It’s not until the last passenger is gone that the medical crew comes down the jet bridge with a gurney. The crew is nudged aside as the EMTs congregate around the body. The flight attendant stands in the galley, craning her neck to see what’s going on, but the EMTs’ body language is clear: the passenger is gone. The way they handle the body, there can be no doubt, pulling it out from the tight space like a beached whale and then—drafting in a member of the cleaning crew for assistance—lugging it over to the gurney. The flight attendant takes one last look at the dead man’s face as they struggle past her. Poor man.
Then she remembers the note. She had left it next to the passenger, thinking that it might come in handy at the hospital. But it’s gone. Disappeared.
Maybe the EMTs took it with them.
Whatever he was trying to tell her, she will never know.
TWO
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
The phone rings, a jangle of notes that cuts through an Ambien-induced fog and drags Lyndsey Duncan up through the depths of sleep, near but not quite all the way to consciousness. As she fumbles for the cell phone, her hand runs up hard against a lamp, knocking it off the nightstand. In the dark, everything is a puzzle. She moved in two weeks ago, but the apartment still feels like a hotel. Maybe because it came furnished, an impersonal apartment for business travelers.
Large white numbers glow from the screen: 3:22. It’s tough to force yourself awake when you’ve only been asleep for a couple hours. Or maybe it’s jet lag—do you still get jet lag after two weeks?
Then again, she’s learned to expect calls in the middle of the night.
“This is Sergeant Mitchell from the SOC.” In the back of her mind, she remembers that SOC stands for Security Operations Center, the operational watch at CIA. “I’m calling for Lyndsey Duncan.”
“You’ve found her.” And woke her up.
“I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we need you to cut your leave short and report to work today.”
Lyndsey pushes back the bed things—the sheets stiff, blanket heavy, none of it hers, everything unfamiliar. “What?”
The voice remains patient. “I was told that you are currently on home leave and were not expected to report for work until”—a piece of paper rustles in the background—“January twentieth, but there’s been a situation and your presence has been requested.”
A situation. It could be only one thing, the reason she was put on administrative leave. Her throat is dry from the medication. A glass of ice-cold water would help her to wake up.
“You will need to report to room . . .” As he recites a short string of numbers and letters, Lyndsey has the presence of mind to reach for the cheap pen-and-pad set next to the phone and write it down in the dark. She’s been trained to remember things on the fly (telephone numbers, license plates, addresses) but with the Ambien, why risk it?
As she writes, her mind starts to clear. This is not good. There’s no reason for them to call her in unless a decision has been made, and a decision this quick is likely to not be in her favor. She came home hoping for a second chance, but apparently that’s not going to happen. We’ve reviewed the facts of your case and I’m afraid that we have no option but to revoke your clearance and terminate your employment with the Central Intelligence Agency.
For the millionth time, she thinks of the things she’d done for her job, things she didn’t think herself capable of as a young girl growing up fatherless in a small town in Pennsylvania. The Agency picked her up right out of college and changed the course of her life.
She can still remember the presentation that she gave to the recruiters. The slides she’d prepared based on her psychology studies in college, the index cards she’d held in her damp hands. Ninety percent of all people will lie consistently. The average person will tell three lies every ten minutes. I can predict when someone is lying with greater accuracy than a polygraph. Not that polygraphs were very accurate, but she knew that was what the Agency used. She thought they’d laugh at her, but the recruiter loved her research. Turned out CIA was very interested in knowing when someone was lying to them.
She thought she’d spend her days in a lab but the Agency had other plans for her.
But now her career is over. Ten years after it started.
“They’d like you to report by eight a.m., ma’am, if that would work for you,” the security officer goes on to say. She almost asks if there will be a hearing, if she’ll get a chance to tell her side of the story or if she’s only coming in to turn in her badge.
But then, the sergeant adds one last thing. One thing that stops the angry conversation in her head and brings her safely back down to earth.
“Oh, and one more thing: you’re to report to Eric Newman.”
—
There will be no going back to sleep now.
Lyndsey retrieves the lamp from the floor and clambers out of bed. She can’t find her bathrobe. It’s as though a spiteful servant packed her bags when she left Lebanon. She’s been living out of two suitcases filled with a crazy assortment of odds and ends. Unsuitable shoes, not one decent dress, mismatched jewelry. She is constantly reaching for something that isn’t there, a possession that’s in a box making its way to the United States on
