The Travelers by Chris Pavone - excerpt

7/25/2019 The Travelers by Chris Pavone - excerpt

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THE

TRAVELERSANOVEL

CHRIS PAVONE


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First published in the UK in 2016

by Faber & Faber Ltd

Bloomsbury House

7477 Great Russell StreetLondon WC1B 3DA

This export paperback first published in 2016

Published in the United States by Crown Publishers,

an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

All rights reserved.

Christopher Pavone, 2016

The right of Christopher Pavone to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designsand Patents Act 1988

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A CIP record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780571298884

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1


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PROLOGUE

MENDOZA, ARGENTINA

The door flies open. Bright light floods into the dark room, raming

the silhouette o a large man who stands there, unmoving.

What? Will demands, raising himsel onto his elbows, squint-

ing into the harsh light. Whats going on?

Te man doesnt answer.

What do you want?

Te man remains in the doorway, saying nothing, a mute looming

hulk. He surveys the hotel room, the disheveled bed, discarded clothing,

burned-down candles, wine bottle and glasses.

Qu quieres?Will tries.

Will had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, worrying. But notabout this, not about an intruder. Now Wills mind is flooding with com-

peting scenarios and their different levels o emergency: drunk hotel

guest, conused night porter, hotel security, jealous boyriend, burglar,

murderer.

Wills panic is rising, and his eyes flicker toward escape, the French

doors that he opened just a ew minutes ago, doors acing the vineyard

that alls away rom the hacienda, with the snowcapped peaks o the

Andes in the distance, under the big at moon. He pulls himsel to a sit-

ting position, uncomortably aware o his bare chest. Who are you? he

asks assertively, trying to project confidence. Why are you here?

Te man nods, takes a step orward, and pulls the door closed behind

him.

Te room alls into the semidarkness o flickering candlelight and the

bright blue LED glow o the clock, 2:50 .. Wills eyes readjust while

his heart races, his breath coming quick and shallow, fight or flight, orboth. His imagination hops around the room, trying out different items

as weapons, swinging the standing lamp, breaking the wine bottle. A


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2 | CHRIS PAVONE

fireplace toolthe pokerwould be the best, but thats on the ar side o

the room, on the other side o this trespasser, this indistinct peril.

No, the man breaks his silence. Why areyouhere?Te mans hand finds a switch, a sof click and a harsh transormation,

Wills pupils contracting a sliver o a second too slowly. In the light, Will

realizes that he has seen this man beore. He cant remember where, or

when exactly, but it was sometime recent. Tis discovery eels more like a

deeat than a victory, as i he has ound out that he lost something.

Who areyou, Will Rhodes?

Te mans English doesnt have any trace o an accent, Argentine or

otherwise. Tis is a big beey American whos continuing to walk toward

the bed, toward Will, slowly, menacing. It takes a while; its a large room,

luxuriously decorated and extravagantly linened, with superfluous ur-

niture and wine-country knickknacks and signifiers o the Pampas

mounted horns, a cowhide rug. Its a room designed to remind well-off

guests o where they are, and why theyre here, when they could be any-

where. Will has stayed in many different versions o this room, all over the

world, always on someone elses tab.Are you robbing me? Will inventories the valuables he might lose

here, and it doesnt amount to much.

Kidnapping? No one except the most ill-inormed amateur would

take the tremendous risk o kidnapping or the paltry rewards that could

be traded or Will Rhodes. Tis guy doesnt look like an ill-inormed ama-

teur.

Te intruder finally arrives at the bedside, and reaches into his jacket.

Will scoots away rom whatever potential threat is being withdrawn rom

this mans pocket, in the middle o the night, halway across the globe

rom his home, rom his wie, his lie.

I Will had any doubts earlier, he doesnt anymore: hes now positive

he made a terrible mistake tonight. Te whole thing seemed too easy, too

perect. Hed been an idiot.

Look, the man says, extending his arm, holding something, a little

flick o the wristhere, take thisand the smartphone alls into Willspalm. He glances at the screen, a still image, an indecipherable blur o

aint light amid darkness, unrecognizable orms in an unidentifiable lo-

cation.


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THE TRAVELERS | 3

Whats this?

Hit Play.

Will touches the touchscreen, and video-navigation buttons appear,the recently invented language we all now know. He hits the triangle.

A video begins to play: a naked woman straddling a man, her hips

pistoning up and down, like an out-o-control oil derrick, a dangerous

situation. Will watches or two seconds, just enough to figure out who it

is in the poor-quality video, low light, an oblique angle, garbled audio. He

touches his fingertip to the square button. Te image is now rozen, the

womans back arched, head thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy. Appar-

ent ecstasy.

O course.

Will isnt entirely surprised that something bad is happening. But this

particular end seems to be an excess o bad, disproportionate bad, unair

bad. Or maybe not. Maybe thiswhatever this turns out to beis exactly

the appropriate level o bad.

His mind runs through a handul o options beore he makes a deci-

sion thats by necessity hasty. He considers trying to get on more clothesHey, how about you let me get dressed?but clothed, he might look

like a threat; wearing only pajama bottoms, hes a victim, sympathetic to

the guard he hopes to encounter. Tis new hotel takes security seriously,

peace o mind or their intended mega-rich clientele, with round-the-

clock rent-a-cops and a close relationship with the police.

