Color Of Blood (43 page)

Peter was right,
Dennis thought
.
How could I have missed it?

Dennis went back to the web browser and searched the white pages for the home listing of the person he was looking for. Every piece of information about someone, it seemed, was on the Internet these days, even Agency employees.

After jotting down the person’s home address, he visited the Starbucks official store-locator site. After nearly twenty minutes of searching, he guessed which Starbucks location the person stopped at in the mornings before work.
It has to be on the right side of the road inbound to Langley,
he thought. This individual was renowned for their Starbucks grande
latte each morning, replete with an extra shot of espresso. He cleared the browser’s memory again and left the library.

Dennis ate dinner at his favorite small Vietnamese restaurant in Shirlington. The place was packed on a Thursday evening with young, well-paid government bureaucrats spending wads of money on exotic drinks and fancy dinners. It was now March of 2007, and he thought the Iraq War was turning ugly for the soldiers on the ground, but good for the contractors and subcontractors here at home.

Dennis got dressed earlier than normal and left the house while other families in the neighborhood were just waking up.

He used another new disposable cell phone to order a taxi, giving the address of a split-level colonial three blocks away. The dispatcher said the car would be there in twenty minutes.

As quietly as he could manage, he opened the back door through the kitchen and stood quietly on the enclosed back porch listening to the sounds of his Arlington neighborhood waking up. A dog barked sharply nearby, and he heard a car door slam. An engine ignited, and a car pulled way.

He walked out through the screen door on the porch, gently closing it behind him. He could see his neighbor to the left through their kitchen window; the army officer was fully dressed and was holding a cup of coffee while the flicker of a TV screen made the room jump haphazardly.

Dennis swung over the waist-high chain-link fence to his elderly neighbor’s property on his right. He moved swiftly across their backyard and jumped the small fence separating the property from the sidewalk and street.

The night before, he had been struck by a severe case of paranoia and decided—even though it might be overkill—to play it safe. A cable company van had been parked in the street for the past several days, and it was enough of a coincidence that he was forced to take evasive measures.

Dennis walked the three blocks to the address he had given the taxi company. To avoid drawing attention, he walked past the house and slowed, crossing the street and walking back. After ten minutes, the taxi pulled up to the house, and Dennis hustled over to it.

He kept looking at his watch, trying to ensure he’d be in place at the Starbucks when his target showed up for their morning coffee. If he picked the wrong Starbucks, or the wrong morning, he’d have to think of another venue away from Langley to reach this person.

The taxi dropped him off at the small strip mall on Route 123 in McLean by 7:00 a.m. Dennis went inside, ordered a tall coffee, purchased a
Washington Post
, and sat at a small table with a view of the front door. The place was already crowded with harried, desperate commuters in search of their morning fix.

The front page of the
Post
was consumed with stories about the mounting cost of the war in Iraq. Roadside bombs maimed and killed more American soldiers than ever before. No amount of preparation or technology seemed able to prevent US soldiers from being shredded by these homemade devices. The US military blamed terrorist bomb-making cells of Shiite jihadists from Iran and Pakistan for fostering the expertise to kill.

After nearly thirty minutes of waiting and watching, Dennis sagged. His hunting skills had misled him this time.

He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and was about to call the taxi service when he saw her walk through the door and stand in the lengthening line of coffee addicts.

He waited until she picked her latte off the counter and was walking out until he moved in front of her.

“Sally!” he said.

“Cunningham,” she said, startled. “You scared the crap out of me. Jeeze! Um, how are you?”

“Great,” he said. “How you doing?”

“Same old crap,” she said. “War, war, and more war; it’s a shitty little business, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Not my area of expertise.”

She smirked. “Yes, we know you OIG folks don’t dirty yourselves. Oh well, such is the lot we’ve chosen. See you around the water cooler.”

“Uh, actually, Sally, I wonder if you had just a few minutes—to talk. A few minutes.”

She stared at him sharply over the top of her latte, taking a small, calculated sip.

