ONE
Three Weeks Earlier
“Perfect,” I say, eyeing Tyler through the viewfinder of my Nikon, pressing down gently on the shutter release. I lower the camera, check the image captured on the screen. Tyler’s smiling broadly, bathed in early morning sunlight, leaning on the handle of his rolling suitcase, the freshly painted front door behind him, the stone planters on either side bursting with late summer color. It’s true, it’s the perfect shot, Instagram-worthy, if I were into that sort of thing. The last picture I’ll snap of one of my kids in front of the home where we raised them.
But it shouldn’t be the last, should it? Perfect as it is, it’s all wrong.
Tyler’s already walking past me, heading toward the driveway, suitcase in tow.
“One more,” I say.
He turns. “Really, Mom?”
“Right there, with the cul-de-sac behind you.”
He smiles again for the camera, this time with a touch of exasperation, and I get the shot. I lower the camera and check the screen. Better. There’s the for sale sign in the yard, under contract tacked to the top. But I can Photoshop that out.
“It’s just an empty street,” Tyler says, looking out at the loop.
I follow his gaze. The Kanes’ and the Johnsons’ and the O’Malleys’. Softly lit houses, lush lawns, mature landscaping. Everything quiet, everything perfect. And he’s right—the street is empty.
“Well, now it is,” I say.
He continues on down the path to the driveway, suitcase wheels clacking over the breaks in the concrete. In the driveway, Mike’s starting the car, the engine sputtering softly. Everyone’s ready but me.
I’m still staring at the loop of pavement, and in my mind’s eye it becomes full again. Figures appear, almost ghostly at first, but gradually coming into focus. Children on bikes, some still with training wheels; others drawing with sidewalk chalk; the younger ones toddling around, unsteady on their feet. Their mothers, sitting in lawn chairs arrayed in a half circle, chatting and laughing—
“Mom!” comes Tyler’s voice from the driveway, and the figures vanish. The cul-de-sac is empty once again.
“Coming.” I start walking toward the driveway, and can’t help but steal one last glance at the street. That scene was so clear in my mind I would have sworn it was real.
—
it’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the University of Virginia, another half hour to wait for a parking space to open up. When it finally does, the three of us make our way to Tyler’s dorm, an old brick building near the center of campus, past a courtyard with big shade trees.
The room itself is small, a typical dorm room, with two of everything: extra-long twin beds, desks, dressers, all the furniture solid and well worn. We’re the first to arrive.
I start unpacking while Mike and Tyler head down to the car for more boxes. Place stacks of clothes into the dresser drawers. Books and school supplies on the desk. I’m placing a couple of pairs of shoes into one of the small closets when they walk back in, maneuvering the TV box through the door.
“I don’t need you to unpack,” Tyler says to me as they set down the box on the carpeted floor, leaning it against the dresser.
“I want to.”
The door opens before he can object, drawing our attention.
A skinny teenage boy with a smattering of acne stands in the doorway. Must be the new roommate. He and Tyler have chatted online, followed each other’s social media accounts, but they haven’t met in person yet. “Hey,” the boy says, lifting a hand awkwardly.
“Sweetheart, can you walk all the way through the door, please?” comes a terse voice behind him. He steps forward into the room, and a woman follows, giant-sized Target shopping bags in each hand. Two blond grade-school-age girls trail behind her, sullen looks on their faces, bickering. She shakes her head at me. “Kids.” She rolls her eyes, then adds, “Hi. I’m Beth.”
“Well, that’ll be easy to remember,” I say. “I’m Beth, too.”
“No way.”
She must be the mother, but she’s young. Mid to late thirties, maybe. Tight-fitting workout clothes, hair that looks freshly styled, flawless makeup, not that she needs it. I’m instantly conscious of my own appearance. Loose-fitting clothes, air-dried hair, ChapStick. And my age. I have a decade on her, at least.
We might have the name in common, but the similarities end there.
“Where are y’all from?” she asks.
“Near DC. McLean.” I watch for any spark of recognition. In the DC area, McLean is synonymous with Langley, which inevitably leads to questions about the CIA. Fortunately, though, her expression remains blank, and I don’t need to be evasive about my career. “What about you?”
“Richmond.”
One of the girls elbows the other, who instantly shouts, “Mom!”
“Girls, cut it out,” she says curtly. Then, to me, “I should have brought their iPads.”
The room, already small, now feels almost claustrophobic. The two boys are helping Mike pull the TV out of the box; there’s barely room for the three of them between the two beds.
“It’s a madhouse out there,” she says to me, moving the shopping bags to the unclaimed side of the room.
“Sure is.”
“Would have left earlier if I’d known.” She shakes her head. “Rookie mistake.”
