An American Spy

10:07

The message itself was irrelevant to the contact procedure; only the time and the phone he called from mattered.

He had an hour to kill, so he walked over to Flatbush, down toward Grand Army Plaza, and took an outdoor table at the Burrito Bar amp; Kitchen. He felt out of place among the mixed crowd of young professionals trying to decide if they really wanted to get drunk on a Tuesday night, and sipped at the Coke the pretty-but-cool waitress brought him. It burned his throat.

Though he knew what he was doing, he found it agonizingly difficult to predict much further than this moment, for he was acting on obligation, not desire. Yes, he was calling on Leticia, and, yes, he would sit down with Penelope to break the news-such as it was-to her. Anything else was speculation. He did not want to help Alan and Leticia with their plans, because Alan was ruled by his pride now, which-if he was still alive-made him unpredictable and dangerous. That he boldly used Milo’s own work name in London, a name with a criminal investigation attached to it, proved that he had believed he could coerce Milo into his elaborate web.

How far would he help Chaudhury? That was something he didn’t know. He might not like the man, but if Homeland and CIA were simply trying to find out what Alan was up to, it was a legitimate aim. What he wanted was a reason not to help, and the only justification for washing his hands of it would be if Alan’s operation had crashed and was now finished. There was only one person who could tell him if it was over, and she was just one more step away.

It was as he was finishing his Coke that he noticed, across the street, Chaudhury’s denim friend outside a Duane Reade, keeping watch over him. It didn’t matter.

He paid, then continued up the busy street toward Grand Army. He didn’t look back, just waited at the curb for the light to change, then walked down the west side of the oval and crossed beneath it to reach a grassy triangular island between the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Arch and the Brooklyn Public Library. Again, he checked his phone-11:04-and pressed it to his ear, faking a conversation. Around him, cars continued their loud, congested parade as he waited the required three minutes, trying to think of nothing.

He gave it an extra minute, and at 11:08 returned to the sidewalk. Somewhere above his head, he knew, was the public webcam he’d been unable to spot, and if Leticia checked her phone messages as frequently as she had told him, she would be on a computer or smart phone somewhere in the world watching him leave its frame. It was all she needed to know-he wanted to talk.

At home, Tina was on the couch reading an enormous novel; he saw she hadn’t gotten far. “So?” she asked.

He settled next to her and placed a hand on her thigh. “They don’t know anything.”

“Of course they know something.”

He leaned close and kissed her. “You’re wise beyond your years.”

“So?”

“I told them I’d make some calls, see what I could find, but that’s it. I’m not doing their job for them.”

She didn’t reply, only stared at him, the paperback shut around her index finger.

“What?” he asked.

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“No idea.”

“But you have a feeling?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

She finally put the novel on the coffee table, and he saw that it was Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. “I wonder how we’re going to break it to Penelope.”

“There’s no news to break. Not yet.”

“Well, we’re not leaving her in the dark.”

“Why not?” he asked, because on the walk home he’d wondered this. Why talk to Penelope when, for all they knew, Alan could show up at her door tomorrow, clutching flowers?

“Because I’ve been there before,” Tina said, “and I’m not going to let it happen to her.”

She was serious, and it was a detail he should have predicted. Only last year, she had learned a lot of things he’d kept her in the dark about, and the realization of his dishonesty had nearly killed the marriage. Of course she’d insist on keeping Penelope informed. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

She shook her head. “No. She doesn’t trust you.”

“She doesn’t?”

“Don’t take it personally. She just trusts me more.”

“Then you tell her.”

“ Christ, ” she said to no one in particular.

Milo looked in on Stephanie, who was snoring with her PlayStation aglow beside her pillow, then he showered and joined his wife in bed. She’d turned off the lights, and once he was under the covers she wrapped a bare leg around him. “Maybe you should,” she said finally.

“Tell Penelope?”

“Help them figure this out. Alan was a friend.”

“ Is a friend. And he’s off his rocker.” He turned to look at her, but her face was hard to make out in the darkness. “The man’s trying to take on the Guoanbu-China’s entire foreign intelligence service. Does that sound balanced to you? I don’t know what he did in London, but it’s possible he provoked the wrong people and got himself killed. You really want me to follow his trail?”

“When you put it that way,” she said, but he knew her too well to believe that he’d convinced her of anything.