All the Old Knives (14 page)

I nod at this, knowing that her words are having the desired effect on me. She's asking me to put myself in the victims' shoes, to imagine their terror the way she imagines it on bad nights. But it's not necessary because she's not as special as she'd like to think. We've all had those dreams—me, Bill, Vick, Ernst, Leslie. Even Gene, I'll wager. In the last months, revisiting the files, the nightmares have been pummeling me three and four times a week.

“But in my dream,” she continues, “I'm not submissive. I'm maternal. I'm angry and violent. Maybe you know, or maybe you don't, but when your kids become the center of your life, your access to violence increases tenfold. The very
idea
of someone taking them away or harming them becomes justification for any kind of violence you can imagine. Torture. Murder. Mass murder. Genocide. All these things become acceptable when your children's safety comes into question.”

“Genocide?”

She shrugs. “I don't think I could give you a genocidal what-if, but maybe. Murder, though—that one is easy.”

“I'll remember not to come between you and your kids.”

She smiles, eyes crinkling, then picks up her fork and eats. I do the same, chewing, thinking back to the event that marked us all. With veal still on my tongue, I say, “You didn't answer my question earlier. About why a traitor would be dumb enough to use an embassy phone.”

She thinks about this, and I notice her earlier reluctance has faded away. The wine, I suppose, is relaxing her, making her more confident. “I think it's obvious,” she says. “Don't you?”

“Well, I'm the idiot at the table.”

She shrugs again. “To undermine the Agency presence at the embassy, of course.”

“Ah,” I say. “That makes sense. Make the evidence blatant.”

“But the question's moot, isn't it?”

I blink at her.

“Because there was no call from an embassy phone.”

I nod at this lie, briefly in awe of her absolute self-control. What does she know? She knows, because I've told her, that I'm investigating the Flughafen disaster. She knows, because I've hinted at it, that I've seen the phone records. Yet look at her—the slender wrist leads to the tendons of her hand, everything perfectly still. She is at peace, entirely. Or she plays at peace perfectly. I wish, again, for a different history between us. Despite everything—despite my call to Treble and the knowledge that this is the night that will truly end everything between us—I'm swept up in mawkish romantic thoughts. How can this be?

It can be because in each man's life there are only a few women who can turn him inside out, who can cripple him with a smile. These are weaknesses, but they're also a sign of humanity. Without these flaws, a man doesn't really live.

But he can try.

When she cocks her head, examining me, I start to feel it in my stomach. A tightening, twisting, as if her look has provoked a sudden wave of bitter acid. She knows, I realize. She knows exactly what I'm up to. I'm going to have to be careful.

 

5

I'm finishing my food, thinking through what comes next, and when I look up I find her staring at me. She's different now, in the way a face changes with the shift of clouds over the sun. Her eyes are damp, and when I say, “Are you
crying,
Cee?” she shakes her head, wipes under her eye with the edge of her forefinger, and says, “Just thinking.”

“About…?”

A wan smile, then she shakes her head again. “How about you? What're you thinking?”

I think many things. I think of her ankle, and how it felt in my grip, my fingertips touching on the other side. I think of overpriced dinners and laughter. I think of waking before her occasionally and measuring out her sleeping features with my gaze. I think pitifully of years alone in my bed, desperately rebuilding her from the old schematics. I think of what I'm doing to her now, and I wonder if I'll be able to live with myself, when everything I'm doing is in order to live. I say, “I'm thinking of our history. It's a good history.”

She blinks a few times, again wiping away the tears, and straightens. She sniffs once and looks at the wine in her glass without touching it. The spell dissipates when she says, “Why don't you pin it on Owen Lassiter?”

“Excuse me?”

“He killed himself, after all. Three months after the Flughafen. No one ever explained it, not really. There was a love affair gone bad, but it went bad
after
the Flughafen.” She raises her hands. “Why? Guilt destroys his relationship, then guilt and loneliness destroy him. It's a perfect little narrative, and he's not around to defend himself. Much easier than what you're doing.”

