"I could be lost inside their lies without a
trace
But every time I close my eyes I see your face"
(If I Ever Lose My Faith In You, 1993) Sting
As I go inside the house and close the door, I think
Sunday night, August 27. Dinner with FBI Agent Ivan Brody.
Huh. Sounds like the perfect heading for my next journal entry. I notice the little
red dot on the alarm panel, which tells me it’s unarmed. Should I set it? I hear voices and
look over my shoulder toward the kitchen. Even though there’s an armed FBI Agent on the other
side of that door, I punch in the code and step inside the downstairs
bathroom. I flip on the vanity light and check my reflection. Uh! If this lunacy
keeps up, the stress is going to age me beyond my 17 years. I
quickly wash my hands and fluff my hair with my
fingers. I go out, shut off the light and move toward the kitchen. Pop sticks
his head out of the den and I jump.
“There you are,” he says.
I peer around the door. He and Agent
Brody are standing inside the den. I
force a smile and take a deep breath wishing I didn’t feel so skittish.
Pop picks up a file off the desk and gives it to Agent Brody.
Agent Brody says, “I appreciate your help. You
ready?”
“After you,” Pop says, and they push past me and go
into the kitchen. We head straight out the back door and down the walk to the back
fence with Ivan leading the way.
I follow behind Pop and ask, “What’s up?”
Agent Brody says, “You probably noticed a white van
parked here and there in the neighborhood, with different business names on the
door.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, tagging along. “It’s currently
parked in the alleyway behind our house.” I whisper to Pop, “What did you give
Agent Brody?”
“I gave Ivan
some personal papers,” Pop says while working the combination
lock on the back gate. “Ivan told me something very interesting and
I think what I gave him might help.”
“Help?” I echo completely confused. “Help with what?”
Pop pushes open the gate. “We’ll tell you,
but first we've been invited us to have a peek inside a real live FBI surveillance van.”
I feel my eyebrows rise up on my forehead. “Really.”
This is a treat. Wait until Josh hears
about this.
We follow Agent Brody down the narrow, dimly lit
alleyway to the road that runs beside our house. Trash cans and recycle bins
line the backs of wooden privacy fences. I briefly wonder if Beggar kitten is
still sleeping in the rose bushes. Just before turning right to go around the
corner, Agent Brody halts and takes out his walkie-talkie. “Just a second, I need to inform the other agents that
we’re here.”
While Agent Brody talks to whomever, Pop and I wait under the
street light at the intersection of the road and alleyway, just a few feet away
from the oversized white van that I’ve been freaking out about for days. The
colorful metallic Betty’s Flower Shop
sign on the side panel shows potted tulips, daises, and roses. I’m positive
it’s the same van I saw on my birthday when I was smashing Pepsi cans. It’s
easy to switch out signs using high-tech printing shops. Leaning back on our
heels, we watch the doodads bolted to the top, rotate this way and that.
Pop whispers behind his hand, “I wondered why this van was out here.”
“Me too,” I whisper back. I still am.
Agent Brody waves us over as he steps up to the side
of the van. After three quick raps, the side panel slides opens slowly, an
eerie green glow spills through the doorway and we get a whiff of hot electric
wires, aftershave, and Chinese food. He pushes the door all the way open, and I
crane my neck trying to see inside, but my eyes haven’t adjusted to the weird
lighting. A slim, middle-aged man with dark hair and wearing a headset rotates
sideways on his stool and smiles impishly us. “Hey yoh! Agent Brody. Apprehend
any high school kids lately?”
Snickering erupts from inside the van.
“Can it Landowska,” Agent
Brody grumbles, and pokes his head inside the van. “You too Johnston
and Simpson. Show a little respect to your
superiors. I know Sharron is behaving
back there...right?” A woman’s soft laughter burbles out and Agent Brody
shakes his head. “I get no respect from these clowns. Come on! Get your butts
out here! I want you to meet these nice people.”
My eyes adjust and I see several monitors cast a
sickly lime glow on the faces of two other men and one woman huddled in the
core of the van, perched on piano stools bolted to the carpeted floor. All have
on shoulder holsters with big guns. I glace over at Pop to see his reaction. I
have to stifle a giggle. The weird lighting makes Pop’s fair skin look sickly
green. Plus, after being outside so long, the humidity has done a number on his
curly red hair. Seriously, when he smiles, he looks like a giant troll doll. I
want pat down his hair.
Agent Brody steps away from the sliding door and a
young muscular guy jumps out of the van wearing camo pants and a black collared
shirt with a FBI patch on his breast. He smiles cordially at us and straightens
a pretend necktie. “Christopher Blakely and Cookie, this is Jack Simpson,
our just-graduated-from-Quantico-brainchild.”
“Please to meet you sir,” Jack
says respectfully to Pop then offers his hand. His manner is definitely
military.
They shake. “That’s a strong grip you have there
lass,” Pop says rubbing his hand.
Agent Brody gestures with his head at the others standing
on the sidewalk. They each smile and nod when he introduces them as agents Ed Johnston, Skip Landowska, and Sharron Heckle.
I bet she gets teased. Agent Johnston is probably around
thirty-five and looks like he could be anybodies dad. Skip
is short, stocky, and going bald. He looks like he had an acne problem as a
teen. He has a really nice smile though. Sharron
is slim and very pretty. She has long black hair pull back in a ponytail, large
dark eyes, and perfect teeth. I wonder if she and Ivan
have a thing going on. I can picture them together. Anyway, Pop is all eyes as
he shakes everyone’s hand and gives each a hearty greeting. I stand on the
sidewalk, smile shyly and mumble “hi nice to me you”. All I can think is why the heck are they in our neighborhood?
Once they return to their stations inside the van, Ivan holds onto the doorframe and hoists himself
inside the cramped quarters. The others squeeze together to allow him enough
room to slide by. Then Simpson hops back into the
van and plops down in the driver’s seat, which seems to be the most comfortable
place. A small laptop is mounted to the dash with flash drives stuck in several
ports. He picks up a camera with a long lens and aims it at the windshield. I
look to my right and see what’s caught his attention. It’s a taxi rolling
through the intersection down at our street. I hear the camera clicking off
several shots of the taxi and stare at the side of Simpson’s
face. Oh my God, is Valentine in the taxi? Are they
after him?
Agent Brody goes to the back door and bends at the
waist, his back against the carpeted rear door. He rests his arm on a
toaster-sized air conditioner, stuck in a portion of the paneled over back
window. I’m guessing that the little AC and the four tiny fans, whirring in the
upper corners barely keep the temperature inside the van bearable. Agent Brody
points at the high-tech gizmos bolted to shelves and explains their purposes.
I glance around at the interior and somewhat halfway
listen to their corny jokes about ‘flies on the wall and bugs in your ears’. My
eyes light on the words, OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER pulsating on the
shadowy computer screen behind the woman. My heart leaps into my throat.
Agent Brody hops out of the van landing on the
sidewalk like a cat.
Pop says, “Nice.”
Ivan smiles. “Ah, well carry on people.”
When I find my voice, I say, “Excuse me…sorry to
interrupt, but does that have anything to do with me?” I point at the screen
and they stop talking. I swear you could hear a pin drop.
Agent Brody looks at me. “I’ll explain everything when
we go inside.” The four FBI agents wave at us as he slams the door shut.
I meekly follow behind Pop and Agent Brody as we head
back to the house. I wander across the grass to check on Beggar. Pop turns to
me and says, “Don’t be long, love, Ivan
wants to talk to both of us. And lock the door behind you. Dead bolt it too.
From now on, Ivan wants us to keep all
windows and doors locked.”
I nod. Don’t we always? I search the rose bed. Beggar
is gone. All the commotion must’ve scared him away. I go inside and set the
dead bolt. I head for the front of the house and Agent Brody blocks my path by
holding up his right hand like a cross-walk guard.
I stop me in my tracks. “What?”
He tells us, “Wait in here while I check the rest of
the house.” He takes his gun out of the holster and slowly pushes through the
swinging kitchen door, muzzle first.
I look over at Pop and hiss, “This is nuts!”
He puts his finger to his lips and motions me to
follow him. We tiptoe over to the kitchen door and push it open a crack.
I whisper, “Pop, when are you going to fill me in on why the FBI is watching our
house?” And do I dare ask him about Fredrik Koshechka
slash Valentine, my stalker?
He tells me, “A soon as I find out.”
