~Thanksgiving with the Enemy~
Fiona stabbed the turkey with the thermometer as the heat of the oven braised her face. Not yet. She closed the door, twirled the ten-inch chef’s knife, and returned to chopping the Brussels sprouts. She handled the knife deftly, perhaps more than comfortable with the blade than the average housewife.
“Miles, are you dressed?” she called back into the house.
Her son would while away the day curled up with one of his spy books. She encouraged reading, but her father and sister were due at any moment. Her father, Charles, was in his sixties. His wife, Fiona’s mother, had died thirty years ago when Fiona was only twelve. He hadn’t remarried and Fiona, being the older daughter, had stepped into the role of the woman of the house. Now with a husband and two children of her own, Fiona always hosted the holidays.
“Miles—” she called again. Her phone rang. Seeing the number, she stopped. Picked up.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Is it?” she asked. Vince was a terminal bachelor, unaware or uncaring of how the rest of the world functioned. He was also her handler, and if he was calling now…
Vince chuckled. “I thought you liked your job.”
“Daniel’s in Amsterdam,” she said.
That had been the agreement: only one of them working at a time. The kids needed at least one parent in the country at all times.
“It’s recon only. Close by. It’s so simple I knew you’d break my arm if I didn’t suggest you,” he said.
Fiona’s mouth twisted, torn between interest and irritation at being called on a holiday.
“You can do it while the kids are in school,” he said, dangling the bait.
She glanced down the hall, swept the room to make sure there were no children lurking in corners, and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Okay, who is it?” She opened her government-secured laptop and went to her email.
“Anita Mordvinova, Russian diplomat. Been living here for the last year and working at the embassy. We want you to keep an eye on her.”
Fiona clicked through pictures of a woman in her fifties with blond hair that cut off before her shoulders. Her lips were full, her eyes blue, a sweet face that belied a deeper intelligence.
“Background?”
“She grew up an orphan, so it’s spotty, but emerged in the Russian government in her early thirties. Married once, spouse deceased, and she moved to diplomatic work ten years in. She’s been in the states before, well praised by anyone she works with.”
“What’s the catch?”
“She’s been visiting US orphanages. She started in the child adoption world and built an impressive international network. Apparently, her reforms were so effective, and her international relationships so extensive, that the government brought her on to help with diplomatic relations. When she became a diplomat, she brought these reforms with her.”
“You don’t buy it.”
“No. Langley isn’t buying it.”
“Reason?”
“Typically the US doesn’t export babies, we tend to import them. But that is slowly beginning to change, and Mordvinova is at the forefront of this push. Requested adoptions from agencies in Moscow, Beijing, and Amsterdam have dramatically increased, places where Mordvinova has set up her networks.”
A chill crept over Fiona’s skin.
“Girls?”
“Mostly, though plenty of boys too.”
Even with the savory smells permeating the air, her mouth went dry.
“If the home office already suspects her—”
“We want hard evidence,” Vince cut her off. “She’s a diplomat, effectively above the law. We have to tread lightly as now it affects diplomatic relations. Also, if she’s unsuccessful here, her network is so wide she can just scuttle off to somewhere else.”
“You want to catch her here and stop her from perpetuating this elsewhere.”
“See if we can’t dismantle the network starting at the top,” Vince said.
“Mommy?”
Fiona glanced up to see Rebecca standing in the doorway. Her little six-year-old looked like a doll in her red print dress, her glossy chestnut hair falling in long curls past her shoulders. Fiona’s heart squeezed painfully and anger blazed through her. She had to take a deep steadying breath, wrangling down that lioness within her. If anyone ever looked at her Rebecca with the same intentions as Anita’s operation, she’d tear their face off. Vince continued in her ear.
“That, and also you are in a unique position—”
“Yes, let’s go ahead. We’ll talk more after the holiday.” She hung up.
“Hello sweety, don’t you look nice.” She picked Rebecca up and gave her daughter a good squeeze, needing the reassurance of touch more than she realized. Daniel had suggested they name their daughter after Fiona’s mother, which had been her private desire since she was very young.
An older woman entered the kitchen holding a brush and a bow clip. Her own grey hair had tugged loose from its usually neat bun. Bernice’s responsibilities were only to help with the kids, but the good woman always pitched in more around the holidays. Fiona was abundantly grateful for the older woman’s presence in their lives: her very own personal Mary Poppins.
