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  “You’re so completely wrong,” I said. “But I understand now. It’s because of everything that happened to you … Don’t you see that I’ll think of nothing but you?”

  I paused; an idea had come to me. I said, “I’m going to have a code, so I can send you messages. Every time you read or see in an interview ‘There’s nothing like the sun rising over the Aegean,’ it will mean I love you.”

  “All right.”

  “I never thought it was possible to love someone this much.”

  “Chloe, I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to say this. If your feelings change, you may want to cooperate with the authorities. If we planned to meet, I’d have no way of knowing whether it was a trap.”

  He was right—I was hurt. Hurt and shocked.

  “How could you think that! Even if I didn’t love you—which will never happen—do you think I want you to spend the rest of your days in San Quentin or maybe even be executed? How can you think I’m that kind of person? You’ve done time already, for no crime at all. Why would I want you to suffer again?”

  “I don’t think we can decide anything now, Chloe. And in the meantime we have to talk about logistics.”

  I sighed. There was nothing more I could say. He didn’t trust me because he couldn’t see into my soul. Whether we met again was now in his hands, and in the hands of fate. It would have terrified me to think that he might be slipping away from me forever, but I refused to believe it.

  “Tomorrow, after dark, I’ll give you a disguise—you’ll bathe, trim your nails, and then put on the clothes and the wig. I’ll lead you to a car. You’ll be taken to a plane and then to another car. I’ll give you something to make you sleepy.”

  “Same stuff as last time?”

  “Yes. We’ll wake you when we’ve arrived in Greece. You’ll be in a parked car near the Holiday Inn in Athens. Get out of the car—there will be a bench there in case you need to sit. When you’re ready, go into the hotel and take the elevator to room 2111. You’ll find a key to the door in your purse. Go in and lock the door behind you. There will be more clothes to change into, including a red baseball cap. Take off the old things, put them in the empty plastic bag you’ll find on the bed, and leave them outside the door at 4:00 p.m. Can you remember that?”

  “Four o’clock. Bag outside door.”

  “Before putting on the new clothes take a shower and shampoo, then a bath, then another shower. You’ve got to scrub really well. After that it’s up to you. You can stay in the room as long as you like—we’ve paid for two days, including meals—just use room service. Whatever you do, don’t make any outside calls. Not from the room, not from the lobby, not from a store, not from a borrowed cell phone. And no Internet either, even if it’s an Internet café or someone’s borrowed device. Can you promise?”

  I nodded.

  “When you feel you can’t wait any longer, leave the hotel, walk for at least three blocks, and hail a taxi. Don’t talk to anyone, no matter what. Take the taxi to the United States Embassy. Lose the hat and sunglasses as you step into the taxi. Just let them fall on the curb. No one will notice. Try not to mention the hotel until a few days have passed.”

  “Wait. What if I’m stopped at the door of the Holiday Inn?”

  “Just show them your key. But no one will stop you. It’s a busy hotel. And you’ll be well dressed. When you get to the embassy, ask for a bathroom with a shower. In the hullabaloo, they won’t think twice.”

  “Hullabaloo?” I smiled in spite of everything.

  “Is that the wrong word?”

  “No, no,” I said. “It’s just funny.”

  “That will be your last chance to wash. Same routine—shower and shampoo.”

  “On TV they find DNA no matter how hard the criminals try to conceal it.”

  “Luckily for us, it isn’t that simple.”

  “What do I tell them about my release?”

  “Tell the truth, but try to delay the debriefing as long as you can. Say you’re not up to it. When you tell them, you can say you cooperated out of fear. It’s the only lie you’ll have to tell, and even if they see through it, I very much doubt they’ll hold it against you.”

  “What if I hadn’t fallen in love with you? How would you have dealt with my release?”

  “We would have managed. I apologize for everything, Chloe. I regret putting you through so much.”

  “It was worth it for me. I wouldn’t have met you otherwise.”

