The Merchant of Secrets (10 page)

The six sessions were pretty much the same and after the requirement
was complete a package arrived in the mail, with a return address indicating
who it came from, and I could tell it was my evaluation. I tensely opened the
heavy envelope and began reading. In it, the penguin-like therapist released a
 torrent of allegations against me, including that I was delusional and a
danger to myself and those around me and that I should immediately be removed
from my position  and commit myself to a “treatment program.” The words on
the paper hit like a right hook from a heavyweight boxer.  I foresaw the
damage it would do to my ability to regain my security clearance.  

Also inside the envelope, was a note from Todd requiring
my presence at a meeting the next Monday at 1:00 at his
office.
It was clear he intended to bury me.

Without a security clearance I could no longer work for
the Department of Homeland Security, the role that had defined me for so long
was gone, and with it my identity and my pride. There was no reason to get out
of bed in the morning anymore, I was alone and drowning in anguish, gripped by
a fear that I had become a shadow of my former self. I was being dragged to the
gates of Hell by a clown in a bright red tie. For almost my whole life I had
been strong and took pride in my resilience but this was too much even for
someone like me.  I was at the point where I needed to escape, so I opened
the liquor cabinet, put a bottle of gin to my lips and drank to
unconsciousness.

There were many of us who believed in the sanctity of our
duty to this country but it was a lot like believing in Santa Claus, at some
point you have to grow up.  The Jones experience led me to the bitter
truth that there were plenty of people running the show who were not only
ignoble but out right heinous. That blinding reality and the destruction of a
childhood dream that had guided me for so long made everything fall apart.

I gradually awoke sometime later under florescent lights
in small room with a mauve curtain. A heart monitor on my left kept my heart’s
rhythm, tubes stuck into my hands forced liquid into my veins.  I was
confused and in a fog, but gradually coming back to myself when a masculine
voice emerged from the chair on the left side of the bed. “Hi beautiful” the
voice greeted me.  “If this is heaven”, I thought, “God sounds a lot like
James Bond.” I turned to see Colin’s face smiling warmly at me from a few
inches away, with twinkling blue eyes and wavy brown hair. He was a delight to
see.  I didn’t think anybody cared about me, but there he was.   

A nurse hastened in, an up- beat, pretty woman in her
mid- twenties from West Virginia, wearing blue hospital pants and a “one size
fits all” kind of nurse’s shirt she apparently got from a uniform store.
“Hi there Caroline!
Well I guess you
kinda
like gin,” she joked, “you gave your boyfriend quite a scare.”

Upon hearing the word “boyfriend” I looked at Colin. His
faced turned red and he silently bowed his head to stare at his shoes. I
concentrated on his face, and after a few moments he looked up and stared back.
As tears filled my eyes and flowed down my cheeks he gently leaned over and
with his fingers wiped them away, then cradled me in his arms until the flow of
tears had stopped. He told me how much I meant to him and said that I should
never again feel so lonely that I couldn’t call him to help me get through
whatever pain I was dealing with. As he spoke all of my fear dissipated in his
arms.  He insisted I should stay with him at his apartment, promising to
chase the demons away and to make me feel safe. My spirits soared in a way only
someone who has been through Hell could imagine or understand.  

The next day we drove back to his apartment in
Georgetown. His place was still here, and I was still here, the spell was
broken and all was good.  

The apartment walls were painted black, with a black
leather sofa and black lacquer cocktail table. A chrome floor lamp leaned
tentatively over the sofa. Two sunken arm chairs, also in black leather
sandwiched the sofa. The bedroom was also painted in black.

“Honey, why did you paint this place all black?” I asked.
“I guess it’s your favorite color?”

“Nah,” he replied while determinedly attacking the cork
in a wine bottle with a particularly lethal- looking screw. Holding the bottle
in his left hand while pulling hard on the handle with his right, he grimaced
until the cork gave-way and the bottle popped open. Triumphantly, he grabbed
two wine glasses off the shelf with his left hand, and holding the bottle in
his right, deftly poured wine into each glass without wasting a drop.

“Bartender?”
I asked.

