Page 24 of Salt Kiss
Yes, I did see that the space bill is finally getting its senate vote next week. I hope you and Blanche are well.
But there’s only so long Ricker Thomas will stomach going without a sitrep, and so I know it’s time to talk, however pointless the conversation will be.
“Son,” he says after I answer. “It’s about time.”
“It’s been busy here.” I open my dresser and pull out several rolls of socks, tuck them in a neat line in the open suitcase on my bed. “How’s Blanche?”
“Perfect,” my father says simply, and despite myself, I smile. Blanche is everything he isn’t—open, warm, compassionate—and she’s kindled something in him I wouldn’t have thought possible.
My smile is short-lived, because he says next, “You know, we’re planning on staying in her townhouse for the time being, but I don’t have plans to sell the farm. You could still live there if you wanted. I wouldn’t expect rent, Tristan. Ever.”
“Dad—”
“And if it’s just any kind of work you’re looking for, you know I can help.”
“I know.”
There’s a pause, one that I know from long experience is the pause of a general changing strategy. “There’s a rumor that the intelligence side is looking for someone. An NSA agent has disappeared while on the trail of a hacker.”
I don’t respond, knowing my father will forge on anyway. “And the last person we know for sure the agent talked to was Mark Trevena.”
I’m getting my toothpaste now, along with my other toiletries, zipping everything into a small and worn leather bag. A surge of defensiveness on Mark’s behalf temporarily makes it difficult to think. “All right?”
“Tristan,” my father says impatiently. “The rumor is that Mark Trevena is involved with the disappearance of this agent. That he’s working with this hacker and is colluding to sell classified information to whoever’s willing to pay.”
I drop the leather bag in my suitcase and drag in a slow breath. I can’t let my preoccupation with Mark make it so I fight with my father over this. I have to be careful. “Dad. If you think accusing my boss—your brother-in-law, by the way—of treason and murder because of some agency rumor is going to make me quit—”
“Just consider it,” my father cut in. “You know his club deals in secrets, you know that the caliber of secrets he’s getting has to stretch to the highest level. Surely there’re meetings you don’t sit in on, surely there are times he goes missing that you can’t account for—”
It’s my turn to interrupt. “He’s not sneaking around doing murder, Dad. He watches people get flogged and he takes meetings with people who would also like to watch people get flogged. That’s it.”
“You don’t know him,” my father says firmly. “No one does. That’s the point. No onereallyknows who Mark Trevena is, what he’s done, what he’s doing. He’s a ghost; even in the most classified of records, he’s barely there. The only thing anyone can say for sure about Mark Trevena is whatever they can learn from his sisters, which isn’t much. Even Blanche can’t tell me anything beyond their childhood.”
I zip up my suitcase, ready to argue.Iknow him; I’m with him as much as someone can be with their boss.
But as I’m about to speak, I realize I don’t know as much about Mark as I think I do.
I know that he likes cappuccino in the morning and gin on the rocks every other time. I know that he runs five miles every day, that he swims another few miles on the rooftop pool after. I know how he sits in the club, head braced on his fingers, long legs kicked out, a devil waiting to be amused, and I know how he sits in meetings with potential clients and business partners, with danger glinting off him like the moon glinting off sea ice in the dark.
I know he likes his food delicate, creative, strange. I know he wears the same silver wristwatch every day. I know when he looks at the river, there’s something in his face that makes me think he’s far, far away in his thoughts.
I know what he sounds like when he comes.
But I don’t know what he believes, what he wants. What he’s willing to fight for. I don’t know when his parents died and if they were kind to him and if he misses them. I don’t know why he still goes to Mass some Sundays and I don’t know why he left the CIA and I don’t know why he built Lyonesse after he left.
So I can’t argue with my father. And I don’t.
Eventually the call ends, and I take my suitcase downstairs, ready to travel to the other side of the world with someone who’s still a stranger to me.
I expectMark to fly on a private jet, so I’m surprised when we get to the airport and make our way to a commercial flight.
“I do care about the planet a little,” says Mark, seeing my face. “Well, enough not to fly privately at least. Also, it’s very useful to fly commercial sometimes. Makes you easy to be searched for, if anyone were looking for you.”
“Do we want to be easy to be searched for? Sir?”
He gives me that expression where his mouth pushes in at the corner. An almost-smile. It makes what he says next sound playful and not ominous. “You never know when it might come in handy.”
We fly to New York, and I can’t hide my excitement when we’re at the front of the plane. The flight attendant brings us chocolate chip cookies, and the only time Mark looks up from his laptop for the short flight is to snort at me asking for his cookie if he wasn’t going to eat it.
