Favors and Lies (25 page)

—

Bent at the waist, looking backwards through her legs, the woman thrust her hips to the music. With her hair dusting the floor of the stage, she smiled at the barrel-chested Russian. When the song changed, she stood, spun, and threw one leg around the silver pole in the middle of the stage. Alex loosened his grip on the wad of cash in his hand and the dancer swooped in for another payment. The Russian had already financed three dances and was looking for an invite into the VIP room. On the house.

Like every good establishment where the bills are paid with disrobing booty, there were two main factors determining the success of the business. First, the place needed waitresses who were quick enough to fill drink orders before a patron realized a Bud Light cost fifteen bucks. Secondly, the dancers needed to smile. They stripped everything else. It was the only thing they had left.

Good Guys held residence in the second to last row house on upper Wisconsin Avenue, a block from Glover Park and adjacent to the Naval Observatory. The Observatory—an outdated scientific agency that had since moved its working bits to other parts of the country—was now home to the vice president of the United States. Rumor had it there was a secret path from the residence to the alley behind the club.

Next door to Good Guys, heading downhill towards the Potomac, was a sushi restaurant. The location of the sushi restaurant—with the strip club next door—was the butt of running jokes for customers of both establishments with regard to unwanted odors. While the owners of both businesses pointed fingers at one another during the summer months when the scent was strongest, the true culprit was two-hundred-year-old sewers that ran through Georgetown.

—

Dan walked into the bar and the bouncer stepped away from his stool to block the doorway. Dan flashed his driver's license and located Alex by the time the bouncer read his date of birth.

Dan scanned the room as he approached the black t-shirt and jeans bartender on the midday shift behind the bar. “A bottle of Standard Vodka. And two shot glasses.”

“Two hundred dollars,” the tattooed bartender responded, reaching into an unopened cabinet behind the bar. Dan peeled off a stack of twenties and put them on the counter. He grabbed the glasses and bottle and turned into a topless waitress buzzing by with a tray lifted above her head. The waitress performed a pirouette and Dan admired her rabbit-tailed derriere in addition to her balance.

A moment later, Dan slipped into the empty upholstered chair next to Alex. They were both facing the stage, within sweat-dripping distance. Dan put the bottle and the glasses on the table. The dancer was focused on Alex, providing a full view of the goods and a lesson in centrifugal force.

“I wondered if this was where you were heading,” Dan asked.

“You followed me.”

“I did.”

“You've come to ruin another form of entertainment?” Alex asked without looking over.

“To share some drinks.”

“I am technically working.”

Dan pointed to the beer bottle on the table.

“Beer does not count,” Alex retorted, his eyes on the stage.

“At least you didn't come far.”

“It is 703 paces from the rear entrance of the Russian Embassy to this table. More or less.”

“More or less,” Dan repeated sarcastically. He poured two glasses of Standard and held one in the air for Alex. “To your health,” he offered in Russian.

“To
our
health.” Alex took a sip, licked his lips, and put the glass on the table. “You know your barber is dead.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Frankly, I'm surprised you're still alive.”

“I'm a little surprised you're still breathing as well.”

“Me? I am Russian. I am official. There are rules. In the intelligence world, you don't kill another operative unless you have reason. Merely indentifying a counter operative is one thing. This alone makes the operative ineffective. Once a cover is blown, well, it is time for a career change. Killing one? This is not good business. Kill one and you will lose one of your own.”

“What about the barber? He was not a professional.”

“I did not kill the barber. My guess is the same people who tried to kill you, got to him. Loose lips sink ships, I believe is the saying.”

“But you have talked to me. Probably told me things you shouldn't have.”

“I have told you nothing about what is sacred to
me
. My allegiance is to my country. My fellow countrymen. Mother Russia. Have I betrayed those?”

“No.”

“Exactly. No, I have not. Nor would I ever. What I told you, well, it was not professional per se, but it was calculated. Perhaps I would get a slap on the wrist, but nothing more. Besides, at my age, I am in the position where I do more of the slapping, rather than being the one who is slapped.”

Dan filled both glasses again.

“You did not find what you were looking for?” Alex asked.

“I learned there is a plane being used out of the Manassas Airport. It has no flight records. No history. I know the size of the plane. The make of the plane. Yet, it still doesn't help me find my man.”

“If you wait long enough, your man will find you. Just stop running.”

“You are the second person to suggest that. You know there is a tactical disadvantage to that strategy.”

“Indeed.”

“I have questions for you.”

“As do I, for you. Tell me about your trip to the barber.”

“He was not helpful.”

“But yet, he told me the same story he told you. And the information he provided me was useful. Very useful, in fact.”

“Maybe he withheld the good part when he told the story to me.”

“Possible, but unlikely. At least not intentionally.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm quite sure the barber did not recognize the good part.”

“How could that be?”

Alex took the full shot glass, nodded to Dan, and poured it through his lips. “As I said, you are not an operative. You are not in operations. You are not a spy. You are something in between. You fight better than a spy. My wrist still hurts from our encounter in the motel room. But what you do not do is spy better than a spy. Quite simply, I listen better than you.”

“I still need your help.”

“Why should I help you?”

“Because you tried to help me before. Whatever that reason was, it is still valid.”

“Your failure is not a motivating excuse.”

“But you offered to help for a reason. You knew more.”

“And once again, you show you are something more than citizen Joe.”

“The average Joe.”

“Ahh. Even after all these years, sometimes those stupid idioms catch me.”

“Go on.”

Alex smiled. “You are learning. When someone is talking, or willing to talk, you listen.”

Dan nodded.