  “You’ll be in my thoughts always.”

  “Don’t say that! We’re going to meet again, I know it. And if you take another female hostage I’ll kill you!” I said.

  He tilted his head. “I promise that won’t happen.”

  Then he smiled.

  CHAPTER 26

  I don’t want to think about my last day—it makes me too sad. My hostage-taker stayed with me until it was time to go; he only left to make coffee and bring down food, but neither of us could eat. I took his hand and held it to my cheek, trying to imprint it on my skin.

  I felt like a condemned person, with the minutes ticking away. Condemned to part from my true love, as if he were going off to war. I wanted time to stand still, I wanted to find a way to hold on to him forever.

  But he had broken the law, and there was no going back on that. Breaking the law is a final act, an act that can’t be reversed. He’d have to hide that part of his life always, and if we met again I’d have to hide it too. You couldn’t erase a crime, but unless you did something really drastic, you could make up for it by doing good.

  When the time came to go, I was in a hyper state of nerves that luckily took up all the available space in my mind. Now I knew what spies felt like. There was nothing else in the world, there was only you and your task.

  I was surprised by my pre-performance butterflies. Even at gym meets, I didn’t suffer all that much from stage fright and nerves. I liked it when my turn came.

  But I was suddenly very nervous and scared. What if I did something wrong? What if we were caught? There were so many parts to the journey—anything could happen. What if I made some horrible mistake and it was my fault that my hostage-taker was caught?

  But everything went as planned. I washed and put on an outfit I assumed was decontaminated: a bright red dress, red shoes, beads, a large straw hat, sunglasses, bright red lipstick, a tiny white purse with a gold chain. It was a good disguise—I’d never worn bright red lipstick before, and the dress and shoes weren’t exactly my style either.

  The hardest part was not being able to hug my hostage-taker good-bye. Once the blindfold was on, I couldn’t even see him. I didn’t speak either, because I knew I’d break down if I did. He held my arm with a gloved hand and led me out of the room. All he said was “Twenty-two steps here” when we were climbing the stairs. We reached the garage and I climbed into a car. I wondered if he was going to be with me. I hoped he wasn’t; it was safer if he stayed behind, and emotionally easier for me.

  We drove for a long time. The tension I felt canceled any other emotions I might have had.

  The car stopped and remained stationary for at least two hours, maybe more. I didn’t know why and no one told me. I heard all sorts of noises—rumbling, voices, other cars.

  Finally the car door opened and a gloved hand led me to the plane. I climbed on board, drank the juice they gave me. For a split second I thought, This could be the end, it could all be a trick—but I fell asleep before irrational paranoia got the better of me.

  When I woke up I had no idea at first where I was.

  Then I remembered. I was in the back seat of a parked car. There was tinted glass between me and the driver, but the side windows were clear, at least from the inside.

  What I saw through the car window stunned me. A sidewalk, buildings, people of all ages walking by. Signs, stores, noise. The world was vast; there was so much in it. It was completely overwhelming and I wasn’t sure I was ready for it. Oh brave new world—where was that line from?<
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  Ready or not, I had to follow the instructions I’d been given. The bench was just outside the door; I’d definitely need it. I was still in the twilight zone.

  I adjusted my hat, pushed my sunglasses up my nose, and tested my legs to see if they were steady enough to make it out of the car.

  Slowly and carefully I stepped out into the light. Even with my sunglasses the sun was blinding. I sat down on the bench and the car sped away. It was all over. I felt like someone suspended between two dreams.

  The Holiday Inn was across the street. I was desperate to be in a hotel room, away from the confusing crowds. Even the traffic lights seemed alien and strange. In only three months I’d lost touch with everything I’d known.

  I walked into the hotel, trying not to let my nervousness show, and made my way to room 2111. The key worked; I entered the room and locked the door behind me. It was an ordinary room with blue walls, a large bed, white curtains. There were jeans, a T-shirt, shoes, and a white plastic bag on the bed.

