“If it gets back to Ghadab—”
“He already knows we have it, or at least suspects,” said Johansen. “It makes sense to work with Massina. He’s helped us a lot. We have to trust him.”
“We don’t have to trust anyone,” said Colby flatly. “Go ahead. Talk to him. While you’re at it, find out the extent of his operation. I want to understand exactly what he’s capable of. And remember. He is not us.”
I’m sure you won’t let me forget, thought Johansen, standing to go.
84
For Johnny, love was like a constant, mild high punctuated by moments of wild joy and the occasional flip into a dark hole of pessimism. He’d been in love before, but that was back in high school and his first year of college, and most likely a simple crush, as those things were defined. The rest of college saw a series of extended hookups, satisfying at the same time but never particularly deep or long-lived. Joining the Bureau led to a long dry stretch, imposed by lack of opportunity as well as the rigors, first of his training and then his early assignments.
Then came the accident, his legs. Even after he was fitted and moving around, the drugs killed his libido, an unfortunate but common side effect. The next round of meds had the opposite effect, but meant mostly frustration: what woman, he thought, would want a legless lover?
And then came Chelsea.
Finding out that he could make love, that he could enjoy it and that she could enjoy it — it was like he’d been allowed to live again.
Recuperating from the accident had been extremely difficult physically. But mentally — in some ways he’d used his physical rehabilitation as a crutch, a way to focus on something, anything, rather than what it meant to be a man without two legs.
If I want to get better, he told himself, I have to build my muscles. I have to get my body to adjust to the meds. I need to push, keep pushing.
Do it. Think about nothing else.
Pushing himself physically to his limits meant he didn’t have to think about anything else. Pushing himself to take the job, to keep up with others, to surpass the others… he was too exhausted at the end of the day to give a lot of thought to what it would mean to make love to someone. Or not be able to do that.
The relationship wasn’t just sex.
Talking to her, having dinner with her, sitting on the couch with her bunched up against him, walking along the river — he wanted to be saturated with her presence. He couldn’t get enough.
Johnny realized this was all a phase. Part of him was on guard against it — because part of him believed that the attraction wouldn’t last. Not for him: that was solid and unshakable. But Chelsea — she could do better than a man without legs.
They were very different people. She was smart and he — he wasn’t dumb, but few people were in her ballpark even.
And their backgrounds. Hers was very solid upper middle-class; his was working-class. In the good years.
He was white, she was black, or part black, to be precise. And on and on and on…
So, inevitably, given all their differences, Johnny knew, Johnny feared, that eventually they would split. But these moments of fear were far outweighed by the sheer joy of being near her, thinking about her, and making love to her. He thought about her constantly, at work, at home, in the gym.
“Smith machine today, huh?” asked one of the trainers, walking over.
“Nobody to spot,” said Johnny, pushing the weighted bar up to complete his set.
“How much can you bench?”
Johnny shrugged. He had worked out the week before with 750 pounds — nearly four times as much as he was able to do before his accident. The drugs had done more than just help him recover; they’d made him better. Literally.
“I’ll spot you,” said the trainer.
A half hour later, workout done and freshly showered, Johnny tossed his gym bag over his shoulder and headed out the door, walking toward the restaurant where he’d arranged to meet Chelsea for dinner. The recent run of good weather held; a slight breeze off the ocean nudged the temperature just below seventy-five. Johnny detoured briefly to drop off his bag at his house, then continued to the restaurant, Zipper, a fifteen-minute walk away.
Zipper was an old-school neighborhood bar turned punk performance space transmogrified into a hip grill before reemerging as a quasi-neighborhood grill. It had more substantial fare than the average bar, but it lacked televisions, so there was no possibility of catching a game afterward. Chelsea loved its food, and with the Red Sox on the West Coast, there wasn’t any good baseball on until later anyway.
As usual, he beat her there. The hostess gave him a table next to the window. He ordered a beer, then checked his email and Facebook account; fifteen minutes later, he was three-quarters of the way through the beer and Chelsea had yet to arrive. He texted, but got no reply.
She’ll be here. Her phone is dead or she’s on the T or somewhere something not to worry not worry. Don’t.
Twenty more minutes and another beer passed before Chelsea rushed in, nearly out of breath.
“Hey,” he called.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, leaning into the booth to kiss him.
“Didn’t even notice,” he lied.
“How was your day?”
“Easy.” He shrugged. “After Syria, everything’s easy. How about yours?”
“Mr. Massina offered me a new assignment.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
She shook her head.
“You’re not going to tell me?” he asked.
“Can’t.”
“Not a little?”
Another head shake.
“Are you taking it?” Johnny asked.
“I’m thinking about it. Seriously.”
The waitress came over. Chelsea ordered a white wine. Johnny asked for a refill.
“So, like robotics or AI?” asked Johnny.
“I can’t say.”
“Even to me? I’m in security, you know. I’ll find out.”
“I don’t think you will.” Chelsea put her hand on his. “I’m sorry I was late.”
“Not a problem.”
“I may be late a lot, on this new project.”
“Hmmmm,” he said, drawing a breath as a sharp twinge of fear hit. It was physical — his stomach tensed and he could feel himself wincing. Fortunately, the waitress had just returned with their drinks.
“I think you should take it,” Johnny said, knowing it was the right thing, the only thing, to say. “I really think you should.”
85
Ghadab sat at the bow of the small boat, watching the quiet shore to his right as they moved slowly south across the small lake. The glow of an American customs and immigration station lit the top of the trees about a half mile from the water; his boat’s electric engine was so quiet he could hear a truck pull up to the stop to be inspected.
The man at the tiller said nothing. He was in fact a very quiet man; since picking up Ghadab at the airport, he had spoken less than a dozen words.
There were many places to cross the Canadian-American border without being detected. Most were on land, but Ghadab had chosen a water route; he’d seen so much of deserts lately that the wet morning chill and rising fog were more than welcome.
Vermont stretched out in the distance, a gray hulk behind a grayer screen. Ghadab shivered beneath his heavy sweatshirt, watching for any unwelcome movement. The small skiff turned to port, angling to a spot a few hundred yards beyond the floating dock of an abandoned camp. The man steering the boat at the stern killed the power and they drifted to shore, riding the momentum and a slight push from the wind until the keel hit sand. He hopped out, pushing the boat farther onto the beach.