“As we mentioned before, the barber provided us with information we deemed useful from time to time. He was good with faces, remarkable actually. We used him to verify faces, identities. Generally speaking, when people come to a barber shop, they are coming to get their real hair cut. And of course, we have a good idea who is a CIA analyst and who works in human resources for the agency. I, as you can imagine, am only interested in operatives. Or identifying operatives. And I will use whatever information we can get.”

“And there was something more than his ability to remember faces and identify a toupee.”

“Indeed. As you are aware, our barber friend ran numbers.”

“A standard flipping opportunity.”

“People at the CIA should not gamble, but they do. The barber cut thousands of peoples' hair at the agency. But if you are an average Joe and you can't get to the barber during the work week and, let's say, your barber had hours elsewhere on Saturday or Sunday or on a weeknight, you might go and get your haircut at an off-site location.”

“And you might learn there is an opportunity to make some bets . . .”

“Standard flipping opportunities, as you put it. Low-level stuff, but not without reward. You find a gambler, you find a drinker. You follow him and you find a stripper. A call girl. You try to determine what he knows that could be useful to you, or what he doesn't know that could also be useful to you.”

“And the barber helped you identify those who were gambling.”

“In some cases. He didn't know many names, but he was very good with faces.”

“And you provided photos to aid the cause. How did you get them?”

“Leg work. Unglamorous, nose to the grindstone, diligence. There are tens of thousands of employees at the CIA. We have photographs of a majority of them.”

“How?”

“For many, many years there was only a primary, single entrance into the CIA. Now, there are two, plus an additional entrance for deliveries, but it is still a strategic bottleneck failure for your spy agency.”

“You staked out the CIA?”

“Didn't have to. The CIA is on Route 123. A vast majority of cars entering the CIA come from either North 123 or South 123. There is no way around that.”

“Don't tell me that Russian spies drive up and down the road taking pictures of all the cars and drivers.”

“No. There is a gas station just north of the CIA at the intersection of Kirby road. One of the mechanics was a Russian by birth. He worked there for twenty years. We set up cameras in his car bay at the service station. Took pictures every day for two decades. It was very helpful. Until he passed away.”

“Incredible.”

“On the south side of the CIA on Route 123 there is a 7-11. That establishment was owned by a Russian. Also now deceased.”

“So you rigged up both places to take pictures.”

“Yes. And then technology improved. Cameras became smaller. Easier to hide. Easier to control remotely. We don't need to have the fixed location photography that we once did.”

“So you take pictures and use them how?”

“Imagine for yourself. Let's say you think John Smith is a spy. You know he works at Langley. You follow him. Let's say John Smith gets his hair cut every few weeks. Let's say he doesn't show up for six months. We can then assume he is an operative. Analysts do not disappear for months at a time. Analysts also do not typically arrive at work in the middle of the night. We directed additional scrutiny to any vehicle that arrived at HQ at unusual hours. The CIA does not allow remote access to most of its computer systems for security reasons. A system that is not online cannot be hacked remotely. That means if you are in the intelligence field and you need information, you physically have be on the premises. As it is with life, you prevent A, but open the door to B. We cannot hack their systems remotely, but we can identify those people who have to come in to use their secure systems. We assume people arriving at three in the morning are not going back to the office because they forgot their house key.”

“That is a lot of work to identify someone.”

“Yes, it is. But, technology has made many things easier. For example, CIA employees on the operations side have a very limited electronic footprint. They are not permitted to have Facebook accounts. Their use of private email is limited. So if there are questions as to the legitimacy of a foreign diplomat, check the Internet. If there is no information, you have found someone in the intelligence side of the house. Legitimate State Department employees do not have the same restrictions. In fact, they typically have a large electronic footprint given that friends and family are located in all corners of the globe.”

“A lot of work.”

“Every country uses the same tricks. Overseas, if you want to find the spy within an embassy, just look for the employees who work the longest hours. Most Foreign Service officers clock out at five. Those Foreign Service officers who are spies work much longer. They have to perform their cover jobs first, and then their spy jobs. Or vice versa. Either way, they have a heavier workload.”

Dan nodded his head, thought back to his years overseas, and said, “clever.”

“Basic info. The key is getting the info without being discovered. Transportation is another weak point for espionage operatives. Have you ever seen those shuttle buses that pick people up from the metro?”

“Of course.”

“Well, a small number of those shuttle buses check IDs when people get on the bus. That is a red flag. If you follow one of those buses and they drop people off at a building with a lot of cameras and no name on the façade, you have a second red flag. With those two pieces of information alone, you can pinpoint a location where some form of intelligence gathering is taking place.”

“Benny the barber said you showed him thousands of photos.”

“I personally have categorized somewhere in the neighborhood of five thousand personnel that work at Langley HQ. Another thousand at foreign embassies.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Not really.”

“So do you know who my guy is?”

“When I sent you to Benny, I wasn't leading you to a person. Not exactly. I told you that you would have to work for the answer.”

“You were leading me to the plane.”

“No. I was leading you to the answer.”

“My patience is wearing thin.”

“And my glass is empty.”

Dan filled Alex's glass. “Who am I looking for?”

“Did you ask the barber about skydiving?”

“Yes. The barber's son wanted to go skydiving for the barber's sixty-fifth birthday. Cinco de Mayo. I checked it out. I found the plane.”

“Owned by a front company.”

“Yes.”

“The plane is not important. What else did the barber mention about his skydiving adventure?”

“After they finished sky diving, he saw people from Langley getting off a jet. A twelve-seater. Twin engine. Beige stripe.”