Will extends his arm to return the phone, rolling his body toward the

bedside.

Here we go.

When the man reaches to collect his device, Will hurls it across the

room.

Te intruder spins to watch the phones flightcrackwhile Will

springs up, heaves his body into this man, knocking him over, landing

atop him, pajamad legs astride the guys bulky torso, a punch to the ace,

and another, blood pouring rom his nose.

Will hops up, barely eeling the engagement o his muscles, his blood-stream flooded with survival-preservation hormones. He flies through

the parted curtains. Hes out on the moonlit lawn, bareoot and shirtless,

sprinting through the cool dewy grass toward the glowing lights o the


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4 | CHRIS PAVONE

sprawling main house, toward the security guards and their weapons and

their hotline to thefederales, who at the very least will detain the intruder

while Will has a chance to make a call or two, and now Will is eelingalmost confident, halway across

Te fist comes out o nowhere. Will stumbles backward a step beore

losing his eet entirely, his rear alling down and his eet flying up, and he

thinks he can see a womanthe womanstanding over him, her arm

finishing its ollow-through o a right hook, just beore the back o Wills

head slams into the ground, and everything goes black.


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1

FIVE WEEKS EARLIER

NEW YORK CITY

A

man is running along the sidewalk o a quiet leay Brooklyn street,

panting, sweat beaded on his ace, quarter to six in the morning.

Hes wearing jeans, a dirty tee shirt, dingy white sneakers. Tis man

is not exercising; hes working. He reaches into a canvas sling, cocks his

arm, and tosses a newspaper, which flies across a ence, over a yard, land-

ing on a townhouse stoop, skittering to a stop against the ront door. A

perect toss.

In the street beside him, a battered old station wagon crawls at three

miles per hour, the cars tailgate held partly open by a couple o jerry-

rigged bungee cords. Its his sister behind the wheel o the Chevy, whichthey bought rom a junkyard in Willets Point owned by another guy rom

Campeche. Tere are a lot o Mexicans in New York City, but not too

many rom the west-coast Yucatn city. Four hundred dollars was a good

deal, a avor, a chit to be returned at some indefinite point, or some un-

specified price.

Te sling is empty. Te man jogs into the street, and hauls a pile o

papers rom the way-back. He returns to the sidewalk, to the house with

scaffolding over the portico, and a piece o plywood covering a parlor-

floor window, and a stack o lumber plus a couple o sawhorses dominat-

ing the small ront yard, whose sole greenery is a rosebush thats at least

hal-dead.

He tosses the newspaper, but this time his aim isnt perecthes been

throwing papers or an hourand he knocks over a contractors plastic

bucket, rom which an empty beer bottle clatters onto the stone stoop

beore alling to the top step, crash, into pieces.Mierda.

Te man jogs to the stoop, rights the bucket, picks up the broken glass,


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8 | CHRIS PAVONE

sharp shards, lethal weapons, like what his cousin Alonso used to warn

off that coo, that narcotraficante who was grabby with Estellita at the

bar under the expressway. Violence has always been a part o Alonsoslie; sometimes its been one o his job responsibilities. For some people

violence is woven into their abric, like the bright blood-red thread that

his grandmother would weave into the turquoise and indigo serapes on

her loom that was tied to the lime tree in the backyard, beore that type

o work relocated to more picturesque villages within easier reach o the

turistas, who paid a premium to travel dusty roads into tiny hamlets to

buy their ethnic handicrafs directly rom the bareoot sources.

Te man runs out to the car, deposits the broken glass in the trunk,

then back to the sidewalk, tossing another paper, racing to make up or

lost time. You waste ten seconds here, twenty there, and by the end o the

route youre a hal-hour behind, and customers are angrystanding out

there in bathrobes, hands on hips, looking around to see i neighbors got

their papersand you dont get your ten-dollar tips at Christmas, and

you cant pay the rent, and next thing you know, youre begging that coo

or a job as a lookout, just another ilegalon the corner, hiding rom theNYPD and the DEA and the INS, until one night you get gut-shot or

sixty dollars and a couple grams o llelo.

He tosses another paper.

Te noise o the breaking bottle wakes Will Rhodes beore he wants to be

awake, in the middle o a dream, a good one. He reaches in the direction

o his wie, her arm bare and sof and warm and peach-uzzy, the thin silk

o her nightie smooth and cool, the strap easily pushed aside, exposing

her reckled shoulder, the hollow at the base o her neck, the rise o her . . .

Her nothing. Chloe isnt there.

Wills hand is resting on the old linen sheet that bears someone elses

monogram, some long-dead Dutch merchant, a sof stack that Will pur-

chased cheaply at a sparse flea market along a stagnant canal in Delf,

refitted by an eccentric seamstress in Red Hook who repurposes odd-shaped old abrics into the standardized dimensions o contemporary

mattresses and pillows and mass-production dining tables. Will wrote an


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THE TRAVELERS | 9

article about it, just a couple hundred words, or an alternative weekly. He

writes an article about everything.