Halfway down the hall, we stop when we see Agent Brody
emerge from the living room, his gun leading the way. He takes a left to check
the front door, feels our presence and looks over his shoulder. I open my mouth
to tell him I locked the door and set the alarm, but he holds up his free hand
as if to warn us not to move. Agent Brody runs his hand along the wall for the
light switch and flips on the outside, hallway, and stairwell lights. He zips
his lip, and then points at the windows. Then using hand signals, he tells us
in a low voice to lock the windows. I nod and glace at Pop, he doesn’t look
happy. Pop and I circle the first floor making sure the windows are locked and
closing curtains. Meantime, Agent Brody goes up the stairs stealth-like and we
hear his feet overhead moving from room to room. After a quick once over
upstairs, Agent Brody stops on the stairwell landing and gives us the okay. He
turns his back to us and studies the pictures hang on the wall. Then he takes a
few pictures of them with his tiny cell phone. Pop returns the wooden baseball
bat to the coat closet. He closes the door and I go over and whisper in his
ear, “Pop, Agent Brody is taking pictures of the photographs hanging in the
stairwell.”
Pop doesn’t say anything. He walks to the foot of the
stairs and looks up at Agent Brody. Ivan
is busy taking the framed photos off the wall one-by-one and taking shots in a
better light.
I walk over and whisper heatedly, “You called him Ivan. Since when did we become on first name basis
with the Feds?”
Pop says quietly, “While you were outside saying
goodbye to Josh, Ivan
and I decided we should call each other by our first name since the lot of them
may be camped out in the neighborhood for awhile.”
I make a face. “Why? What the heck is going on?”
“The upstairs is clean,” Ivan
says coming down the stairs two at a time.
I solicit, “It has to do with Mom, doesn’t it?” I keep
talking, “That’s why you’re here. Agent Brody you’re investigating Mom’s case
aren’t you?”
The two of them look at me shrug, and then go into the
kitchen with me on their heels.
“So I’m right,” I maintain.
Our plates and the food are just where we left them,
but somehow it feels like a different day altogether. It’s as if we fell though
a time warp and returned to a day that happened in the past. Know what I mean?
Maybe not.
“I told you she’s a smart Cookie,” Pop says, and
starts bustling around the kitchen.
Feeling smug, I march over to the fridge to get me a
fresh Pepsi and hear a POP sound. I shut the door. Pop is uncorking a bottle of
wine. Because of the heart meds he’s taking, he doesn’t usually drink alcohol
except on special occasion. I guess that with all of the excitement a little
wine will help calm him down.
Agent Brody and Pop talk about the mix-up on the front
lawn. “I’m not taking any chances.” Ivan
says and parks himself next to the back door. He murmurs, “Are you neighbors
always so nosey?”
I blurt out, “Agent Werthoust made a mess of things
and now Agent Brody is taking over the case. Huh, how’s that for logic? I’m
right aren’t I?”
Agent Brody doesn’t speak. It’s as if he’s deep in
thought. His silence tells me that I’m right.
“Yes!” I whisper, and wet my finger on my tongue and
mark a line in the air.
I watch the FBI guy hang his holster on the back of a
chair by the kitchen nook. I picture his gun pointed at Josh’s
head and a shiver runs through me. What if it’d accidentally gone off? Could my
life get any more bizarre? Oh well, might as well go with the flow. I shake my
head and take a long drink. Pop must’ve just put the six packs in the fridge.
The Pepsi is a little on the warm side and I choke on the carbonation. Tears
fill my eyes as I mash a linen napkin to my mouth to mute my coughing fit.
Pop gestures at Agent Brody with the wine bottle. “I
guess an adult beverage isn’t in order with you working and all?”
“Thank you Christopher,
but no. After college, I stopped drinking anything stronger than root beer.
Being Russian, I inherited an unhealthy thirst for vodka.”
“Ah, as an Irishman myself, I understand completely.”
Pop pours a small amount in the wine glass and takes a sip. “I’ve given up the
hard stuff, but a little fruit from the vine settles my nerves.”
Pop takes a wine glass out off the rack and looks at
me with wide eyes. “If you’re okay, do you mind helping me fix these nice
people some dinner?”
I nod in agreement. “I’m okay.” I manage to say,
“Pepsi went down my Sunday throat.” Apparently Pop feels obligated to feed them some decent food after hearing the
people in the van complain about eating take-out all week.
“Take a load off man,” Pop says, indicating that he
wants Ivan to sit at the bar while he
prepares the food.
Ivan raises a blonde eyebrow at me as he strolls over.
“Mighty kind of you Christopher.” He
takes the stool across from Pop, tugs at neck of his turtleneck shirt, and says,
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this heat.” Then he rests his arms on the
countertop.
Pop crosses to the stove and looks over at me.
“Cookie, fetch Ivan a cold drink.”
Trying not to cough, I blot my eyes with the napkin,
and then dare to look at Agent Brody. I manage to get out, “Um, would you like
a cold beverage?”
“Thanks. Some cold water would be great.”
Ivan picks up a carrot stick and munches on it while I
take two glasses down from shelf, fill them with ice from the freezer and then
set them on the island thinking. I can’t wait to hear why they’re ‘camped out’ in our neighborhood and find out what “Operation
Cookie Cutter” is all about. Still I’ll be lucky it they tell me anything, I
pass a bottled water and glass to Agent Brody and pour some Pepsi until it
bubbles to the rim.
“My father says the same thing about the hot weather,”
I say trying to be cordial and adult. “He’s from the north of Ireland.” I sip
my Pepsi and wait for Ivan to respond.
Ivan takes a long drink of water and shakes his head in
the positive.
“I mean northern Ireland.” Then I remember
that Pop just told him that he was from Ireland, besides that, Pop’s strong
Celtic accent is a total giveaway. Duh, not only that dummy, he’s a Federal
agent. He probably knows every detail of our lives. I feel my cheeks burn and I
smile at Ivan. His features are so
manly up close and his eyes are like Sean’s,
crystal blue and intense. After I take another sip, I say, “But you already
knew that.”
Ivan polishes off the water and sets the empty glass down with
a clink. “Yeah, I did.”
Okay.
I drill my fingernails on the tile countertop. Then to
avoid any more awkward conversation––on my part, I stroll over next to Pop and
wash my hands in the kitchen sink. Pop is scraping the contents of the pots and
pans on the stove into Pyrex dishes. “So,” I ask, drying my hands on a dish
towel. “What can I do to help?”
Pop hands me a Pyrex dish filled with red
potatoes––creamers. “Heat these up in the microwave on high for about five
minuets.”
The glass lid clanks nosily as I cart the heavy dish
over to the microwave. My hands feel sweaty and shaky even though I just dried
them off. Ivan hops up and opens the
door for me.
“Thanks,” I mummer, and he returns to his stool.
I flick a look at him as I place the heavy dish into
the microwave, and shut the door. I blow out a pent up breath while pushing the
microwave buttons. The microwave light comes on and engine hums happily. I
watch the dish rotate and I ask as causally as I can, “Just wondering…what Josh actually did to make you’re people treat him
like a criminal?” I laugh nervously and add, “All Josh
would say was that it was a case of mistaken identity.” I don’t know why I find
his statement funny.
Ivan just says, “That about sums it up.”
I turn around and blink at him thinking that’s it? That’s all you’re going to
tell me. I ask, “So, what was with all of the gunfire?”
“I assure you it was only to ward off what we thought were
a possible B & E.” Ivan pauses.
“Break and entry.” Ivan gives me a
brief rationalization of what occurred on our front yard and why. Which is,
Agent Simpson saw Josh creeping around
out there and the rest is history.
Pop pipes in, “See, ahs well that ends well.”
“Christopher
is right. Be relieved that nobody was hurt in the end.”
I’m speechless. Moi.
Pop and Agent Brody start talking about sports and I
tune them out.
I try to process what apparently went down earlier and
help Pop line up the side dishes in a row on the island to be re-heated in the
micro. Then without asking if he wants more, I take another bottle of water out
of the fridge and pass it to Ivan. The
way he guzzled down the first bottle makes me think he’s probably still
thirsty.
Ivan picks up the bottle and smiles. “Thank you Cookie.”
He removes the lid and drinks right from the bottle.
“You’re welcome,” I say, dumping a handful of ice and
the rest of my Pepsi in my glass. I’m damn good at summing up people through
observation. I park my butt on a stool at the end of the bar waiting for the
microwave to ding.
Ivan points the bottle at me, “I met your mom in Russia when I
was in College. She was teaching a class.” He finishes the water and wipes his
mouth on the back of his hand studying my face. “You remind me of her.”
This makes me smile even though I don’t agree. I don’t
think I’m anything like her.
“I catch Cookie saying and doing things she did,” Pop
says, “You have a lot of her mannerisms. Like speaking your mind and sometimes
closing down when you don’t get your way.”
“I know Pop,” I say rolling my eyes. “You’re always
saying that I’m a lot like her now that I’m older.”
Huh, must be a gene thing because she wasn’t around enough for me to pick up
her ways.
Pop prepares a fresh pot of coffee, dumping grounds in
the filter. Then he pauses while filling the urn with water and says, “You have
a slight Russian accent Agent Brody.”
