Irregular Verbs (33 page)

No, he thought. If that were the case this conversation wouldn’t be happening: he’d just be gone.

“You have nothing more to say?” Geraci asked.

“No. I mean, well—it’s a pleasure, of course, to know that Mr. Chadwick has had such positive things to say about me.” He had learned that survival tactic in high school, perfected it in university: when under scrutiny, bring in someone else in hopes the investigators will turn their attention off of you.

Geraci nodded and turned his eyes down to the folders in front of him, but he did not appear to read them. “Very good. And do you have any questions for me?”

“Yes. Of course. I—” If you did not ask questions, if it seemed like you wanted the conversation to end, it was assumed you were hiding something. “I wondered if there might have been any criticisms of my work that I might improve on?”

“Your records are without blots,” Geraci said. He looked up at Dave, his eyes narrowing. “This was said.”

“Of course.” Dave drew a breath and released it quickly, careful not to hold it too long. “Does Personnel have any suggestions on how I can go beyond my current performance level?”

Geraci smiled, looked down at one of the folders and made a note in small, illegible handwriting. “It will be taken under advisement,” he said. “That is all the time I have at present, Mr. Lawson. Please inform Mr. Chadwick that he may send in the next.”

“Yes, of course,” Dave said. He held out his hand, waited a few seconds for Geraci to acknowledge it before turning it into a wave goodbye. He turned and headed for the door, suddenly aware of his cracked right shoe wrapped in silver duct tape.

“How did it go?” Chadwick asked.

Dave shrugged. “He says send in the next.”

Chadwick nodded quickly, headed off towards his office. Dave walked over to the kitchen, waited there a few minutes and then went to the window that opened on the parking lot. As usual it was nearly empty; almost nobody in Broadcast was senior enough to be allowed to park in the government district. There was a car there, though, that Dave had never seen before: a black sedan, its metal shell shiny despite the sleet. A few moments later Dave saw Geraci walk into his field of vision, accompanied by a tall man in a dark leather coat. It took a moment before Dave recognized this last as the man he had seen the night before, the one he had thought had been following him—the one he had thought he had lost.

Dave forced himself to breathe. He had survived six years of university, three of them in Gil’s secret double-history program, and five more here at Broadcast. He knew the Agency did not play around: if they had anything concrete on him they would have acted. It was probably because he had lost that man last night that Geraci had tried to scare him. They couldn’t know where he had gone, what he had seen, what he knew. They couldn’t.

For the rest of the day Dave sat glued to his workstation, forgetting even to go to the kitchen when he knew Maura would be there. Gradually he began to calm down, and by quitting time he had managed to convince himself it might be nothing. Just play it safe, he thought: skip a few meetings, keep a low profile for a while and it would blow over.

He was getting ready for bed when somebody knocked on his apartment door. He had been dozing on the couch, half-watching TV; he remembered the meeting with Geraci as he got up and he paused halfway to the door, unsure whether to acknowledge being there or not. Finally he padded to the door and looked through the spy hole, saw the girl Gil had brought to the meeting the night before. She reached up and knocked on the door again.

“Hang on,” Dave said, releasing the latch. He opened the door and stepped back quickly to let her in. “Come on in, before somebody sees you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her cheeks were red, from the cold or from nervousness. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Dave leaned out into the hallway, looked around quickly and then closed the door behind him. “How did you know to come here?”

“Gil told me about you,” she said. “When I told him—he told me where you lived . . .”

For a moment Dave wondered how Gil knew his address, remembered the time he had tried to host a meeting at his apartment. “All right, all right,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

“Well, it’s—” The girl looked nervously around the small space, moved to sit on the couch. Dave sat on the chair facing it, noticed she was carrying her artist’s portfolio. “I don’t know how much to say,” the girl said.

“You seem to know who I am and where I live, so you might as well tell me everything,” Dave said. “Why don’t you start with your name?”

“Amy,” she said. “I’m studying art at the university—in my class this morning I forgot I had the record in my portfolio, and when I opened it up some people saw it. I don’t think any of them knew what it was, but . . .”

