pure joy. He was the happiest I’d ever seen him.

  “We’re going to have a baby,” he breathed, and I could hear the same wonderment I was feeling. I nodded, and he came toward me, wrapped his arms around me, kissed me like I was suddenly something fragile, and I felt my heart swelling like a balloon, threatening to float right out of my chest.