“Ah, apologies Fiona, she got away from me.”
“No worries, Bernice. Here, I’ll trade you.”
She sat her daughter down on the stool and took the brush and bow clip from her nanny. Bernice had been a necessary concession in the lives of two people who wanted to be both agents and parents. Bernice, who had spent thirty years of her life married to an agent, could not have been more thoroughly vetted, a real Godsend.
The older woman took in the messy kitchen, a gleam in her eye, and took over. Within minutes, the Brussels sprouts were tossed with bacon, pecans, raisins, and syrup, and wedged into the oven. She turned off a burner, poured the water out of the pot, and began expertly mashing the potatoes, adding butter, milk, and salt, while Fiona brushed her daughter’s brown hair.
Fiona’s fingers ached at the implication of what Anita was really doing with those orphanages. No, it was Thanksgiving, and Fiona could enjoy it with her own children. Be present. Enjoy this moment. Her phone rang again. Caller ID: Dad. She smooshed the phone between her ear and shoulder as she plaited Rebecca’s hair.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey hon, we’ll be there soon.”
“We?” Fiona asked, grinning.
“Yeah, I met her at the museum a couple of weeks ago. I would have called sooner but it’s all just happened so fast.”
Charles worked at the Smithsonian, and he always referred to work as “the museum.” It was the perfect job for a veteran who had taught college for several years. Fiona hadn’t thought he was still looking to meet women.
“You don’t mind, do you? I figured there would be enough—”
“Of course, I don’t mind Dad. Just to be clear, are you saying you met somebody?” Fiona wished she had time to do some background research on this new woman. No, she was mixing work life with home life.
“Yes, actually,” he laughed, sounding surprised and a bit guilty.
She was happy for him. This was a big step forward, and she needed to support him.
“She’s very welcome. I want you to be happy Dad. Mom would have wanted that too.” The doorbell rang. “I’ve got to go but see you two soon.”
She clapped Rebecca’s shoulders. Her daughter’s long hair was pulled back and braided, with the bow firmly clipped in at the top. Fiona pulled the tray of croissants over and laid a cloth in a basket.
“Arrange the dinner rolls in this,” she said to Rebecca. Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She hardly needed the reflection in the glass cabinet door to know what her daughter would do next. “And you may not have one until Bernice has approved your arrangement,” she called back.
“How does she know?” gasped Rebecca.
“Your mother has eyes in the back of her head.” Bernice’s voice faded as Fiona strode to the main entrance.
“Miles! Come on, guests are arriving,” she called down the hall. She wanted eyes on him. She pulled the thick door open, still wearing the apron smudged with jam, grease, and flour. Her sister Maeve, by contrast, looked like something a hallmark commercial had dragged in. Her black hair fell in a cascade of curls over a tan pea coat. A neat green dress peaked out beneath that, ending just below the knees, met by calf-high fur-lined boots.
“Oh excellent, you haven’t done the stuffing yet, have you? It’s my—”
“Favorite part, yes I know.” Fiona pulled her sister into a hug.
Her make-up, naturally, was perfection: a doll’s face. Fiona, with her dirty blond hair clipped back in a bun, felt a mess. But she rocked Maeve, delighted to see her regardless.
“Dad here yet?” Maeve craned her neck to the living room. “He’s bringing someone.”
“I just heard.”
“I never thought he would. He was devastated.”
“It’s time, and we’re going to be supportive.”
“My own father has a date when I struggle to get just one,” Maeve sighed. Fiona took her coat, smiling. Her sister was a catch. It wasn’t so much that she couldn’t find a date, as the men interested in her just didn’t hold her attention. Maeve left for the kitchen, to the delighted squeals of her niece. Fiona carried the coat to her bedroom.
“Miles,” she called again. She eased his door open a crack. Not on the bed. A little further, careful not to let the hinge squeak. He lay out on the floor, facing away from her, chin propped in both hands, absorbed in his book. It was a new series he was hooked on about a boy spy whose uncle had gone missing. The cover was shiny blue with a silver lightning bolt slashing through.
Daniel had been concerned that his son was so fascinated at an early age, but Fiona thought it was only natural. It was in the blood, after all. She understood Daniel’s concern, however: even for a ten-year-old boy, Miles was skinny, the shortest kid in his class. It was hard to imagine him as a CIA operative. Maybe one of the people in the home office who managed the missions.