“It’s that obvious?” he asked. “Bahamas.
A few years ago.”

“Work?”

“Yea.”

“Well the black walls and furniture make the place disappear
into the night; it’s like this place becomes part of the darkness,” he said. “I
like it.”

We stepped onto the tiny brick patio in the back of the
house. The garden was enclosed with red brick privacy walls about eight feet
high. We sat in the wrought iron garden chairs and he set his glass down on a
glass-top cocktail table with a handmade driftwood base.

“Souvenir from the Bahamas?”
I
asked, looking at the driftwood.

His phone rang. “If you’re hungry,” he said, “there’s
some cheese and crackers in the kitchen, help yourself.” I took the cue that he
needed to speak privately, and left him
alone . 

The refrigerator was bare except for some old milk, some
old eggs, and a six pack of beer.  In his kitchen cabinet there was a loaf
of bread he had forgotten about months before, and it had spawned new life in
the form of a spongy white and green mold. Despite it being about the most
disgusting thing I had ever seen in a kitchen, I didn’t mind it so much. The
old milk, the old eggs, and the beer were a part of his character.  He was
thoughtful and kind, and that’s all that mattered.  After the call was
finished, he made room in his closet for my clothes and I put my toothbrush
next to the sink. Then we turned off the lights and crawled into bed.

The next afternoon I morphed into a domestic diva,
spending hours in the kitchen cooking butternut squash soup, beef curry,
roasted eggplant, and crème brulee for desert.  When it was ready, I
called him to the table and he pulled up a chair, and chowed
 
down
the entire meal in less than five minutes. Then he got up and
headed for the bedroom.

“Hey I’ve got a meeting in Chicago,
wanna
come along?” he asked, pulling a sweater over his head.

“What if Todd’s guys are there, with cameras?”

“Well, we’ll have to travel separately I guess,” he said,
tossing the sweater on a chair. He was tan, athletic, and unbelievably cute.
 

“Okay, and meet up at the hotel? “I asked.

“Yea,” he replied while slipping off his shoes “we’ve got to
maintain appearances.”  

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll book a room.” I reached over
and turned off the light but couldn’t sleep, thinking about Chicago. Colin was
a tremendous amount of fun, when he was in a good mood.

The next morning Colin went out for a run. When he came
back, he was making coffee and
the  humming
of a
coffee grinder woke me from my sleep. When it was done he poured himself a cup
and  returned to the bedroom, placing his coffee cup on a trunk which he
used as a table, and dropped his physically exhausted body into an armchair.
Outside the sky was still semi-dark, so I was reached for a light.

“Leave it off!” he snapped.

Brooding eyes and heavy eye-lids gave away that he hadn’t
slept a wink all night.  The smoothness of his face was disrupted by creases
between his brows and in his forehead, caused by consternation over something
that was deeply bothering to him.  When he started to speak about the
rising violence in Libya, now that the governments of Tunisia and Egypt had
fallen, I looked over at his laptop which was still lit and realized he had
gotten up early to read Defense Department briefs before he left for his run,
and that’s triggered his dark mood. He went on to describe how the third regime
in three months would collapse. The civilians were out-gunned by Gaddafi’s
forces, but the military was outnumbered by the millions of civilians taking to
the streets.  In Egypt, the population of people under fifty was
experiencing freedom for the first time in their lives and was swept up in euphoria.
“It’s wild” he said, rubbing his eyes.

We were all worried in varying degrees about the speed at
which the wave of change hit us and of the vulnerability that it created in the
region.  Like flood waters pulling in everyone into their path creating death
and destruction along the way, the murderous rampages of government loyalists
moved swiftly through the countryside leaving the streets stained with the
blood of the thousands of innocent civilians they had slaughtered. But the Arab
spring had a life
of its own
and could not be
contained. The civilian’s hearts and heads pounded for freedom from decades of
suffering and tyranny, and they were ready to die for their revolution. Nobody
knew what the outcome would look like, but to ensure the best possible outcome
for the U.S., the State Department had sent hundreds of diplomats into Libya to
try to connect with rebels forces.   