“So I’ve been told.” Agent Brody rests his arms on the
edge of the bar and runs his thumb down the outside of the water bottle,
removing the condensation.
Who answers question like this? I can’t believe Pop
doesn’t push the subject. He just finishes making the coffee. Then bending
slightly, he opens the oven, takes out a cookie sheet of piping hot crab
nibbles, and sets a half dozen on a small serving dish.
“How can I help?” Ivan
asks. “With the food. I’m not used to being waited on…”
Pop says, “We’ve got it covered.”
I look at Ivan
and ask, “So where are you from? I
mean what city? You’re not American are you?”
Ivan sits up straighter and cracks his neck. “I actually
have a dual citizenship. I was born in Boston,
raised in Moscow,
and educated in several places. I prefer the United States.”
“Bon appétit!” Pop says happily, and sets a plate of
hot appetizers in front of Ivan.
Ivan eyes the little crab nibbles. “Those look tasty!”
looks grateful and Pop scoots the plate He pops one in his mouth, immediately
fanning his mouth to cool the heat. He washes the food down with some cold water.
“Hot!”
“Careful,” I warn and pass him a folded linen napkin.
I scrutinize Agent Brody while he polishes off the
appetizers. It’s sort of cool having a real live federal agent hanging out in
our kitchen and all, but he’s not here for grins or to chitchat with us and eat
our food…so why the big secret? I deserve to know why he’s and all those people
are in our neighborhood.
“What’s in them?” Ivan
asks around another mouthful.
“It’s flaky dough filled with fresh Dungeness crab
meat, spices and cream cheese.” Pop makes them so often that I answer without
thinking. I pause remembering that Pop told me to always ask guests if they’re
allergic to any foods. “Uh, Agent Brody, you’re not allergic to shell fish are
you?”
Ivan wipes his mouth, and says, “No. Just vodka.” We both
smile at his little joke. “Christopher
already asked me. Cookie, please feel free to call me Ivan.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry.” I pick up a carrot stick and nipple
on the end. “So you knew my mom?”
Pop turns around abruptly and rests his hands on the
island. “Shouldn’t be long now,” he tells Ivan.
“Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am. The food smells are killer. Beats the heck out
of fast-food!”
I flick Pop a look. Why is he hovering? So I don’t do
what? Get too chummy with Ivan and ask
him a lot of questions? Too bad. We agreed that about my investigating Mom and
if I play my cards right, this FBI guy might tell me a few things.
Pop continues to stand close by watching Ivan enjoy the appetizers, and then he says, “Moscow you say. My wife
was born in Russia.
She came to America
with her family when she was a wee child, another tragic story indeed…” Pop
skips a beat. “Wish I knew more about her childhood, but for some reason she
detested talking about why they left so suddenly…”
Pop’s voice trails off and I study his face to make
sure he’s okay. His skin color is a little ruddy, but he acts fine. “You say
Mom left Russia
suddenly? This is news to me.”
“Before you were even born she asked me not to tell
anyone so I tucked it away. I only mention it now because Ivan
brought up Moscow
and now that she’s...”
“Why not Pop?” I reach over and grab his forearm. “Why
wouldn’t she tell her own husband about her life?”
Pop’s bushy red eyebrows rise up on his forehead and
he lays his hand over mine. “She wouldn’t say love. And I learned a long time
ago not to push her on the subjects she didn’t like to talk about. Her
childhood was a huge sore spot for her.”
I blow air through my nose. “That’s for sure. She
wouldn’t tell me anything about her
life. And the more I pushed the more Mom would clam up.” I frown. “What was up
with that?”
Ivan watches us intently. Then he offers, “There’s a good
chance Eva wasn’t allowed to talk.”
I curl my eyes at Ivan.
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just a thought.”
“Bloody hell!” Pop mutters under his breath as he
yanks open the island drawer that always sticks, and hauls out a long carving
knife. He inspects the blade and Ivan
clearly flinches. Then the microwave “dings” and Ivan
jumps with a quick look over his shoulder. I go over and take out the dish
thinking geez. FBI guy is strung tighter than a cat at a rocking chair
festival. Great, now I’m quoting Pop’s dumb sayings. I shut the door with my
elbow and set the dish on the hot pad on the island counter next to the plates.
I’m about to carry another dish over to microwave and Pop asks, “Are the
potatoes hot enough?”
I lift the glass lid and a cloud of steam floats out.
I see that the big pats of butter in the center are melted into a yellow pool
and the outer edges are a tad brown. I announce, “I’d say so!”
“Good, set them over here with the lid on and I’ll
dish them out after the gravy is good and hot.”
“Yes sir!” I smile and salute with the oven mitt on my
hand. After I put another dish in the micro, I sit on my stool.
Ivan doesn’t say anything. He’s busy chowing down on the
crab puffs.
I say, “Agent Brody…I mean Ivan…Pop
said you would tell me why you have a
surveillance van in our neighborhood.” Pop clears his throat. I look over and he
frowns at me. I mouth, “What?”
Pop gestures at Ivan
with the carving knife. “Let the man eat in peace.”
Ivan holds up a finger, and once he’s swallowed, speaks. “Christopher,” Ivan
says with care, “I understand you’re pact, but it’s imperative that I explain
to Cookie why we’re keeping an eye on your house. It’s for her safety that she knows.”
“Know what? For God sake! Tell me already!”
Pop finally nods his approval and Ivan says, “There’s been some chatter about threats
to families that have or in your case
had a family member that worked with various Intel agencies.”
I stare down at my hands and whisper, “Threats?” Of course, I immediately
picture the two creepy guys in the taxi, and next the black and white photo of Fredrik Koshechka
in Mr. J’s spy book floats to the surface of my minds eye. When am I not thinking about the old man?
Ivan tells me a little bit more about the so called
“chatter” and I feel a combo of fear and anger rising to the surface. I try to
steady my nerves through rationality––a little trick my grief counselor taught
me. Be cool I tell myself. Don’t freak out like a little girl. Nothing has
happened. Deal with the moment. Right, I need to keep Ivan
to talking. I take a deep breath and think about Mr. J’s assignment paper. The
one Beal gave me has a list of “W” questions to ask during an investigation:
who, what, when, where, and why. I open my mouth to ask if they know who and Ivan speaks before I have a chance to say anything.
“Don’t worry Cookie, he assures me. “You’re not in any
immediate danger. What we’re doing isn’t out of the ordinary. Trust me. We do
this all of the time. Eyes on the ground, gives us the advantage of added
intelligence.” He wipes his hands and adds, “At this point, we’re here strictly
as a precautionary tactic to thwart any danger and catch whoever is behind the
coercion.”
“So you say,” Pop mutters sounding unimpressed. He
reaches across the counter, takes Ivan’s
empty plate and refills it with more crab puffs.
I think about how Mom was left unguarded while we went
skiing. Pop is right. We can’t count on anyone to save us.
Ivan ignores his cynicism and smiles at Pop, “Thanks.”
Then he looks at me. “We don’t take anything lightly when it comes to the
safety of Americans.”
I blink a couple of times and say, “We being the FBI.”
“In truth, there are a dozen different agencies
involved.”
Pop drapes an arm around my shoulders and says, “So
just drop the subject child and just go about your life as if nothing happened
to your mom. There is nothing to worry about. I’ll protect my little girl.” He
plants a kiss on my cheek and goes back to the stove, but he can see right
through me and keeps glancing my way.
After a moment, I shake my head and retort, “I get that
you’re all just trying to protect me from the world, but, I can’t live in a
cage!” I get off my stool and let a good dose of irritation and perhaps a tad
of disrespectful creep into my tone. “And NEWS FLASH! I refuse to ‘drop the subject’!” I waggle my head and use finger
quotes. I honestly tried to stifle my anger, but self control has left the
building. I go over and get in Pop’s face. “Sorry if you still think I’m your
little girl, but I’m not! I’m old enough to drive and I’m going to find out what
happened to Mom if it’s the last thing I do!”
Pop actually chuckles and says, “Hopefully it doesn’t
come to that!”
“Don’t laugh! I’m serious!”
Then, after a minuet of silence, I can’t help but
laugh at myself. Ivan just sits by in
silence watching us. I want to tell him that if he wants to hang around us,
he’d better get used to our Irish temperaments.
The microwave goes off again and I yank on the oven
mitts and rotate another dish in, and start the timer. Pop sets a small bowl, a
spoon, and jars of mayo and horseradish on the near me. “Make a fresh batch?”
“Okay.” I pick up the spoon and stir the horseradish
into a big glob of mayo. This gives me time to de-fuse and go back to plotting
how to go about questioning Ivan.
While I have him captured in our kitchen. I take another spoon out of the
drawer and taste the intensity. The harsh horseradish burns my sinuses. “Whoa!”
I fan my face, carry the bowl to Pop, and drop the dirty spoon in the sink.
“Thanks sweetheart.” Pop sees my red, water eyes.
