The Travelers (14 page)

“If you think you’ve been discovered by your wife, that’s star-1. By your boss, star-2. By someone else, star-3.”

“Is that really an emergency? If Chloe finds out?”

“Maybe, maybe not. If you think some type of law enforcement is onto you, hashtag-1. Intelligence operatives, hashtag-2. Someone else, hashtag-3.”

“Law enforcement? Am I going to be breaking any laws?”

No answer.

He regurgitates the codes, yet again: home, office, subway platforms near either. And then foreign codes: hotel lobby, the closest bar to the west, the information booth of the central train station, the first-class ticket counter of the national airline, ever higher numbers for the increasing physical distance from the emergency.

“What about the American embassy?”

“You won’t be going to any American embassy.”

“What if I’m in trouble?”

“Follow the protocol. We’ll help you.”

“What if I’m in danger? Immediate danger?”

“Try to get out of it.”

He looks at her, worry etched across his forehead.

“Let’s get this straight, Will: there’s a difference between you and me. I was recruited, interviewed, hired, trained. I get health insurance, a pension, security clearance. You don’t. That’s why we’re at this satellite training facility, instead of the Farm. You’re not an employee of the CIA. You don’t work for Langley. Who you work for is
me.
”

“Any identifying details,” she said. “Hometown, age, physical attributes, occupations. Also where you meet, what time of day, anything notable about the physical encounter itself.”

“About
everyone
I meet?”

“No. We don’t care about chefs, winemakers, farmers, any of that lifestyle bullshit.”

“Gotcha. You don’t care about my actual job.”

“What we’re looking for are people of importance, people who might become assets. Anyone in any embassy or any level of any government, obviously. Also high-ranking businesspeople. Media figures. Any criminals, definitely, but you probably don’t come across any self-identifying criminals, do you? And also any Americans.”

“Americans? Why?”

“Let’s get something clear:
why
is not part of the equation. Not now, not ever, not your business. Why isn’t even
my
business. Who, what, when, where: those are our concerns. Not why.”

He didn’t understand why Elle always seemed to be so strident, as if she was angry at him. If one of them should be angry at the other, that was not the rational flow.

“This is how intelligence works, Will: you don’t know the why, almost ever. You know what you’re supposed to do, and hopefully how to do it. But even if someone
did
tell you a why, you’d be a fool to believe it.”

He opened his mouth to ask why, but shut it quickly.

“Never
ask
why. If you want to guess, by all means go ahead, knock yourself out. But asking? That only makes you look naïve.”

“I
am
naïve.”

“I don’t think that’s quite true, Will. Not anymore.”

“How’s Virginia?”

“Hot,” Will says. “Humid.” He doesn’t want to say too much; he doesn’t want to lie to his wife more than necessary. He’s supposedly on the other side of the Chesapeake Bay. This landline has been temporarily programmed to appear to be Will’s mobile number, to anyone in the outside world. To Chloe.

Elle’s room is a few doors down the hall; she said she’s showering before dinner. Will imagines getting up off this lumpy mattress, walking down the hall, knock-knock, a pause, then wrapped only in a towel, wet, “Oh, hi, come on in…”

“And you?” he asks his wife. “What’s been keeping you busy?”

The display shows two views of Will’s bedroom, from two different hidden cameras.

“That’s his wife he’s talking to?” Roger asks.

“Yeah.”

The audio is surprisingly crisp, the matrimonial chitchat unsurprisingly empty. Elle and Roger are sitting in the security room downstairs, in front of a bank of screens that monitor whatever anyone wants to monitor on this two-hundred-acre, forty-bed facility.

“But what I don’t understand,” Roger says, “is why we’re giving him the hand-to-hand training.”

Elle sighs. She’d been hoping that Roger’s relative paucity of intelligence wouldn’t be a problem; his responsibilities required more physical than intellectual skills. But now she was beginning to worry that he was a mistake, a liability.

“We’re not really training him; Will isn’t
learning
anything out there in the gym. We’re assessing him.” She inclines her head at the monitor. “And we’re observing him.”

LONDON

“Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“Your business is what, Mr. Rhodes?”

“I’m a writer.”

The immigration officer peers up from Will’s documents. “You don’t say?”

Will doesn’t say again. He nods.

“And how long will you be staying in the United Kingdom, Mr. Rhodes?”

“Um…I’m going to Scotland day after tomorrow. And then to Ireland.” He can’t remember when. “In five days, I think?”

Will considers taking a deep breath, but he doesn’t want to look like a man who needs to take a deep breath in front of a border agent. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m very tired.”

The agent continues to stare at Will, no doubt wondering what needs to be done here, what level of crackpot he’s dealing with.

But then without further incident,
stamp
, and, “Welcome to the United Kingdom.”

A few minutes later Will collapses onto the train seat, trying to calm down, hurtling into Paddington, followed by a quick black-cab ride to his hotel in Mayfair, whose streets are being treated by Saudi princes like a Formula 1 course, yellow Lamborghinis and red Ferraris, screaming their immense wealth at the top of their lungs.

