“Framing me didn’t require me surviving the blast. She didn’t have to get me out of the building.”
“But if she was a captive, why was she allowed to save you? Why would her captors help you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps she made a deal with them. Spare you, and she would cooperate.”
I said nothing. The thought of Lucy sacrificing herself for me weighed on me like rocks tied to a drowning man.
“But there is the question of all the money she had, all the money she moved before she vanished.”
“How do you know?”
“I know about the money she moved. It doesn’t matter how.”
I studied Mila’s face. I could grab her, throw her against the wall, force her to tell me who she was. But I could tell force wasn’t the way to deal with her. She had a lot of resources and she’d chosen to speak with me alone. As an equal, not as a prisoner. It was the first time in a long while someone acted like I could be trusted. “I can’t explain. I think she’s alive.”
“I think Lucy Capra was a traitor, paid for her work,” Mila said evenly, “and, once she was pregnant with your child, she decided to get the hell out of the situation while she could. She was going to have to go on maternity leave in a matter of days. Her work logs, her computer activities would have been under another agent’s direct scrutiny in your office. Her trail could have been discovered.”
I let the words settle. “You’re wrong.”
“The alternative is a monster under the bed,” Mila said softly. “The alternative is that she never loved you, she used you, and then she framed you to look like a traitor. She murdered your friends. She made you a pawn.” Mila pulled a face. “I want to know what you truly think, Sam. You worked some of the most dangerous jobs in Europe. You cannot be a man easily fooled and have survived. Tell me what you really think.”
No one had asked me that in so long. “She’s not a traitor. We were both framed. They took her, to find out what she knew. The Company’s been trying to break the back of the new order of transnational crime rings, especially those with ties to governments, whether friendly or not.”
Mila waited.
“Lucy would be valuable to those kinds of criminal networks. She knew more about our infrastructure, our computer systems, our ways of tracking financial data. She would be more useful to them than I would be. They would have targeted her. I think she warned me to save my life.”
“Yes, she is useful to them,” Mila said. “And you are useful to no one now, except me.”
“Useful to you. How?”
“I could give you the freedom to find the truth.”
“Freedom?”
“Time. Resources. It’s hard to conduct an international search for your wife and child when you’re ordering tonic water by the case and cleaning the beer taps and under constant surveillance. And if they catch you now?” She shrugged. “You’ll be in their prison for the rest of your life. The waterboarding was a bitch. I’ve seen the tapes.”
“I won’t be free as long they’re hunting me. And as long as I don’t know what’s happened to my family.”
“They made you into a soldier for the shadows; they made you play a role where you would have been tortured to death if you’d been discovered. Smuggler, hired gun. They made you their weapon, and they don’t need you anymore, Sam. How long did you last on the waterboarding? A minute? Most people don’t make it past the twenty-second mark. You are strong.”
“How are you not Company but you’re watching Company tapes? Did you find it on YouTube?”
Mila risked a smile. “According to the file, you were never waterboarded. According to your file, your wife is considered missing in action and you have resigned from the CIA. Your file indicates you did not do field work, but were a minor administrator with limited duties. They’ve rewritten your history to make you unimportant.”
“All neat and tidy. It never happened, like Howell likes to say.”
“If Lucy was a traitor, she may have compromised a hundred agents in Europe and beyond. She might have given them secrets in trade for your life. Maybe that’s why they let her save you.”
The thought was crushing. “Please don’t say that.”
“Sam. You are aimless. That’s a waste. You should be aimed, like a handcrafted bullet.”
“So where would you aim me?”
“At some very dangerous people.”
Recruitment. Mila wasn’t Company, but she was… big. Mila was capable of accessing my no doubt top-secret file and could have a jet helicopter intercept and search a ship, with an armed team. “I’m offering you a chance to do the work you’ve been trained to do, with support, and to regain your credibility and dignity.”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“Of course you are. The Company believed for months that you were a mass murderer and a traitor. Now they simply believe you’re an idiot who was played by his traitor wife.”
“They said I was innocent, that they had proof.”
“The only proof in your file was that you never broke. That you never changed your story. Howell argued for you to be put out as bait. That Lucy, if a traitor, would come out of hiding to kill you to eliminate you as a loose end or to keep you from coming after her. Or if Lucy had been kidnapped, then putting you out was no risk. If you ran, you ran, and they would find you.”
“If she wanted me dead, she didn’t have to get me out of the office.”
“Unless you living was useful to her, in the moment and its aftermath,” Mila said. “Traitors are not rational. They live in a bizarre limbo. Not poster children for the good adjustment.” Her English was nearly perfect but not quite.
“She’s not a traitor.”
“I should get you a T-shirt with that on it,” Mila said. “And then my Christmas shopping is done.”
“You’re brutal.”
“I am the first person in months, Sam, telling you the truth. Love me for it, okay?”
“Whatever you’re peddling, I’m not interested.” I set my empty whisky glass on the table. I had hardly realized I’d downed it. “My wife is gone. I don’t care what they think. I just… don’t… care.”
“The TV, you watch the news yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Train station bombing in Amsterdam yesterday.”
It had been mentioned on the TV in the truck stop near Albany. “I heard about it.”
Mila slid a stack of pictures to me. A stack. I flipped through them. Several of the pictures caught the magnified face of a young woman. Attractive, dark-eyed, much of her face masked by a scarf around her throat, pulled high to her nose as if warding off the chill. She wore a long-sleeved shirt and jeans.
“Who is she?”
“The daughter of a man I know. A nice young woman. Yasmin Zaid. She’s from London. She has never been in any trouble; she has a doctorate from Oxford. Blameless life. She’s been missing for three weeks and yesterday she shows up, walking through Amsterdam Centraal, with a backpack on her shoulder. It had the bomb inside, I believe.” Mila slid another photo out. “The man walking four feet behind her…” Her voice trailed off.
I felt a jolt in my chest. It was the same man who’d driven my wife away in the Audi. The hair was cut into a short burr, makeup smeared over the scar that lay near his eye. But I knew the shape of his face, the question-mark scar seared into my head.
22
I see a slight resemblance,” Mila said.
I looked up from the photo. “You think this young woman bombed…”
Mila handed me another picture. The same woman, hurrying out of the station, no backpack, the man who took my wife close behind her. I glanced at the time stamp.
Mila followed my gaze. “The bomb detonated ten minutes after Yasmin Zaid left, in a store inside the station.”
I studied the girl’s face. A blank canvas, waiting for the delicate touch of the brush. She didn’t look afraid or excited about her bombing mission. She was… blank. Behind, the scarred man was grinning ever so slightly.