“You must have already gone to see Professor Lorca,” Dave said. “Why not give it to him?”

Amy shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t put him in danger like that.”

Dave sighed, closed his eyes. “So he suggested you give it to me?”

“Well—you work at Broadcast and Media, don’t you? Gil thought you could, you know, hide it in plain sight.”

“He said that, did he?” Dave asked. Like most academics, Gil clearly had little understanding of how things worked in the government: Dave did not have the clearance to get anything into or out of the Archive rooms. He reached up to rub at his eyes “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Leave it with me till you’re sure the heat is off—and tell Gil he owes me one.”

“Thank you,” Amy said.

“It’s all right,” Dave said, waving away her thanks. He yawned. “Well . . .”

Amy glanced around, gave a nervous smile and stood up. She unzipped her portfolio, took out the album and handed it to him. “Well. Thanks again.”

“Forget about it.” He stood, walked her to the door. “Be quick getting out. Make sure nobody sees you.”

She nodded. “I will.”

He shut the door as soon as she was outside, listened to her footsteps receding for a few moments before he started cursing himself. Why had he taken the record? He should have refused, sent her to Paul’s or else back to Gil. He even still had it under his arm—had anybody been in the hall when he opened the door? Could anyone have seen it? There was no use trying to sleep now: he poured himself a scotch, sat down to watch TV until exhaustion took him.

The next morning he was awakened by the distant sound of the alarm in his bedroom, unfolded himself from the couch and stumbled into the shower. When he returned the record was waiting for him: it sat on the coffee table, the blonde singer on the cover looking as though she was mocking him. He had an irrational thought that if he left it there it would be gone when he got back, faded away like the timeline it belonged to; with a sigh he slipped it into his briefcase, went into the kitchen for breakfast. Of all things, why had the girl had to come on Thursday night? If he had the weekend to calm down he could think of a place to hide it, but as it was he felt, walking to work, as though his briefcase had a bulls-eye painted on it. He briefly thought about hailing a cab before realizing how much more attention that would draw.

The feeling of being watched grew as he got to the office: eyes seemed to be following him, whispers trailing in his wake. He sat down at his workstation and cued up the day’s tapes, focused tightly on the screen in front of him. Every few minutes he reached down to move his briefcase, trying to make it less conspicuous.

After an hour or so he began to wonder whether he would be better off going to the kitchen for his break or staying at his desk. Obviously getting up would attract attention, but since he always went for coffee wouldn’t it be more unusual if he didn’t? He went back and forth over the question for a few minutes before deciding there was no way he would get through this day without more coffee, and got up out of his chair.

Then he remembered the briefcase. What was he going to do with that? He couldn’t leave it at his desk, where anyone could open it, but it would look strange for him to bring it to the kitchen. He wished he had decided to stay at his desk—but now that he had stood up he couldn’t just sit down again, not without attracting more attention. Before too much more time could pass he leaned down, scooped up the briefcase and set off for the kitchen.

Maura was there, as he knew she would be, blowing on her coffee to cool it. “Hey stranger,” she said.

He smiled, holding his briefcase behind him in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. “Hey yourself.”

“Looks like you need those new shoes after all.”

Dave felt his mind go blank, remembered only after a moment his shoe wrapped up with duct tape. “Oh. Right,” he said. He flashed her another smile and turned to the shelf where his mug sat, picked it up with his free hand and put it down by the coffee maker.

“Might be easier with both hands,” she said.

He laughed nervously. “Right,” he said, put down the briefcase so that his legs pinned it against the wall. “I forgot to put my lunch in the fridge. Just remembered it now.”

Maura glanced from side to side, took a sip from her coffee. “Well,” she said finally, “I should get back. Performance review’s coming up.”

“Sure.” Dave nodded. “Have a good one.”

“Mm.”

