32

A force F acts at point P on a rigid body, as shown in the figure below, where R is the distance from point O to point P, and θ is the angle at which the force acts. What is the torque exerted on the rigid body about point O?

Two streets over, beyond the range of the security cameras on Caroline’s estate, I park the Jeep.

“Why are we stopping?”

“I need to send a quick message.”

Malia Lind has inhabited the same tiny, windowless office on the fourth floor of headquarters for twenty-three years. Before she was an analyst, she was an intelligence officer in the navy. With an admiral from New Jersey for a father and a forensic pathologist from Brazil for a mother, Malia has service and curiosity in her blood. She is left to her own devices, tasked with researching all of the historical, unsolved espionage cases.

Malia is brilliant, maybe on the spectrum. She gets obsessed, looking at each case from dozens of angles, searching for the elusive nugget of information that will finally break it open. Usually, this means finding the exact guy who would know an exact piece of information, tracking him down, finding the perfect agent to do the pitch, and creating the extensive, complicated op that might make it all coalesce into a recruitment.

Malia’s passion for these forgotten cases is infectious. In the past, when she asked me to meet someone, I always said yes. It often meant I had to drop everything and be on a plane to some far-flung location within hours. Each time Malia’s number flashed across my phone screen, I felt a rush of nervous excitement. I knew I’d soon be packing, making excuses to Fred and Rory, to my boss and my coworkers, apologizing to everyone whom I was surely going to disappoint in the coming days.

The last time Malia called me for one of these last-minute gigs was Iceland. The trip went well, but now, whenever I see a news item or travel ad for Iceland, I think of the hours I wasted in that northern outpost when I should have been at home with Fred, enjoying our time together during what would prove to be his final months. The most difficult part of the equation is this: if I hadn’t gone to Iceland, the calendar might have shifted, time altered in some unknowable way, and he would still be here now. Rory would still have a father.

Asking for a favor means I have to be willing to return it. At the moment, there’s probably only one thing Malia needs from me: she needs me to go back to Iceland, do another meeting, and finish this thing we started.

We’re approaching the anniversary of the last meeting, and I’m certain the source has been expecting an email from me. On paper, he’s known as Red Vine. I open the encrypted messaging app Confide and type: I need you to check some “diplomats” for me discreetly. Also, let me know if the interest and money are there for another Red Vine trip.

Seconds later, her response arrives: Money and interest always there if you’re willing. I’ve been saving part of my budget for you.

I send Malia what I know about Caroline’s parents: Official surname Donadieu, French first consul and his wife assigned to San Francisco since last year, frequent travel to Vienna and North Africa. Can you find out where they are now?

On it, she replies.

Rory cracks his knuckles. “Are you worried?”

I can’t lie to him. “I’m not not worried,” I admit. I think of Gray Stafford’s cryptic message to me on movie night. I think of the blonde woman telling Caroline not to show up for the test. Of course, there’s also the personal assistant fired by Caroline’s mother three weeks ago, but my gut tells me that has nothing to do with Caroline.

We drive the streets of Greenfield again, searching. Then, in concentric circles, we widen to Burlingame, San Mateo.

“Has Blandine ever seemed hostile toward Caroline?” I ask Rory.

“No, she’s almost invisible. She doesn’t pay any attention to us unless we go into the kitchen. She thinks snacking is a mortal sin.”

Rory’s texts to Caroline’s small group of girlfriends produce no information. He reads their responses aloud. They don’t even sound like friends.

“Is it possible she just didn’t want to face the test?” I ask. “That she took the mystery woman’s advice?” I want to ease his concern, but the more I think about the single text she sent last night, the more it bothers me.

“Not a chance. She really wanted to do well, and she’s worked so hard to try to improve her score. The fact that someone told her not to show up would have only made her more determined.”

After nearly two hours of searching, I pull into the Rodeo Pizza in Foster City and hand Rory my wallet. “I’m going to try to reach Officer Kyle. Why don’t you run in and get us a pepperoni to take home?”

When Kyle doesn’t answer his work or personal cell phones, I call the station. The dispatcher tells me he’s out sick. I call Kyle’s personal cell and leave a message. “A friend of Rory’s didn’t show up to school today. Maybe unrelated, but I don’t like the timing. Her name is Caroline Donadieu. Can you get the CCTV footage from the school for this past Sunday?”

Inside the pizza joint, Rory is the only customer. He seems worn out, not quite here. He hands me the wallet. “I didn’t pay yet.”

A tatted-out skinhead stands behind the counter, tending the metal ovens. He looks me up and down, a creepy grin spreading across his face. He’s spindly and greasy, tall, a buck fifty at most, probably in his late thirties. He pulls the pizza out of the oven, cuts and boxes it. Instead of handing it over the counter, he walks around to where I’m standing and edges up close to me, so close the box touches my stomach. The look in his eyes, the way he presses the box against me, pisses me off.

