Now he wondered whether his professional persona was preventing her from telling him everything she knew. Or whether there was something else going on.
“Did anything happen at the prison that you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“No nothing happened, or no you don’t want to talk about it?”
“They pushed me around at first, but after you came last night there was no more of that.”
She clipped off another lock of hair and it fell into the sink.
“Did you know any of the other ops officers well?”
He didn’t think she had. In Baku, security concerns had limited the ability of CIA personnel to interact, especially for those operating under nonofficial cover.
“Well enough.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“Isn’t all this bothering you? I mean, the entire station got wiped out. Are you human?”
He considered her reactions to his questions: she was making eye contact; she wasn’t touching her throat or face; her expressions seemed genuine. But Daria knew the obvious signs of lying as well as he did. The fact that she wasn’t exhibiting any didn’t tell him much.
“I’m just trying to figure this out, Daria.” Was he just letting Kaufman’s doubts about her get to him? Making something out of nothing?
Or had he been a complete idiot to have trusted her in the first place?
Because there had to have been a reason why Jack Campbell, just a few hours before getting shot in the head, had requested that she be his translator.
They stood there silently, with Mark looking at Daria and Daria looking at herself in the mirror, until Mark said something he hadn’t planned on saying.
“Listen, Daria, I know the way the system works. It’s easy to get in over your head.” He remembered when they’d first met, how she’d come charging in, twenty-nine years old and all fired up to fight the good fight after being deskbound as a CIA analyst for three years. He’d found her enthusiasm, while naive, to be refreshing. But now he wondered whether that enthusiasm had led her to do something she shouldn’t have. “I’ve been there myself, I’m not perfect.”
The drip from the sink ticked off a few seconds.
Eventually Mark said, “I care about you, Daria. I’m trying to help.”
He was actually telling the truth, but his voice sounded patronizing and false even to himself.
“You are helping, Mark.” She spoke with forced politeness. “Thanks again for coming for me.”
“Anything you tell me will stay in this room,” he added.
For a moment her face seemed to soften, as though she were actually considering confiding in him. But then she went back to her hair, and to whatever dark thoughts were eating away at her.
24
“Miss? Oh, Miss? Just a moment?”
Daria eyed the little man walking toward her with suspicion. At first glance there was nothing alarming about him — he was clean-shaven and wore rumpled khaki pants and an ill-fitting brown blazer. Maybe a professor, she thought, looking at the little crow’s-feet wrinkles around his eyes. But the unnerving intensity of his smile made her wary.
“Miss, I apologize for the intrusion. If I could just have a minute of your time.”
He spoke in an overly formal tone.
“I’m actually kind of busy.”
“It concerns a matter of utmost importance to you.”
She was on her way to visit a friend at Alspaugh Hall. The slender leaves of the nearby willow oaks were a vibrant spring green. The afternoon sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky. A few classmates lay reading nearby on the lawn. She sensed no immediate danger.
So she stopped. “OK…Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You remind me of someone I haven’t seen in a long time.”
“I didn’t get your name.”
“My name is Reza Tehrani.”
An Iranian name, she noted. Which explained the olive skin similar to her own.
Tehrani unzipped a leather-backed folder and removed a square, faded color photo. “This is the woman you remind me of, dear. That’s me standing next to her, over thirty years ago.”
Daria saw that Tehrani’s hand was trembling. She clutched her biology textbook a little tighter to her chest.
“Please, take it.”
Hesitant but curious, Daria took the photo. The petite woman in the pale green sundress did remind her a little bit of herself.
“Who is she?”
“That, my dear…” Tehrani paused for a moment. “That is your mother.”
“Ah, I think you have the wrong person. That’s not my mother.”
“I know this comes as a shock—”
“I said that’s not my mother.”
“If I knew of another way—”
“I really am busy.”
“You have her eyes, her hair, her nose, her skin.” Tehrani’s eyes were tearing up. “She died when you were young. You never knew—”
“You’re wrong. I have a mother. She lives in Geneva with my father.”
“You refer to the good woman who raised you. And raised you well from what I can see. But the woman who gave birth to you is the woman you see in this photo.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Look at her. She looks like you, dear. You must know it.”
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
She tried to hand the photo back to him but he wouldn’t take it.
“The people who raised you—”
“I’m outta here—”
“Adopted you when you were a baby. You are old enough now to know the truth. I have waited so long.”
“I said leave!”
Daria began to walk away.
“I am your uncle, my child! Your mother’s younger brother! I mean you no harm.”
She broke out into a jog.
“My phone number, I wrote it on the back of the photo!”
“Get the hell away from me or I’ll call the cops!”
“Do these people remind you of anyone?”
Daria stood in her friend’s dorm room. Through a window she could see the lawn outside of Alspaugh Hall, but the man who’d accosted her was no longer there. She laid the old photo he’d given her on her friend’s desk.
“Julie thinks her brother can get us stuff for margaritas tonight. Can we use your blender?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Yuck, you’re all sweaty. Did you run here?”
Daria realized she had been running. All the way up to the third floor. “Take a look at the woman in this photo. Who does she look like?”
“Gimme a second, I’m almost done.” Daria’s friend typed a few more words into her computer, then glanced at the photo. “I’ll pick up some frozen strawberries too. Is that you?”