“So this wasn’t an accidental meeting on the way to work?”

“Not entirely,” he said.

“Cunningham, I have some vague recollection that you’re on the outs. Someone mentioned something to me the other day, but it was in passing. Any truth to that stuff?”

“You know me, Sally. I couldn’t give a shit about that kind of gossip. It’ll take just a few moments. Please?” he said, gesturing to the small table where the
Post
lay sprawled.

“Two minutes max,” she said curtly. “I have a con call in about forty-five minutes.”

They sat down, and Dennis was again painfully aware of how attractive she was; her medium-length dark hair looked luxuriant, and her hazel eyes beamed from a ring of understated mascara and eyeliner.

Only now the eyes had a steely cast to them: the look of an experienced intelligence analyst whose professional life was spent appraising data and its supplier for veracity, motive, and leverage.

In the OIG, Dennis and the other investigators referred to it as the “Shake and Bake.” It happened the moment an Agency employee comprehended that an innocuous conversation with an IG investigator had taken a dangerous turn. The “Shake” referred to the figurative or literal shake of the head by the employee the moment they recognized their exposure; the “Bake” referred to them baking or cooking up an entirely new attitude that was either defiant or profoundly restrained.

Sally had just pirouetted a perfect Shake and Bake.

“What’s up?” she said.

“You remember the last time we caught up with each other? It was in the cafeteria six or so weeks ago.”

“Nope.”

“OK, well, we were sitting in the cafeteria, and you were sort of warning me about having anything to do with Massey. Remember?”

“Nope.”

“And you said that he was working closely with the Pennsylvania Avenue folks, right? Maybe even JSOC?”

She took a sip.

“And you said the people at Pennsylvania Avenue were coming up with a host of crazy ideas in order to demonstrate progress in the war to people at home. Do you remember that?”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “Look, I really have to be going, Cunningham.” She tried to stand, but he reached across and grabbed her wrist.

“Just one more question, OK?” he said, feeling her tendons tighten. He let go of her wrist.

She glared at him.

“One of those crazy ideas involved shipping rare earth metals to Iran, didn’t it?”

She frowned.

“Come on, Sally,” he said. “You must know what I’m talking about. Was one of these crazy ideas to ship rare metals like Europium to Iran? They use Europium in nuclear reactors and even nuclear weapons detonators. Did you know that?”

“Cunningham, what the hell are you talking about? I think you might want to consider getting a full psychiatric workup.”

“Sally, it’s common knowledge that the Administration would do anything to stop American soldiers from being blown up by IEDs in Iraq. The media is full of stories showing our poor guys maimed by these bombs. We’ve all heard bizarre stories of plots to keep Shiites and Sunnis from killing GIs.”

“I can’t remember all of the stupid ideas that were thrown around, Cunningham,” she said. “And what’s the point? None of this stuff moved off the blue-sky list to live ops.”

“No, I think this one did,” Dennis said. “Yeah, I know it’s crazy, but someone kicked this project off using contractors to ship these metals to Iran. And I know you must have heard about it.”

“I told you, Cunningham, that one never happened
.
Do you have a tumor or something?”

“OK; but stick with me. What was the logic of that particular idea?”

“Oh, Christ, who knows what the idea was?” she said, pushing her chair back. “Maybe some people thought Iran would do anything to acquire this stuff, including restraining Shiite militias and pointing them at the Sunnis to get them to stop? I don’t know. A million scenarios are hashed out daily.”

“But didn’t anyone think that this particular idea was a really, really bad one?”

“That’s why it was never approved,” she said, standing. “Stop worrying about shit that doesn’t go down; worry about the shit that does.”

“You’re wrong, Sally. It was certainly approved. Someone gave a green light to the program, and it looks like Massey ran it through his group.”

“That’s total bullshit,” Sally said.

