Looking out at Carrington jumping and splashing in the waves, Hannah couldn’t stop smiling. Carrington looked like a joyous ten-year-old, immersed in a magical world as he dove into the crests. Her heart swelled, which made her wonder if what she was feeling was mere amusement and attraction, or some form of love, something deeper and scarier. She was filled with a sense, and more than a little afraid, that it might be the latter.
Carrington certainly came with baggage – namely a wife and two children — but he was cool, intelligent, and would do everything possible to protect her when the bullets started flying.
And then there was Decker, who also claimed a piece of her heart. Hannah knew he was off on another mission to some unfriendly land and probably taking far too many risks. She feared one of these days he’d come home in a body bag. And since he was CIA, it would all be hush-hush, no shiny coffin draped with an American flag and the major television networks with cameras rolling to record a hero’s return.
It was during moments like these that she second-guessed her decision to join the CIA. The organization didn’t leave much room for a normal life, yet there were times she wanted nothing more than a husband, a house, and a baby. But how, after becoming romantically involved with anyone in the spy business, could she possibly bring him home to the folks in Kansas City, Missouri?
Hi Mom and Dad, this is Decker. He’s a spy and so am I. We go on missions together and sometimes we have to kill people. He’s not a vegetarian, so Dad can grill up the biggest steaks!
Or Carrington. Yes, he’s married. Yes, he has two kids. No, he barely sees them or his wife. They’re estranged. He’s a spy, too, like Decker. But nobody calls us spies. We’re agency operatives. CIA officers. And if the people in charge at Langley want to push the distance between them and us even farther, then we’re simply known as contractors, like plumbers or electricians.
The same dilemma played out when at twenty-five she met and began dating the renowned Boston surgeon Chandler Hughes – two decades older, highly intelligent, often obnoxious and belittling. No way would she ever introduce him to her parents. They certainly wouldn’t deserve it and her father would bristle at the doctor’s age and arrogance. Looking back, she seriously questioned her judgment and prided herself on never introducing him to her family or friends.
Hannah knew if she told her girlfriends from high school or college what she was doing they’d be in awe, envisioning a high-stakes life of glamour, adventure, intrigue, and international travel, never giving a second thought to how it might prevent her from finding Mr. Right, settling down, and maybe having a baby! A BABY! And why not? At thirty-one the chimes of her biological clock were clanging deep down. Reproduce! Go forth and procreate! Become a mom! Imagine, a mom!
When she last saw those friends over the Christmas holiday nearly two years ago, the youngest was pregnant and bursting with anticipation, while two others were gushing about their lives as new moms. This was life among the Missouri middle-class. The young women talked non-stop about diapers, strollers, and visits to the babyGap store “because they have these really cute outfits, like little farmer jeans and crewneck sweaters and even babyGap workboots.”
Hannah had sat and listened, conscious of her tendency to roll her eyes at vacuous statements, and tried to be excited for them without showing any trace of envy.
Though the friends still treated her like the prom queen she’d been back in 1977, she couldn’t help feeling a sea change had occurred and now they were the lucky ones, even if their daily challenges didn’t measure up to what was heaped on her plate at Langley.
Later that day, the women’s words still fresh in her mind, Hannah envisioned submitting a letter of resignation to the CIA, not knowing whether such a thing was allowed. The possibility made her smile, but the joy ended when she received a priority beeper message hours later from Preston Barlow, then deputy director of operations at Langley.
Hannah telephoned the encrypted number. Barlow was terse. Another unforeseen mission was about to get under way. She was needed back at the operations center – ASAP – in other words, immediately. No apology from Barlow was included. A private jet would be standing by at Kansas City International.
Hannah knew the danger of allowing her mind to roam. She had been graced with steely logic and it played against any whim upon which she might act. She adjusted her sunglasses and stared out at the turquoise sea. Carrington was paddling a surfboard.
A question recycled through Hannah’s head: How did things get so complicated? It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Mashima saw his opportunity to approach the blonde woman while she was alone. He felt awkward traipsing through the soft sand in his brown, leather wingtip shoes, but going barefoot seemed too unofficial.
“I hope you are enjoying your stay on Saipan,” he said, standing off to Hannah’s right, hands clasped in front of him.
Hannah flinched. Over the sounds of the surf she hadn’t heard him approach. “Do you always sneak up on people?”
“Forgive me. I thought it more impolite to shout.”
“You’re forgiven. We saw you at the airport. Customs?”
“No. CNMI police. I’m Detective Mashima.”
“Well, hello detective. What can I do for you?”
Feeling self-conscious and bashful, Mashima turned his head so that Hannah wouldn’t see the raised scars on the left side of his face. “Please don’t take offense, but I have the feeling you are not truly the representatives of an adventure travel company.”
“What are you saying?”
“If you have come to learn more about certain activities on my island, perhaps I can be of assistance. Your accent sounds American, as does your companion’s. I know it well from my college days. I was educated in the States.”
“And what sort of activities are you referring to?”
“Two representatives from your FBI are already here on Saipan, looking into an unfortunate murder which occurred in late December.”
Hannah pulled a gauzy cover-up over her bathing suit that seemingly had made the detective uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I sell travel packages.”
“If that’s so, I wish you supreme success in your business. If not, then my offer of assistance still stands.”
“Have you helped the FBI agents who are here?”
“The two special agents made it clear they did not want my assistance, even though I speak Japanese and am an island native. My father is Japanese, but my mother is Chamorro. She was born and raised here on Saipan. I, too, was born here. I understand the people and the culture, which at times can seem confusing to outsiders.”
“And why is that?”
“Because everyone here on the island is related, in one way or another. And that can make learning truthful information very difficult.”
Carrington picked up his pace when he spotted the stranger talking to Hannah. As he neared the blanket, he affected the tone of a stoned-out surfer dude.
“Jake,” he said, thrusting a hand toward Mashima who reluctantly shook it in bro fashion. “Is everything cool?”
“Why would everything not be cool?”
“Well, we’re new here. We don’t know anybody, so I figured you might be a cop. And then I thought, well, if that’s the case, we might have broken a local law without knowing it. I’m pretty sure our rental car is properly registered.”