“Good, I see that you made the horseradish sauce strong.”
“Yeah, hope you warn the people in the van.” I blot my
tears with a napkin and return the jars to the fridge. I go over to the island
and stand across from Ivan. I toss a
tight smile at him, but he doesn’t make eye contact and seems distracted (I
guess) by whatever is on his mind.
He slides his gaze at me and says, “I’m really sorry
that you have to go through this.”
“Um, no. It’s fine. Really.” I lift my shoulders and
smile nicely to show that I’m fine. “What you said makes a lot of since. I’m
actually taking a class in Crime Science. Although, we haven’t got into much,
school just started. Our teacher is a retired homicide detective.”
Ivan seems impressed. “You’re learning thin in high
school?”
“Yes. I’m a senior,” I tell him proudly. “CS is an
advanced class for upper classmen. And even better, Josh O'Dell
and I are partners. I mean in the CS class we have lab partners.”
Ivan nods knowingly. “Josh
is a very smart kid. He reminds me of me when I was his age. I dreamed of be a
secret agent man. I guess working with the Bureau is close.”
Just go slowly so I don’t spook the spook––sort of
speak. I smile at my little joke and something I read recently pops into my
head. “You probably already know this, but do you know why they call spies and
espionage agents, spooks?”
“I have my version. Enlighten me.”
“Well, I did some research on the Internet and in a
spy book Mr. Jackson leant me––”
“Mr.
Jackson?”
“Sorry. Mr. J is my crime science teacher.” I frown.
“I thought I told you. Anyway, the verb spook is slang and means “undercover
agent” from around 1942. Actually first recorded in 1867. I’m really bad at
dates. At any rate, it means to walk or act like a ghost. So now you know the
rest of the story.”
Ivan says, “Paul Harvey.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a little young to know about his radio show.”
“My old history teacher was a big Paul Harvey
fan.”
“Ah.”
I tell Ivan a
little bit about Mr. J’s background, and then decide not to talk his ear off
since time is of essence and I want to find out more about Mom. “Right now,
we’re learning about the five W’s. You know who, what, when, where and why.”
Ivan nods his head. “I’m familiar with those.”
“Soo…do you mind if ask you a few questions? It would really help me with my homework.”
“Tell you what,” Ivan
says cautiously. “I’ll answer if I can.”
“Fair enough.” I bob my head and smile gratefully.
I look from Ivan
to Pop and back. They seem to be communication without saying any words. I hop
down from my stool and dig through our junk drawer for a notepad and writing
utensil. I shut the drawer. Like a waitress taking an order, I lean my back
into the counter holding the same grocery pad and ink pen I used the other
night while talking to Agent Werthoust. Plus and from here, I can gage Pop’s reaction
to my questions. I plan to back off if he becomes too upset. I wish I could us
a recorder, but that might be pushing it. I click the pen. “Okay, first of all…do we know who is making the threats and why they’re making them?”
“There are numerous countries with pockets of people
who don’t like Americans.” Ivan
swallows, and then goes on, “We have a list of the so called usual suspects.”
Pop says, “Turn on the news on any given day and you
can hear about bombings around the world. There’s been an on going war on-going
terror for as long as I can remember and it’s never going to stop.”
“Yeah but I never dreamed that our little neighborhood
might be ground zero.” I write down Valentine––even
though it tells me zip! Why is he here? I look at Ivan.
“I know Mom worked as a linguist with the government, but why us?” I wait while
Ivan eats another carrot stick.
All he says is, “It’s our job to do our best to find
out if the threats are credible or just drum beats.”
Do I dare ask him why
Simpson was taking pictures of the taxi? It is a
‘why’ question. I chew on the end of the ink pen and slide my eyes at Pop––I’m
shocked he hasn’t stepped in and tried to stop me. I look at Ivan. What can it hurt? “Um,” I say warily,
“tonight…just as you opened the door to the van I noticed Agent Simpson with a
camera. It had special attachments.” Ivan
sips some water and looks at me over the glass rim. “He was taking a lot of
pictures of a taxi cab as it drove by.” I ask, “Can you tell me why?” I feel Pop’s stare, but I watch Ivan closely. I can’t wait to hear his take that is
if he’ll tell even me anything juicy.
“No particular reason.” Ivan
says, and takes another sip then sets the glass down next to his dish. “We
document any and every movement, vehicle, and person in the vicinity.” He wipes
the condensation on his hands on his napkin, and then folds it neatly and tucks
it next to his plate. “It’s part of the operation.”
Operation Cookie Cutter.
My hand begins to cramp from writing in an upright
position. I shake my hand and rub my sweaty palm on my jeans. “You’re the FBI,” I say with annoyance. “You people have to have some idea who is after us!
Why else would you spend all this time and energy?”
“At this point, all I can say is that we have no one
we can hook a name on.”
Grrr! I flick a look at Pop, now he has his back turn
to me. It would be nice if I had Ivan
alone so I could ask him about Mom without Pop giving me the evil eye. I’d
definitely ask Ivan about Fredrik Koshechka
aka Valentine.
Ivan picks up the spoon Pop uses for the sugar, and
inspects the design on the handle. “This spoon is Russian…and very
old––eighteen-ninety-six.”
“You’d be right,” Pop says wiping his hands on a tea
towel. “That sugar spoon is from Eva’s
grandmother. Eva inherited her
flatware and dishes. That reminds me…I forgot to lock the china cabinet. I’ll
be right back.”
Pop leaves the kitchen and I rush to place my stool at
the end of the counter because I figure it’s much easier to write while
sitting. “Can’t be too careful,” I say, and I take a quick slug of Pepsi.
“Yuck!”
Ivan sets the sugar spoon down and raises an eyebrow at
me.
“The ice melted.” I explain and go over and dump the
glass in the sink. “So, I guess it’ll take awhile to find out who was in the taxi.”
Ivan says, “Hope not.”
“Silly me.” I twirls around and look at Mr. FBI.
“Seriously. Why would you tell moi
anything even if you did know who was in the taxi? Right? I’m just a stupid
kid.” This harsh statement causes Ivan
to pause and I sort of feel bad for saying it like I did. I’m an emotional
wreck.
He draws in a deep breath. “I don’t think that at all.
History will show that some of the former KGB officers still hold grudges, in
particularly for American’s interference with their old nuclear programs in Russia. It’s
complicated.”
“That was a long time ago.” My heart skips a beat.
“Mom was from Russia,”
I remark, trying to control the quiver in my voice. “Do you guys think it’s the KGB? Because what you just said about them
holding a grudge is exactly what I read about in Mr. J’s book. They want to
kill certain Americans that went into Russia and tried to boss them
around.”
“I’m not going to let any thing happen to you and Christopher on my watch.”
“Get real. There’s always going to be International
terrorization so we’re never going to be totally safe no matter what the
government does.”
“So, tell me the truth. Exactly how much danger are we
in?”
Ivan says, “None––if you follow my directions to the
letter.”
Pop comes back and says, “Give Ivan a break––”
I hold up a hand. “No Pop, I need to hear this.”
“She’s right Christopher.
I think it’s important that you both understand what’s going on.”
Pop holds up his hands in defeat. “So what exactly do
you suggest we do to protect
ourselves?”
I look at Ivan.
“Tell us.”
Ivan looks from me to Pop and counts off on his fingers.
“Okay, number one, when you are out and about, you are to pay special attention
to your surrounding. Understand?”
I nod and chew on my fingernail. I can’t help feeling
panicky and helpless.
“Number two, I have agents surrounding you constantly
to make sure you are safe, but I won’t lie. There is always a chance something
might slip by us. Number three. Tell me if you see anything or anyone
suspicious.”
Pop turns around to continue fixing the plates of food
and I pick up the ink pen and write I
can’t talk right now. Not with Pop here. I slide the notepad at Ivan and hold my finger to my lips. Ivan reads my note and tries to take a drink from his
empty water bottle. He looks at the bottle and sets it down. It falls over and
rolls off the island. Pop turns around, picks it up, and motions for me to
fetch him another. I take the notepad back, flip it over, and get up and go to
the fridge and take out the big bottled water (we’re out of the smaller ones)
and the ice bucket out of the freezer. In that moment, it dawns on me that Ivan and his team (probably) already know about my
stalker. Otherwise, Simpson wouldn’t be taking
pictures of the taxi tonight. Eventually, I want to question Ivan about all that too. I set the water bottle and
ice bucket next to Ivan. Pop is back
next to the island slicing pats off a yellow stick of butter. I smile and
gesture. “Um, help your self.”
“Thanks,” Ivan
says, and takes the bottle and twist off the cap. He refills his glass then
twists the top back on, and adds some ice cubes with the little prongs Pop
keeps in the bucket.
I sit down, pick up the pen, and scribble out my
little message. Then I prop my elbows on the bar and look at Ivan. Ivan
spreads his fingers then makes fist as if flexing his strong hands. His nails
are square and neatly trimmed.