“Hi,” he says to his wife’s voice-mail box. Chloe had never been a very good call-answerer, though she was for a long time a reliable call-returner. Recently she’s been neither, always in meetings, or at yoga, or on the subway, or on another call. “It’s me, arrived in London. Love you.”

The
OPEN
sign is still hanging from a hook on the glass door to the London bureau. An aged American couple occupy the leather club chairs at the first desk, across from a competent-looking woman who smiles fleetingly at Will. His contact is the slightly older man at the rear desk, shuffling papers and talking on the phone, looking disagreeable. His name is Cecil Wilmore, but everyone in New York refers to him as Mumblemore.

While Will waits, he reads a front-page newspaper article about the dead American who’d been discovered in Capri. Police are searching for anyone who might have any information about another hotel guest: a grainy image taken from a surveillance camera at a high angle, a woman in giant sunglasses, dark hair pulled back. Could be anyone.

“Ah,” Mumblemore finally says, “there you are, mumble-mumble-mumble.” An accusatory tone, as if Will is late. He’s not.

“So you’re off to Edinburgh? Right, mumble-mumble.”

“Any advice for me?”

“There’s a big castle? Go to it.”

Will doesn’t know what he ever did to Mumblemore, but the guy certainly seems to hate Will’s guts.

“What else? Mmm.
Do
try the haggis.” He turns back to his computer.

“That’s very helpful.” This is the stupidest travel advice Will has ever received. “Thanks.”

“Mmm.”

Will removes an envelope from his jacket, trades it for Mumblemore’s, another list of new restaurants and renovated hotels, people to see places to go, just as he’s done dozens of times. But this time is different. This time he’s a covert asset of the CIA, gathering intelligence on foreign soil. This time he’s breaking the law.

It’s not what you do that defines you. It’s why you do it.

FALLS CHURCH

Raji initiates another alert about U.S. passport number 11331968, a credit card run through a hotel. He opens the map app to find the hotel’s location, enters those details into his alert, thorough as ever, no shortcuts, never relying on just one source of information, always cross-checking, aiming for 100 percent accuracy on addresses and intersections and time zones and flight delays, anything that anyone could want to know about the peregrinations of the subjects on Raji’s newly narrowed segment of the watch list.

It looks like a very nice hotel that this guy checked into. Raji has never stayed in a very nice hotel, and is fairly certain he never will.

“Whassup Raj-man?” It’s his boss, Brock, leaning on the flimsy wall that separates Raji’s cubicle from Zander’s. “You goin’ to Scotland?”

“Yeah right.”

“Who is it?” Brock leans forward, getting a closer look at the screen, the small window with the subject’s details.

Raji knows the protocol, Brock knows the protocol, everyone knows the protocol: no discussing the subjects. Especially for this new assignment for the mystery client. But no one follows the protocol. This job would be too boring if they couldn’t share irrelevant intel about meaningless strangers. “Some travel-writer dude.”

Brock is disappointed. His interest is limited to female subjects. “All right then, Raj-man, keep on keepin’ on.”

The boss walks away, continuing on his predictable rounds of checking in with his team, “my guys,” he calls them. Raji suspects that Brock adheres to a set of business-management tips that runs to a half-page, a listicle, maybe an off-topic feature in
Guns & Ammo
.

Brock had been the middle of Raji’s job-interview sandwich, two years ago, after a human-resources specialist who’d asked for signatures on an assortment of waivers that Raji didn’t attempt to comprehend, including the release of his fingerprints and a urine-sample screening. A week later Raji returned to meet Brock, then waited in the very quiet reception area until the white-bread department head was available for a pro forma ten-minute vetting.

Raji signed more waivers. Filled out more forms. Accepted the degradation of a physical exam from a supposed doctor who didn’t seem to know how to operate the blood-pressure cuff. Thank God the guy didn’t attempt to draw a blood sample.

Then Raji was hired. He was issued an ID card with a magnetic strip that links to the database with his identifying statistics and physical report, his educational background and history of addresses, his parents’ Social Security numbers and the contact information for his previous employers.

Raji doesn’t know if he has a security clearance, or if he does, at what level. And the truth is he doesn’t really know whom he works for, or what his office does, for which entity. He does care about these questions—he’d prefer to know, rather than not know—but this preference isn’t overwhelming. Raji cares much more about having a secure job with a biweekly check and airtight health benefits. The physical exam wasn’t very in-depth, not enough to identify what’s wrong with Raji.

NEW YORK CITY

“You’re not leaving,” Gabriella says.

“You’re mistaken.” Malcolm snaps shut his briefcase, and drags it off his desk by the handle. “I am.”

Gabriella is standing in Malcolm’s door, arms crossed, projecting hostility and disappointment. Even though Malcolm is her boss, Gabriella seems determined to try to undermine the hierarchy of that relationship, every day, in every way. In turn, Malcolm unwaveringly makes sure to thwart her subversion. It’s an uneasy professional dance, but not an unfriendly personal relationship.