I take the pizza and hand it to Rory. “Go wait in the car. I’ll be out in a sec.”

I don’t relax until I hear the door closing behind him.

“How much?”

“Seventeen ninety-five. But for you I’ll work out a discount. I get off in twenty. If you want to wait for me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“No thanks.” I reach around him to place a twenty on the counter.

As I turn and move toward the door, he sidesteps in front of me, blocking my way.

“Wait, mama. You’re the only pretty customer I’ve had all day. Let’s talk this through.” He’s on something, I’m not sure what. An upper, something that makes him unpredictable, probably even to himself.

“You need to move. Right now.”

“Come on. It’ll do you good, wake you up to possibilities.”

A prison tattoo runs the length of his left arm. He wears a flannel shirt, sleeves torn off. He smells like smoke and a bad apartment, days spent playing video games and watching porn in a dark room. He places his hands on my shoulders, positioning himself between me and the door, his thumbs digging into my skin. I smell pizza burning in the oven.

I force his hands off my shoulders. “Final warning. You do not want to do this.”

He grins and reaches around me, sliding a bony hand up my back.

Disgust surges through me. I feel my eyes narrowing, tunnel vision coming on. The training comes back instinctively. I lower my center of gravity by a couple of inches, planting my right foot behind me. I mumble something he can’t hear, drawing him in closer. It’s about balance. He expects me to push him back, so I pull him in instead. With his weight leaning forward, his mind momentarily relaxed, I have the advantage, even though he’s much taller.

“What?” He tilts forward. “Was that a ‘yes’ I heard, mama?”

I put my palms on his chest. I feel his bones, no muscle tone. I let loose with a burst of focused energy, pushing him backward. In Quantico they taught us about the torque that comes from your planted feet, the twist of your waist, how it’s an especially effective tool for women facing off against bigger guys. Of course, this target is a walk in the park compared to the rock of an agent who served as my DT partner.

Pizza guy is even lighter than I expected. He loses his balance and falls backward. As his hands grab for the table behind him to break his fall, I lunge forward, twisting my core. I swing my fist low and fast across my body and slam it into his left cheek. His eyes are wide open, stunned; clearly, he didn’t expect things to go this way, this fast. His hands scramble for the table beside him, but his balance is all off, his body spinning away from the punch, blood streaming from where my ring caught his cheek. He hits the ground hard and the flimsy table falls over him.

Adrenaline pulses through my body. I fight the urge to kick him once in the face or neck. Eliminate the threat. But it’s uncalled for, really, and I know that all this rage I’m taking out on the pizza guy isn’t just about him. It’s about Fred. It’s about my dad. It’s about not knowing how to fix anything for Rory. It’s about Gray and the Lamey twins, three kids who went missing and showed up a shell of themselves, and it’s about Caroline, this sick feeling I have in my gut that she’s in serious trouble.

I watch for a moment, my center of gravity still low, arms and hands poised to fight. I pause to make sure he’s still breathing, but also to make sure he’s not going to pop back up and reengage.

“Bitch,” he whimpers, his hand hovering over the cut on his face. He moves slowly to push the table off of him, but he has no strength.

I take several deep breaths, take a few moments to compose myself. When I step outside, I realize Rory is standing just outside the restaurant, still holding the pizza, staring in the window, wide-eyed.

“What the hell, Mom.”

“Get in the car.”

Once we’re inside the Jeep, I lock the doors and turn the key in the ignition. “How much did you see?”

“All of it.”

“I’m sorry. I lost my temper.”

“Mom, you don’t have a temper.” Rory stares at me as if it has just occurred to him that he doesn’t entirely know me.

“The guy was a jerk, but I could’ve talked my way out of it. I should have handled it differently, obviously.”

“How did you even know how to do that?”

“Training. Practice.”

“Did Dad know you could do that?”

“I suppose.”

“Did he ever see you do something like that?”

“God, no,” I laugh.

Rory doesn’t pursue the subject any further, but I can tell from the way he stares at me, mulling it over, that we’ll return to this conversation.

In the middle of the night, a message arrives from Malia:

Your son seems to be dabbling in the family business. The girl’s parents are the real deal. A posting to Kiev, then one to Sofia, back to Paris for two years, then San Francisco. Not clear if they’re Asian or Eurasian Directorate. CD-2 wouldn’t sneeze at it if you bring them around. Definitely a team. The wife’s credentials are legit. She speaks Mandarin. He speaks Russian and Farsi. The two of them may have been in Algeria since last Wednesday, under different names and passports, completely off the grid, but you didn’t hear it from me.