Feeling feisty, and not a little possessive, Fiona snuck forward with the skill of a spook.
“Boo!” she grabbed him just under the arms and tickled. He screamed.
Fiona dissolved into laughter, collapsing onto the floor next to him.
“Mom! No!” He yelled, face red, eyes panicked.
“Good book?” she asked, innocent.
The little vein in his neck beat a rapid pulse, spiked with adrenaline.
“I wonder,” she said, picking up the book, “do you think Alex Rider would have heard his mother sneaking up on him? Or calling him for dinner?” She was just giving him a hard time at this point. He groaned and fell back, his skinny shoulder flat to the ground. She patted his leg. “Come on, Aunty Maeve is here.”
She left him to let his little heart recover its normal rhythm. She pushed her sleeves back up, still grinning, thinking over the other dishes she needed to make. The doorbell rang again. Her cheeks stretched wide, determined to make her dad’s guest feel welcome.
She pulled the door open.
“Dad! Hi—” she froze. Her instincts collided.
“Hi honey!” he said, pulling her in for a hug. He stepped back. “This is Anita. Anita, this is my daughter Fiona.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Fiona.”
The diplomat held out her hand. She was shorter than Fiona expected, coming up to only her chest. She was curvy but solid, and strong.
Fiona’s default response to stress or danger was to fight. It made her a good agent. But she was at home, not at work, in her haven, with her family, who (except for Bernice) did not know what she and Daniel really did for a living. When she couldn’t fight, she would flee, but this was her territory, her space. So instead, she froze.
The hand, reaching out: the target. A Russian diplomat who shipped orphans overseas for human trafficking. Fiona took her hand, unsure if she was going to shake it or dislocate Anita’s shoulder. Anita’s brows lifted as she looked down at their clasped hands.
“My, that’s quite the grip you have there.”
Fiona released her.
“She gets that from me,” her Dad said, pulling Anita close. “Can we come in honey?”
They were still standing on the front step.
“Of course. So good to have you. Let me just take your coats,” she said, keeping the smile carved on her face. “Maeve is in the kitchen. I’m sure she’ll get you drinks.”
The bulky coats piled in her arms, and she backed down the hallway.
What was happening? The kids. Her heart stopped. Her children were in the same house with that woman. How dangerous was she? Just the front woman, or trained in combat? Fiona hadn’t read Anita’s dossier, it was Thanksgiving for goodness’ sake, and it was her turn to be home. Daniel, she wanted Daniel. Damn it. Vince—why hadn’t he told her?
She closed the door behind her, tossed the pile on the bed, and rummaged through Anita’s coat. Nothing but a mint in the pockets. She’d kept her purse with her. Anything important would be there, like a gun.
She dialed her handler.
“My home? Really? My father? Screw you.” She flung an impressive amount of venom in a voice so low.
“Mordinova has come to dinner, I take it, Vince said.
“Next time I see you, I’m going to actually break your arm. You have an obligation to warn me if my father is dating a target.”
“I tried to tell you. You hung up.”
“You should have called back.”
“I texted.”
Fiona checked her phone. There it was. Vince: Call me.
“If she targeted my father, she knows about Daniel and me.”
“As far as we can tell, that’s not true. It’s a genuine coincidence, and that means her guard will be down. Piece of pie.”
“Vince! I’ve been drinking to get through this evening! Not only am I hosting thanksgiving for my family, but I’m also now running an op. My kids live here! Do you really think your agent is thinking clearly right now?”
The line was quiet for an extended period.
“Fine.”
The line went dead.
The phone screen glowed, taunting her. Fiona silently shouted at it, getting it all out.
She wanted Daniel, wanted him home. He had been her partner on too many missions to count. It was a no-brainer when he asked her to be his partner in raising a family too. Now. If there was ever a time she needed her partner, it was now. But he was undercover, and it wasn’t their agreed time of communication. She heaved a deep sigh. She was a trained CIA agent, licensed to kill. She could handle one thanksgiving with her family and the mastermind of a sex trafficking ring, couldn’t she?
Pshh, against you, Fia? She ain’t got a chance.
That’s what Daniel would say. Right.
She straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders. She tucked Anita’s passport back the way she found it and went to her walk-in closet. How many minutes had it been? Five? Six? Would they wonder where she was? She went to one cabinet and pressed her fingerprint to the scanner. The door opened. She selected the smallest gun, loaded it, safety on, and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans, arranging the billowy shirt to fall over and disguise it.
Fiona hated this, having a gun present in the room with her kids, but she didn’t know what was in Anita’s purse. She took a deep, fortifying breath, and left the bedroom.
Laughter, coming from the kitchen. She passed through the hallway into the spacious living room, all her nerves standing on edge. Hours ago, she’d put a video of a fireplace on the smart TV so she wouldn’t have to maintain a real fire. Light jazz played over the video, layering a smooth ambiance for the happy family holiday. It jarred her senses, unpredictable rhythms and melody playing havoc with her instincts. She stopped and breathed in.
Maeve had left her purse on the couch. The security system was off. The gas fireplace flickered merrily. All of the knives were in the kitchen, where everyone else had gathered.
This was like any other undercover op. She was playing the part of Mom. Sister. Daughter. Hostess. A normal happy family on a holiday with plenty of food. Not a trained killer who wanted to snap the neck of the viper who just broke into her home.
Breathed out. She stepped into the kitchen.
They were all gathered around the marble-top island. Maeve was laughing at a story her father was telling. Rebecca was watching her glamorous aunt with wrapped adoration. Miles was hovering at the edges, cracking open peanuts. And Anita… Anita was watching her father. Or was she only appearing to be watching? She seemed relaxed enough.
Protect. Protect. The urge pushed at her. All of the people in this room needed her protection, but two in particular tugged at her awareness, a redness at the edges of her consciousness threatening to push her over.
Bernice was checking the turkey in the oven. She smiled at the conversation going on behind her, but when her eyes met Fiona’s, the smile faded. Bernice pulled the cooked turkey from the oven and Fiona joined her, busying her hands.
“Daniel?” Bernice asked.
“No.”
“Here?”
“Yes”
“What do you need?”
“Just… keep eyes on the kids. How close are we to dinner?”
“Just slicing the turkey and bringing the dishes out. Do you want to—” she held out the electric turkey cutter.
“No, no, I need my hands clean.” Fiona took the cutter and turned with a big smile. “Dad! Do you want to do the honors?” He came over. “Anita, can I get you a glass of wine?”
“Please. Red. You have such a beautiful home, Fiona.”
“Thank you, Anita.”
The electric turkey cutter whirred. Miles watched his grandfather slice the meat. Fiona returned to the center island with a fresh bottle and glasses. She stripped the seal, twisted the screw, and cranked the cork, wishing it was a person.
“Where’s Daniel?” Charles asked.
Pop! The cork came out.
“Hmmm?” she asked, distant. She focused on not letting the bottle tap the glass. Was she pouring too much? Not enough?
“Surely the company could have spared him. It’s a holiday,” Charles said.
“He’s overseas Dad. Foreign markets don’t recognize Thanksgiving.”
“What does your husband do?” Anita asked.
“Insurance, for airlines,” Fiona said passing her the glass. She kept her smile relaxed, meeting her eyes briefly. Was there a deeper meaning there? She couldn’t tell.
“That’s interesting.”
Maeve snorted. “Hardly. It’s very gloomy. We don’t let them talk to us about it.”
“You’re in insurance as well?”
“Yes, like Maeve said, it’s dull.”
“We must always be grateful for work that allows us to raise our families,” Anita said. She smiled down at Rebecca, honey sweet. She stroked Rebecca’s glossy brown hair. “So beautiful.”
“Time for dinner!” she announced, loud. Everyone started. “Okay kiddos, set the table. Hope too. Everyone grab a dish.”
Fiona grabbed the basket of rolls and gave them to Rebecca, ushering her out of the kitchen. Maeve got water glasses from the cabinet, and everyone began transporting steaming dishes to the dining room. They would be okay. Just dinner. Drink wine, make small talk, eat mashed potatoes, it would be f—
The doorbell rang. She froze. No one else was supposed to be coming. Did Anita bring backup?
“I’ve got it!” Maeve called back from the living room.
“Wait!” Fiona said. There were too many variables and only one of her. There was Bernice, and she could get the kids out but wasn’t otherwise much help in a firefight.
