30

When time travel is finally invented, who will be in the most danger? Provide a plausible timeline and supporting scientific data.

At traffic circle Monday morning, the A team is out directing cars and greeting students for day one of the Wonder Test: Miss Hartwell, the dainty English teacher with a shock of white hair; Mr. Cartwright, the science teacher who moonlights as the lead singer in a ska band; and Kobayashi. Rory points out Dopey Barrett, the kid who defeated him in the student council elections, standing beside a table covered with blue paper bags. A banner hanging behind the table declares, BLUBERRY: THE PERFECT BRAIN FOOD.

“What’s that about?” I ask Rory. “And why’d they misspell ‘blueberry’?”

“It’s the name of his dad’s software start-up. They also own an organic blueberry farm near Clear Lake. They’ve been passing out berries every day as a publicity stunt.”

Kobayashi stands next to Dopey, waving at parents, greeting students. Rory gets out of the Jeep and scans the crowd, looking for Caroline.

At 1:25 in the afternoon I arrive at George’s designated spot on the Bay Trail. I sit on the bench, waiting. I’ve been looking forward to the meeting, but now I’m distracted, worried about Caroline, running her text message through my mind: Don’t worry, Friend. All is well. It has been nagging at me. It doesn’t sound like Caroline. Call it instinct, call it statement analysis, call it what you will: one thing I know for certain. Something is off.

At 1:29, George appears on the path, alone. He sits down beside me. Without a word, he hands me the envelope to count.

“What, no run today?”

He points at his right foot and cringes. “Plantar fasciitis is a bitch.”

I quickly thumb through the stack of fifty-dollar bills. Like me, George pays his sources in fifties whenever possible. I’m the one who turned him on to the idea. Every time you pay a source, regardless of the amount, you create goodwill and generate personal equity. Since most people don’t carry around fifty-dollar bills in their daily life, if you pay them with a stack of fifties, then you get a little bonus bump every time they spend one. Even if it’s just a flash, a quick memory of the moment you paid them, it fosters a positive association with you.

On the crudest level, some agents measure the strength of a relationship with the equation: “number of contacts” multiplied by “total amount of time on target.” But the equation is too simplified, overlooking myriad subtle methods for strengthening the bond. Since personal contact is limited in a clandestine relationship, the noncontact methods are key. For me, paying in fifty-dollar bills is just one way to spark repeated, safe memories of the relationship, thereby creating additional relationship equity.

I count $9,950, just under the reporting limit for outbound US passengers. I pull out the receipt, write in the amount and the date, and initial.

“I told him one forty-five, so we have a few minutes to talk,” George says. “Good news. LeSaffre said we can’t have you working for free. He sent a memo asking personnel to reactivate you part-time.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

My tone must have been harsher than I intended, because George looks slightly hurt. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

I touch his arm. “I am. Thank you. I just feel like I’m not finished here. And Rory seems to like it.”

“I knew you’d say that. LeSaffre says you can work from here. He said to get him something on the French diplomats.”

“French diplomats aren’t exactly the big white whale, George.”

“No, but this fellow Donadieu is still a valuable target, and he has some interesting contacts in Moscow. No pressure. You in?” George has a velvety smooth voice that somehow wills a person to agree with him.

“Of course I’m in.”

A figure appears in the distance, walking toward us. Wheeling.

“Bastard is always early,” George mutters.

“How’s it going with this guy?”

“He’s producing a ton.”

“Good stuff?”

“Excellent. I’m getting tired of typing. Twenty-three IIRs last week alone. Let me know if you could use a hand on the French diplomat.”

“As a matter of fact, I need to track him down.”

George gives me a confused look. “Wait, you’re already working on it?”

“It’s more of a personal matter. As I mentioned before, Rory is friends with his daughter. Donadieu suddenly dropped off the map, but so did the girl. I don’t know if it’s related.”

“Sounds like a job for Malia Lind at HQ.”

Wheeling is a few dozen yards away. “Quick, before he gets here, how’d you decide on the name Wheeling? I don’t know the reference.”

“Joy Harjo, from In Mad Love and War.” He recites, “I don’t know the ending. / But I know the legacy of maggots is wings.” Wheeling is a few steps away now. “The poem is set in Wheeling, West Virginia,” George says. “It fits him perfectly, don’t you agree?”

“Too early to tell about the wings.”

We stand together to greet Wheeling. “Let’s do this, Damien,” I say.

Wheeling shakes George’s hand and gives me a sweaty hug. Either he likes me or he just likes the money that materializes whenever I’m around. After the exchange, the two of them walk off together.

Being in this familiar triangle, going through the familiar motions, is comforting. It reminds me that everything’s still ticking, that this whole world, just below the surface, is still there for me whenever I’m ready to return. I’m not sure I’d know how to do any other job. Every time I see George, I’m back in my element, a fish returned to water.

I take the long path back to the car, feeling more optimistic, recalibrated. It’s good to reengage with that other person I was, not so long ago—not quite a maggot sprouting wings, but not quite a caterpillar emerging as a butterfly either. In this line of work, we live somewhere in the middle, between two extremes: ugliness and beauty, life and death.