Face, The (3 page)

Sarah

“S
arah?”

Despite the heavy hum on the secure line, I recognize the voice immediately—it belongs to Jack Traut, deputy director of the Office for Science and Technology. Mr. Traut is Dr. Mewton’s supervisor, and he’s probably calling from Langley. But why is he calling at 10:00 p.m.?

I roll over, sit up, and adjust my pajama top. “Sir?”

“Catch you at a bad time?”

I ought to remind him about the five hours’ difference in time zones, but instead I toss a guilty glance at the DVD playing on my computer monitor. I always feel as if I should be working when Mr. Traut calls, but for the last fifty minutes I’ve been watching Baby try desperately to convince Johnny Castle that she can learn to dance the merengue. I pick up the remote and press the mute button. “No, sir.”

“Good. Listen, have you been briefed about the recent trouble in Slovakia?”

I bend to search through a stack of folders on my nightstand. I usually file briefings as soon as they come in, because few of them relate directly to my work. Occasionally, though, I wish I’d skimmed those pages before putting them away.

I find the Eastern European affairs folder and tug it out of the stack. “I have the briefing in front of me.”

“Our people can’t get a clear answer from anyone in-country, but all signs point to Hungarian hackers. Whoever attacked the Slovakian Web sites did a thorough job—every government server went down in less than twenty-four hours.”

“I see that.”

“Obviously, we can’t have that happening on our systems. We’ve got some of our best people working on the defensive perimeter, but Dr. Mewton reminded me of your steganography project. Seems to me there has to be a way we can guarantee that the Slovakian situation can’t happen here. Why can’t we be proactive and sneak something onto the computers of whoever might be foolish enough to attack us?”

I watch Baby step into Johnny’s arms as I consider the question. Steganography, the art of hiding a message inside pictures or programs, isn’t a new science, but I’ve never considered its potential as a defensive measure. My current project is a little program I call Mona Lisa. On the surface, it’s just a collection of screen savers, perfectly suitable for an office environment. But in reality, each of those pretty pictures could be used to send covert messages or secretly upload key files.

I suppose I could expand the application to include a “Trojan horse”—hidden software that could do very bad things to unsuspecting users’ computers. If a hacker cracked the firewall protecting our systems, why couldn’t we let him steal something that contained a secret string of deadly code? The trick would be convincing him to steal the loaded image or document…unless, of course, we loaded
all
our files with an undetectable Trojan.

“I could certainly add that dimension, sir. I think I’d enjoy the challenge.”

“I’ll look forward to a demonstration. Let Glenda know when you have it ready.”

“I will, sir.”

“Fine, fine. How’s the weather out your way?”

I glance toward the window, a star-studded ebony rectangle. “Clear and pleasant. We’ve had a lovely summer.”

“I should get out there to check up on you all more often. Keep up the good work, Sarah.”

“I will. Thank you, sir.”

The phone clicks and I return it to its base. Mr. Traut is right—he should come out here more often. He says we’re his favorite special projects team, but you wouldn’t know it if you studied his calendar. He’s visited our facility only three times this year.

I study the latest briefing. According to the classified report, the Slovakian prime minister’s Web site was hit on June 27. After the PM’s site went down, other hacker attacks came in waves, effectively shutting down newspaper offices, television stations, schools, and banks. The assault so unnerved the Slovakian government authorities that they raised the issue at a meeting of NATO officials, equating the cyber attack with an act of war.

I lean against my pillow and push against the unruly sprig of hair that is forever falling into my left eye. Like many others in the company, Mr. Traut believes that technology has forever changed the face of war. Instead of fighting with large conventional armies, countries will either strike with small guerilla groups or wage cyber battles—and of the two types of attack, cyber war will be the more devastating. Because so many people rely on the Internet for banking, shopping, and communicating, hostile action in cyberspace could bring a country to its knees.

I watch the monitor as Baby skips across a green lawn in white sneakers and cropped pants. The story is set long before people routinely had computers in their homes and carried cell phones in their pockets. I’m sure the screenwriter wanted to portray the early sixties as a more innocent era, but I’ve seen this film several times, and I know that darkness lurks even at Kellerman’s.