I smile. She reaches into one of the shopping bags, pulls out an unopened set of sheets, then a new pack of smart plugs, the same kind the kids talked us into getting at home. Everything’s controlled with a voice now, or an app.
“Is this your first time, too?” she asks. “Sending someone off to college?”
“Actually, third. Our girls are already out of college.”
“Yeah?” she says, pulling out a plastic-wrapped pillow, then reaching back into the bag. It looks like she raided the back-to-school section of the store. “What are they doing now?”
“My oldest is a teacher. She just got married in June.”
“No way.” She pauses and looks at me, a boxed Bluetooth speaker in her hands. “Gosh, you might have grandchildrensoon.”
The words are cringeworthy. I’m not old enough for that. And Aubrey’s too young to be married, let alone have kids. I mean, she’s the age I was when I had her, but still. “Well, they want to get a house first. Settle down. But they’re looking for one, so it might not be long….” I realize I’m rambling. “And my younger daughter just graduated from Georgetown in May. Took a job as a travel reporter. She moved to London last month.”
“How exciting. What a summer for your family.”
What a summer, indeed. “And your girls? How old are they?”
“Ten and eight. We’re still in the gymnastics and soccer stage of life.”
The girls are sitting on the bare mattress of one of the twin-sized beds, still looking petulant. The older one says something quietly to the younger one, who immediately says, “No I didn’t!”
“Girls,” she scolds, turning toward them. “I said enough.”
She turns back to me. “So you’re going home to a quiet house.” She gives a wry laugh. “Lucky you.”
I force a smile.
It’s really hot in here. Mike and the two boys have the TV out of the box now, packing material strewn about. She’s opening up the second shopping bag.
I check my watch. Ten minutes until eleven. “Well, I think Tyler’s things are mostly unpacked, so I’ll get out of here, give you all some space to move around.”
“Tight quarters in here, huh?”
“No kidding. It was really nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says with a smile.
I turn toward Mike. “I’m going to wait outside. Come get me when you and Tyler are ready for lunch, okay?”
“Sure.”
Tyler’s focused on unwrapping cables and cords, doesn’t even look up. I watch him for a moment, then turn and let myself out of the room.
—
i sit on an empty bench under a large shade tree, just outside the entrance to the dorm. The air is fresh and pleasantly cool, and the leaves are rustling softly. I pull my phone from my purse, open up the HomeWatch app. A live feed appears. It’s from the default camera, the one mounted above our front door, looking down at the porch, and the street beyond. Street’s empty, porch is empty. Everything’s quiet.
I set down the phone on the bench beside me and watch the passersby. Anxious teenagers, parents loaded down with boxes and suitcases and shopping bags. New beginnings for some, chapters closing for others. Bittersweet.
I check my watch again. Two minutes until eleven. I reach for the phone again, unlock it, tap the HomeWatch app. The live feed appears. There are two cars parked on the street now, in front of our house. A sedan and an SUV. Three people walking to the front door. An older man leading the way, a young couple following behind.
That’s them. The Sterlings. Madeline and Josh.
I can’t get a good look at her; she’s blocked by the Realtor from this angle. But I can see Josh. He’s tall, dressed in jeans and a casual button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
The Realtor reaches for the lockbox on the front door, and then I see her. Madeline. She looks tall, too. She’s dressed in slim-fitting white ankle-length pants, a silky cream-colored top. She’s tan, like she’s just spent a week at the beach. She’s young. They both are.
She looks over at Josh and smiles. She looks relaxed, content.
The Realtor pushes open the door—
I tap the screen, swipe left to reach the next camera view. This one’s inside our front foyer, from a camera mounted in the top corner of the room.
“Shouldn’t we take it down?” Mike had said last week, looking up at the camera.
“Shouldn’t we figure out what they think?” I’d replied. Because really. If they’re going to back out, isn’t it best we know as soon as possible? And it’s not like we’re hiding the cameras. Our Realtor disclosed them.
The foyer’s empty, just cardboard boxes stacked neatly against one wall, as unobtrusive as possible.
Madeline’s the first to walk through the door, followed by Josh, then the Realtor. My eyes are locked on her as she looks around—
“Oh, Josh,” she breathes. “It’s even better in person.”
“Beth?” Mike’s voice startles me. I close the app and lower the phone in one quick motion, look up. He’s standing right in front of me. I was so absorbed in the video I didn’t hear him approach.
“Finished with the TV?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I stand up, slide the phone back into my purse, sling the bag over my shoulder. “Where’s Tyler?”
“He’s staying.”
“What about lunch?”
“He’s grabbing lunch with the new roommate at the cafeteria.”
The words feel like a blow. “Oh. Okay. Well, let me go say goodbye.”
“They’ve already left.”
“What?”
“He said he’d call later.”
“Okay,” I say, because what else can I say? He wants to start settling in here. As he should.