He takes a sip then asks me, “Have you heard about the
acronym Cheers?”
I shake my head “no”. He can’t be talking about the TV
show. I click the ink pen, spell out the letters on the pad, and doodle in the
margin. “What is it?”
Ivan says, “You’re taking a class in Crime Science, well
I’ve done some teaching at various law enforcement facilities on crime
mapping.”
“Cool.”
Ivan tell me. “Think about this situation: A problem is a
recurring set of related harmful events in a community that the public expect
the local police to tackle. There are six required elements of each problem:
Community, harm, expectation, events, recurring, and similarity.”
“I get it, C.H.E.E.R.S.”
Ivan says, “Precisely. Cookie what I’m trying to say is
that sums up where we’re at right now.”
“Okay.” I take this in and shake my head. Then out of
nowhere, a yawn grips me and I realize that all of a sudden I’m very
tired––must be all of the excitement. I go over, pour myself some coffee, and
add several sugars and smidge of cream. I’ll be damned if I’m going to bed and
miss a minute of this. I lean on the bar, add my two cents here and there, pick
off little pieces of meat, and pop them in my mouth. My plate of food is still
on the table. I’ll wait until Ivan is
gone to zap it in the micro and eat it. I should be starving but, my stomach
isn’t that hungry. Nibbling seems to be the way to go. I watch Pop carve more
thick strips of the pink meat and place them on the five plates lined up on the
counter for Ivan and the others, then
he add the side dishes.
Pop and Ivan
start discussing our daily schedules for the next few weeks and how his people
would “shadow” us. “How long is this going to take?” Pop grumbles, “I’m just
starting a new catering business and I can’t have my new clients upset.
Especially the brides.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, about that…we may need to
wire you to keep closer tabs on your whereabouts…the perp or group behind the
threats is very clever.”
“No way,” I gasp, thinking I’m not wearing any wires
in my bra.
Ivan explains, “It’ll be like it was when you were in Austria.” He
says that we need to cooperate, yada-yada…
I blink. “Wait. You know about our Austrian trip?”
“I’m the Special Agent in Charge of this case now.”
Huh, I wonder what happened to Agent Werthoust. I grow
silent and slip into my own little world that is my mind and mull over our
situation. I visualize what my life is going to be like with bodyguards
following me around day after day as if I’m somebody special––hum, like a movie
star. I just hope the kids at school don’t get wind of this. Of course, Josh will need to know. As if on cue, my cell
vibrates on the table sounding like a cricket. I go over to see who is calling
me.
I look at Ivan
and Pop. “It’s Josh. Mind if I take
the call?”
Pop nods and Ivan
says, “Just stay inside the house.”
I leave the kitchen and go into the den. “Hi.”
“Hey. How’s it going?”
“Okay, I guess” I say, sitting down at the desk.
“Agent Brody is still here.” I give Josh
a quick run down of what’s occurred so far. “He brought up the KGB. Josh, I think I’m right about my stalker being
somehow connected to Mom.”
“Really.”
We talk about what’s going on for awhile. Then Pop
sticks his head in the door. I tell Josh,
“Hang on.” I cover the mouth piece.
Pop whispers, “Everything okay?”
I nod and tell him, “I’ll be right there.” Once Pop
closes the door, I tell Josh, “Sorry,
I can’t talk long. We’re feeding Ivan’s
surveillance van people.”
“I'll let you go. Call me back later. I don’t care
what time it is.”
“Okay. Bye.” I click off and return to the kitchen.
Ivan is looking out at the backyard and Pop has his back
to us stirring the gravy and ladling it over a plate of meat and potatoes. Ivan flicks a look over his shoulder. He comes back
to the island and sits down.
I pick up the coffee pot and smile at him. “Top you
off?”
“Um, sure, thank you.” He sits up higher on his stool
and slides his mug across the counter. I fill Ivan’s
mug. The cream and sugar are already within reach, but he seems to take his
black. Then the microwave “dings” and I slide on the oven mitts again and
remove what appears to be the last dish to re-heat. I take out steamed broccoli
florets covered with shredded cheddar cheese and set the dish down next to the
others. I return to my stool, prop my elbow on the bar and look at Ivan. He looks at me over his coffee mug with those
piercing blue eyes. They’re the same color as Mel Gibson’s
and could make a girl fall in love in like, seconds. This is what Char is
always saying about any guy with blue eyes. Ivan
sets the mug down and consults his watch. Then he turn sideways and looks out
the back window again.
My gaze goes up to the chef clock above
the sink. It says that it’s almost 10:00 pm. Oh man. I’m running out of time. A
little voice says ask Ivan about his family. I clear my throat softly and
Ivan turn his gaze my way. “Just
curious,” I say, twirling a long lock of my around my finger. “Is your family
from Russia
too?”
“No.”
“Boston?”
“Neither.” Ivan
slides off his stool and wanders over to the back door yet again.
I watch him stare out the window and open the back
door and step outside, leaving the door wide open. Okay, so that’s all I get,
one word answers. Not fair! He knows everything about me. I pick up a fork and
stab a piece of beef. Hum, how does that old saying go…to a man’s heart is
through his stomach? “Hey Ivan. Wanna
bite?”
“Um, wow, thanks.” Ivan
comes back over and pass the fork to him hoping I don’t get into trouble for
bribing an FBI special agent.
“It’s good with horseradish sauce.”
“I’ll take it without,” Ivan
says, and then cranes the fork to his mouth. A little bit of juice trickles
down his chin. I point at his chin and he wipes it with his napkin. He sets the
fork down and chews the meat practically moaning aloud. He swallows and dabs at
his mouth with a corner of the napkin. “Damn, that’s flat out incredible!”
“It melts in your mouth,” I say, enthusiastically. Ivan takes a drink of water and I decide to keep
talking about family. “I never really wanted a sister or a brother. Do you have
any siblings?”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s just me. I was twelve
when both of my parents were killed in an airplane crash.”
He was just a boy. I wonder if he grew up in a Russian
orphan. “Gosh, I’m so sorry. How did it happen? I mean…if you don't mind
telling me.”
Ivan hesitates and shifts his position. He appears to be
remembering a sad time in his life that he’d rather not talk about. He sips
some more water. The kitchen is deathly quiet.
Pop looks over his shoulder and gives me
a warning look. He puts the gravy ladle on a spoon rest and turns around.
“What?”
He says, “I’ll finish up here Cookie, if
you need to do your homework, or anything.”
I turn down my mouth. “If it’s okay, I’d like to stick
around and help.” I look at Pop defiantly and his eyes stray over to Ivan. Ivan
just sips his coffee. “What? It's not that late. Pop, when are you
going to stop treating me like a child who needs to be told what to do?” I say
this with a smile.
“Ops! I forget that you're all grown up.” Pop turns
the burner down, and then kills the last of his wine. He turns to Ivan, “Let me say that I’m sorry to hear that your
parents died when you were so young lad. That's...well, tough for a child.”
I kiss Pop on the cheek. I know he is
thinking about me. “Mind if I ask what happened?”
“Thanks Christopher,”
Ivan says. He studies his hands and
says, “My parents were on the way home after visiting my grandparents in Moscow. I guess you could
say I was lucky—I stayed home with the flu.” Ivan
turns on the stool and looks out the back window again. It’s obvious his mind
is on other stuff, like the surveillance van and bad guys.
I follow his gaze and say, “If you don’t mind me
asking...” When Ivan turns around, I
say poignantly. “What happened to you after they died?”
Ivan ignores my question. He hops off the stool, goes over
to the back door, and opens it again. Pop and I exchange a look that says, WTH.
Ivan is gone for a good five minuets.
Pop and I wait in silence. At last, he comes back and says, “Sorry, I saw some
movement by the rose bushes. I see you have a cat.” Ivan
points down.
I run over. The little guy is sitting outside the back
door. “It's Beggar! Can I let him in?”
“No way,” Pop says. “What if he has fleas?”
Yikes! “Sorry Beggar, we can't let you come inside.” I
frown and return to my stool and coffee. I gesture at Ivan.
“Ivan you were about to tell us what
happened to you.”
“Um, right. Well after my parents died, I was sent
back to Russia
to live with my grandparent. I hated it,” he says flatly. “I couldn’t wait to
return to America
some day.”
“Aye, I know what you mean,” Pop interjects. “Excuse
me. Cookie, love, fetch the cold salad in the fridge and the raspberry
vinaigrette dressing.”
“Sure thing,” I say, and hop down. Before I go and
getting the salad, I stare out the window. Little Beggar is pursuing something
in the grass like a wild tiger hunting prey. I’m glad he’s sticking around. I
head over to the fridge and take out the covered salad and a container of
dressing, push the door shut with my hip and set everything down on the island.
