Meredith was all set to fly to seattle that Friday morning to chase down her ex in Washington State, per Dorsey’s orders. Since returning from Dubai, she’d had just enough time to swap suitcases, bathe, and grab a few fitful hours of sleep before this sudden trip to the West Coast. Now she stood shivering on the stoop of her Dupont Circle brownstone at seven o’clock, her black TUMI roller bag at her side, an Uber four minutes out.
But remembering something Rance had said, she abruptly stepped back inside, initiated the encryption app on her smartphone, and made a secure call to Sheffield, the CIA general counsel assigned to Counterproliferation. After authenticating, she asked the attorney whether the director had signed the authorization papers.
Nope, the big man hadn’t gotten to it yet. Sheffield followed with a lawyerly harangue about how Meredith shouldn’t initiate contact until authorized, the perils of illicit disclosure, the danger of crossing lines, given John’s special status, and two other things she ignored.
Very well, she thought, hanging up. Screw Rance and his hurry-up offense. She’d just been ordered to enjoy a weekend at home by none other than Agency legal. She nixed the Uber and sent a text to her daughter.
Forty-eight hours and several soaking baths later, she sat across from her nineteen-year-old daughter, eating brunch. Grace was a midshipman third class at the US Naval Academy, the imposing white walls of which stood only fifty yards away, abutting a canal that led to the Severn River. It was a dark, icy day and the few boats moored to the seawall creaked against frozen ropes.
The daughter looked pale and serious in her service dress blue uniform, brown hair at the collar, eyebrows knotted at an angle. As usual, she could spare only a few hours for the visit. January was a notoriously strenuous time at the USNA—all inspections, exams, and frozen marching.
After a plate of eggs and a catch-up on gossip, the conversation lulled with the waiter’s arrival. When alone again, Grace said, “So, Mom, what’s going on with you? I’m worried.”
Meredith cocked her head without expression.
Grace carried on. “I mean, you look good, as usual. A little thin maybe. You’ve got a nice suntan but I won’t bother asking you where it’s from. But still . . . you seem even more preoccupied than usual.” She placed her hand across Meredith’s.
Meredith smiled and patted her daughter’s knuckles before stowing her own hand beneath the table. “I’m fine,” she said. “Things have just been a little hectic.”
“How so?”
Meredith smiled silently, a practiced family signal.
“You must be able to tell me something.”
The CIA officer looked off toward the frozen docks, thinking about what to say. She wondered at the extent to which she would ever be able to share her whole self with her daughter. Probably someday, she concluded.
But not today.
She began, “I can tell you that I’m still on the counterproliferation detail. I can tell you that I find the work rewarding and important. It’s fast-paced . . . it’s my life, and—you’re right—it takes a lot out of me. But hey, look at this tan.” The smile weakened as she rolled up her sleeve.
Grace nodded, coolly mature. As Grace sat there in her regimented wool coat, sipping coffee, Meredith could picture her daughter in command of some large naval enterprise someday, a future filled with gold braid.
In that respect, she supposed, the Academy seemed to be doing its job, equipping Grace for life. But while it should have been enough to make a mother proud, she’d been nursing a nagging concern that Grace might still be too young for it all. Meredith didn’t want Grace to repeat her own mistake of rushing into adulthood too early. That made her think of John, the mistake’s manifestation. Then she pushed it all aside.
Don’t get sappy.
After brunch they walked around campus, looking up at the leafless trees, the leaden sky, the imposing granite buildings. Grace escorted her mother to Bancroft Hall, the thirty-three acre, five-story barracks of the brigade of midshipman. She introduced her mother to a handful of other uniformed “mids,” mostly girls sharing Grace’s serious, confident outlook.
Later, as they sat at a just off-campus Starbucks about to say their goodbyes, Meredith had the depressing thought that maybe Grace had chosen the Academy to provide the structure she’d been missing at home. Here they were, supposed to be catching up, but with very little to say to each other.
About to get up and leave, Meredith blurted, “I almost forgot. I’m on my way out to see your father.”
Since the trip was for CIA business, she hadn’t been planning on sharing that; but she felt the need to say something that would break through—anything, really.
Grace blinked rapidly. “Really? Out in Washington State? Why?”
“I need him to sign some papers. It’s nothing, really, just some legal paperwork the Agency asked me to take care of.”
“Can’t that sort of thing be DocuSigned? Why go in person?”
“You know how the Agency can be.”
Grace touched Meredith’s hand on the table. “Mom. Is he . . . okay?”
Meredith was never quite sure what Grace knew about John’s situation. Like any child of divorce, she was guarded in her discussions with her parents.
“I’m sure he’s quite fine out there, doing his thing,” Meredith replied, withdrawing her hand again.
“Yeah, that’s Dad. . . .” Grace sipped her coffee, then abruptly put it down. “Wait! I have something for him. I was going to mail it—if he were a normal human, it would be e-mail, but you know how he is.” Grace fished through her Academy-issued backpack to find the letter. “Anyway, Mom, would you deliver it for me?”
Like some form of diplomatic correspondence, the letter was sealed in a five-by-seven manila envelope with Grace’s signature across the flap. It lay in the seat next to Meredith in her handbag on the flight to Seattle later that afternoon. It was folded in treble, buried in one of the covert document slots sewn into the handbag’s lining.
Built by Agency specialists, the slot required a special combination of pulls, prods, and slides to open. The envelope next to Grace’s letter contained an encrypted USB drive with information she was to give to John.
Staring out at the faded Midwestern landscape sliding beneath her window, her mind should have been on the contents of the USB drive.
But it was on Grace’s letter.