Bagdad, Iraq – October 2003
It's hot. It's dry. Elizabeth licks her lips, and her tongue catches blowing sand. Her eyes squint in the sun. None of this is shocking to her. She's in the Arabian Desert. Those are all things that are common in deserts. Although, right now, she longs for the Mojave and a margarita. Not that she's ever been the biggest fan of Las Vegas, but at the moment, anything would be better than this. The air smells like hot metal. The temperature is unbearable. But most of all, there is the dust. It gets in her eyes and down her throat and settles between her clothes and skin. She looks around her. She takes in the landscape. She would call it beautiful if she were here for any other reason. The sand is golden, and the sky is blue. There are no clouds. The sun reflects the heat making waves in the distance. It truly is beautiful. The ride into war-torn Bagdad was bumpy and uncomfortable. Her hair tie had snapped, so her hair blew uncontrollably in the wind through the open window of the Humvee. The driver blasted Eminem over the speakers so she couldn't hear her surroundings over the music, which was incredibly annoying because the beat of the music matched her heart rate perfectly. Her nerves were frazzled. She had barely slept the night before. And her gun had felt heavy on her belt. A scared Private next to her kept bumping into her. But they made it in one piece into Bagdad, and that was a relief.
"Hey, Blondie!" Elizabeth turns at the sound of the voice. She knows she's blondie. She is the only American woman and, therefore, the only one with uncovered hair.
"Mike Hirst, welcome to the Sandbox." Elizabeth takes a moment to take him in. The reality of the warzone hits her when she sees that he is growing a beard. Never would an Army Officer grow a beard outside of a warzone.
"Thanks, Mike." Elizabeth extends her hand, and Mike shakes it, "They speak highly of you at Langley." Elizabeth offers him a small diplomatic smile. Nothing ever stressful enough to penetrate that particular waspy habit.
"Yeah, the Brass is big on you too. Best analyst they got. A real killer, they say." Elizabeth can sense Hirst's dislike of her and her work. She isn't bothered by it. She understands it. Or at least she's worked around men long enough to let it run down her back.
"Well, I don't know about that." Elizabeth cuts him off before he can continue.
"Yeah, neither do I," Mike turns away, expecting her to follow him. "Because out here, we're real killers. And quite frankly, I don't know what I'm going to do with another desk jockey from Langley." Elizabeth rolls her eyes. She's not a desk jockey. A least she wasn't always.
"It depends on how badly you want to catch Safeer Al-Jamil, I guess." Elizabeth counters causing Mike to turn around and face her once more.
"The son-of-a-bitch blew up half of Bagdad, so yeah, I want him." Mike's words match the aggressiveness of his body language, and Elizabeth realizes how much he must have seen in person. Elizabeth has seen the photos. The destruction. The bodies. The blood. But she knows that seeing pictures and videos of the violence is different from seeing the violence in real-time. "And look, while I appreciate your new Intel, I'm going to tell you something-"
"That's right, Mike, my Intel." Elizabeth cuts back in. She came halfway around the world to get this job done. She left her crying daughters and screaming son at home because she has a job to do. She refuses to accept a brush-off. "I've been tracking Safeer for two years now, so when we bring him in based on my intel, Langley wants me to interrogate him. Are we clear about that?"
"Yes, Sir. A real killer." She doesn't have time to process the slight to her gender when there is a whoosh and bang outside. Elizabeth reacts quickly, pulling Mike down below the sight of the window with her. Then there's a scream and a blast. Elizabeth had forgotten what this kind of adrenaline felt like. She had quit going on ops and settled for a desk job at Langley after a very close call when Stevie was eighteen months old. She still bares the scar of that close call on her cheek, though it is faded now. The love of her daughter had overpowered the chase for this feeling. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug. People say you can get the same rush on a roller coaster or sky diving. But Elizabeth knows those people have never felt this. This must stay alive kind of adrenaline. The kind you get when you're startled awake by a bomb or someone yelling at you from behind. Elizabeth imagines the soldiers in the Humvees around them, their faces pale and wide-eyed as they peer out the windows. This is what war feels like.
Elizabeth stays crouched below the window and draws her weapon. Being a CIA case officer gets you a 1911 handgun in a place you need an M16, and that annoys her. She regrets her career choices for the twelfth time in the last forty-eight hours. She sees Mike standing and readying his weapon. He seems more alert than before and more focused. They make their way farther into the building held as a makeshift base for coalition forces. Elizabeth doesn't have much of an opportunity to make herself useful other than to point out some enemy soldiers who seem to have breached their perimeter, and, therefore, she watched as two soldiers gunned them down. She doesn't have time to be shocked, scared, or disgusted with the gore. It's surprising how easy it is to watch someone die when they planned on killing you. Elizabeth watches their faces. The shock. The pain. The terror. Their last breath. It all flashes through her mind in a second. There's an emptiness she can't quite describe. And she forces numbness to take the space her feelings would typically be. It's only a year. She only has 364 days left. She'll be fine.
Washington, DC – October 2003
Henry is worried. And he is exhausted. Being a single parent is hard. More complicated than he thought it be. More challenging than he would have expected. He loves his children more than anything, but he is tired. He is so tired—his back aches from carrying his clingy toddler all day for seven days. Jason has not stopped asking for his mama. He's too young to understand how long a year is. He's too young to know that his mama can't just call him. That she's busy trying to fight a war. Jason has been sleeping with him. Every night, he cries for his goodnight story from his mama. He cries himself to sleep and then wakes up every hour. Henry isn't sure he can keep this up. And Allison. He can't get her to eat anything of substance. He's tried bribing her. He's tried letting her cook with him. And nothing. He hopes she can live off fruit snacks and Oreos for a while. And Stevie. Stevie is just so quiet and so worried. She asks him every day if Mom's called yet. And every day, he's had to say 'no, but she will.' He's not sure how much more of this he can handle.
