Even though the apartment is fully furnished down to the sheets and towels, pots and pans, she can’t mentally adjust to the space. It’s like trying to ride a bicycle in high heels and an evening gown; she seems to constantly be running into things (an awkwardly placed coffee table, a wall where a door should be). Unable to find what she needs in any given moment, nothing ever at hand.
She rubs her face. She should have used the past couple weeks to search for a place to live. She was supposed to have two months of home leave, the term for annual leave you aren’t able to burn while you’re stationed overseas. Leave that piles up while you’re busy being invaluable to the nation’s security. Some people come back with six months of paid vacation. Lyndsey offered to forfeit hers if they would let her go right back to work. She wasn’t trying to be a hero; it would take her mind off her troubles. But they insisted she take the time.
Trust me, the OHESS doctor had said during the customary checkup on her return. She never liked dealing with the Occupational Heath, Environmental and Safety Services office, it seemed intrusive for your doctor to work for your employer. Everybody needs to de-stress after an overseas tour. You need to get used to being in the States again. He had been instructed to say that, she was pretty sure. They needed time to decide what to do with her.
Lyndsey wanders through the apartment in the oversized T-shirt she wears for sleeping, turning on lights as she goes. Because of the Ambien, she rules out another drink. Something hot? Herbal tea, cocoa? But there’s next to nothing in the place, only one-cup bags of ground coffee brought daily by the housekeeper, because she has been avoiding the grocery store. She really should go shopping.
She can hardly believe her luck. She hasn’t been fired; she knew as soon as she heard Eric Newman’s name. He was her first boss at the CIA. Their paths have crossed innumerable times since then, which is to be expected since they work the same target. He’d been made Chief of Russia Division a few years ago, a powerful position. Whatever’s happened, the reason for the call, has something to do with Russia. But CIA has lots of Russia hands, many of them with more years on target than her. It’s a little odd that he would ask for her by name. She wonders what he might know about her time in Lebanon—and her return.
She sits on the couch, tucking her cold, bare feet beneath her. She tries to remember how she left things with Eric the last time she’d seen him. She’d always thought him a good guy, a boss who wanted to do the right thing for his people, but there had been grumbles. Weren’t there always grumbles about the boss? Show me one manager who is loved by everyone.
Eric Newman asked for her by name.
She finds the remote and turns on the television, flipping quickly to CNN. The news is all reheated from earlier, not a clue as to what could be behind Eric’s request. Wrangling over financial reforms in Congress, another round of peace talks in the Middle East, and baseball’s team owners about to meet in Florida. The reality is that whatever is behind the SOC’s call, it hasn’t hit the news. It’s something bad that the rest of the world doesn’t know about yet.
But, in four hours, she’ll find out.
THREE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
CIA has not changed in the five years Lyndsey has been gone.
The next morning, the headquarters building makes no attempt to charm, only to impress. White walls like a glacial field. Wide terrazzo floors. The main hallway hung with oil paintings of former Directors, their solemn faces (knowing, judgmental) staring down on the passing streams of employees. While it has felt stifling at times, Lyndsey also finds something reassuring about the sameness, a promise that despite the rolling crises, where the job is meeting one impossible challenge after another, this place will endure because it must.
She sees as soon as she steps through the door to Russia Division that not much has changed here, either, a fairy kingdom that went into hibernation the moment she left, awaiting her return. The same drab colors, the dated furniture. The same binders of case studies and training materials collecting dust, that no one has looked at since they were first shelved. And the window dressing to remind visitors where you are: a row of matryoshka, Russian nesting dolls, line up on the receptionist’s desk. A Soviet-era flag that’s seen better days hanging on a wall, greeting visitors as they enter the vault. Welcome to the Evil Empire. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
As she waits for the office manager to fetch Eric Newman, she looks over the rows of cubicles. At this hour, the room is only half-full, but most heads remain hunched over computers. Only a few swivel in her direction and she doesn’t recognize any of them. The old hands, the people who would know her, have worked their way into the corners, out of sight.
Eric Newman emerges from his office, his right hand outstretched. He shakes hers like a politician who needs her vote. He hasn’t changed much, either, since the last time she saw him. They like guys like Eric at Langley, tall and lean and reasonably good looking. Works out every morning in the gym in the Agency’s basement, dresses well but not too expensively, charges around with a seemingly endless supply of energy. He’s always calm and competent and in control.
“Good to see you, Lyndsey. Thanks for coming in. How—” He almost asks about Lebanon but catches himself. It would be a perfectly normal thing to ask someone who’s just