“Well, hi!” Maeve said. Fiona recognized the false cheer her sister put on for strangers.
“Hello! Sorry I’m so late.”
Male. A male voice. She frowned. Fiona recognized that voice. The turkey cutter had a cord so she couldn’t take that with her, but her grip did not relax on the sharp fork. She wiped her free hand and went to the front door. Vince.
“Name’s Vince. I’m a friend of Fiona’s, from work,” he said, offering his hand to her sister. He had keen blue eyes and scruffy hair. He rarely washed it (Fiona believed) because he knew he could get away with it. His most genius tactical choice: he played the buffoon well.
“Vince, hey! What are you doing here buddy?” she asked, her expression dialed to pleasantly surprised confusion.
“I know I said ‘no,’ but I changed my mind. Here, I brought wine.”
“Ah, well I’m glad you did. Maeve, would you mind getting Vince a glass? And make sure there’s a place set for him?”
He passed the bottle off to her sister, who was busy smiling at him in a way Fiona did not like. Maeve left.
“Well, she seems lovely,” he said, a sly grin curling up his face.
Fiona spread her arms wide, fork still firmly in her grasp, and pulled Vince into a hug.
“Touch her and I break your arm,” she said, smiling broad.
He chuckled and received the hug easily. As if they hugged all the time. As if this wasn’t the first time they’d ever touched.
“I thought you could use some backup,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said. She realized she meant it.
Maeve came back with a glass for him. Fiona returned to the kitchen, released the sharp fork reluctantly, and removed the apron. The metal of her gun against the small of her back was reassuring. She grabbed the platter of turkey meat and carried it with precise steps in her high heels.
The dining room glowed. Bernice had lit the candles around the room. A bounty of savory smells wafted from the dishes arranged along the table. A gold cloth napkin was folded across each plate. Vince had taken the open seat next to Anita. Thank God. He did it without even acknowledging her, attention focused on Maeve, who sat next to him, flirting with her. Rebecca had the seat across from Maeve, and Miles sat next to her. Bernice, bless her, sat next to Miles, bookending her children. Between Bernice and Anita, at the end of the table, sat her father.
If Daniel had been here, the seating arrangements would have been different. This was as good as she could have hoped for. The thought gave her an idea.
“You all make such a nice picture. Let me document this.”
She took out her phone and paused only long enough to let everyone compose themselves. Captured. She sent it to Daniel with a quick text “Happy Thanksgiving.” Their phones were protected by the highest security tech could offer so she wasn’t concerned about a third party getting it. He was somewhere in Amsterdam, and his phone would be off, working the case. But after midnight, when it was time for them to talk tonight, he would get the picture. He couldn’t know how stressful the situation was, or who Anita really was, though he might wonder why Vince was present. Either way, it comforted her to know Daniel could see exactly who was around this table.
She took her seat, prayed a blessing over the food, and then the sound of clinking of dishes filled the air as all busied themselves with filling their plates.
“So, my family used to do this really corny thing,” Vince said, taking the floor and surprising her not at all. He was such a showman. “We can each say what we’re grateful.”
“I love that idea,” Maeve said.
Her Dad squeezed Anita’s hand on the table. Fiona took a sip of wine.
“I’ll start,” Vince said. “I’m grateful for… such excellent co-workers that make my job so easy.” Vince raised his glass to Fiona on his right. She accepted the compliment with a graceful nod. He turned to Maeve. “Your turn.”
“I’m grateful for an excellent quarter. I just got a promotion,” she said.
The table rang with congratulations, though Fiona’s broad smile had more to do with her sister’s ability to take a statement of gratitude and turn it into a humble brag.
“Hmm, okay, I’m grateful for…” Her children. That was at the top of her list right now, but she didn’t particularly feel like drawing attention to them. Her husband, but she was pissed he wasn’t here. “Well, you already took the ‘excellent coworkers’ bit,” Fiona said.
“Feel free to copy,” Vince said, magnanimous.
“I’m grateful that family is so close. That no matter what, we can always be there for each other,” she said, with just the right amount of embarrassed sweetness. There you go; hers had been a veiled threat. Perhaps people never really changed.
“I am grateful that it’s almost Christmas,” Rebecca said. Fiona could practically see the presents gleaming in her eyes. Daniel had hidden a new bike for her under a tarp in the shed, and Fiona was researching the best books on astronomy for kids.
