“But your parents—”
“They’re in Arizona. I haven’t told them much. They might be okay with it, but I can’t tell what the neighbors could think—Border Patrol’s part of DHS, too.”
“They think people like us hate America because ‘freedom’?” Angie said, finger-waggling air quotes.
“Who the fuck knows?” Rita spared her a black-eyed look. “But they tell all cops it’s a bad idea to let the neighbors know what you do. Just in case word gets around to the wrong ears.”
“Well, no shit.” Angie thought for a moment. “Bet your employer has a handle on you.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“It’s complicated. Say, isn’t that the exit?”
Contrary to TV and movie mythology, bugging people who move around a lot is difficult, unless they’re carrying microphones with them and speaking clearly. As Angie and Rita left the air-conditioned confines of the mall, their phones were swaddled in socks and hidden inside handbag and backpack. Once out of view of the mall’s own security cameras and mikes, and well away from bugged rooms and vehicles, they could finally speak openly to each other.
Rita explained the context of her adoption, the kidnapping incident, Kurt’s suspicions: finally the world-walking elephant in the room. “There might be factions within the Clan, but they ignored me for my entire life. So my money’s on a stupid-ass attempt by the Colonel’s people to gaslight me. All I know is I’ve got this crazy ability and—”
“You don’t know anything for sure.” Angie squeezed her hand tightly. Rita saw fear and anger reflected in her eyes. “Fucking assholes get their ideas from the movies, like everyone else. Maybe it was your employers. Maybe they thought you weren’t patriotic enough, didn’t have that old-time/new-time/para-time religion. Maybe they wanted to put some iron in your belly. But it could have been the adversary.”
“I’m pretty sure it was the Office of Special Programs,” said Rita. “The Colonel’s bosses are kind of desperate.” Her eyes glanced sidelong into another space, as if reviewing something she’d seen.
“Whatever. You know what I think? I think you should ask your grandpappy for backup. He knew your birth mother’s ma. He’s protective.”
“Don’t say that!” Rita’s eyes grew wide. “If I drag him in, where will it all end?”
“Who better?” Angie tugged her closer. “Your watchers aren’t going to take him seriously as a threat. Old guy, puttering around on a walking stick, chatting to his old-guy buddies. Give him something to do in his retirement.”
“Angel, they did a deep background check on me. They’ve got to know about him. My entire family are at risk if—” Rita’s breath caught. “You’re at risk.”
“So? That’s my choice to make, girl.” Angie shrugged, but Rita saw the tension around her eyes. What would she do if she woke up one morning and found spooks pressuring her? Just by wanting Angie in her life she’d put her in danger, added her to some kind of watch list for significant others, made her a target for some LOVEINT operation. Any creepy stalker with a security clearance could get at Angie, now. But before she could say this, Angie went off on a tangent. “Say, you didn’t run a deep background check on me, did you?”
Rita shook her head. “I don’t have that kind of access. They want me for a sparkly clandestine asset. CAs get security-cleared, but we don’t get to see anything—we live in a velvet-lined box so we can’t give anything away if we’re captured. Maybe if I get burned and have to retire to an analysis desk they’ll give me the keys to the kingdom. But for now all I’ve got on you is whatever you put on Facebook.”
“Oh, well that’s okay, then. Because back in the day I’d have been through your profile like a ferret on crack.” Angie smiled. “That was then, and today I’m just another vet. Listen, I’d like to write Kurt a letter. For old times’ sake. I’ll hold back if you don’t want me to, but…”
“I shouldn’t—” Rita stared at her. “Oh what the hell—you’ll do it if you feel like it anyway, huh?” Her cheek quirked. “I’m not going to say don’t—I don’t want you to feel like you need to lie to me.” Rita’s eyes lost some of their sparkle. “But please don’t take any risks on my behalf. It’s not worth it. And for fuck’s sake, please don’t let Gramps go all James Bond on me?”
“Too late: I’m already taking a risk on you, and your grandpa will do whatever he wants. Where did I leave the truck?… I want you to come stay with me. Shouldn’t I know what I’m inviting into my home?”
Angie drove Rita back to her place. Rita kept noticing her stealing furtive glances, and shivered. Is it worth it? she wondered, then realized she couldn’t imagine life in any other way—a horribly, gratifyingly unexpected change to undergo in less than a week. Then what should I do next? There was no obvious answer.
*
The next morning, after dropping Rita off back at the hotel, where her employers wanted to keep her under their thumb, Angie stopped off at a big-box Staples and bought a couple of notepads and pencils and a packet of envelopes. Then, over her lunch break, she began to laboriously draft a letter to Ri’s grandpappy Kurt. Once she got home she retreated under the comforter with a dog-eared copy of a paperback her parents had taught her how to use long ago, and the draft of the letter. She was very rusty: it took her a long time to transcribe it using a prearranged page in the book as the key to a one-time pad. But that was okay. Cipher skills came back once you started using them again, and she had a feeling that after Kurt wrote back with his instructions she’d be getting all the practice she needed.
PHILADELPHIA, TIME LINE TWO, AUGUST 2020
Evening, morning, a new day, a new headache:
“Walk with me,” said the Colonel. Rita noticed the missing “please”: attendance was mandatory. Smith led her into the open-plan area of the light industrial unit, past a temporary cubicle farm for the nonclassified workers, past the makeup, wardrobe, and props departments—the membrane dividing Hollywood production from Hollywood product was gossamer-thin in a short-term clandestine ops headquarters. They ended up at the door to the Faraday-shielded office trailer that served as a classified site office. Inside, the Colonel’s own mobile office was barely big enough to hold two chairs and a folding desk. “We have a problem,” Smith told her.
Rita tensed. “What kind?” He said “we,” she reminded herself. She clung to the choice of pronoun as she waited for him to continue.