“Sally, I found the mining operation tucked away in Australia. I tracked a shipment of Europium to Iran. There’s no compelling reason for the US to be shipping rare earth metals to Iran unless they get something really, really big in return. There was an Operations guy before me who stumbled upon the same scheme. He was working for Massey, and the kid tried to alert the news media, but the Agency killed the story.”

Sally twitched at the mention of news media. She sat back down and scanned the interior of the Starbucks, looking at the face of every patron and employee.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s just me.”

She stared hard at him for several seconds. “You understand that I’m required to report this conversation?”

“Of course I know that,” he said. “But for the record, you folks are absolutely one hundred percent out of control.”

“Poor, poor Dennis,” she said, standing. She was out the front door before he could fold up his
Washington Post
.

He passed through the guardhouse at the Langley parking lot without incident. He half expected to be detained there but was relieved to avoid that indignity.

Dennis went directly to his office and waited.

Agitated, he fiddled with his computer.

Why did I go through all this trouble?
he wondered
.
What was the point? To prove I could break into their little operation? Big fucking deal. At least Garder tried to do something about it. I’m just sitting here waiting to get punished like a naughty child.

Dennis stood up and walked quickly down the labyrinth of hallways to the main entrance. At the front desk, he asked one of the receptionists to call him a cab. He kept looking at his watch. He had been inside the facility for twenty-two minutes. Dennis estimated Sally had a forty-five-minute head start.

It took twelve excruciating minutes for his cab to arrive, and he relaxed only slightly when the cab got through the main gate.

***

The lie was not so hard to pull off. First, the secretary wrinkled her nose and called her superior. Dennis repeated his pitch, and after nearly thirty minutes of confusion on the part of staffers, Dennis found himself speaking to congressman Daniel Barkley’s chief of staff in her small, disheveled office.

“I’m sorry, but you say you’ve been sent here to report directly on a sensitive constituent service request the congressman has requested? Is that what you’re saying?” Veronica Chastain said.

“Yes. Sent directly from the inspector general to report on something the congressman had requested regarding one of his constituents. Representative Barkley said it was very important, and that’s why I was sent to deliver the information personally to him.”

“This is unusual,” she said. “We had no notice you were coming.”

Dennis handed over his CIA identification badge.

“Feel free to call the IG’s office,” Dennis bluffed.

She pushed his badge back across the table. Dennis could tell she was irritated.

She picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit extension.

“Where is he?” she said and listened. “Right.”

She hung up.

“I can squeeze five minutes out of the congressman’s schedule to chat with you. That’s five minutes,” she said holding up the splayed fingers of her right hand. “Not seven or ten minutes—five. Please do not hold him up in any way. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Dennis said.

“Please wait outside in the front office. We’ll call you.”

Dennis returned and sat. After twenty minutes he began to fidget; after thirty minutes he began to fight the temptation to leave. After forty-five minutes he stood up, smiled at the receptionist, and left the office.

She raced after him and asked where he was going.

“Back to my office in Langley,” he said.

“The congressman is on his way over now. Please return, if you don’t mind.”

Dennis had barely sat down in an overstuffed leather chair when a young man appeared and invited Dennis to follow him.

Dennis walked into the congressman’s massive, ornate office, and was directed to a chair in front of Representative Barkley’s desk, as the congressman finished a phone call.

After hanging up, Barkley smiled brightly and said, “I’m sorry, but my staff is a little confused about why you’re here. How can I help the IG?”

“Excuse me, sir, but you requested his help about six months ago to look into the disappearance of the son of one of your constituents who is an employee of the Agency. His name was Geoffrey Garder.”

“Oh, uh, yes, I remember,” Barkley said. “The agent had disappeared, or something like that. But that was a pro forma request, and I certainly didn’t expect a personal briefing on the case. Please just give the report to Veronica,” he said, waving his hand and smiling politely. “She’ll be glad to take the debrief. And thank the IG for his help, would you?”

“Actually, the agent went AWOL, sir,” Dennis said. “He’s not dead. Or at least we don’t think so.”