Mason Gray accompanied the mystery visitor to the front of the room, stopping to introduce him.
“This is Karl Berg. He knew your mother from Langley,” said Mason. “I don’t think you’ve ever met?”
Berg shook his head. “No. But I’ve seen the two of you in pictures on her desk. Kind of watched you grow up. In a noncreepy way. Though I’m sure it sounded creepy.”
“It didn’t,” said Devin, shaking his hand. “Thank you for coming.”
“I had to come,” said Berg. “She earned it.”
Kari took his hand reluctantly, maintaining a neutral expression.
“Good instincts. I wouldn’t trust me, either,” said Berg. “Hey. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a few moments to pay my respects.”
Their dad stepped out of the way and motioned toward the casket. “Sorry. Of course.”
Karl Berg, who Devin assumed had worked in the same line of business as their mother at the CIA—Directorate of Operations, a.k.a. the Clandestine Service—spent a few quiet moments next to her coffin before returning.
“I’m genuinely sorry for your loss,” said Berg, looking torn about something. “I know things haven’t been easy.”
None of them responded right away, presumably because they didn’t know what to say to a near-complete stranger who had just summarized the past decade and a half of their experience with Helen Gray in one sentence.
“It’s been a long haul, but it’s all behind us now,” said their dad, offering his hand to Berg. “Thank you for coming. Seriously. It means a lot to me, and as funny as this might sound, I know it would have meant a lot to Helen. If you don’t mind, I need to speak with the funeral director about tomorrow. We’re going to cancel the memorial service. I hope that doesn’t inconvenience you.”
They shook hands. “No. I just wanted to pass along my condolences and respect in person.”
His dad looked as though he was about to cry. He nodded at Devin and Kari.
“I’ll catch up with the two of you at Provinces. Have them pour me a Guinness?”
“Got it. See you in a few,” said Kari, turning to Devin. “I’m going to freshen up. Meet you in the lobby.”
“Kari. It was good to meet you,” said Berg.
“Likewise,” said Kari, barely feigning a smile.
Berg took a business card out of his suit coat pocket and handed it to Devin.
“Never know,” said Berg. “And please accept my sincerest condolences.”
Devin examined the card while Berg walked away. Just a name, email address, and phone number. No salutations, degrees, or career headings listed. Exactly what you’d expect from a former CIA intelligence operative. Kari broke the silence after he left the room.
“That was a little weird, huh? Barely says a word and leaves? Dad looked uncomfortable. Do you think there was something going on between this guy and Mom?”
“I didn’t get that vibe,” said Devin.
“You’re a dude,” said Kari. “And you didn’t get the vibe from fighter pilot girl, either.”
“Helicopter pilot,” said Devin. “And there was no vibe.”
“I think your vibe reader is broken.”
“I think we can find something else to talk about in front of our mother’s casket,” said Devin.
She started to back up. “Whatever. See you in the lobby.”
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye or something?” he asked, glancing at the casket.
“I’ve already made my peace with Mom,” she said.
“Lucky you,” said Devin. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“It’s not going to happen in the next few minutes. Trust me,” said Kari. “Took me a few hundred hours of therapy.”
“I’ll give it a shot, anyway,” he said, fairly certain his sister was kidding herself—and that none of them would ever truly come to peace with what their mother had done to them.
CHAPTER 9
The significance of meeting in Harvey Rudd’s basement wasn’t lost on anyone—particularly Harvey Rudd. The thought of bringing another operative to his house, for any reason, had never crossed his mind. It didn’t even enter into the realm of possibilities, because it was strictly forbidden by CONTROL. In fact, no contact between operatives outside of a CONTROL-assigned mission was permitted for any reason.
Digital briefing packets outlining each operative’s responsibilities on a mission were sent individually, so there was rarely a need to gather in advance to discuss anything, even for more complex operations. They’d either drive to mission areas individually or consolidate into one vehicle at a park and ride a few hours away, as they’d done for the Gray ambush. And the Gray arrangement had been a rare one, entirely dictated by the fact that she was a time-critical, moving target.