  I looked out the window and burst into tears. I didn’t know whether they were tears of grief, relief, or tension—probably all three. I was relieved to be back in the world, relieved that I could see the city from my window. But I didn’t want to be in that world without my hostage-taker.

  I finally calmed down and undressed. While I was stuffing my clothes into the plastic bag, the phone rang. I jumped, terrified. I wasn’t supposed to call anyone; no one was supposed to know I was here. Should I answer? What if it was important?

  I picked up the phone.

  “Room service,” the voice said. “When would you like the meal you ordered?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I mumbled. Talking to someone other than my hostage-taker felt artificial, as if I were reading a script in a play.

  I washed my face and stared at the mirror. The expression in my eyes reminded me of my hostage-taker. Some of his seriousness had become a part of me; I hoped some of my hopefulness had become a part of him.

  I stepped into the shower and tried to scrub away all possible clues from my body. When I was finished I wrapped myself in an oversized bathrobe and quickly set the bag outside the room.

  Then I leaned back in bed and turned on the television.

  It was like coming back to civilization after a hundred years. The ads, the shows, the news—it all seemed wildly unfamiliar.

  I began channel surfing; I couldn’t focus on anything. Suddenly I saw Mom on CNN. It was only a photo, and I missed the news report that went along with it, but I was suddenly desperate to let her know that I was back, safe and sound. And yet at the same time I didn’t feel ready to face a barrage of questions coming at me from every direction. They’d want to know everything, and I wanted to say nothing.

  My hostage-taker had been right: it was good that I knew so little. It freed me; I didn’t have to carry a burden of secrecy. Only my feelings of love were my own, and those weren’t a burden—they were a secret treasure.

  My heart ached for my hostage-taker. Somewhere on the planet he was removing all traces of me. I knew he was thinking about me, but that only made it worse. I rushed to the door and opened it; the bag had vanished. The last tie between us was gone.

  I took another quick shower, just to be sure, and dressed in the clothes they’d chosen for me. The jeans didn’t fit all that well, but the shirt, bra, and shoes were the right size.

  I couldn’t stay in that hotel room another minute. I almost ran to the elevator.

  I walked down the street in a state of stupefaction; it was as if I’d never been in a city before. I felt completely out of place, and I was surprised people weren’t staring at me. I walked four blocks, as instructed, and hailed a taxi.

  “The United States Embassy, please,” I said.

  The driver didn’t give me a second glance. At the first red light I remembered with a start that I was supposed to lose the hat and sunglasses on the curb.

  “My shirt’s caught,” I said, opening the door and quickly dropping the cap and sunglasses on the road.

  The driver glanced at me through the mirror. I hoped he hadn’t seen.

  He stopped a block from the embassy, which was as close as he could get, and it was only when I paid that he squinted at me with a puzzled look on his face. I turned away, hurried up the street, and approached one of the Marines guarding the building.

  “I’m Chloe Mills,” I said.

  And then there was a big hullabaloo.

  Washington, D.C.

  Saturday, 9:30 p.m.

  I’m running out of time: soon I will have to submit my formal report.

  And I will have to destroy what I’ve written on these pages.

  But I had to write it all down; I had to relive it one last time before I face my life here. What I can’t put into words is how desperately I miss my hostage-taker.

  Today I asked Mom to show me some of the magazines that carried the story of my abduction. She’d brought a bagful with her to the hotel, but I hadn’t wanted to see them until now.

  We looked through the magazines together. There I was, on the front page of All People, wearing a white-and-silver dress. It was a flattering, full-length photo that Angie had taken at a school dance. Underneath the photo it said: Who Are the Terrorists? / World’s Hottest Bachelors Wait for Chloe / Her Mother’s Secret Fear. I felt as if I’d been transported into some sort of alternate universe.