Chloes note is scrawled on a Post-it, stuck on her pillow:

Early meeting, went to office. Have good trip. C

No love.No miss you.No-nonsense nothing.

Will had gotten out o the karaoke bar beore alling into the clutches

o that wine rep, back-seam stockings and hot pink bra straps, a propen-

sity or leaning orward precipitously. She was waiting to pounce when he

returned to the table afer his heartelt Fake Plastic rees, a restrained

bow to the applause o his dozen inebriated companions, whose clapping

seemed louder and more genuine than the measured clapping o the thou-

sand pairs o hands that had congratulated Will hours earlier, in the ball-

room, when hed won an award.

You look great in a tuxedo, shed said, her hand suddenly on his

thigh.

Everybody looks great in a tuxedo, Will countered. Tats the point.

Good night!But it was two in the morning when he got home, earliest. Maybe

closer to three. He remembers umbling with his keys. In the hall, he

kicked off his patent-leather shoes, so he wouldnt clomp loudly up the

wood stairs in leather soles. He thinks he stumbledyes, he can eel a

bruise on his shin. Ten he probably stood in their door-less doorway,

swaying, catching a glimpse o Chloes uncovered thigh, eggshell satin in

the streetlight . . .

She hates it when Will comes home in the middle o the night wearing

inebriated sexual arousal like a game-day athletic uniorm, sweaty and

stained and reeking o physical exertion. So he probably strippedyes,

theres his tuxedo, hal on the chair, bow tie on the floorand passed out,

snoring like a reight train, stinking like a saloon.

Will shades his eyes against the sunlight pouring through the large

uncurtained six-over-six windows, with bubbles and chips and scratches

and whorls in the glass, original to the house, 1884. Built back when therewere no telephones, no laptops or Internet, no cars or airplanes or atomic

bombs or world wars. But way back then, beore his great-grandparents


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10 | CHRIS PAVONE

were born, these same glass panes were here, in these windows, in Will

and Chloes new old house.

He hears noise rom downstairs. Was that the ront door closing?Chloe? he calls out, croaky.

Ten ootsteps on the creaky stairs, but no answer. He clears his

throat. Chlo?

Te floorboards in the hall groan, the noise getting nearer, a bit

creepy

Forgot my wallet, Chloe says. She looks across the room at the big

battered bureau, locates the offending item, then turns to her husband.

You eeling okay?

He understands the accusation. Sorry I was so late. Did I wake you?

Chloe doesnt answer.

In act I was getting ready to come home when . . .

Chloe olds her arms across her chest. She doesnt want to hear this

story. She simply wants him to come home earlier, having had less to

drink; their time home together doesnt overlap all that much. But stay-

ing out till all hours is his jobits not optional, its not indulgent, itsrequired. And Chloe knows it. She too has done this job.

Plus Will doesnt think its air that once again Chloe lef home beore

he awoke, depositing another loveless note on the pillow, on another day

when hes flying.

Nevertheless, he knows he needs to deend himsel, and to apologize.

Im sorry. But you know how much I love karaoke. He pulls the sheet

aside, pats the bed. Why dont you come over here? Let me make it up to

you.

I have a meeting.

Chloes new office is in a part o the city filled with government bu-

reaucracies, law firms, jury duty. Will ran into her one lunchtimehe

was leaving a building-department fiasco, she was picking up a sandwich.

Tey were both surprised to see each other, both flustered, as i theyd

been caught at something. But it was only the interruption o the expecta-

tion o privacy.Plus Ill be ovulating in, like, six days. So save it up, sailor.

But in six days Ill still be in France.

I thought you were back Friday.


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THE TRAVELERS | 11

Malcolm extended the trip.

What?

Im sorry. I orgot to tell you.Well thats shitty. Tere goes another month, wasted.

Wasted isnt exactly what Will would call the month. Sorry.

So you keep saying. She shakes her head. Look, I have to go.

Chloe walks to the bed. Te mattress is on the floor, no rame, no box

spring. Will has a mental image o the perect rame, but he hasnt yet

been able to find it, and hed rather have nothing than the wrong thing.

Which is why the house is filled with doorways without doors, doors

without doorknobs, sinks without aucets, bare bulbs without fixtures; to

Will, all o these no-measures are preerable to hal-measures.

Tis is one o the things that drives Chloe crazy about the renovation

project, about her husband in general. She doesnt care i everything is

perect; she merely wants it to be good enough. And this is exactly why

Will doesnt let her handle any o it. He knows that she will settle, will

make compromises that he wouldnt. Not just about the house.

She bends down, gives him a closed-mouth kiss. Will reaches or herarm.

Really, Im running late, she says, but with little convictionalmost

noneand a blush, a suppressed smile. I gotta go. But theres no resis-

tance in her arm, shes not trying to pull away, and she allows hersel to

all orward, into bed, onto her husband.

Will sprawls amid the sheets while Chloe rearranges her hair, and re-

places earrings, reties her scar, all these tasks executed distractedly but

defly, the small competencies o being a woman, skills unknowable to

him. Te only thing men learn is how to shave.

I love watching you, he says, making an effort.

Mmm, she mutters, not wondering what the hell hes talking about.