Dave took a breath and then poured his coffee, his hands trembling. He wasn’t sure how to read that conversation, if there was anything to read: the mention of the briefcase, the reference to performance reviews after that business with Geraci. . . . No, he was being foolish. On the other hand, he knew that the Agency often put informants close to the people they were investigating. It was hardly impossible that they were using a double-pronged approach, Geraci the obvious threat to make him nervous, drive him to confide in his friend Maura. . . .

When he returned to his desk he felt a sudden compulsion to look inside the briefcase. Was the record even still in there? Of course it was, he had kept the briefcase in his sight since he arrived—but still the need to look inside nagged at him. He looked quickly over his shoulder, picked up the briefcase and shook it. He thought he could hear the record inside, bumping up against the briefcase, but he wasn’t sure. Putting it on his lap he leaned over it, trying to block the sight of it with his body, then snapped the catches. He looked around again, to see if the sound had attracted any attention, then turned back to the suitcase and lifted the lid slightly. There it was, the record, still sitting flat; as soon as he saw it he shut his briefcase and snapped it closed again, but his anxiety had not been dispelled. Feeling as though he might throw up he leaned over further, slipped the briefcase under his desk and then lifted up his feet and rested them on it. Finally he sat up again, forced himself to take a dozen deep breaths in and out and then went back to his work.

Somehow he managed to make it through the rest of the day. At least it was Friday. He had survived the week, he thought as he reached the door to his apartment: tomorrow he would be able to sleep in, replace his shoes, and figure out where he could hide the record.

His hand hesitated over the doorknob. The door was ajar, just slightly: he gave it a push and it opened. Fighting his rising sense of panic he stepped inside and saw that his apartment had been ransacked. All the kitchen cupboards were open, their contents spilled out onto the counters; all the books on his shelves had been pulled down and opened, left spread-eagled on the floor.

Dave’s fingers were clenched around the handle of his briefcase. If he hadn’t brought it with him. . . . But there was no question, now: they were watching, and their not finding anything would only make them look harder. He had to get rid of the record before it was too late. Holding the briefcase close he turned around and went back outside, looking for a working pay phone. The evening fog had set in, making it hard to see anything; he passed by the first phone he found—better safe than sorry—eventually settled on one that was a half-dozen blocks from his apartment. The duct tape on his shoe had come loose, and the slush was soaking into his sock.

He let the phone ring ten times but nobody picked up. Was Gil just out, or had they gotten to him too? Dave forced himself to keep the panic down, think rationally. Who else could he give it to? The only one whose name he even knew was Paul Beatty; he flipped desperately through the phone book tethered to the booth, felt bile rising in his throat when he found no listing under the Bs. Maybe he should just get rid of the record, he thought, throw it away—but Gil would never forgive him, nobody in the group would, he had been trusted with this—

A thought came to him and he flipped to the business directory. There it was: Beatty Electrical. The dial moved stiffly as he turned it to each digit then let it fall back to zero; after an eternity the number was completed and the call went through. Dave held his breath as it rang once, twice—

“Beatty Electrical,” the voice on the other side said. Was it Paul’s? Dave had never spoken to him on the phone.

“This is—is this Paul?”

There was a moment’s silence. “Who wants to know?”

“It’s, um—I’m calling about the record we talked about . . .”

“What about it?”

“I— I was wondering when I could drop it off.”

Another pause, long enough for Dave to wonder if he had hung up. Finally the voice said, “I think you must have mixed up your number.
Drop dead
,” and hung up.

Dave stood there for a second with the receiver in his hand, open-mouthed, before realizing what Paul had meant: reversing “drop dead” gave dead drop, the locker they used for dangerous handoffs. He wasn’t sure if it had ever actually been used before, but he was glad Paul had remembered it. He looked around, peering through the frosted glass and the mist, left the booth and started walking towards the train station.

It being Friday night, the downtown streets were packed: this was when new goods arrived in the stores, and many were not willing to pick over what was left Saturday morning. He pushed into the crowd, hoping that it would camouflage him, at the same time keeping a death-grip on his briefcase. If he could just make it to the station, just drop it off, it would be somebody else’s problem . . . He glanced behind him, wondered if he had seen the tall man in the long black coat.