The Expats by Chris Pavone Read Free Book Online Page A

protocol.
    “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”
    Adam stared at her. She summoned the courage to stare back. Chicken, across a conference table. Five seconds, ten. A half-minute of silence.
    He could wait forever. This is what he did for a living.
    But so could she.
    It wasn’t Torres himself who haunted Kate. It was the unexpected woman. That innocent woman.
    “Okay then,” Adam finally said. He glanced at his watch, scrawled a note on his pad. “ID on the table.”
    Kate removed the lanyard from her neck, hesitated, then set it down.
    Adam tore the paper from his pad. He stood, walked around the table to Kate, his hand extended. “This is where you go tomorrow morning, nine A.M. ”
    Kate looked at the paper, still not understanding that this phase was over. Things always end more suddenly than expected.
    The confrontation was not going to happen. Not today, not here. And if not today, and not here, then when? Where?
    “Ask for Evan,” he said.
    Kate looked up at Adam, trying to contain her amazement that the subject of Torres was not going to arise. “How long will this take?” she asked, in order to have something to say, to shift the subject away from her absolute relief. It was still not too late to screw this up. It would never be too late.
    “At least a couple days. I don’t know how much more. You should set aside two full weeks, which is the amount of time that you’ll be continuing to draw a salary. It won’t take that long, but it’s a useful way to frame your schedule. It is, of course, the normal timetable.”
    “Of course.”
    “So that’s it.” Adam smiled, extended his hand again, this time for a shake. “You are no longer an employee of the Central Intelligence Agency. Good luck, Katherine.”

5
    “I’m Julia,” the woman said. “Pleased to meet you.”
    “And I’m Katherine. Kate.” She took her seat in the caned café chair, and looked across the table at the new American, foisted upon her by the AWCL, which she now knew was the American Women’s Club of Luxembourg, which furthermore she’d joined. It was apparently what you did, if you were an American woman, in Luxembourg.
    “So how are you getting settled?” Kate asked.
    She felt like a fraud for asking this question, which other women were always asking her. The question implied that the asker was already settled, that maybe she could offer advice, or help. Kate wasn’t, and couldn’t.
    “Okay, I guess,” Julia said. “But I don’t know how to do anything here.”
    Kate nodded.
    “Do you know how to get done the things you need to get done?”
    “No.” Kate shook her head. “But what I’m an expert in—what I really know how to do—is assemble crap from Ikea. There are no closets here.”
    “None!” Julia said. “You’re right. These old buildings were built before closets.”
    “So I’ve spent the past month putting together bureaus and wardrobes. And lamps, too. Why is the electricity different from America’s? Does that make any sense?”
    “None. Doesn’t your husband do that type of thing? Assembling furniture?”
    “Never. What my husband does is work. All the time.”
    “Mine too.”
    They both stared into their wineglasses. The waiter arrived, and took their orders.
    “So,” Julia started again, “how long have you been here?”
    “Four weeks.”
    “That’s not very long.”
    “No. It isn’t.”
    This was sort of hellish. Kate wanted to excuse herself, get up and walk away, disappear. This was one of the many aspects of expat life that she found herself ill-equipped for: making pointless small talk with strangers.
    “I hear,” Julia said, “you’re from Washington? That must be exciting!”
    And this? How tedious.
    But Kate was determined to try. She needed friends, and a life, and this is how you acquired those things: by talking to strangers. Everyone was a stranger, all on equal footing in strangerhood. The defining signifiers in the place you were from—family, school,