Everybody says that the second year o marriage is the hardest. But

their second year was fine, they were young and they were un, both beingpaid to travel the world, not worrying about much. Tat year was terrific.

Its their ourth year that has been a drag. Te year began when they

moved into this decrepit house, a so-called investment property that


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12 | CHRIS PAVONE

Chloes ather had lef in his will, three apartments occupied by below-

market and ofen deadbeat tenants, encumbered by serious code viola-

tions, impeded by unfindable electrical and plumbing planseveryconceivable problem, plus a ew inconceivable ones.

Te work on the house sputtered afer demolition, then stalled com-

pletely due to the unsurprising problem o running out o money: every-

thing has been wildly more expensive than expected. Tat is, more than

Will expected; Chloe expected exactly what transpired.

So flooring is uninstalled, plumbing not entirely working, kitchen un-

finished and windows unrepaired and blow-in insulation un-blown-in.

Hal o the second floor and all o the third are uninhabitable. Te renova-

tion is an unmitigated disaster, and they are broke, and Chloe is amassing

a stockpile o resentment about Wills reusals to make the compromises

that would allow this project to be finished.

Plus, afer a year o what is now called trying on a regular basisa

militaristically regimented scheduleChloe is still not pregnant. Will

now understands that ovulation tests and calendars are the opposite o

erotic aids.When Chloe isnt busy penciling in slots or results-oriented,

missionary-position intercourse, she has become increasingly moody.

And most o her moods are some variation o bad: theres hostile bad and

surly bad and resentul bad and todays, distracted bad.

What do you think this is about? she asks. Te extended trip?

Will shrugs, but she cant see it, because shes not looking his way.

Malcolm hasnt ully explained yet. He doesnt want to tell Chloe any-

thing specific until he has concrete detailswhat exactly the new assign-

ment will be, any additional money, more requent travel.

How is Malcolm, anyway?

As part o the big shake-up at Travelers a year ago, Will was hired

despite Chloes objectionsboth o them shouldnt work at the same

struggling company in the same dying industry. So she quit. She lef the

ull-time staff and took the title o contributing editor, shared with a ew

dozen people, some with only tenuous connections to the magazine ac-companied by token paychecks, but still conerring a legitimacynames

on masthead, business cards in walletsthat could be leveraged while

hunting or other opportunities.


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THE TRAVELERS | 13

Hunting or Other Opportunities: good job title or magazine writers.

Chloe came to her decision rationally, plotting out a pros-and-cons

list. She is the methodical pragmatist in the couple; Will is the irrationalemotional idealistic one.

I think the takeover is stressing Malcolm out, Will says. Te nego-

tiations are ending, both sides are doing due diligence. He seems to have

a lot o presentations, reports, meetings.

Is he worried or his job?

Not that hell admityou know how Malcolm isbut he has to be,

right?

Chloe grunts an assent; she knows more about Malcolms office per-

sona than Will does. Tose two worked together a long time, and it was a

difficult transition when Malcolm eventually became her boss. Tey both

claimed that her departure was 100 percent amicable, but Will had his

doubts. Te closed-door I-quit meeting seemed to last a long time.

Tey also both claimed theyd never had a thingno flirtation, no

fling, no late-night make-out session in Mallorca or Malaysia. Will had

doubts about that too.Okay then, she says, leaning down or another kiss, this one more

generous than their previous good-bye. Have a good trip.

People can spend hours packing or a weeklong overseas trip. Tey stand

in their closets, desultorily flipping through hangers. Tey rummage

through medicine cabinets, searching or the travel-sized toothpaste.

Tey scour every drawer, box, and shel or electrical adapters. Tey might

have some o the oreign currency lying around somewhere, maybe in the

desk . . . ? Tey double- and triple-check that their passports are in their

pockets.

Its been a long time since Will was one o those amateurs. He collects

his bright-blue roll-aboardeasy to describe to a bellhop, or to spot in a

lost-and-ound. It would also be easy to ID on a baggage carousel, but that

will never happen. Will doesnt check luggage.He mechanically fills the bag with piles rom dresser drawers, the

same exact items he packed or his previous trip, each in its preordained

position in the bags quadrants, which are delineated by rolled-up boxer


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14 | CHRIS PAVONE

shorts and socks. It takes Will five minutes to pack, long-zip short-zip

upright on the floor, the satisying clunk o rubberized wheels on bare

parquet.He walks into his office. One bookshel is lined with shoeboxes labeled

in a meticulous hand: . , . , ,

, , . From . Will

chooses a small stack o euros rom among other clipped-together clumps

o paper money, and a packet o Paris Metro tickets, and a burgundy-

covered street-map booklet. He grabs a plug adapter, refits his computer

charger with the long cylindrical prongs, ready to be inserted into exotic

European outlets.

Last but not least, his passport, thick with the extra pages rom the

State Department, filled with stamps and visas, exit and entry, coming

and going. Its the rare immigration officer who ails to comment on the

peripatetic paperwork. Will has been detained beore, and no doubt will

be again.

Will stands in the doorway, looking around, worried that hes orget-

ting something, what . . . ?He remembers. Opens a drawer, and removes a box clad in wrapping

paper and bound in silk ribbon, just small enough to fit into his jacket

pocket, just large enough to be uncomortable there.