I watch a lot of movies, but I hold few illusions about life. The CIA’s Convent of the Lost Lambs treats people who have been tortured and mutilated by their fellow men. Part of my job includes eavesdropping on plots and conspiracies to overthrow governments and commit murder. I know that evil lurks in every building and behind every bush outside these walls.

Perhaps that’s why I enjoy films so much. In them I can enjoy a world where almost everyone has a pretty face and only the men and women who wear black have evil hearts.

If pain and sadness can shadow beautiful Baby and handsome Johnny in a lovely summer resort, I know it would haunt me, if I ever leave this place.

Not that I ever will.

Renee

“S
o?” I lower my pen to my desk, a purposeful and relaxed gesture that should encourage Nancy to talk. “Does the BOTOX seem to be working?”

My patient, a forty-six-year-old mother in a T-shirt, shorts, and battered sneakers, crosses her legs and gives me a rueful smile. “My daughter keeps telling me that I look like I’m wearing a mask.”

“Was this the sixteen-year-old?”

“Brittany, yes.”

“Did you honestly expect her to say something
nice?
After all, didn’t you just take her cell phone away?”

Nancy sucks at the inside of her cheeks for a moment, then snorts. “Maybe you have a point.”

“And maybe your daughter wanted to put a negative spin on a noticeable improvement,” I point out. “I would say you appear more rested than usual, but I want to know how you’ve been
feeling.
Have you noticed any improvement in your depression?”

Nancy runs a hand over her hair, which she has pulled into a tight ponytail. “Now that you mention it, maybe the injections have helped. Last week at this time I could barely summon the energy to get out of bed, but I’m here, aren’t I?”

“And you’re looking pretty good.”

“Rested, you said.”

“Rested…and a bit more relaxed than usual.”

The corner of Nancy’s mouth dips in a wry smile. “I still don’t see how BOTOX is supposed to help me feel better. My husband thinks this treatment is a lot of hooey. He doesn’t even want me coming to therapy anymore.”

“When did he say that?”

“Last night. Right after he told me he’d rather eat roadkill than my pot roast.”

I smooth my slacks and take a moment to evaluate my patient’s statement. Nancy’s Neanderthal of a husband is probably to blame for her continued depression, but she’s not willing to admit that. Not yet, anyway.

“Perhaps,” I edge into the topic, “your husband expressed that opinion because he noticed a change and assumed you are completely better. He’d be wrong, because depression doesn’t go away overnight, but you could accept his comment as evidence that your outlook has brightened.”

“But why?” Her forehead remains smooth, courtesy of the BOTOX, but a frown cuts deep parentheses into the sides of her mouth. “I don’t get it.”

I fold my hands. “Remember the old song about the benefits of putting on a happy face? As illogical as it may seem, the lyricist had it right. A demonstrable physiological link exists between our facial expressions and our emotions.”

“We feel better because we look better?”

“Looking better is a side effect. When you wear a happy face, your emotional outlook improves because smiling promotes the release of endorphins in the brain. On the other hand, frowning causes your spirits to plummet. And when you narrow your eyes in anger, your blood pressure rises.”

Nancy frowns again, and in that down-turned mouth I can read years of repressed frustration and yearning. “So what does all that have to do with cosmetic injections?”

“BOTOX isn’t used only for cosmetic reasons. Because it temporarily paralyzes certain facial muscles, doctors are finding all sorts of medical applications for it. Neurologists use it to treat migraine headaches, and we psychologists use it to paralyze the corrugator supercilii muscles in patients’ foreheads—”

“To treat frowny faces?”

“To treat clinical depression.” I give her a careful smile. “Have you ever heard of the partial facial paralysis known as Mobius syndrome? These patients, most of whom are born with the condition, are often unable to smile or frown. As a result, they don’t experience emotions with the same intensity as normal people.”

“I have days,” Nancy says, “when that sort of numbness would be a blessing.”

“I don’t think so.” I shift my gaze to the sunlit window beyond my desk. “Numbness is a blessing when we’re in pain, but pain tells us when something is wrong. Discomfort motivates us to seek the help we need.”

“You could always have your partner prescribe more happy pills.”

“We’ve already tried the standard antidepressants,” I remind her, “and it appears that your depression is not caused by a chemical imbalance.”