She says this as if it's something that never occurred to me, though it was the very first thought that came to mind when oily little Larry Daniels approached Vick with his wicked theories. “Wouldn't work,” I tell her.

“Why not?”

“Firstly, because it's not true. But that's not so important. There's a practical issue.”

“Which is?”

“His family.”

She raises her chin, thinking, then nods. “Right. Senator Lassiter of Wyoming.”

“Two years ago, he ended up on the Homeland Security and Governmental Affairs Committee. If I pin it on his nephew, there's going to be a load of bricks falling on me. And a perfect narrative won't be enough of a defense.”

“How about Ernst?”

I smile despite myself. I have a feeling she's going to go through the whole list, just like Bill. No, not
just
like him—Bill threw out names in desperation, scratching at the dirt to keep from being smothered. There's no desperation in her voice, and it almost feels as if she's offering alternatives in order to help
me
rather than herself. Help me find another way out. Some escape route, so that I don't have to do this to her. But I've been through the options, each and every one, and this is the only avenue left to me. “The problem with Ernst is that he's still breathing.”

“Aren't we all?”

Does she want me to say it? Maybe. Maybe she wants me to state the practical reason for flying to Carmel and cornering her after all these years: access. Or:
lack
of access. She is the only one of us who has built a high wall between herself and the Agency, the only one who no longer has the pull to defend herself. The irony is that the wall she built to protect herself is the very one that will trap her.

I say, “Do you want to go on with your story?”

She cocks her head, taking me in, and I get the sense that she's going to cry again. Does she really know? Does she realize that, whatever she says or doesn't say, the course has been set? I have no idea, and her reply gives me no clue. She says, “I have a theory about unhappiness. Want to hear it?”

“I'm intrigued.”

She winks at me. “Don't worry—it's nothing brilliant. It's something I came up with back in Vienna, when we were together. Expectation,” she says, “is the source of all human misery.”

“Expectation?”

“Sure.” A smile. “Like, what did I expect from California? I'll tell you: relaxation. Some luxury. A little intellectual stimulation. A safe place to mold my children. Most of all, though—the most pressing thing—was a complete escape from the Agency. I wanted to leave all of it behind. Then, about two weeks after arriving here, I get a call from a guy named Karl. With a
K.
He tells me Bill's in trouble. What can I do? I ask to know more. So he visits me at a restaurant—yes, this one—and tells me that my Bill, the one I've devoted a chunk of my life to, has turned out bad. He's been selling secrets to the highest bidder. Not to France or England or even China, but to the worst of the worst—the Islamists, the Taliban, al Qaeda. Your heroes, Aslim Taslam.”

“They're not my heroes.”

“Whatever. My point is that Karl wants me to help bring him down. Bill.
My
Bill. Wants me to fly to Vienna and draw him out and entrap him. The Flughafen, he tells me, is still very fresh for the Austrians. So I say to him,
Karl, are you Austrian?
He blinks a lot, wipes sweat off his brow, and says,
No, but the Austrians deserve some answers. We're going to give them answers.
What do you think of that?”

I think that it's strange that Vick never told me about this, then I think that maybe it isn't. He wouldn't have been proud of trying to pin our failures on an over-the-hill veteran just to ease relations with the Austrians. I say, “I think that's quite a story.”

“Do you believe it?”

“I believe everything you say,” I lie, then give her a smile to emphasize this. “What did you do?”

“I told him to go stuff himself. I told him that Bill never sold us out to the Islamists. Maybe he shared things with allies—he wouldn't be the first—but there are certain lines he would never cross.”

“You really believe that?” I ask, even though I share her belief.

“I go by evidence, Henry. I go by what I know. And I'm not going to turn my life, or Bill's, upside down based on some stranger's speculation.”

“Good for you. Did he accept that?”