  Mom and I laughed at some of the stories. People who barely knew me pretended they did and gave interviews: a ski instructor who had given me one lesson, a neighbor whose dog I walked when I was ten. There were also ads for a scary Chloe doll, a book about me called Chloe from Inside, and I love you Chloe T-shirts.

  Chad had been forced to retract his story. He was accused of fabricating everything, including the two dates we’d actually had. Mom’s “secret fear” turned out to be concern about my diet. There were photos from my gymnastics days, including a few of me screwing up. “She never gave up, fellow gymnast Liza Saturnov remembers.” I had no idea who Liza Saturnov was.

  The story Who Are the Terrorists? was based on speculations from all sorts of experts. A different set of experts analyzed the two letters I’d written; they were sure I’d inserted clues about where I was.

  I couldn’t read any of the articles all the way through. Apart from everything else, they were full of errors. Some magazines got almost everything wrong: a photo of me at age four with my granddad was captioned “Chloe, at five, with her uncle in Seattle.”

  “It’s my fault, darling,” Mom said. “I said yes to almost everyone who asked for interviews. I was so happy they were interested—I didn’t want them to forget about you. At first there was a media siege outside the house, but then the guys on top decided it was a security risk, and they sealed off the whole street with armed guards—can you imagine?” She laughed, but I noticed new lines around her eyes.

  “Are the security people still there? On our street?”

  “Oh yes. There are security people all around the house, and they’ve supplied me with bodyguards.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said for the hundredth time, and for the hundredth time she answered, “I’m so happy to see you in one piece.”

  She said, “You’ve changed, honey. Grown older.”

  I want to tell her more about my conditions—what I ate, what I did, the movies I’d watched—but I’m not ready. I need time to sort everything out.

  To the CIA

  My report

  I don’t have anything to add to what I already told you about the ride to the warehouse and the ride back to Athens.

  I don’t have much to add to what I told you about my captivity either. The days were all the same. One time I got sick with a stomach virus or flu and my hostage-taker gave me pills and medicine until I was better. He told me his father had been a doctor and that he too had studied medicine a long time ago but his studies were interrupted. The chest I traveled in to the new location was an antique—I can tr
y to draw it for you. I think there was a pool near the second location because I smelled chlorine. One night I thought I heard machine-gun fire, but it turned out to be a hallucination.

  My hostage-taker told me he’d been in prison, where he was tortured. It was a dictatorship, he didn’t say where, but he said the community was Christian.

  It drizzled a bit now and then, and there were a few rainstorms. On my birthday he brought me purple irises and sherry. I often lectured him about taking the law into his own hands.

  I don’t have any more clues for you. My hostage-taker had a briefcase, but he kept it locked. He once took some books out of it—I think they were all in English, but I didn’t see any titles. I already told you about the films I saw. I can’t think of anything else.

  Chloe Mills

  Memorandum number: CM1172-13.

  Classification: Secret

  Subject: Preliminary Notes on Report Submitted by Chloe Mills

  Prepared by: Dr. Geraldine Marlowe, Dr. Anil Rajan, and Professor Erez Shaked

  A. Chloe’s Report

  Chloe Mills took nearly a week to write her report; however, the resulting document could not have taken more than a few minutes to compose. Only a few brief details have been added to the information recorded at the initial debriefing.

  B. General Comments

  1. Brevity of report.

  i. Most, if not all, released hostages remember and reveal many mundane details (e.g., food they ate, thoughts about their release, etc.), as well as the ups and downs of their emotional state. Memories of events experienced during captivity are typically very vivid and victims feel a strong need, even a compulsion, to communicate them in detail.

  ii. Chloe appears to be exhibiting emotional detachment and depression, common symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). General erratic behavior exhibited by Chloe also points to pervasive PTSD. Chloe has not contacted any of her friends or relatives, other than brief calls to Angie Shaw and her grandparents. She has shown no interest in the gifts that were sent to her and has not tried on any of the clothes. She continues to wear the same outfit, which is washed every night and returned to her in the morning.