Will clambers down the long flight o rickety stairs to the parlor floor,

and out the ront door. He picks up the newspaper, descends more dan-

gerous steps, and exits their postage-stamp yard, where a surprisingly un-

dead rose vine clings to the iron ence, a handul o perect red blooms.

He sets off toward the subway, dragging his bag, just as hes done every

ew weeks or a decade.

Te bag rolls over the remains o a single rose that seems to have met a

violent end, petals strewn, stem broken. Will glances at the little red mess,

wondering what could have happened, and when, why someone would

murder one o his flowers right here in ront o the house. He cant help

but wonder i it was Chloe who did this.

Will has been increasingly worried that his bride is slipping away, thattheirs may become another marriage that succumbs to financial pressures

and work travel and the looming specter o inertility. Worried that love is


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THE TRAVELERS | 15

not always enough, or not permanent enough. Worried that all the non-

un parts will eclipse the un parts.

Will bends over, looks closer. Tis decimated flower is not a rose, notrom his yard, nothing to do with him. Its someone elses dead carnation,

someone elses crime o passion.

Maybe hes worried about all the wrong things.


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2

NEW YORK CITY

The doors plaque reads simply , no name plate, as i the human

being in there is interchangeable with the ones who came beore, and

the ones who will come afer. An office thats occupied by a job, not

by a person. Tere have been only our o them in the magazines seventy-

year history.

Come!

Malcolm Somers is sitting in his big executive chair behind his big

executive desk, across rom Gabriella Rivera, her profile ramed by the

floor-to-ceiling window onto Avenue o the Americas. Nothing is visible

outside except other office buildings, up and down the avenue, thousands

o windows into other lives, suits and ties, computers and coat racks, er-gonomic chairs and solar-screen blinds and pressed-wood L-shaped desks

exuding ormaldehyde, and not even the barest glimpse o sky above nor

street below, which can be seen only with ace pressed against the glass,

something no one except a child would do. Malcolms kids do it.

Gabriella doesnt turn to see whos entering. She remains sitting per-

ectly still with her perect legs crossed, one low heel dangling rom the

alof oot, a sleek elegant figure, like an ad or something, a product, Sexy

Proessional Woman Sitting in Stylish Chair. An ad or the product that

is hersel.

Sorry to interrupt, Will says. Ive got a flight . . .

Will stands in the doorway o the big room, waiting or permission to

enter, or Malcolm to dismiss Gabriella.

Gabs? Malcolm asks.

Te deputy editor waits a punitive beat beore she nods. She stands

and smooths her skirt, a garment that straddles the line o decency, de-pending on point o view. Most men would say its just the right amount

o tight and short; most women would disagree.


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THE TRAVELERS | 17

Gabriella turns, gives Will that dazzling smile. But beneath the veneer

o those white teeth, those plush pillows o lips, Will can see the resent-

ment at her interrupted meeting, maybe more. Will senses something inthe air here, between these two. And not or the first time.

Sorry, Will reiterates, apologizing to another woman who doesnt

want to hear it.

She shrugs, not his ault, something else at play. Have a good trip.

France, is it? How long?

A week.

Gabriella cocks her head, considering something. We should have a

drink soon, she says, though Will doesnt think thats what shed been

considering. Its been a while. On her way past, she squeezes Will s arm,

and he eels a jolt rom the strong current o sexual energy that flows rom

this woman.

Malcolm calls afer her, Te door, please?

She shuts it rom the ar side, perhaps a little too firmly, but still per-

ectly deniable, not a slam.

Malcolms suit jacket is hanging on a wooden valet, his sleeves arerolled at the cuff. As always, the top button o his shirt is undone, the

knot o his necktie loosened, like he just finished a long hard day, having

a glass o scotch, neat. He looks exhausted, bags under his eyes, a hol-

lowness to his cheeks. Hes usually an extra-healthy-looking specimen,

a natural athlete who spends his weekends outdoors, on boats and grass

and sand, with little children and gol clubs, with the wholesome perks

o his position.

But not now. Now he looks like crap.

How are things, Rhodes? Malcolm asks. Sorry I couldnt stay or

the afer-party last night. Who was there? Did that hot wine rep o yours

come along?

Come on, man, stop saying things like that. You know someday

somebody is going to overhear you, and get me in a whole lot o trouble.

Malcolm holds up his hands, mea culpa, a smirk thats the tell that his

baiting is mostlyor partiallyan act. Malcolm is playing a role, a trope,a fictional misogynist, a guys-guy buddy. Just as he plays the role o hy-

percritical boss and mercurial editor-in-chie, the role o lustul middle-


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18 | CHRIS PAVONE

aged married man, one role afer another that he inhabits with patent

detachment. Malcolm is so consistently ironic about so much that hes

even ironic about his irony, which makes it tough to know what Malcolmtruly eels about anything.

And the Luxembourg trip? You went to a ormal thing at thewhat

was it?palace? Castle? How was that?

Deadly. Tough I did get to shake hands with the grand duke. Te

party was at his palace, a sprawling pile in the middle o the city. Diplo-

mats and bankers and a smattering o Eurotrash nobility and, probably,

no shortage o spies in black ties.