The coffee maker gurgles and releases an aroma of strong smelling French roast
coffee.
“It smells like heaven in here,” Ivan says, sniffing the air. “You may’ve noticed that
the surveillance vehicle is starting to reek of stale coffee and take-out food.
Especially in this heat. Thank god nobody smokes.”
Pop asks, “Can I interest you in a fresh cup Ivan?”
“Yes, indeed, thank you.”
“I’ll get it Pop.” I pour the coffee and ask, “Okay my
turn to ask a question,” I say, and pour Pop a cup, and then return to my
stool. Ivan raises the cup to his lips
and almost burns his mouth on the coffee. “Careful. hot stuff.”
Ivan licks his scalded upper lip then takes a drink of ice
water. “I need to learn not to do that. Go ahead.”
Pop says, “Oh. Well, I forgot what I was going to say.
I jump in. “May I ask if you went to
college in America or Russia? Like I
said, I’m a senior this year. I have to decide if I want to a college here in Washington or somewhere else. Maybe Florida.” The Florida idea just occurred to me—with Josh. Now that would be cool.
Ivan says, “Actually, I’ve acquired several degrees in a
variety of fields. I graduated from the LMS. After that, I joined the Russian
Air Force with my friend Peter. From
there, we obtained dual citizenships and went for training in Quantico,
Virginia to become agents for the United States.”
He takes another sip, careful not to burn his lips.
I ask, “What does L-M-S stands for?”
Ivan puts his cup down on the counter top. “It stands for Lomonosov Moscow State
University.”
I prop my elbow on the counter and rest my chin in my
hand. “Ah, so what’d you mainly study in college? I mean, did you know that you
wanted to work for the American government all along?”
A hint of a smile turns up the corners of Ivan's mouth. “When I was young, I wanted to become a
cosmonaut. I attended Space Camp. After my parents died, my main objective was
to leave Russia and live
here in America.
The best way to do that was special training with the armed forces.”
“Wow.” Special Agent Ivan Brody is very intriguing.
Pop comes around the island with the coffee pot. Ivan holds out his cup and Pop tops him off. “Would
your team prefer to dine inside like civilized folk or should we wheel the food
out to the van on my cart?”
“I wouldn’t mind eating inside. But they other had
better eat out there in the van.”
“Aye, you can’t leave it unattended,” Pop picks up one
of the plates piled with thick slices of rare roast beef, garlic mashed
creamers, and French bean salad with slices almonds, places it in front of Ivan
with silverware wrapped in a linen napkin.
“Yeah, that and I don’t trust their manners.”
I burble a giggle.
“Thanks Christopher.
I can't thank you and Cookie enough for your hospitality.”
I beam at Ivan.
Pop clears his throat and says, “Cookie,
please cover the other plates with foil for me and put a dozen yeast rolls in a
warming bag.”
“Okay.” I hop down and I let Ivan eat in peace.
I take out the foil, watch Pop remove the
little television off the rolling cart, and shoved it on a lower shelf at the
end of the island. Then he places a whole deep dish apple pie in a pastry box
on the cart and pauses to hear what Ivan
has to say. I have no idea where the pie came from, was he baking today. He crosses
to the range and ladles gravy into a portable soup container and screws on the
lid. He twists around and raises his eyebrows at Ivan.
“So you have no idea how long you and your entourage will be camping out behind
my house?”
Ivan looks up from his plate and says, “Not really. Just
that at this point, as long as necessary.”
“Well feel free to help yourselves to anything we have
in the kitchen.”
“That’s very gracious of you Christopher,
but I'm not going to take advantage of your kindness.”
“Well, if you change your mind, our doors open. Well,
not literally.”
I smile and pass Ivan a couple of yeast rolls with the
tongues, and then fill the warming sack with 12 more rolls and fold down the
top edges.
Ivan studies us briefly and smiles. “Thanks…you know
what—”
I look over.
Ivan waves his hand. “The way the two of you are is why I love America so
much.” Ivan smiles and picks up a
yeast roll, dunks it in the gravy swimming on his plate, and takes a large
bite.
I can't help but smile. Whatever, I’m just hopping the
food keeps Ivan here longer. I want to
pick his mind about Mom. Who knows, maybe I’ll follow in Mom’s steps and become
a spy too. I hand over the bag of rolls and Pop and he tucks it next to the
apple pie on the second shelf. Then he rises up and says, “So you think there
are KGB in America
trying to harm the families of people who messed with their nuclear programs.
That’s seems little far fetched. The Cold War has been over for years.”
“That’s just one of many reasons the old regime wants
to retaliate,” Ivan says, around a mouthful
of food.
I laugh and tear off more foil and keep
tucking it around each plate of food. “There's always a bunch of crazy
people running around this town. Most of them are on drugs...”
Ivan lowers his fork. “Cookie, I think it's time you grasp
the seriousness of what's going on...”
This gets my attention. “What do you
mean?”
Ivan steals a glance at Pop and Pop nods his head in what
looks like, go ahead tell her. “A Russian spy ring has been operating for at
least 10 years, its members adopting false identities for the purpose of
infiltrating Washington’s
policy-making circles. Reconnaissance teams are being set up in fifteen states
due to reports sent to the Pentagon of credible threats from a particular group
in Russia.
OCC AKA Operation Cookie Cutter is unprecedented.” Ivan
pauses to take another bite of his dinner.
“Why my name?”
“Cookie Blakely was the first name on the
list, it was alphabetical.”
“Curses!”
“Due to afore mentioned circumstances,
I'm now the Special Agent in Charge of OCC. I chose to be here in person not
only because a shadow was sighted right here in your neighborhood, but because
I am familiar with the workings of the Soviet government.” Ivan's gaze slides from me to Pop and back. “We think
he or she might be watching you and your daughter, Cookie. I need to
find out why they would target Eva's
surviving family.”
Doesn't he mean stalker? I wonder what
circumstances? Did I zone out and miss something? Pop and I look at each other
with the same stricken expression. He says, “We just want to live in normal
world.”
Whatever that is. I pass Pop a covered
plate. My hand is clearly shaking.
Ivan
swallows some food and picks up his knife, preparing another bite.
I ask,
“W-what exactly is a shadow?”
He looks a me. “A Kremlin official threatens to send a
“Mercader”, an assassin after Russian defectors. We changed the name to
shadows.”
My mouth forms an “O”. And here I thought
Jimmy Beal was a problem. Mental note: try not
to be so mean to him.
“A Mercader,” Ivan
explains further while cutting his meat, “shadows their victims with malicious
intent in mind.”
“Great.” I seriously need to tell Ivan about Valentine—still not in front of Pop—he’ll
totally freak if he knows that I kept this from him. All of a sudden, I feel
like I’m going to pass out. I read in Mr. J's book about Ramon Mercader
the Spanish communist and Soviet agent who tracked down and murdered dissident
Bolshevik Leon Trotsky with an ice axe in Mexico in 1940. I grab the edge of
the counter and plop down on the closest stool. I whisper, “This is so scary.”
Ivan puts down his fork and knife and holds up his hands.
“There’s really no need for alarm. Trust me we have statics AKA
stake-outs...all over town. We’ve got you covered with the finest agents in the
Bureau—” Ivan pauses and his blue eyes
grow dark. “Look, I’m not going to lie. We have information from the Vienna
Embassy that this person or persons we’re tracking is very likely an
ex-KGB agent.” He unfolds the fresh white linen napkin, wipes his mouth
roughly, and then tosses it aside.
Pop drops a pot in the aluminum sink with a loud
clatter. I jump and look up as he sprints over to the refrigerator and yanks
door open so hard that the stuff on the shelves inside the door clink in
concert. Standing in the open refrigerator, he takes out the bottle of wine,
pulls out the cork and raises it to his mouth. He thinks twice, and then lowers the
bottle, re-corks it, returns it to the shelf and shuts the door. After doing an about face, he marches to the
island, picks up his cup of coffee, and slurps it loudly as if in defiance. Then he starts pacing
the floor between the kitchen nook and the island with agitation. He stops, turns around and
runs his hands over his face. Then he grabs his head and shouts at the ceiling, “For the love of God, when in god’s name is
all of this going to stop?”
We get that this is a rhetorical question.
Pop waves his hand in the air, and says calmly, “Carry on!”
I ask Ivan, “So, what are we supposed to do lock ourselves
in the house and never leave?”
Ivan says, “No, Cookie, you are to live your lives as if
nothing is going on...until I tell you otherwise.” Ivan
looks at Pop. “You too Christopher…I
just want you to be extra, extra cautious. And do not tell anyone
about this. You never know who might be listening in on your conversation. I
suggest you vary your daily schedules as much as possible.”
“Bloody hell!”