He misses Elizabeth. And it's only been seven days. Seven. It makes him feel even more like he failed. He promised her that he could handle this. That she could solely focus on her work. He knows he's a good father and trying his best, but he can't seem to do any of this smoothly. It has been seven days. She hasn't called. And he tries so hard not to think about what could be happening around her, to her that she hasn't had time to get to a phone. He tries to keep his mind from imagining the worst. She could be dead. She could be dead. Even though he knows she's not. This war is more or less televised. There's a death count on TV daily, and it hasn't risen. He knows she's just busy. But God, does he miss hearing her voice. He wishes she could tell him she was okay. He doesn't know how he can do this without her. But he has to. For the sake of his children. And Elizabeth. He has to. But tears of joy and relief do fill his eyes when his office phone rings at 3:45 with an Iraq caller ID.
"Babe?" He can't keep the smile and relief out of his voice. Not that he'd ever try to. Elizabeth knows how worried he must be for her. She was on his side of this once too. But in a way, he thinks his part in his own war was easier. Flying over, dropping bombs, and providing air support. That is not nothing, but it's not what Elizabeth is doing. Elizabeth is walking around on the ground in the middle of destruction. And it's so hard for him not to worry. And now, he's worried about her in a new way. It's not about her being injured, though God forbid. It's not that she has limited ways of getting in touch with them. But about what happens when she gets home and has to cope.
"Hey, sweetheart," She says. It's a small thing, but it calms the storm that had been building all week. Hearing her voice and words is enough to keep him going. He hadn't realized how much he needed her until she was gone.
"Hi." He says, voice thick with emotion. But he swallows it. He doesn't want to make the distance harder for her. "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay," She says, and he can hear the lie. But he won't call her on it. He knows what war is first-hand. He knows how hard it is to be in the field. He knows how hard it is to be on the other side of a situation where you can't see your family. He won't push.
"I miss you," He says because that's what he needs to say.
"Me too." She says. He can hear the smile in her voice, and it warms him. "How are the kids?"
"Good," He says. "Jason won't stop asking about you."
Elizabeth swallows. Jason is still so little. He still misses his mama. She has to swallow her own emotion. "I love him so much. I wish I were there. I wish I could be there with you. With all of you."
"It'll go by faster than you think." Henry tries to reassure her. "And then you can get home and hold your babies. They miss you too."
"I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but being away was easier before I was a mom," Elizabeth says. It's the first time she's ever said that out loud.
"I know." He says. He does know. Her love for her kids made her give up her life as an operative. It made her say she wouldn't do that to her kids, leave them, or die on them. But here she is, deployed and away from them. He knows it's harder now than when they were just the two. When Henry was deployed, they never questioned whether they'd be okay before discussing when they wanted to try for a baby. "We'll make it through this. You'll make it through this." He promises her.
"Yeah," Elizabeth says, trying to sound sure. She's not. She's scared. Calling home has erased some of her self-forced numbness. It's brought back some of the things she's been trying to push away. "I should go. It's late here, but I wanted to check in."
"I love you so much. Stay safe, baby." He says, trying not to let the panic of what she does every day slip into his voice.
"Love you more. Talk to you soon." She says.
"Bye." He says, but the line has already gone dead.
New York City – October 2003
Conrad Dalton takes his seat across from the man. This business deal takes place in a locale that is too fancy for the occasion. Dalton's been here twice before. Both times were nice dinners with his wife. It's different from where one usually goes to make good on an extortion claim. A jazz band plays on a small stage, and couples drink champagne. This is a place of celebration. That makes sense, Conrad realizes. Rodriguez is celebrating. He won. He will get something from Conrad, and he will, in turn, keep his mouth shut.
"Director Dalton." Rodriguez reaches out a hand. Conrad doesn't take it. Conrad does not consider himself a good man. But he has principles, and one of his is never to shake the hand of a man who has blackmailed him.
"It was nice of you to meet me here," Rodriguez says, sincerely pleased with himself.
"Let's not pretend I had a choice."
"I'm afraid that's how this works. I've gotten my hands on proof of the things you ordered me to do twenty years ago. You've been trolling the waters, trying to find a way out of your predicament. Climbing your ladder, and I hear you're jumping into politics. Soon to run for the California governorship. How wonderful." Rodriguez leans onto the table, his weight resting on his elbows. He relaxed. Holding all of the power is his favorite thing in the world.
"I've done nothing illegal," Conrad says, which is a lie. He knows it's a lie but won't risk admitting to anything. He's here to do one thing, deliver one thing. "Let's get down to it. Did you take a look at the list I gave you?"
"Yes, I did. But I must be honest with you. None of them intrigued me. But," Rodriguez reaches into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a photo. A photo of him and Lydia with Elizabeth and Henry McCord at Harrison's last birthday party. Conrad Swallows. "I want this one." His finger points to the smiling Elizabeth. Who in this photo looks lovingly at the camera, whom a seven-year-old Stevie manned.
"She's off the table. I gave you a list. I-"
"I want her. Suppose you want to stay out of The Hague. You give me Bess McCord." Rodriguez cuts him off. Conrad grabs the whiskey before him and downs it in one gulp.
"It would take me longer to deliver her."
"I'm a patient man." The smile Rodriguez gives him makes his stomach flip.