“What about you Miles?” Bernice nudged him since he was preoccupied pushing his food around his plate.
“Oh, um… I’m grateful for school break,” he said. Even more time to read his book.
“I’m grateful for the family we make,” Bernice said.
“Here, here!” Her dad raised his glass. “I’m grateful for chance meetings, and new friends,” he said, taking Anita’s hand again. Fiona bit down on her mashed potatoes too hard and caught her tongue. She winced.
“Me too,” Anita said. Squeezing his hand back.
“No. You can’t copy. Sorry, Anita. You’ve got to give us something original,” Vince said.
“You just said Fiona could copy,” Maeve pointed out.
“Well, mine was excellent, of course someone should copy mine. But Fiona’s right about the rules of the game.”
“It’s a game? Is there a prize?” Anita asked. Quick. She was quick and charming. Everyone laughed. “Alright, I’m thankful for… the chance to celebrate an American holiday with a beautiful family,” she said.
As everyone dug into their food and the conversation progressed, Fiona caught the look Anita gave her father; under the lashes, private, as if they shared a secret. Her dad knew Anita had grown up an orphan. She was using that to play on his sympathies, open his heart to this woman who also happened to be beautiful, intelligent, and funny. She was an operator.
Fiona tried to maintain an air of normalcy throughout the meal, to keep her heart beating at a regular rhythm. She didn’t say much, her nerves drawn tight as she paid attention to every detail. Her stomach was cramped but she forced herself to eat the meal she’d spent all day cooking. The Brussels sprouts were soaked in savory bacon grease, the edges of their leaves caramelized, too savory. The green bean casserole was too creamy; the butter soaked into the croissants, too rich; the stuffing had too much seasoning and too many flavors. It was all too much.
Finally, mercifully, the meal ended and everyone helped clear the dishes to the kitchen. Rebecca and Miles begged everyone to come outside to look through the telescope with them. Daniel was an amateur astronomer, and the mysteries he’d explained to the kids had captured their imaginations. They loved to share the vast universe with anyone else they loved. They harangued Aunty Maeve and Grandpa Charles so hard that they agreed, and Maeve convinced Vince to come with them (though in Fiona’s view, it didn’t take much convincing).
As the crew all bundled up and marched outside, Fiona managed to weasel out with promises of hot chocolate when they came back inside. She turned her attention to the dishes, needing a break from being with everyone. Vince was with them, as was Bernice, and those two would keep a weather eye on her kids.
Fiona rinsed plates as she loaded the dishwasher. Langley had asked her to surveil Anita. Now she had a family tie. There would be more excuses for her to get close to Anita, and get the evidence they needed. She let out a long breath as her hands warmed in the soapy water.
The door closed and she looked up. It was Anita.
“May I join you?” she asked.
Fiona stared, her fingers closing on the handle of the ten-inch chef’s knife in the sink.
“Sure.”
“Put me to work, I want to help,” Anita said.
Fiona took in the mountain half-eaten dishes on the counter, and then Anita’s pristine white dress. The woman worked in DC. That number had to be worth the wages of a small village. But she seemed in earnest. Fiona got her a thick apron.
“Can you take the meat from the turkey?” she asked. It would make her fingers greasy and leave Fiona free to move around the kitchen. She put the platter of half-eaten turkey on the counter along with a large Tupperware. Anita smiled and set to work. It really was a charming smile. Fiona put the water on for hot chocolate.
“You have a lovely family,” Anita said. Fiona stiffened.
“Thank you.”
The silence stretched. Anita put down the greasy meat, wiped her fingers, and opened counter drawers until she retrieved what she was looking for. She returned to her stool with a paring knife.
“It must be hard to welcome a new person into the mix,” she said. Fiona paused over the dishes. Anita thought she was jealous. A new woman in the dynamic vying for her father’s attention, when it had always been just her and her sister. Nice try.
“Not at all. I want him to be happy. It’s been a long time since our mom passed.”
Anita held her gaze, and by the slow way she nodded, Fiona knew she wasn’t buying it. Fiona took a deep breath. Let it go. She turned and joined Anita at the island, getting out a Tupperware for all the uneaten Brussels sprouts.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to be standoffish. I’m just worried about him. I can be a bit protective of people I care about.”
“I understand. Loyalty to your family, I am the same.”