 After a few minutes he broke the silence. “It looks
like Gaddafi’s not going to leave office willingly and will be killed in office.
Dumb on his part; he could’ve run away with his family and had a great life
with all of the billions he stored in hidden bank accounts.  Gaddafi’s
domino
will  fall
within a few months and we’ve
got  to get agents on the ground to make contact with the people of
Libya,” he said, taking a sip of coffee and leaning back in his chair.
 “The communication going back and forth between our people and the Libyan
opposition leaders has to be protected, so a new system architecture is being
developed to deploy on the ground
,  to
ensure
that the information being relayed back is transmitted and stored safely.
That’s why I’m going to Chicago.”

“I’m happy that I don’t have to look at the pictures you
have to see, they would horrify me,” I said, recalling my prior experience with
some photos of entire families who were struck down by gunfire as they were
fleeing government tanks.  

He looked at the floor. “You’re right, there’s one I
can’t get out of my head...the image of small children lying on a mattress on
the floor in a shack loosely constructed of tin. They had been mowed down by
troops loyal to
Gaddafy
while they slept. The
mattress was covered in the
childrens
’ blood. What
threat did they pose to
Gaddafy
? What does murdering
children in their beds while they sleep have to do with the savages keeping
their dictator in power? How does that advance
Gaddafy’s
cause? We should have gotten
Gaddafy
after he bombed
that Pan Am flight over Lockerbie Scotland in the 1980’s but we didn’t because
we were afraid of angering the other Arab leaders and God knows we needed their
oil.” Colin bent his head toward the carpet, clasping his hands on his head and
resting his elbows on his knees. That image of children had been scorched into
his mind, and he’d never let it go. It seemed that his job was taking a toll on
him now, too.  

“You really hate
Gaddafy
,” I
remarked leaning back on the pillow and staring at the ceiling, tinted blue
from the light of the early morning sky.  

“My uncle was on the Pan Am flight over Lockerbie. He
murdered my uncle, so yes, I really hate
Gaddafy
,” he
said, nodding his head still bent over, looking at the ground. When it became
too burdensome to think about it anymore he changed the subject.  He
finished his coffee, set the mug down on the trunk, and raised his head. “
Mulally’s
set you up with a temporary office in Bailey’s
building. I guess you’re going to be working together.”

That was okay with
me,
I looked
forward to working with Bailey.

After we showered and dressed, we took a taxi to the
airport where he rented a car for me on a company credit card issued in his
name.  When I asked what had happened to my car, he didn’t respond.
 I figured Todd had one of his guys wiretap it along with my apartment.
Colin waved good-bye from the security gate and disappeared into the thick
crowd.  

Back at the apartment I wasted no time in hiring a driver
to take me all the way from Virginia to Chicago so that I could meet-up with
Colin without leaving an airline trail for Todd to track me down.  I
packed my bags, grabbed the keys, turned off the lights and shut the door
behind me. The
driver  picked
me up in front of
the apartment, and we stopped at a Seven-Eleven to get snacks for the long road
trip ahead. The driver was pleasant enough, but the 15 hour drive was very
long.  We drove through the night, taking turns behind the wheel until we
arrived in Lake Forest, Illinois around noon.

 I checked-in on my grandparents to see how they
were doing. Our terrier, Rascal, upon hearing a car pulling into the driveway
perked-up,
hoisted  his
upper body to the window
by placing his front paws on the window sill with wide black eyes and raised
ears.  When grandma opened the door he poked his nose through the opening,
then slipped out between the door jam and grandma’s legs,
and
 burst
into a sprint as fast as his little legs to take him, in a
happiness- induced delirium, to offer a properly enthusiastic reception.
 It was good to be home. Granddad was sitting in his favorite chair in the
library still reading the Sunday Times, although this was Wednesday. His
bi-focal glasses were balancing at the tip of his nose and he wearing a red
flannel shirt that Grandma had given him for Christmas.  He looked so
frail and sweet. Grandma’s eyes twinkled as she filled me in on the good gossip
about high school friends’ marriages and their babies and showed me letters
from my cousins.  I stayed for dinner, and then they walked with me to the
driveway and waved me away.