I just thought we’d get to enjoy lunch first. And that I’d get to say goodbye.
“Just the two of us, then?” I say brightly. Too brightly. It doesn’t cover my disappointment.
“Actually, if we head home now, I can make it into the office. I called Britt, and she’s going to put a few things back on my calendar. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” I answer. Perhaps a little too quickly. But really. We’ll have plenty of meals with just the two of us. Plenty of time with just the two of us. More than enough.
Because that’s what it is now. It’s just the two of us.
—
three hours later, i walk through a double set of sliding doors into the lobby of CIA headquarters, stepping across the giant seal on the floor to the bank of turnstiles, past the watchful eyes of numerous armed guards. I hold my badge to one of the scanners, press my index finger to the reader, wait for the green light. Access granted.
I had requested the whole week off, but it’s more than I need. The house is mostly packed. Tyler’s settled at school. And I was off last week, too, on vacation. Ocean City with the family—the majority of it, anyway, now that Caitlyn’s overseas. I’m itching to get back in the swing of things. This will be a welcome distraction.
I work counterintelligence for the Agency. In the division dedicated to Iranian intelligence services, one of our hardest targets. My focus is Quds Force, their external operations wing. And in particular, a high-ranking Quds Force commander named Reza Karimi.
Karimi’s mission is gaining undetected access to JWICS. The Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System. The intranet system the intelligence community uses to send top secret information.
If Iranian intelligence agents hack into JWICS without detection, they have the keys to the kingdom. Access to any top secret, compartmented information they want. There’s nothing more dangerous, from a national security perspective.
And if anyone can do it, it’s Reza Karimi.
He’s brilliant. Persistent. Patient. And Quds Force is technologically advanced, extremely capable, especially in the cyber realm. None of us would be surprised in the least if they’ve managed to plant malware outside the intelligence community, in places like power plants, if it’s lying dormant, waiting for activation. But inside the intelligence community is another story. Our intranet is another story. They’re not getting in, not if I have anything to say about it.
I’m the one who discovered Reza Karimi—I pieced together his identity through call chain analysis and covertly obtained Iranian tax records—and I’ve been working him for nearly two decades. In that time I’ve disrupted numerous attempts to gain information about JWICS, to gain access to JWICS. I’ve helped stop more than a dozen of his recruits before they could hurt our country. The Jackal. The Goalkeeper. The Anchor. So many more.
But there’s one that’s evaded me. One I can’t figure out. The thorn in my side, for almost fifteen years now.
The one Reza Karimi calls “The Neighbor.”
The Neighbor is an access agent—and by extension, a notoriously difficult target. Put simply, access agents are recruits who take over the role of recruiting. Individuals who agree to work for a foreign intelligence service, sell out their own country—by recruiting more traitors. And they’re nearly impossible to find, because they blend in. They’re locals. They might work in sensitive positions, but they might not; it’s enough to just be in the same orbit as people who do.
We don’t know who The Neighbor is. We get crumbs from intercepted conversations, bits and pieces about what The Neighbor has done, but no actionable leads. We don’t know who The Neighbor has recruited, either, but intercepts suggest the recruits are from within the U.S. intelligence community: employees with security clearances who are now feeding sensitive information to our adversary, and have been for years.
Most worrisome of all, we’ve intercepted internal progress reports that make it clear Reza Karimi is getting close to mission success—all thanks to the work of The Neighbor.
That can’t happen. Because if Karimi’s mission succeeds, nothing else we do matters. The Iranians will have everything.
The FBI’s focused on finding The Neighbor’s recruits, learning what secrets they’ve exposed. And we’re focused on finding The Neighbor, putting an end to all of this before it’s too late.
I wind my way through the halls down to the Counterintelligence Center—CIC—the same place I’ve worked for what feels like forever. It’s not uncommon to move around here, switch accounts every few years, work in different mission centers. It’s encouraged, in fact. But I’ve stayed put. I’m going to find The Neighbor eventually. I won’t give up until I do.
If there’s any silver lining to the empty nest, anything I’ve truly been looking forward to, it’s the freedom to focus fully on The Neighbor, and to do so guilt-free. I’ll be the first to admit I struggled to find balance when the kids were young; even when they hit the teen years, when Aubrey left, and then Caitlyn, when it was just Tyler at home, I always felt the need to get home before six, to make sure he was doing homework, that we were eating dinner together as a family. Now there are no kids at home who need me. The Neighbor is what will keep me busy.
I hold my badge to the reader beside the door to Iran Division, wait for the lock to disengage, but nothing happens. “Come on,” I murmur, holding the badge up again—
The door opens, someone pulling it open from the inside. “Oh! Beth. You’re back.” It’s Annemarie, who sits in the cubicle across the aisle from me. She’s one of the long-timers in CIC, though not nearly as long a tenure as mine. ...
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