Malcolm stares at Will, one corner o his mouth curled, not quite

committing to a smile. So tell me, Rhodeshe says, shifing gearsare

you evergoing to turn in that sidebar on the Swiss Alps? How long does it

take to write three hundred words? You think that just because youre not

hideous to look at, you can get away with

Not true.

anything, but i we have to hold the issue

Stop!Ill finish today.Malcolm stands, stretches, walks around his desk. His limp is always

most pronounced when hes been sitting awhile. Afer two hours in a the-

ater or airplane seat, he hobbles like an arthritic old man. But not on the

tennis court.

I just need to cross my is and dot my ts. Ill hit Send beore lifoff.

And its five hundred words, not three hundred, you ignorant bastard.

Malcolm plops into an armchair, next to the coffee table. Listen, sit

down, will you? I want to talk about that new column I mentioned. It is

indeed or you. Congratulations, Rhodes, youre moving up in the world.

Im honored.

ry to restrain your enthusiasm. Itll be called Americans Abroad,

and itll be aboutwait or itAmericans, who are living where?

Ill go out on a limb: abroad?

Tats the sort o sharpness I expect rom you East Coast media-elite

types.Im rom Minnesota.

With your Ivy League liberal-arts degrees.


20/28

THE TRAVELERS | 19

I majored in journalism at Northwestern. But didnt you go to school

somewhere in the Northeast? Athletic uniorms a color called crimson?

Itll be the whole expat experience, Rhodes, the communities, the lie-style. Whyd they move there? Howd they choose the locale? Did they

integrate into the local culture, or not? Well explore the reality behind the

antasy. But without digging too deep, without unearthing all the ugly sad

lonely crap down there. You know . . . Malcolm gestures in the vague di-

rection o ugly sad lonely crap, which as it happens is toward imes Square.

Will is not sure that he understands. Whats the point, Malcolm?

Whats this about?

Whats it ever about? Malcolm extends his hand, opens it, explana-

tion sel-evident, voil. Escapist antasy. Aspirational liestyle. Ad sales.

Its a pay bump, Rhodes, five K per annum. Plus eature bylines with big

contributor-page photos guaranteed or our issues per year. Tat is, i you

can deliver the our pieces, you lazy shifless piece o shit.

Will turns this idea over in his mind. Its not exactly the career ad-

vancement he was hoping or, which is an elusive concept to begin with.

Will doesnt have any concrete vision more rational than a movie deal oran article he hasnt written, a contract or a book he hasnt conceived.

Hed like to imagine hell get what he deserves. He wants to believe

that this is how the worldor at least his world, upper-middle-class,

college-educated, white-collar white-people Americaworks: meritoc-

racy. Tis is the promise.

But what does Will Rhodes merit? Does he have the right to be envi-

ous o what he doesnt have? Or should he be extremely grateul or what

he does have?

Will is on the cusp o the collapse o his idealism, alternating hope and

despair day by day, sometimes minute by minute, wondering i his lie can

still turn out to be perect. Like being twelve years old, toggling back and

orth between little kid and teenager, crushes on girls but also clutching a

teddy bear in the middle o the night.

Malcolm is on no such cusp. A decade separates the two men, and

somewhere in there is the point at which idealism gave way to pragma-tism, completely and irrevocably. Will doesnt know how this is supposed

to happen, or when. Is it getting married? Having kids? Is it when one


21/28

20 | CHRIS PAVONE

parent dies, or both? Is it turning thirty, or orty, fify? Whats the thing

that happens that makes people think: its time to grow up, ace reality,

get my act together?Whatever it is, it hasnt yet happened to Will. So he finds himsel con-

stantly disappointed in the world, in its ailures to live up to his ideals.

What are we looking or, Mal? Anything different?

Were always looking or something different, Rhodes, you know

that. Different, in the same precise goddamned way. Plus, you know what

this assignment means?

Will shakes his head.

Rampant opportunities. Tere are a lot o expat housewives out there.

Bored, hot, hornyexpat housewives. A target-rich environment.

Give me a break.

Malcolm smiles. Start putting together notes. Tats why we booked

you or a ew more days in southwest France. Te Paris bureau has con-

tacts or you.

Really?

What? You have a problem with drinking wine in the South oFrance?

No, its just that Ive been going through the archives, and weve run

dozens o ull-length articlesno exaggeration, dozensabout southern

France.

Te archives? Youre shitting me. Why?

What can I tell you? I take my job seriously.

And I appreciate it. But the archives? I dont even know where we keep

the archives.

Down on twenty-eight. Across rom corporate accounting.

Youll recall that I didnt ask.

But I bet youre gratified I told you. Youre welcome.

Malcolm mugs a dubious look.

For a long time, Will continues, there was a France piece every

third issue or so. I think Jonathan overharvested that crop.

Tey let the ex-editors name hang in the air. Jonathan Mongeleachwas loved around here, the center o every party, women swirling around

him along with lurid rumors, many o them about his extramarital love

lie, his acrimonious divorce, his varied vices.


