PART TWO ~ CHAPTER NINETEEN ~ OPERATION: COOKIE CUTTER by B. A.Linhares

"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.