I’d lay the blame for Nancy’s depression at the feet of her churlish husband and her ungrateful teenage children, but the woman is blindly devoted to all three. I doubt she’d be sitting in my office if they were equally devoted to her.

“We need to try a different approach,” I say, jotting a note on my legal pad. “Who knows? You might get so used to wearing a peaceful look that a smile becomes your natural expression.”

If her forehead hadn’t been freshly injected with BOTOX, I suspect, Nancy would lift both brows in an expression of genuine skepticism.

“So,” she says, rubbing her arms, “should I keep journaling? And make another appointment?”

“Absolutely. And remember not to censor yourself. Write whatever comes to mind, and let your thoughts spill out. About your kids, your husband—everything.”

“What if someone reads it?”

“Would that be a problem?”

“My husband would freak out if he knew what I was really thinking.” She brings her hand to her throat, a common
I need reassurance
gesture.

“You need to be honest with yourself.” I lean toward her and smile to alleviate her anxiety. “Get one of those old-fashioned diaries with a lock and key. Or journal on a computer and protect the file with a password. You don’t have to share your most private thoughts with anyone, but you do have to write them down. Only when you force yourself to put feelings into words are you able to recognize them for what they are.”

She sighs and reaches for her handbag on the floor. “I’ll try.”

“Don’t try—
do.
And we’ll talk about it during our next session.”

Nancy nods through her tears, then thanks me and stands. “By the way,” she says, settling her purse strap on her shoulder, “a few months ago you mentioned taking a long vacation. Is that coming up any time soon?”

I stand, as well. “It’s not actually a vacation, but I need to check on a family matter. Before I can leave, however, I have to get a security clearance.”

“Oh. Sounds mysterious.”

“Trust me, my family has nothing to do with national security. But the process is taking longer than I thought it would.”

She crinkles her nose. “How long does it take to check your fingerprints?”

“They check a lot more than fingerprints,” I tell her, moving toward the door, “and it’s already been four months since I submitted my paperwork. I’ve been told the process can take up to a year.”

Nancy gives me the first real smile I’ve seen on her face in months. “So I’m okay to make an appointment for next week?”

“You’re good to make appointments from now until Christmas. But don’t you worry—you’re going to be doing better long before the holidays.”

After Nancy leaves, I close the door and lean against it. With my patients and friends, I’ve pretended to be calm and accepting of the process known as “getting clearance,” but on most days I’m ready to scream with frustration.

Since finding that CIA connection in my mother’s files, I’ve made inquiries and been told that I cannot have any contact with Dr. Glenda Mewton unless I have the proper security clearance. To obtain clearance, I must be in the military, hold a government job, be employed by a contractor working for the government, or apply for a position that requires a government clearance. No exceptions.

For two days I thought about giving up—allowing Sarah Jane Sims, if she exists, to live her life in the same state of idyllic ignorance I once enjoyed. But then I thought about my mother, who once spied my bleeding hangnail and drove thirty miles back to a dress shop to tell the clerk that her little girl might have bled on the zipper of a dress she had tried on. If so, she would pay for the dry cleaning.

My mother was completely committed to doing right. That’s why I have to know if Sarah Sims survived…and why my mother told me she didn’t.

Frustrated by my inability to move forward with the CIA, I followed a hunch and went around the U.S. government, sending a letter to the leading hospital in Valencia, the Hospital Clinico Universitario. In my barely adequate Spanish, I asked for a copy of Sarah Jane Sims’s birth certificate, if such a thing exists.

I’ve also taken a far more significant step. In April—quietly, not wanting to alarm the other doctors in my practice—I applied for a position as a staff psychologist with the Central Intelligence Agency. I never thought I’d consider working for the CIA. But Kevin was apparently willing to sacrifice the pleasures of ordinary life to serve his country. In any case, I’ve come to believe that ordinary life is overrated.

In order to achieve the vaunted status of One Who Can Be Trusted with Government Secrets, I have filled out Standard Form 86, I have been fingerprinted, and I have given the government page after page of personal information, numerous references, and permission to check everything from my credit report to my college transcripts. I have been told that my medical and police records will be reviewed…and I am praying that my five speeding tickets won’t be interpreted as a reckless disregard for American highway law.

I would hate to have my quest for truth crushed by my own lead foot.