He starts the car. “Amy, sweetheart, don’t do that to your hair.”
The soundtrack of Babe comes softly through the bedroom wall.
“Excuse me,” the little pig is saying to the sheep in his gravelly-sweet voice, “but would you ladies mind …?” And then Jason’s high-pitched laughter, and Amy’s voice-over in her big-sister tone: “He thinks he’s a dog.” This must be the fourth time this weekend, but the children never tire of the video of the little pig that could.
Outside, from the Somerville night, come the sounds of horns, brakes applied almost too late, fights, shouts, the bells of St. Anne’s on the hill. Lowell has the glazed look of a man masturbating in the cinema. He stares at the wall. His hand, inside the blue sports tote, itemizes three objects, angular, bulky, hard-edged: two thick ring binders and something unstable and irregularly shaped in a drawstring bag that could have been, that was once, a pillowcase. Lowell pulls out the pillowcase bag and stares at it. Rows of knights, with lances poised and pennants on their helmets, gallop toward each other in the lists: this was his own pillow until he was six years old and started school. At the mere touch of the worn cotton, he can smell his bedroom, feel the weight of his father sitting on the end of the bed, smell his mother’s perfume as she bends over to kiss him good night. Once upon a time, his father begins. Once upon a time, in the springtime of the world, when Persephone, the beautiful daughter of Zeus and Demeter, was gathering flowers with her maidens in the field, she was kidnapped and carried off by Hades, King of the Underworld …
Lowell examines the pillowcase.
Attached to the drawstring at its neck is a luggage tag, crudely lettered in black felt marker. He recognizes his father’s handwriting.
AF 64
Operation Black Death
Bunker Tapes & Decameron Tape
Broadside. Blunt weapon, Lowell thinks, with a sense of having absorbed the explosion of Air France 64 in the gut. He bends forward over the sports bag and the zipper jams and the tapes refuse to be crammed back in, slithering around in their fabric casing—how many? how many are there? five? six?—clacketing, plasticking, live inside the pillowcase, miles of nylon ribbon, they are videocassettes, he can tell that through the cloth, but confessions? obscene revelations? death scenes? what? The pillowcase is damp and clammy to the touch now, revolting. He shoves the whole toxic blue bundle under his bed and paces the room. He counts slowly to ten, forward and back, breathing deep. His heartbeat is fast and erratic. Through the wall, he hears climactic music from Babe, the film nearly done. Supper, he thinks. They’ll want supper. I can’t take them out. I can’t leave the bag in the house. Pasta, he decides.
He has spaghetti, he has a jar of Ragú sauce somewhere at the back of the fridge.
How can he leave the room with the bag unguarded?
He lies on the floor and pulls the wretched thing out from under the bed. Its limbs sprawl, its heavy end lolls like a broken neck, the drawstring bag containing the tapes juts from the slit. He pulls at the stuck zipper and gets the bag open again. His hands feel bloodied. He pushes the ungainly pillowcase properly inside the sports tote and takes note of the two other items, ring binders, both black, both barely able to contain the thick wad of pages inside them. He takes one out and opens it.
It is labeled, on the first page, Report Dossier: Classified. He flips through the pages. Almost all are typed, but there are often just one or two paragraphs to a page. In the bottom right-hand corner of each page is a brief notation—report filed—in his father’s handwriting. At the top of each page is a date. He reads one at random:
February 19, 1977
Re Air France 139 (Tel Aviv to Paris) hijacked to Uganda, June 27, 1976: Nimrod confirms that Sirocco was involved; confirms sighting Sirocco in Entebbe on June 30. Nimrod believed Sirocco killed on July 4 in Israel’s rescue operation, but subsequently received reliable evidence that Sirocco involved in shipment of arms from Libya to IRA (November ’76). Believes Sirocco is Saudi, but possibly Iraqi or Algerian. Holds four passports that we know of: Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Algeria, Pakistan, at least one of these presumably legitimate. Fluent in Arabic, Urdu, English, and French. Holds forged carte de séjour for France. Was a trainer in Mujahadeen camps in Pakistan and Afghanistan in early ’70s. Has also recently been identified in newsclip of Dal Khalsa separatist Sikh demonstrations in Amritsar in late ’76. Highly proficient in explosives and chemical warfare. A brilliant mercenary but not a fundamentalist zealot, Nimrod believes. Believes Sirocco could be bought, but advises caution. Sirocco is dangerously loose cannon. Advises meeting between Sirocco and Salamander. Action taken: Information passed up chain of command.
And on the next page:
March 16, 1977
Directive received from highest level: Sirocco known to be dangerous and untrustworthy, but use of rogue agent warranted, given present situation; necessary ritual of risk; need for accurate information on terrorist cells in Middle East and re training facilities on Pakistani/Afghanistan border outweighs other concerns. Action taken: Nimrod to approach Sirocco, arrange meeting with Salamander.
And on the next page, in his father’s handwriting, a brief note:
March 19, 1977
Meeting arranged. Probable site of first meeting: Peshawar.
Lowell grasps a half-inch wad of pages and turns.
November 4, 1981
Received Sirocco’s report on Sadat assassination.
Islamic fundamentalist affair. Actual agent not previously on our records, but known links with 10 people on our files, all trained in Afghanistan, 3 now in this country.
Sirocco willing to recruit assassins for Begin or Arafat if desired; suggests chaos in Middle East would provide rationale for “protectorate monitoring” of oil cartels, which he recommends, but demands control of own oil company. Salamander directed to supply funding and arms for Afghanistan project.
Lowell flips through pages and more pages, and Sirocco leaks through the volume like spilled black motor oil. So does Salamander.
He was tormented by Sirocco, Elizabeth said.
Nightmares, she said. Toward the end, every night. Arguing with Sirocco. Or with Salamander. They stalked him. They terrified him. Especially Sirocco.
Lowell closes the ring binder nervously and puts it back in the bag. He opens the cover of the second volume and reads on the title page, Journal of S: Encrypted. He riffles through pages. All are written in some sort of code, in vertical columns of Greek letters and numbers, unintelligible. He pushes the journal back into the blue bag and zips it shut. He pushes it under the bed. He wishes he had not opened the locker. He wishes he had thrown away the key.
“Daddy!” Amy calls.
“Coming.” He almost stumbles over the children at the door. “Guess what we’re having for supper?” he says brightly.
“Macaroni and cheese.”
“Wrong.” He puts a large pot of water on the stove. “But close. Okay, who’s going to get the spaghetti for me?”
“Me,” Jason calls, excited. “Me, me, me.”
“And who’s going to get the spaghetti sauce?”
“I’ll get it,” Amy says. There is reproach in her voice.
“Don’t you like spaghetti?”
“It’s okay.”
But she does like to be the one who holds the colander and the one who dispenses Parmesan from the Kraft shaker.
“Okay,” Lowell says. “Enjoy. I’ll be back in a minute. I have to make a phone call.”
In the hallway, he takes a small black address book from