“I don’t know what to tell you, boss,” says Stonely Rodriguez, who’s sitting in Malcolm’s chair, staring intently at the computer screen, right hand on mouse, left hand supporting chin. “You got some crazy shit on your hard drive.”

“Yeah, I know that. But what I don’t know is: can you clean it up?”

“I can
try.
Yeah.”

Stonely tugs on the bill of his Cincinnati Reds cap, the one that’s all red with a white C. He has a half-dozen Cincinnati caps through which he rotates. “I wear the Reds caps ’cause of the C,” he’ll say, to anyone who asks. “My real name is César. Stonely’s just a nickname I got, because I once went a week without realizing that I’d broken a finger.” Almost none of that story is true.

“Thanks Stonely. Do what you can.” Malcolm turns back to Gabriella. “You can come with me, if you want. Take a ride downtown.”

“Really? You’ve become that type of asshole?”

“Oh
shit
.” Stonely snickers, then covers his mouth. “Sorry, boss.”

“What type is that, Gabs?”

“The type who makes people ride in cars to have meetings?”

“Darling, I became that type of asshole years ago. Isn’t that right, Stonely?”

“Don’t know nothing ’bout that, boss.”

“Anyway, are you coming with me or not? Because I’m leaving now. There’s a zero-tolerance policy for school-pickup lateness.” Although this is a new routine for him—a concession to Allison, once-a-week pickup—he has already gleaned the important conventions.

Malcolm sees Gabriella do an emotional hiccup—just an involuntary wince—but she quickly regains her composure. “Let me grab my bag.”

They ride the elevator in silence. There’s no one else in the big mirrored cabin, but Gabriella knows that Malcolm doesn’t talk in elevators. He uses the downtime to send a tweet. A few months ago, he’d been ordered by his CEO to start tweeting. Another social-media solution to a nonexistent problem. Malcolm had been about to ask, “Tweet about what? Why?” But he realized that if he didn’t ask, then he wouldn’t end up disobeying explicit instructions.

His thumbs fly across his phone, tapping out:
So proud of my wonderful team! You guys are the best!! #humbled.
Many of Malcolm’s tweets consist of empty pandering, usually with no connection to any event in the real world. What amazes him is that people retweet this drivel.

The car is waiting in front of the building. “School please, Hector,” Malcolm says. Then adds, “Thanks.” The type of asshole he doesn’t want to become is the one who doesn’t say thanks to his driver. But sometimes it’s difficult to remember. He’s still working through the adjustment of having become a guy with a driver, which itself is a de facto level of assholery with which he’s not entirely comfortable. There are plenty of guys like Malcolm who unabashedly embrace their douchebaggery—they
own
it, managing to convince themselves of something that Malcolm cannot.

“Fucking traffic.” Malcolm scowls at the snarl, the inevitable midafternoon mess. Glances at his watch. “We should be on the subway.”

“Then why aren’t we?”

“You know I can’t take the subway.”

“What? I don’t know that. Why?”

“Unacceptable optics. Can’t have the editor of the world’s most respected travel brand slumming it on public transportation. Standing there among the unwashed, arm hanging from a strap.”

“There aren’t any straps, Mal. You know that, right?”

It’s indeed against company policy to have any of the chief editors riding public transportation to and from the office. As well as eating in a fast-food restaurant, ever. Or flying certain airlines, the uncooperative ones.

There’s also a surprisingly involved set of wardrobe strictures, mostly related to size and prominence of logos; schedule D on Malcolm’s employment contract enumerates the accepted logos, and schedule E the forbidden ones. Both schedules are updated annually, along with some other clauses. Malcolm pays a couple of thousand dollars per year for a lawyer to review the updated addenda. And then Malcolm himself needs to review these schedules against his goddamned closet. Or, rather, he needs to ask his wife to do this for him, and then he needs to suffer through Allie’s scorn, her passive-aggressive delays.

A lot of new rules came with the new job. Some don’t look especially burdensome; not many people would complain about the chauffeur. But sometimes he wishes he could eat a crappy hamburger, on the subway.

They’re stalled in traffic next to a car with a
BABY ON BOARD
decal. Malcolm pulls out his phone, sends another tweet,
Baby on Board? Thx for info! Otherwise I was planning on crashing into your car, but now won’t. #self-obsessed.

At Forty-second Street the congestion vanishes, poof, and the black car is zooming through the Garment District.

“So, Gabriella, what is it we’re discussing?”

The traffic lights are synchronized to the southbound flow, just shy of thirty miles per hour. For all the torture of the congested hours’ stop-and-go, Manhattan can also be fast to navigate, in the right conditions.

“Why’d you give the new assignment to Will?”

“Please, don’t beat around the bush. We don’t have a lot of time, Gabs, so tell me straight: what is it that’s on your mind?”

“I could do a
great
job with it, Malcolm. You know I could.”

Malcolm sighs, exaggerated, just as he does with his children when he’s trying to project his exasperation with their bickering, or poor table manners, or questionable hygiene, or all the other dispiriting behaviors of eight- and four-year-olds. “Yes, Gabs, I have no doubt that you could. But you’re the one who made the decision, you came to me and said—”