Pop shouts and we both look over at him. He picks up his coffee mug and the
coffee pot. Then he set the pot down, staggers to the kitchen nook, and plops
down on the bench with a soft grunt, still clutching his empty coffee mug. He
set his mug down with a plunk. He digs in his pocket and takes out his blood
pressure meds. His mouth is set in a slit.
I go over and study his face, which is
paler than normal. “Pop, did you take your evening pill?”
Pop says, “Um, I don't remember.” Then he
clutches his chest and he goes even paler, the freckles on his face stand out
like dark brown specks. I crouch down in front of Pop, my hands on his knees.
“Pop, is it okay to double-dose?” Agent Brody is on his feet standing next to
me. I twist around and look up at Ivan,
“I think he's have a heart attack, Call 9-1-1!”
“Should I force a pill in his mouth?”
“No. I’m okay.” Pop twists off the plastic safety top
and shakes a tiny pill in palm of his hand, and then places it under his tongue
and say, “Fetch me some water would you Ivan?”
Ivan grabs a glass off the shelf, fills it from the water
bottle on the island and dashes over. Pop takes the glass and drinks all of the
water. I hover close by with my cell phone in hand, ready to dial for emergency
services if necessary. In a few minuets, Pop's color returns to his normally.
He sits upright and seem just fine.
“You okay?”
“Yes. I’m okay love.”
“Looks like those meds work really fast,”
Ivan says out the side of his mouth.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “When he
remembers to take them.”
Ivan blows out a long breath. “Look. I’m sorry that you
two have had to suffer for so long. Eva
is…was...a great woman.” His voice fades off as if he decided not to continue.
I check on Pop once more, and then refill his water
glass. He waves it away as if embarrassed by the whole ordeal.
“Stop hovering. I'm not an invalid,” Pop
tells me and on his way out the kitchen door, I assume to use the bathroom.
I hold my hand infront of my mouth and say, “He's cranky again, that's a good sign.”
Ivan nods. “Yeah. He does
seem a lot better.”
I turn and face Ivan.
“Just curious. What were you going to say just now? You changed your
mind. Why?”
Ivan bows his head and leans against the end of the
island. His lips are pressed tightly shut in a thin line, eye looking down.
It's weird. Why can't he just tell me what he knows about my mom? At this
point, I feel like shaking it out of him, but I control my Irish temper. I
don’t want to go to jail like Pop when he assaulted Agent Werthoust.
“Fine!” I say with a shake of my head.
“I'll find out for myself.”
Pop enters the kitchen. “Enough stalling!” He says between his teeth,
“Tell her what you know. The child's and I have been left in the dark too
long!” He repeats slowly in a controlled tone, “Eva…was…what?”
I look at Pop hoping I'm not adding to his distress. His eyes are on Ivan.
Ivan hesitates a tad too long and Pop slams his fist on
the tabletop a little too hard. His glass falls off, crashes to the floor and
shatters into a million pieces.
Startled, I look at Ivan,
and then back at Pop. Pop's face looks slightly ashen, but flushed this time
from the anger. I can see his nostrils flaring with each breath as he stands in front of Ivan.
I’m afraid he’s gonna blow if Ivan
refuses to tell him altogether. What if the two of them could come to blows. This is
not good.
“Both of you chill!” I shout, and fetch the dust pan
and a small trash can we keep next to the phone cabinet. I poke Pop in the
chest with my finger. “Pop, just forget it! Apparently, I'm not supposed to ask
questions about Mom. Seriously, it's not worth stressing over.”
They move out of my way while I sweep up shards of
glass. During this, I shoot dagger like looks at Ivan.
I am so mad at him for so many reasons. Pop raises his bushy red eyebrows at me
and I bug my eyes at him. Nobody seems to be giving in. It's like two billy goats butting heads.
Ivan throws up his hands. “Okay, okay! Truce!” he
exclaims, and pushes off the counter to get away from Pop. He places his hand on his hips and I wait
while he takes a few deep breaths and lets them out. He buys more time by
checking his wrist watch. Then he runs his hands through his short blonde hair.
Pop is giving him the death stare. You could cut the air with a knife.
Finally Ivan holds up his hands, and says with humor, “Alright.
Man! You people are relentless. All I was going to say is
that Eva was exceptional. Not only in
her abilities involved in the workings of intelligence gathering by cracking
difficult codes. She was also a valuable assist to the CIA, the FBI, and the
NSA. She will be sorely missed by the people she worked with. Look, I
know it’s hard to understand why—after all these months—you're still
being harassed by people like me and the motley bunch in the van.” Ivan stops talking. In the next breath, he says sternly, “You two take cover. NOW!”
Pop
and I dash over to the short wall next to the pantry.
Ivan
reaches for his gun that is not tucked under his arm. Crouching over, he moves
to the chair, takes his firearm out of the holster and pulls back the muzzle.
His eyes never leaving the back window. Sliding along the wall, he keeps
looking out the back window. “Stay down until I tell you otherwise.”
I follow his gaze and whisper, “What's going on?”
Ivan presses his finger to his lips.
Pop pushes his body in front of me, guarding me, and
blocking my view.
I peek around him. Ivan has his shoulder pressed into the wall next to the window, peering out at the backyard. I see a dark figure come through
the back gate. As the dark figure makes his way to our back door, his face
comes into view and I see that it's Agent Simpson. So does Pop and Ivan. My guess Pop gave them the combination to the
gate lock.
Ivan holsters his gun and says, “Speaking of...” He unlocks the door, steps
outside and shuts the door soundly.
“What do you think is going on?” I ask as we go over
to the island, glass crunching under our shoes.
Pop glances over his shoulder, he doesn't seem to
care.
I cup my hands to the window and say, “Looks like they're discussing
something important.” I watch the two FBI agents while Pop finishes cleaning up the broken glass I obviously missed.
Pop returns the waste can to it's proper place, and
then grabs my hand. I look at him thinking oh no, he's sick again. “Aye lassie,”
he says sullenly. He smiles sadly at me through moist bloodshot eyes. “I'm
sorry.”
I just look at him because the words are stuck in my
throat and I'm trying to hold it together. What brought this on? Duh.
Pop says, “I was bloody clueless about your mum’s
life. And all along, I knew in my heart that she might be in danger.” He shrugs. “But there
was nothing I could do. She'd never give up her career.” He's crying openly now
and slurring slightly. I think the wine, the stress...and the meds have kicked in,
big time.
I take a step back and search his face for signs of what
I don't know. “Pop, Mom was dedicated to her work,” I say, repeating what he
told his mom way back when. “You respected that. Hey, I hope I find a guy like
that. You know, one that will respect me for me.” Sean Palmer
sure as heck didn't.
Pop nods his head and blows his nose on his white
handkerchief. “Yes, she was dedicated alright, perhaps too much. I always
wished she was home more often...for you and me."
I smile at him and swallow hard. “Yeah,” I
manage to squeek out, “me too."
Pop folds his hanky and sticks it in his back pocket,
and I slide my eyes to the window. “What the heck are they
discussing for so long?”
“If we were supposed to know, they would be in here,”
Pop says, and goes over and picks up the coffee pot.
I hear him slurping and glance over at him. I'm pretty
sure his doctor told him to cut back on caffeine, like, months ago. Before I
can bust him, he raises his mug.
“It's decaf. By the way, I've given what you and Josh are doing a lot of thought.” He takes another
quick sip and goes on, “Cookie, no matter what, I promise that I will help you
with your investigation.”
I blink and feel my eyebrows go up on my forehead.
“Just promise me that you will tell Agent Brody and me
everything.”
I cross my fingers and nod yes. Trust me, before long,
he'll know everything.
Pop goes over to the cart and covers it with a heat
blanket. Then he starts cleaning up the kitchen. I guess when Ivan finally finishes his food we'll roll this cart
out to the van. I hope I don't have to go with. It's getting late and I want to
call Josh.
Suddenly Ivan
comes back in, closes the back door, and locks it. “Sorry for the interruption,”
he tells us as he pokes a small notebook in his back pocket and strolls over to
the island. “Well, it looks as if the axis of evil...along with several corrupt
world governments...who I won't bother to name...won’t stop until they lay
hands on certain documents Eva managed to acquire after the end of the Cold
War—”
He stops talking and I look over and say slowly, “Oh-kay.”
Ivan looks down at his abandoned dinner, and then tugs up
his trousers and sits down at the island. He pushes aside his plate of cold
food and runs his hands over his face.
“Um, didn't the Cold War officially ended in 1991? It
was on a test,” I explain, and put the foil away in the pantry. I come back and
look at Ivan. He's pushing his cold
potatoes around his plate with his fork. I point at his plate. “You want me to
nuke your food?”
“Thanks.” Ivan
leans back and pushes up his sleeves.
“Can you tell us why they'd want with outdated documents?”
I ask as I carry his plate to the microwave and set it inside. I shut the door,
flick a look at him, and push the buttons. One minuet on high should do it. I
lean into the counter.