There was genuine sweetness in her expression. Fiona was trained to read people, and Anita had a mothering nature about her.
“You had a big family, growing up?” Fiona asked. She piled the uneaten mashed potatoes into a container. Anita laughed.
“Oh yes, thirty-seven of us girls.”
Fiona looked abruptly, feigning shock. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Anita’s eyes glittered. “I learned from a very young age how to speak with foreign powers. The girls in my home learned to follow me if they wanted something done. I could talk with the adults in charge.”
My home, as if the orphanage belonged to her. The delivery was flawless: a poor orphan child who had risen above, and delivered those weaker than herself.
“That must have been hard, not having anyone fight for you. Having to fight for yourself.”
Anita shrugged. “Some of us are born to be fighters.”
Fiona smiled. Despite hating Anita’s guts, she was starting to like this woman. She carried the sealed Tupperware to the refrigerator and set herself to the three-dimensional Tetris of fitting more things inside. Her phone rang. She looked at the ID and kept her relaxed smile in place. Daniel. It wasn’t time for their call, and that could only mean one thing; he was in trouble.
“Do you mind if I—”
Anita shook her head and gestured with the paring knife in her greasy fingers. She removed meat down to the bone, not wasting a scrap.
“Hey.” She kept her tone casual, not letting her voice reflect the worry now coursing through her. She didn’t say his name either, not knowing how much Anita truly knew about them.
“Are you with her now?” Daniel asked.
Fiona just caught herself from glancing up.
“Yep! We’re all having a great time,” she said, cheerful.
“That is Anita Mordvinova. We’re investigating her.”
“I heard. It was a bit of a surprise. Any news on how he’s doing?”
Fiona turned and cleared the counter behind her, hunting.
“It’s more than we thought. The orphans are tested, and those that make the cut are sent to happy families spy training. An army of kids with birth certificates from all over the world.”
Her blood went cold. “And the rest?”
“Red Light District. Fundraising.”
Rage burned through her. She didn’t move, gave herself a beat.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Give him our love.”
Her fingers closed on the black handle of the long-pronged turkey fork.
“I have evidence. Langley knows. They’re coming.”
“Goodnight.”
“Be careful, Fiona.”
She hung up. Lowered the phone. Turned.
Anita met her gaze. She knew. The shield came down, like the glossy filament over the eyes of a snake, and the viper beneath stopped hiding.
In a single move, Anita pulled back and hurled the paring knife straight at Fiona’s throat. The aim was dead on too. Fiona’s training kicked in. In reflex she batted it away, channeling the movement to return her own throw. Anita had already hit the decks. The fork spun harmlessly off behind her to stab into a wall. Damn. That would leave marks.
Anita was up in the next instant, grabbing the cast iron skillet just as Fiona had pulled the gun from her waistband and lifted it. Anita moved with surprising agility and strength for a woman in her 50s. Like she was batting away a tennis ball with a racket, she slammed the skillet into Fiona’s hand, knocking the gun out. It hurt like a mother, and Fiona thought it possible she’d broken her hand. At the very least, it was bruised. She didn’t have time to consider this, however, because Anita was still coming at her.
Fiona grabbed whatever was within reach; a pyrex bowl filled with salad. It bounced off Anita’s skillet coming in for a second blow, hit off the marble counter, and shatter on the floor, sending leaves and glass everywhere. Anita cursed and had to catch herself. That was one advantage; they were both in heels. But Anita was in a slimming dress, whereas Fiona wore jeans.
She took advantage of Anita’s momentary distraction to arm herself again. Mugs, white mugs, on the coffee station. A breath of hesitation, then she started lobbing them like ceramic snowballs.
“I. Liked. These. They. Were. On. Sale!”
She punctuated each word with a mug. Anita used the cast iron pan as a shield.
“You Americans and your mugs!” she spat in disgust.
What was there? What was there! All the silverware was in the sink, knives in the corner out of reach for either of them. Her gun had clattered away and was somewhere near the pantry at this point, behind Anita. She needed something to turn the tide before the Russian spy figured that out. The two women stared at each other. Anita’s hair was a mess, her cheeks spattered with salad dressing and cranberry sauce. Fiona had no idea what she looked like.
Her kids… her family was in the backyard. Anything could happen.
