8

Newark

They lead her through the main terminal and into a white unmarked room adjacent to a Hudson News stand. Two TSA agents. Low-level, from the looks of it. A man and a woman. The man directs her to sit on a plastic chair with aluminum legs. There are three chairs in the room and nothing else. “Not sure if they told you, but I’m a federal agent,” Sobieski says.

“We know,” replies the woman, a stout redhead even younger than Sobieski. Unspoken: Big friggin’ deal. Who isn’t? “Our job is to do what they say and—”

“It’s just that—”

The woman holds up her hand, interrupts right back. “Someone’s getting in touch with someone about next steps. Overseas person, I think. So bear with us if it takes a bit.”

“Do you know why they’ve decided to . . . ?”

“No. Your name came up and, well . . . here we are.”

No one speaks for another fifteen minutes, until the man, a thin African-American who appears to be the redhead’s supervisor, checks his watch, pronounces “Oh, shoot,” and leaves. Transfixed by some mindless game on her smart phone, the woman barely acknowledges his departure.

While she waits, Sobieski wonders what will become of Havens. Will he hang around? Have they detained him as well? How will her failure to meet him change things? Maybe it’s for the best, she thinks. Maybe this isn’t worth throwing away what’s left of her career. If she comes clean now, Michaud will understand. She shifts in her seat, stands. Not being allowed to move or act is killing her.

Her duffel bag, her phone, and her laptop are at the woman’s feet. “Can I check my messages? I just got off a transatlantic flight.”

The woman looks up. “Sorry. I’m not cleared for that.”

Another forty minutes pass before the man returns. “They got her guy,” he says to his partner. Then to Sobieski: “You got your phone?”

She points to her duffel at the woman’s feet. The man sighs. More work. He walks across the room, picks the bag up with a grunt, and walks it over to her, pitched to one side as if the bag were filled with a bowling ball. Placing it at her feet, he says. “Your boss is gonna call . . . wants to talk to you.” To his partner, he adds, “Hong Kong.”

Sobieski reaches into the side pocket and removes the phone. She glances at her inbox while she waits for Michaud’s call. Havens has left four messages. After she clicks on the first, the phone rings.

She answers, but keeps the text message on screen. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I’m sorry. I was about to get on a plane when I got a message from Luhabe. She said—”

“Stop. Sorry doesn’t work with TFI. With disobeying orders. With a body turning up on a Berlin sidewalk where the deceased has your fucking badge in his back pocket.”

She rocks her head back and closes her eyes. She’d forgotten about the badge.

“He took it while I was—”

“I’ve been on the phone with Berlin for the last five hours. Things like this, they end careers, Sobes.”

She watches the male agent head back out into the terminal. She thinks about saying sorry, but sorry sounds weak, and would not be entirely true. “I had no time. Sawa Luhabe, she knows about Siren. And Ithaka. And Dublin . . . did you hear what happened in—”

“I knew about Dublin before Dublin knew about Dublin,” Michaud says.

“Right. Of course you did . . . but the thing is, why I came, is she told me, late—late-late, while I was just about to board—she told me about this guy, here in New York, an analyst who she says thinks—no, belieeeves—that something big is about to go down.”

“Why didn’t you pass it my way?”

“Luhabe’s note? I told you, I got it at the airport. She says this guy—”

“Send me the note.”

“But—”

“Send the note.”

“Okay.”

“What happened with Nello?”

She grimaces. Of course he knows about Nello. She wonders how much. “He was a mistake. Too good to be true.”

“That’s it?”

She pauses, can’t bring herself to mention the gambling and the breach. “Yeah, Boss. That’s it.”

“You’re done, Sobes. You screwed up and I know this is killing you, but you’re just making it worse, desperately trying to fix it.” She rocks her head back, looks at the ceiling, then at the female agent staring at the game on her phone. “Come back and we’ll see what happens next, but my word only goes so far. Sit tight. They’re gonna put you on the next plane.”

“Then what?”

“Then someone will meet you at the airport, take you to the office, and we’ll go from there.”

“What about my lead . . . this information?”

“Believe it or not, there are agents in New York, too. And D.C. And they don’t disobey their boss. Send it. Then get on a fucking plane.” Michaud hangs up.

Sobieski glances at the distracted agent.

“Twenty-four hours is all I need, Boss,” she says, to no one, already changing her tone from defiant and desperate to compromising and conciliatory. “Then it’s right back to Hong Kong.”

She reads Drew Havens’s latest text while continuing the fake conversation with Michaud.

Where R U? she reads.

“Uh, huh . . . Okay . . . I can do that . . . ,” she fake says to fake Michaud, loud enough for the red-haired agent to hear.

Detained, she writes to Havens. Want to send me back.

U can’t. Havens replies. Tomorrow!

“Good,” she says out loud to no one. “I’m so glad you agree.” Then she looks at the TSA agent, who’s finally beginning to pay attention to her performance.

Havens continues with two quick bursts:

Friday—Last of 7 Trades . . .

1st six = murder . . . 7th = tragedy.

She looks at the guard, who is checking her watch, the door. “Of course I will,” Sobieski says into the phone. “Is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here?”

Then she texts this to Havens: OK . . . Meet me . . . where?

Outside door 2, Havens texts. Taxi stand. When?

“Okay . . . I will. I promise.”

Another look at the agent, who is standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot, impatiently rolling her neck. Soon?

“So wait . . . I can stay? Excellent,” she shouts, standing. This time the agent turns and looks. “Cool,” she continues, finishing her fake conversation. “I’ll call when I get into midtown.”

She makes a show of pushing off and putting her phone back into her pocket and then zipping her bag closed. Then she sits back straight in her chair with a thin smile, feigning excitement, but not excited enough to share. The agent bites:

“What’s up?”

“Oh, there was a misunderstanding. My boss is fixing it as we speak. He wanted me to go to Philly first, but now I’ll hit that on the way home.”

“Huh.” The agent looks down, ready to go back to her game.

“Hey,” Sobieski says, “we’re federal agents, right? It wouldn’t be an assignment if they didn’t screw at least one thing up.”

The agent laughs under her breath. Says to her game screen, “You got that right.”

Sobieski lets another minute pass before playing her card: “Listen, I haven’t peed in like six hours. Is there a bathroom in here?”

The agent, fingers working the keyboard, shakes her head. “In the terminal.”

“Shit. Would you mind . . . or I can . . . I’ll leave my bag . . . my stuff if you promise to keep an eye on it.”

The agent hits pause, looks up, and gives Sobieski a look.

“I’d really appreciate it.”

She lifts her chin toward the door. “On the right, like ten feet down.”

Sobieski stands, hops from foot to foot, says, “Thank you,” then, “You want anything from Starbucks?”