Pop is busy loading the dishwasher. He seems okay now,
thank God. He says, “Or is it hush-hush.” After closing the door, he looks at Ivan. “I’m not trying to be a smartass. That’s the pat
answer we usually get from you people.”
Ivan crosses his arms over his chest. “Eva was the best there was in her field. Back then,
she broke codes that had baffled every other translator for eons. The invention
of the computer programs made decoding foolproof.” He goes on about what Mom
did in "the field" as a decoder in the Cryptanalysis and Racketeering
Record Unit (CRRU). “What Eva did
solved countless crimes,” he says earnestly. "But she actually
prevented even more crimes than she solved.”
I nod my head, as my mind tries to process what Ivan is saying. It feels as if he’s talking about a
complete stranger, not the pretty woman I called Mom. The athletic lady who
came home with presents for me and Pop and taught me how to swim. I guess what Josh read in the Internet newspaper was right.
“Wow. Sounds as if Mom was hanging with the big boys.”
“She was the best of the best,” Ivan
says wryly.
Pop says, “You’d think the art of manually cracking
codes written in traditional forms of communication like letters would've faded
along ago with J.
Edgar Hoover.”
Ivan shakes his head. “Not so. Criminals who use
cryptography—codes, ciphers, and concealed messages—are more numerous than you
might expect,” Ivan the FBI agent tell us then the teacher side of him emerges.
“Terrorists, gang members, inmates, drug dealers, violent lone offenders, and
organized crime groups involved in gambling and prostitution use letters,
numbers, symbols, and even invisible ink to encode messages in an attempt to
hide illegal activity.”
I'm thrilled that Ivan
is telling us all this, but what does it have to do with the shadow stalking me.
The micro dings, and I carry Ivan's
plate over to him. I pass him a fresh napkin and more silverware. “So how does all
that tie into Mom's investigation?”
“They want to figure out how Eva did what she did
and find out what she was able to discover
as an expert in cryptography.”
Cryptography.
Cool word. I go over and write it down on my notepad.
“All that said, we come to the catch-22—” Ivan pause while he spreads his napkin over one thigh
and picks up his silverware. He takes a big bite and pulls out a small notebook
from his back pocket. He flips it open, sets it next to his plate, takes
another bite, and then reads off the page, talking around the food in his
mouth. “For almost two decades, several corrupt foreign governments have
planted moles hoping to learn Eva’s
codebreaking methods. To this day, they are still trying to hack into US
intelligence databases to infiltrate the treasure trove of documents she was
able to decode over the years and expose intelligence-secrets and schemes.”
I smile more in awe of her, and Ivan
adds, “Your mother could analyze and breaking extremely difficult ciphertext
codes better than anyone in the universe.”
Pop sits down on the bench in the nook and whistles
between his teeth. “Geez Louise, this sounds like the making for a James Bond
movie.”
“Huh.” I chew on my fingernail for a minute then say, “So
you and your people mistook Josh
O'Dell for this so called shadow.”
“Something like that,” Ivan
says then finishes his cold coffee. He makes a face and sets his cup down.
Pop stands up abruptly and immediately grabs the
coffee pot. He refills his cup and Ivan's.
Pop passes Ivan his cup and I briefly
wonder if Ivan is cool drinking decaf.
I remember that as a health nut, decaf was all Mom drank. I picture her sipping
coffee that morning before we left to go skiing…it was the last time I saw her…
Pop says, “So, let me get this straight. You're
telling us that my wife had to put herself in with criminal and terrorist to
translate stuff for the US
government.”
I butt in and ask, “Sorry, but, has anybody checked
out the likelihood that Mom may've been murdered? Or that she might be a
prisoner somewhere in Russia...we
never saw her...her coffin was sealed shut. Did you know about that?”
Ivan makes a face. One I can't read. I notice that his Adam’s
apple is bob under his turtleneck. He clears his throat and says, “I can't
discuss that.”
Suddenly the room starts spinning. I sit down on the
nearest stool and lay my head on my arms to make it stop. What is wrong with
me? I feel crappy. Must be a bad time of the month. Pop comes over and pats my
back. He says, “Cookie and I need closure Ivan.”
I force myself to sit up. I yawn and cover my mouth.
I'm really tired. My bed is calling me, but I have so much to do and think
about.
Pop says, "Go on to bed love."
“In a minute. I want to hear what Ivan has to say.”
I look at Ivan
and he says, tentatively, “There is a Medical Examiner’s report.”
Pop asks, "So, you're the head of this
investigation right?”
Ivan nods.
“What does it say was the cause of death?"
Agent Brody blows out a long breath. “Look, I was just recently assigned as SAC to the case.
My first briefing was less than a last week ago. I promise you, my squad is
working closely with Agent Werthoust’s team to work out the details. I haven’t
seen Eva’s autopsy report yet so I
admit that I don’t know everything.” Ivan
pauses to glance down at his watch. “Come to think of it, I put in a request
for a copy to his office over two days ago. With everything going on, I haven’t
had a chance to follow up on that. I’m starting to think Willy’s
not the most cooperative guy on the planet.”
Willy? I have to stifle a giggle in my tired stupor.
Pop gestures at the blanketed rolly cart parked at the
end of the kitchen island. “Shall we get this food out to your friends while
it’s still eatable?”
Ivan shakes his head as if to say he can't believe how
nice we are. He goes over, slides his shoulder holster over his head, and slips
on his coat.
“Opps, we almost forget these.” I get up, gather up
the silverware wrapped in napkins, and go over, lift the corner of the heavy
warming blanket, and place the bundles on the bottom shelf. After that, I
figure Ivan’s done eating. I carry his
dishes to the sink scrape off in the crumbs, running the water and disposal. I
stick everything in the dishwasher.
Pop picks up a large plaid thermos. “I made a thermos
of caffeinated coffee. You need coffee mugs?”
“No, we have a stack of foam ones in the van and
packets of cream and sugar. Here let me help.”
Pop wheels the cart to the back door and reaches for
the handle.
Ivan rushes to opens it. “This is very nice of you Christopher. Seriously, those apes in the van don’t
deserve this.”
I dry my hands on a dishtowel. “Why would X-KGB people
stalk us after the fact…I mean, we
don’t know anything…we’re just normal Americans.” I fold the towel and lay it
on the counter.
Ivan stops abruptly. “Hold on a second. You two deserve to
know what Agent Simpson just told me. There’s new chatter on the Internet.
Someone's saying that Eva might’ve
left behind important documents or possibly something that will incriminate
their superiors.”
I make an angry face. “That's crazy!”
“Like I said, it’s all extremely complicated.”
After that, Ivan
seems to close up. Pop and I can't badger anymore information out of him so we
help him wheel the cart of food out to the surveillance van. Special Agent Ivan
Brody gives both of us a business card. “Call whenever you want. Night or day.
I'll keep in close contact with you Christopher,
at least twice a day, with any new developments.
They shake hands and Pop says, “Just return the cart
to the back door and leave it. I’ll check out back before I hit the hay.”
I'm so glad that we don't hang around while they eat.
After all the excitement, I just want some peace and quiet. Following a quick
dinner Pop busies himself by putting the kitchen in shipshape and then heads to
his easy chair to watch the late show. I can't believe I still have homework to
do.
Upstairs in my room, I change into sweats, and then
put in a call to Josh
O'Dell. It goes to his message
center. That was disappointing. I leave a short message and then crawl up in my
window seat to tweak my Global Warming report. After a few pages, I decided my
report can’t be improved upon. Hum, I really might have a gift for writing. I
tuck my notebooks inside my backpack and drop it on the floor. I promised to
work for Pop, but I don’t picture myself in the restaurant business or catering
for the long haul. I could be a journalist, write short stories for
magazines…or novels. Or become a spy, either way I have choices.
Speaking of spying...
I get up and retrieve Mom’s binoculars out of the
bathroom, and stand up in the dormer window, put the binoculars on night-vision
and scan the yard to see if little Beggar kitty might be scampering around out
there. Shucks! He’s nowhere in sight. I guess he’s moved on. I hope not. I
really want a pet. I focus on the surveillance van’s roof, which is barley
visible through the thick Irish Oak branches. Now that I know what I know, I’m
very glad that it’s out there protecting us and full of people with big guns.
I smack my forehead and turn to look at the clock next
to my bed. It’s after midnight. I hope it’s not too late to call Ivan. He said call anytime. I have to tell him what I
know about the old man that's following me all over the place. I pull Ivan’s card out of my pocket and stare at it. It
looks so official. I hesitate only because I always get nervously when I have
to talk to authority.
I bend over, pull Mr. J's book out of my backpack, and
look at the picture the KGB Agent Fredrik Koshechka. If he isn’t Valentine, I’ll eat my hat. In my mind’s eye, I see him
winking at me through the van's windshield. I shiver and punch in Agent Brody's
cell number.