Anita dropped the skillet on the floor and spun for her purse. Fiona finally saw was at the coffee station behind her and had been out of Anita’s reach until now. Fiona grasped for the biggest thing she could find on the island, grabbed the enormous ceramic serving dish with the half-boned turkey on it, and threw it.
The carcass lifted, giblets and bits taking air. Grease trailed after it like streamers. Anita pulled the gun from her purse and turned it on Fiona. Dead turkey slammed into the beautiful blond spy, grease drenching her face and hair, brown bit smattering her white dress. Her arm went wide. Fiona tackled. Both women went to the ground, landing in a slimy pool of fat.
Anita flailed and lashed out, but Fiona had a good grip on her, using her weight and height to pin the woman down. She wrenched her arm up behind her back till the older woman cried out in pain. Fiona wasn’t buying it though. She kneeled on the small of her back and grabbed the hand still clutching the slippery gun, and banged it till the gun dropped.
She nailed both hands in a death grip, looking for something, anything, to tie her down. Anita was still wearing the apron, so Fiona tried tugging the strings lose. Anita thrashed, trying to come loose. With her good hand, Fiona grabbed the back of Anita’s head and bashed it down three times. Anita went limp. Fiona tied her wrists tight with the apron strings, not really caring if she cut off circulation.
The front door burst open, and a pack of black ops military team stampeded in. Their scopes searched the room, found her, and surrounded them in the kitchen.
“On the ground! On the ground! Hands behind your head!” they ordered.
Panting, she sat up and leaned against the cabinet. It took them a few seconds, but they identified her as Fiona Williams, the agent who owned the house. They found the guns, grabbed up a woozy Anita, and dragged her back out the front door.
She sent Vince and Bernice a quick text: Keep them outside. They were out on a hill at the back end of the property, separated by woods. They would not have heard the commotion. Fiona rose shakily to her feet. A suit entered her kitchen and surveyed the devastation.
“This better all be cleaned up before my family comes back,” Fiona said.
“That’s not really the CIA’s—”
Fiona stared him down. Was it cranberry sauce, or blood she felt dripping down her head?
“Get me a cleanup crew,” the suit said into his earpiece.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?”
“Why did she come here, to our house?”
“I’m not at liberty—”
“Is Daniel’s cover blown?”
“We’re still investigating.”
Fine. She was at her limit for today. The cleanup crew wouldn’t be done for a while. Maybe she should suggest her family all go out to a movie? It would be a nice surprise, and Bernice and Vince could help her sell it. Fiona slipped into her bathroom for a quick shower and a change. That done, she maneuvered around the men cleaning her destroyed kitchen, grabbed paper cups, a box of hot cocoa, and the boiled pot of water, and stepped outside.
The night was cool and fresh, and for the first time that evening, she took a deep relieved breath. DC was beautiful in the fall, but the cold snap had knocked most of the leaves down by then. She walked through the woods, favoring her hand. It was definitely bruised. Her family was all gathered at the top of the hill around the telescope Daniel had set up. The lights from the house were blocked by the gardening shed.
“Hey, guys! Hot chocolate,” she called.
“Mom!” Her kids ran over to her, wrapping their arms around her. Thankfully it was too dark to see her wince. Bernice took the teapot and supplies from her.
“I saw Betelgeuse!” Rebecca said. She was obsessed with stars these days since Daniel spent hours with them explaining the constellations.
“That’s great sweetheart,” Fiona said, hugging them fiercely. They squirmed.
“You’re squishing us!”
“I’m so thankful for you two,” she whispered.
Rebecca kissed her on the cheek and ran back to Maeve. Fiona rose, admittedly a bit weary. Miles didn’t run off. She caught him looking away from the scratch on her cheek, his round eyes taking in more than he allowed. Miles often reminded her of herself at that age.
Hello My Dear Reader!
As you can probably tell, this story is not a neat, contained short story. I have expanded it into a screenplay, a pilot episode for a TV show titled “Thicker Than Water.” Much more happens in the pilot than revealed in the above pages.
If you would like to hear Daniel’s side of the story, and what he was dealing with at the same time Fiona held down the fort (and see what makes a screenplay different from a short story) send me an email. I am happy to send you a PDF of the pilot.
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I hope your spring is off to a beautiful start.
Adventure Awaits,
S. C. Durbois
New short stories the 1st Saturday of every month.