22/28

THE TRAVELERS | 21

Jonathan was missed. On the other hand, it was when Jonathan

disappearedtruly disappeared, didnt come to work one day, no one

ever saw or heard rom him againthat Malcolm got promoted to thecorner office, at first temporarily, then provisionally, then permanently.

Which is when Malcolm hired Will. Ill be honest, Malcolm said, I

need an ally. A wingman, aide-de-camp, consigliere, and tennis partner.

Te list o qualified applicants is one. You up or it, Rhodes?

Teyd both gained something by Jonathans departure, and they

couldnt pretend otherwise. Will had gotten a more senior job at a more

prestigious company. But Malcolm had gained ar more: its a huge jump

to become editor o a major magazine, with car and driver, clothing al-

lowance, an expense account that or all practical purposes is unlimited.

And all this on top o the gorgeous wie and the adorable children, the

beautiul apartment and the summer house, the everything. Malcolm al-

ready had everything, then he got more.

During the first days o Jonathans disappearance, the assumption was

that hed been murdered. Tere were plenty o people who admired Jona-

than, but also a ew who loathed him. As time dragged on and no bodywas ound, suspicion shifed toward the possibility that Jonathan had

chosen to disappear himsel. Tere were allegations o gambling debts

and bankruptcy, a vindictive ex-wie and a predatory IRS. Tere was talk

o suicide, and ake suicide, o a lie insurance policy that named his es-

tranged daughter as beneficiary. But so ar, nothing concrete had been

proven, and not much disproven.

Everyone moved on, these two men into these two chairs.

Maybe he decided to go to France, Will says, and never come back.

Yes, maybe. But wherever Jonathan is, he certainly doesnt want to be

ound. I hes even alive.

You think hes not?

Tats possible. We all knew he was a strange guy, and he was defi-

nitely a cunning guya brilliant guyand it looks like he was into some

strange shit, some o it maybe dangerous. So who knows? Malcolm

opens a drawer, removes a padded envelope. Speaking o France, this isor Inez. Drop it off whenever.

Will glances down, another hand-delivery to someone in a different

country, a red stamp.


23/28

22 | CHRIS PAVONE

A year ago, when Malcolm first handed him such an envelope, Will

asked what it was.

You see that stamp there? Malcolm responded. Personal and confi-dential,addressed to someone whos not you?

Yeah.

Tat means itspersonaland its confidential, or someone whos not

you.

Gotcha.

You remember the Sony hack, Rhodes? Te Office o Personnel

Management? JPMorgan Chase? Snowden? Digital inormationdigital

communicationsare as insecure as ever. So around here, we do things

the old-ashioned way. Malcolm tapped the envelope. We send each

other shitloads o paper.

Since then Will had received plenty o these envelopes to tote over-

seas, as well as more than a ew or himsel: personnel memos and payroll

orms and health-insurance paperwork and workplace-law notices and

legal waivers.

Listen, I need to jump on a call, so go. Malcolm makes the shooingmotion. Get the uck out.

Will stands, strides across the big office, reaches or the doorknob.

And hey, Rhodes?

Will turns back.

Lets be careul out there.

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

Te room is the size o a basketball court but with the ceiling height o

a coat closet, low and claustrophobic, fluorescent-lit and gray-carpeted,

flimsy upholstered chest-high dividers separating the cubicles, nearly a

hundred workspaces in here, all with laminate desktops and gooseneck

lamps and plastic-and-mesh chairs on casters that glide across the pieces

o hardened rubber that sit on the floor to make it easy to roll around,but no more than a oot or two in any direction, because these are small

cubicles.


24/28

THE TRAVELERS | 23

Every cheap desktop has a computer with a twenty-three-inch moni-

tor. Every low-end plastic chair has an occupant. Tere are no vacancies,

nor is there space to hire more personnel, even though more would bewelcomethis is a round-the-clock operation with three shifs every day

including weekends and holidays, never a moment when its acceptable

or the lights to be out.

Te demographic is primarily South Asian, male, mid-twenties to late

thirties, earning rom eleven to nineteen dollars per hour. On the higher

end, in a cubicle identical to all the others, Raji notices an incoming alert

pop up, one o a dozen that he receives daily about the travel details o any

o the fifeen hundred individuals on his segment o the watch list.

Raji copies the inormation into the relevant windows at the prompts:

U.S. passport number: 11331968

Flight: 19 JFK to CDG

Ticket category: B11

Seat: 12A

Alert code: 4

He hits Post, then returns his attention to his bag o barbecue potato

chips.

NEW YORK CITY

My man, Reggie says, wearing the same ear-to-ear grin as ever. Will

has never seen the old guy in a bad mood, and Reggie has been working

curbside check-in or decades.

Where you off to this time, 007? Reggie likes to kid that Will isnt a

writer, hes a spy; that his magazine byline is just a cover. Over the years,

Reggie hasnt been the only person to have made this tongue-in-cheek

accusation.

Its France this time, Reggie.

Ooh-la-la. Te two men bump fists.Will reaches into his pocket, removes the gif-wrapped box. For

Aisha. Its a ew o those chocolates she loves.


25/28

24 | CHRIS PAVONE

Oh, you shouldnt have.

Happy to. Plus, I got them or ree! He didnt. Hows she doing this

week?Better, thank you.

