Chapter 10

Andie was chopping carrots at the kitchen counter, preparing beef stew for dinner, when a news alert lit up her cell phone.

She normally ignored breaking news, as it rarely even qualified as “news,” let alone “breaking.” But this one caught her eye:

child custody battle in miami courtroom reignites us-iran tension over missing mother.

Jack was still at work, so it was truly breaking news for Andie. She laid her cutting knife aside and opened the app.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?”

Righley was at the other end of the kitchen counter, doing homework. It hadn’t been Andie’s intention to telegraph her reaction,

but Righley was getting to the age at which daughters read something into a mother’s every facial expression.

“It’s nothing,” said Andie, but she read on, skimming to glean the essential facts. The medical examiner’s testimony about

no death certificate. Judge Carlton’s 5:00 p.m. ruling that adoption requires the consent of both biological parents, if living.

Jack’s statement to the media outside the courthouse, which played on a video loop without any prompting from Andie: “ Sadly, in order to keep her daughter from being taken away from her, my client must now prove that her sister Ava is deceased—murdered

at the hands of the Iranian morality police, like so many other innocent victims of this oppressive regime .”

“That’s Daddy!” said Righley. “Is he on the news?”

“Apparently so.”

“Is that why he’s working late again?”

Andie scraped the chopped carrots into the bowl with the other veggies. “He’s very busy.”

“Do you miss him?”

The question took Andie by surprise. “What?”

“When he doesn’t come home for dinner and stuff—does that make you sad?”

Andie remembered a time, early in their marriage, when dinner together was a priority, something to look forward to. They

could talk about things as big as their future together or as small as their day at work. That was before they invoked the

Rule, and their marriage became more like a Wall Street law firm or an investment bank, the bounds of their conversations

constrained by information barriers and walls of confidentiality.

“All right, missy. Are you a third grader or a psychiatrist? Finish your homework.”

Andie heard a car pull up in front of the house. She went to the living room, switched on the porch light, and checked through

the window, but it wasn’t Jack. A taxi had stopped in front of the neighbor’s house across the street. She walked back to

the kitchen and served dinner, monopolizing the conversation to make sure there were no more questions about her “sad” marriage.

The usual battle over shower time ensued, with the usual outcome. On the way to Righley’s bedroom to get her pajamas, Andie

noticed, through the window, that the taxi was still parked across the street. In the darkness, it was hard to discern any

distinguishing details other than that, like most taxis, it was yellow. But Andie was pretty sure it was the same one as before.

The headlights were on. The driver was at the wheel, with a passenger in the back seat. Andie stayed at the window for a minute

to see if the passenger got out, or if the cab pulled away. Nothing. They just sat there, waiting.

Strange.

Andie dialed Jack’s cell phone, but it went to his voicemail. She left a message.

“Jack, are you expecting anyone to come by the house tonight? Call me.”

She shot one more suspicious glance out the window, then returned to the bathroom to get Righley ready for bed.

“Are you and Daddy having a fight?” Righley asked.

Andie slipped the nightgown over Righley’s head, then tried to deflect the question with a smile. “What’s with all these questions tonight?”

“Cassandra’s parents used to fight a lot. Even when I was over there. Now they don’t live together anymore.”

Cassandra was a friend from school. Andie supposed that “divorce without war” was theoretically possible, but Cassandra’s

parents had gone down the path of divorce with no survivors.

“That was a sad situation,” said Andie, and then she hugged her daughter tightly. “Come on. Bedtime.”

“Carry me.”

“You carry me.”

Righley groaned, trying. Andie snatched her up and carried her down the hallway to her bedroom, where Righley chose a book

from her shelf. Andie tucked her into bed and got in beside her, but as she cracked the book open, her cell phone vibrated

in her pocket. It was a text from Jack.

Missed your call. Crazy day. Not expecting anyone at the house. Why?

Andie put her phone away and climbed out of the bed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Righley.

Andie went to the window and separated the blinds just enough to see across the street. The taxi was still there with headlights

on, both the driver and passenger still waiting.

“Go ahead and start without me,” said Andie.

“Aw, Mommy. This one has big words.”

“I’ll be right back. I have to check on something.”

Andie closed the door on the way out and went to the master bedroom. Her Sig Sauer was locked in the safe. She collected both

her sidearm and her FBI shield, loaded the pistol with ammunition, and tucked it away in her holster. She walked to the living

room, opened the front door, and stepped out to the porch.

The taxi was still there.

Andie started across the lawn toward the street, stopping at the curb. It was dark inside the cab, but there was enough light from the streetlamp at the corner for Andie to see the passenger lean forward, perhaps to say something to the driver. Then the rear door opened. Andie didn’t draw her weapon, but she was at the ready. A woman stepped out of the taxi, closed the door, and walked toward Andie.

“Can I help you?” asked Andie.

The woman didn’t appear to be a threat. She was well dressed, conservatively so, perhaps in her fifties. “Are you FBI Agent

Henning?” she asked. Her voice was soft, and Andie detected a hint of a southern accent—not unheard of in Miami, but given

the taxi, she probably wasn’t a local.

“Yes.”

The woman stopped a few steps away from Andie. “I was hoping to speak to you and your husband, Mr. Swyteck.”

“He’s not home.”

“I know. I didn’t see his car, so I waited.”

“What are you, a reporter?” asked Andie.

“No. It’s nothing like that. I know that both you and your husband have been in conversation with the State Department.”

Andie didn’t confirm or deny. “Who are you?”

“A wife who hasn’t seen or heard from her husband in years.”

Andie noticed she was still wearing a wedding ring. “Who is your husband?”

“My husband is an ordinary American who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What does that mean?”

“He’s in jail. He’s a political prisoner in Tehran. The Iranian government convicted him on bogus charges of espionage.”

The response could not have been further from what Andie had expected. “I’m very sorry.”

“The State Department is my lifeline, of course. It’s all about political backchanneling between governments, which the family can’t control. I’m told we were close to negotiating his release last year, but it didn’t work out. My life is an emotional roller coaster.”

“That must be very difficult.”

“It’s unbearable. Which brings me here tonight.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Like I said, I’m aware that the State Department met with both you and your husband.”

Andy felt like the woman deserved at least some response. “If you’re asking whether the State Department said anything to

me about an American hostage in Tehran, they didn’t.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Excuse me?”

“They told you that now is not the time to resurrect Ava Bazzi and the diplomatic crisis caused by the hijab protests. They

told you that, right this minute, the US government is engaged in sensitive negotiations with the Iranians.”

“They didn’t tell me what those negotiations are about.”

“That’s because those negotiations are not directly under the control of the State Department. The National Security Council

is involved. The negotiation is for my husband’s release.”

Andie felt a chill. The image of a woman alone at the dinner table, night after night, flashed in her mind, and Righley’s

voice was suddenly in her head. Do you miss him?

“I’m begging you. Please do not let your husband try to prove that Ava Bazzi was murdered by the morality police. If he embarrasses

the regime, my husband will never come home. That’s all I came to say.”

The woman turned and started across the street. Andie called to her, and she stopped.

“What’s your name?” asked Andie.

She didn’t answer. She climbed into the back seat, the door closed, and the taxi drove away.