“What could he do? He gave me his card and told me to call if I changed my mind.” She shrugs, lifting her glass. “My point, dear Henry, is that the experience soured things for me here. For a long time I was disappointed in California. It wasn't as peaceful and laid back as I'd been led to believe. Not for me, at least. I became darker here, disconnected. I felt like a ghost. I told you about my visits to the doctor. I started depending on Xanax to keep me level. My life was good, but I couldn't see that. I was blind to it; I was miserable. Why? Because I'd expected too much out of this life. Had I come here expecting only a change of scenery, I would've been pleasantly surprised. But no. I had to demand everything out of my new surroundings, and I felt like I'd been cheated.”

“Even with the Xanax?”

“Even with the Xanax. Until Evan. And do you know why?”

“I do not.”

“Because I had no idea what to expect from him.”

“Maybe I should have a kid.”

She smiles at me. Neither kind nor mischievous; I can almost read pity in it. “Maybe,” she says. “Or maybe not. I don't know. It's not for the feint of heart.”

“Think I'm too self-centered?”

“Yes.”

“Ouch.”

She drinks, and I drink, and I know that she's tipsy because I'm pretty buzzed, and I've got at least twenty pounds on her. I cough into my hand and find a splash of pink spittle, a hint of blood. I clear my throat and feel the burn deep in my gut, the gases rumbling. I wonder if fine California cuisine, the kind that requires an education, is no good for me. I wonder if I've gotten too old for rich food.

“You know, Cee, I get the feeling you're trying to educate me, but I'm not sure what the subject is, or why you're doing it. Are you afraid I'm going to spread my seed somewhere? Maybe you're interviewing me to replace Drew?” She gives me a look, and I raise my hands. “Hey, a guy can dream. I'm just noting a trend in this conversation. We start with the Flughafen, and now you're steering it toward the little ones.”

“Am I?” She purses her lips, as if surprised by this. “I suppose I am, aren't I? Christ, parents are such bores. Where was I?”

 

6

EVIDENCE

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Transcript from cell phone flash card removed from premises of Karl Stein, CIA, on November 7, 2012. Investigation into actions taken by Mr. Stein on October 16, 2012, file 065-SF-4901.

HENRY PELHAM:
Ahmed's last message. You were looking into the phone records.

CELIA FAVREAU:
Right. Well, it was odd, wasn't it? I mean, it wasn't just the sentiment—the idea that we should call off the attack because of some cameras attached to the outside of the plane—but it was the grammar. Completely different from before. Bill had left to go be with Sally, and I sat at his desk wondering about this. I looked at the four messages we received, laid them out next to each other, and the difference jumped out at me. I knew it was a different person.

HENRY PELHAM:
And you were right.

CELIA FAVREAU:
Yes—well, maybe. Because we never found out for sure. We know he was discovered, but we don't know when he was discovered. That's a crucial point. But I had to follow through with the thought. I asked Gene for the phone records, and as he stared at my breasts instead of my eyes he refused. Since Vick wasn't in, I went to Sharon. I didn't have to explain a thing—I simply said that I wanted to take a look at the call records. She cleared it with Vick. Though he never said anything, I assume Vick suspected what I was up to. Do you know?

HENRY PELHAM:
I don't know.

CELIA FAVREAU:
That's strange.

HENRY PELHAM:
Strange?

CELIA FAVREAU:
You work with him every day. And you haven't quizzed him about all this?

HENRY PELHAM:
He gives me direction.

CELIA FAVREAU:
Which is another way of saying he's washing his hands of this. Putting it all on you.

HENRY PELHAM:
No comment. But I do know he suspected a leak as well.

CELIA FAVREAU:
Really?

HENRY PELHAM:
Bill told me. [Pause.] It's not unheard of. If an administrator isn't sure if he can trust his staff, the best move is to lay low and watch everyone.

CELIA FAVREAU:
Christ. I'm glad I'm not there anymore.

[Noises—glasses, drinking.]

CELIA FAVREAU:
Well, Gene finally gave them to me, and I wasted an hour going through them.