Will nods. Please tell her happy birthday or me.

I will, Mr. Bond. Reggie winks. You have a good trip.

Will doesnt understand how someone with such a crappy job can

enjoy it so much, or can pretend so convincingly. But then again, theres a

lot about normal orty-hour-per-week jobs that Will doesnt understand.

He has barely ever had one.

In the terminal, Will examines himsel in a mirror, surrounded by

all this corporate signage, Kimberly-Clark and American Standard, Rub-

bermaid and Purell, a barrage o brands. He himsel is a brand too, Will

Rhodes, ravel Writer, with his little suede notebook, his canvas sport

jacket over oxord shirt and knit tie, twill pants, rubber-soled brogues,

sturdy comortable clothes that wont wrinkle or crease or collect lint or

stains, none thatll look any worse or wear afer twenty hours hanging off

his lanky rame, flying across the ocean.Afer takeoff he washes down his sleeping pill with a whiskey. He re-

clines his seat, inserts the ear plugs, and stretches the mask over his eyes, a

well-rehearsed routine. Almost immediately, he alls into an innocent sleep.

NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN

Will doesnt know how long hes been outten minutes? three hours?

when a loud rumble wakes him, the shuddering o the 747, the vibration

traveling up his thighs and tailbone through his spine.

He pushes down his mask, unplugs his ears. urns to the man-child

next to him, a thirty-year-old wearing high-topped sneakers and a back-

ward baseball cap whod been preoccupied with a lollipop and a video

game when Will last looked.

Whats happening? Will asks.Te guy looks ashen, eyes wide, mouth agape. Shakes his head.

Ladies and gentlemen, please ensure that your seatbelts are securely

astened, and all trays are in their upright position.


26/28

THE TRAVELERS | 25

Tese are the same words Will has heard hundreds o times beore. Sit

back relax and enjoy the flight. We know you have your choice o carriers.

Our first priority is your saety. Wed like to extend a special welcome . . .A flight attendant hurries past, gripping each seatback tightly as she

passes, banging her knee into the rontmost armrest, pausing to gather her

balance and her wits beore launching hersel across the open purchase-

less space to a jump seat, which she alls onto, buckles hersel in, pulling

the straps tight, taking a deep breath.

Oxygen masks all rom their overhead doors, and an audible wave o

panic ripples down the uselage. Will places the mask over his ace, and

tries as instructed to breathe normally, pinned under gathering terror to

the sof leather o seat 12A.

Te plane plummets.

People start to scream.

NEW YORK CITY

Malcolm walks the perimeter o the thirtieth floor, looking or any last

stragglers who might interrupt him. Everyone still here is too junior, and

none would have the nerve to barge in on the chie at seven-thirty, except

the ood editor, the guy everyone calls Veal Parmesan. Veal never seems

to leave. But he also never visits Malcolm.

Malcolm closes his door, turns the knob to lock it. He takes a ew steps

along the wall thats decorated with ramed Travelers covers, decades

worth o the magazines best work, like a museum exhibit or the people

who traipse through this office regularly.

He squats in the corner o the bookshelves, pushes aside a handul o

old guidebooks, reaches his hand past the books, all the way to the back

wall. He locates a button by touch, and presses it.

For a ew decades, this was the only security mechanism. But during

a wave o paranoia in the post-Nixon seventies, the new editor-in-chie

Jonathan Mongeleach was convinced to add a second level o security. Inthe eighties this analog lock was replaced by an electronic device, then

over the past two decades by ever more sophisticated digital models, with

increasing requency o upgrades, as strongly advised by the consultants


27/28

26 | CHRIS PAVONE

and developers who never ail to push each years advance as an exponen-

tial technological leap, last years security laughably outdated this year. Or

so claimed by the people who profit rom the technology, with no practi-cal way or any o its consumers to assess the claim, least o all Malcolm.

What a racket.

So now this mechanical button is merely a secondary system. Mal-

colm activates the primary system via a hidden panel at chest height, be-

hind a big thick reerence book, using his thumbprint and the input o a

long access code.

With a nearly silent click, the entire section o bookcase is released.

Te wall swivels open a couple o inches o its own accord, on sturdy brass

hinges; this is a heavy section o wall, hundreds o pounds. Malcolm pulls

it open wide enough to walk through. Ten he closes the door behind

him, and disappears into the wall.


28/28

THE TRAVELERS

Chris Pavone grew up in Brooklyn, graduated from Cornell, and

was an editor at book-publishing houses in New York for fifteen

years. His 2012 debut, The Expats, described by the Sunday

Timesas a captivating, sophisticated thriller won both the Edgarand Anthony Awards for best first novel. It was followed in 2014

by the New York Timesbestseller The Accident.

www.chrispavone.com

If you like real nail-biters, [The Accident]

is the best one so far this year.

STEPHEN KING

Bristling with suspense and elegantly crafted,

The Expatsintroduces a compelling and powerful

female protagonist you wont soon forget.

PATRICIA CORNWELL

Clever, sophisticated and propulsive.I am constantly awed by Chris Pavones writing.

Hes already one of the best in the thriller business.

JOSEPH FINDER

Documents

The Travelers by Chris Pavone - excerpt