The attendant turns her attention back to the Russian. She pats his hand. “Mr. Popov, is there someone we can contact for you? Someone waiting for you in D.C.?” She wishes she had thought of this earlier as the Russian is now nearly unconscious. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his face freezing in a rictus of fright and surprise. He is unresponsive to their questions. His hands are balled tightly, his arms and legs rigid and shaking. Worst of all, foam is coming out of his mouth in waves, like a washing machine gone out of control, like something you might see on a television show. She can’t imagine what’s wrong with him; she’s had passengers with food poisoning and one heart attack, but it was mild. She’s never seen anything like this. She is nearly paralyzed from fright.
She glances at her watch. Twenty more minutes. “Hang on, we’re almost there,” she tells him, though she doesn’t think he can hear her.
That’s when she sees the note. A scrap of napkin. She can’t make out what he’s written. It could be a name, but the ink has bled into the napkin’s porous fibers. If he was trying to tell her something, she’s at a loss.
The rest of the trip goes by in a blur. When she sees that he’s slipped into unconsciousness, she and her colleague in economy do as they were trained. One strips the clothing from his upper torso while the other readies a defibrillator. She breathes a silent prayer of thanks for the muscle memory of the classes; it makes what they’re doing now seem less unreal. This is something she can do. She attaches the pads to the man’s chest and side as indicated, sits back on her heels as the machine searches for his pulse. No heartbeat detected. It delivers a shock. The other flight attendant begins CPR and she waits impatiently for her turn as the machine counts off two minutes before it will check again. The pair take turns doing CPR, two cycles, four cycles . . . Before long she is damp with sweat and shaky from nerves as each time the machine says No heartbeat detected and shocks him again . . .
By the time the first wheel touches the ground—the bounce and sudden deceleration as rubber catches on the second touch—she is ready to accept that he is gone. If not dead then so far gone that it doesn’t matter.
They will not be able to keep the other passengers on the plane while waiting for the medical crew to remove the body—they are like thirsty cattle that smell water in the distance—and so she does her best. The other flight attendant ran down the aisle just before landing to get her cabin ready, leaving her alone with the Russian. She takes a second blanket from the overhead bin and drapes it over Popov so his entire body is covered. She stands in the next seat to block the view as passengers disembark, her knees trembling. They shuffle by quickly, eyes averted, even Mr. Curious, who can’t get off the plane fast enough.
It’s not until the last passenger is gone that the medical crew comes down the jet bridge with a gurney. The crew is nudged aside as the EMTs congregate around the body. The flight attendant stands in the galley, craning her neck to see what’s going on, but the EMTs’ body language is clear: the passenger is gone. The way they handle the body, there can be no doubt, pulling it out from the tight space like a beached whale and then—drafting in a member of the cleaning crew for assistance—lugging it over to the gurney. The flight attendant takes one last look at the dead man’s face as they struggle past her. Poor man.
Then she remembers the note. She had left it next to the passenger, thinking that it might come in handy at the hospital. But it’s gone. Disappeared.
Maybe the EMTs took it with them.
Whatever he was trying to tell her, she will never know.
TWO
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
The phone rings, a jangle of notes that cuts through an Ambien-induced fog and drags Lyndsey Duncan up through the depths of sleep, near but not quite all the way to consciousness. As she fumbles for the cell phone, her hand runs up hard against a lamp, knocking it off the nightstand. In the dark, everything is a puzzle. She moved in two weeks ago, but the apartment still feels like a hotel. Maybe because it came furnished, an impersonal apartment for business travelers.
Large white numbers glow from the screen: 3:22. It’s tough to force yourself awake when you’ve only been asleep for a couple hours. Or maybe it’s jet lag—do you still get jet lag after two weeks?
Then again, she’s learned to expect calls in the middle of the night.
“This is Sergeant Mitchell from the SOC.” In the back of her mind, she remembers that SOC stands for Security Operations Center, the operational watch at CIA. “I’m calling for Lyndsey Duncan.”
“You’ve found her.” And woke her up.
“I’m sorry to be calling at this hour, but we need you to cut your leave short and report to work today.”
Lyndsey pushes back the bed things—the sheets stiff, blanket heavy, none of it hers, everything unfamiliar. “What?”
The voice remains patient. “I was told that you are currently on home leave and were not expected to report for work until”—a piece of paper rustles in the background—“January twentieth, but there’s been a situation and your presence has been requested.”
A situation. It could be only one thing, the reason she was put on administrative leave. Her throat is dry from the medication. A glass of ice-cold water would help her to wake up.
“You will need to report to room . . .” As he recites a short string of numbers and letters, Lyndsey has the presence of mind to reach for the cheap pen-and-pad set next to the phone and write it down in the dark. She’s been trained to remember things on the fly (telephone numbers, license plates, addresses) but with the Ambien, why risk it?
As she writes, her mind starts to clear. This is not good. There’s no reason for them to call her in unless a decision has been made, and a decision this quick is likely to not be in her favor. She came home hoping for a second chance, but apparently that’s not going to happen. We’ve reviewed the facts of your case and I’m afraid that we have no option but to revoke your clearance and terminate your employment with the Central Intelligence Agency.
For the millionth time, she thinks of the things she’d done for her job, things she didn’t think herself capable of as a young girl growing up fatherless in a small town in Pennsylvania. The Agency picked her up right out of college and changed the course of her life.
She can still remember the presentation that she gave to the recruiters. The slides she’d prepared based on her psychology studies in college, the index cards she’d held in her damp hands. Ninety percent of all people will lie consistently. The average person will tell three lies every ten minutes. I can predict when someone is lying with greater accuracy than a polygraph. Not that polygraphs were very accurate, but she knew that was what the Agency used. She thought they’d laugh at her, but the recruiter loved her research. Turned out CIA was very interested in knowing when someone was lying to them.