The Target(21)

“How long ago was it?” she asked.

“How long ago was what?”

“The birth of your child.”

Reel said nothing.

The doctor pointed to her flat belly.

“Low transverse abdominal incision. Technically, it’s called the Pfannenstiel incision. Also known as the bikini cut because it’s just over the pubic hairline. It’s very faint but unmistakable to the trained eye. Did you have a go at removing traces by Fraxel laser? It works pretty well.”

Reel said, “Can I put on a robe?”

“Yes, absolutely. Take that one on the wall over there. And I didn’t mean to pry. It was just a medically based inquiry.”

Reel slipped on the robe and cinched it tight. “Do you need a response from me for any reason related to why I’m here?”

“No.”

“Good to know,” said Reel curtly. “Not that I would have given you one if you’d answered yes.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Reel cut her off. “Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice person and a highly competent doctor, but the odds of me even leaving this place alive are pretty slim, so I’m focusing on my future, not my past, okay?”

The doctor frowned. “I’m not sure I know what you mean about not leaving here alive. If you’re sugges—”

Reel had already walked out the door.





A uniformed escort waiting outside the room accompanied Reel back to her quarters.

Robie was not there. She opened her duffel and quickly dressed, mindful of the eyes watching her from the devices on the wall.

Reel took out a Sharpie pen from her duffel and wrote on the wall:

Déjà vu Orwell’s 1984.

Then she sat and waited for the footsteps to come. And for the door to open.

It wouldn’t be long. She doubted Marks had built a refreshing nap into their itinerary.

Next, she wondered where Robie had gone. Had they split them up deliberately to try to turn one against the other?

Barely five minutes went by and then two things happened.

The footsteps came and the door opened.

It was the same young woman who had come for Robie. “Agent Reel, if you would accom—”

Before she could finish Reel was up and past her through the door.

“Let’s get this over with,” she called out over her shoulder as the surprised woman hurried to catch up with her.





Robie sat across from the man in an office lined with bookcases. The light was low. There were no windows. Soft music played in the background.

The man across from him had a beard, was bald on top, and fiddled with a pipe. He had black glasses that he let slide down near the tip of his nose. He pushed them back into place and held up his pipe.

“No-smoking policy extends even here,” he said by way of explanation. “I’m addicted to it, I confess. Sorry state of affairs for a psychologist. I help others with their issues and I find I can’t solve my own.”

He held out a hand across the desk. “Alfred Bitterman. Psychologist. I’m like a psychiatrist, only without a medical license. I can’t prescribe the big-gun drugs.”

Robie shook his hand and then sat back. “I take it you know who I am.” He eyed the thick file in front of Bitterman.

“I know what the file says. That is not the same as knowing the man himself.”

“Enlightened statement,” said Robie.

“You are a veteran of this agency. You have accomplished many things. Some would say impossible things. You have received the highest official commendations the agency can bestow on one of its own.” Bitterman leaned across the desk and tapped his pipe against the wood. “Which raises the question of why you’re even here.”

Robie instantly started to glance around the room. Bitterman shook his head. “No surveillance,” he said. “It’s not allowed.”

“Who says?” asked Robie.

“The highest authorities at the agency.”

“And you trust that to be the case?”

“I’ve been here a long time. And in my work I have been privy to a lot of secrets, many from people high up in the agency.”

Robie looked interested in this. “And this gives you protection how? Something happens to you those secrets get sent to the media?”

“Oh, it’s not really that melodramatic. And it’s far more self-serving. You see, none of these ‘higher-ups’ would ever want these secrets to be recorded and later come out. Thus great pains were taken and multiple eyes ensured that the psychologists’ offices here are free from surveillance of any kind. You can speak freely.”

“Why do you think I’m here, then?”

“You have undoubtedly pissed off upper management. Unless you have another explanation.”