Favors and Lies (31 page)

“You could have driven the cab.”

“I won't justify that with a response. Where are we going?”

“To my sister-in-law's house.”

“Why?”

“Because that is the location of the car the Russian told me to follow.”

“According to the DC police?”

“According to a DC detective.”

“The same one who threw you in jail?”

“Great friendships start in unusual circumstances.”

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence and Sue knew further elaboration was not in the cards.

“What's the story with your nephew?”

Dan grunted. “What intelligence did you have on him?”

“None. I only know what you have told me. And what I have pieced together. My orders were very specific. My primary objective was to provide intelligence on your movements in order to keep you safe.”

“Sounds like a couple of agents received conflicting primary objectives from the Agency.”

“Yes it does.”

“And you didn't do a good job of keeping me safe.”

“You are still alive. My objective has been met.”

“How often did you check in with your superiors?”

“Daily. Usually a brief write-up sent via an encrypted email system. I also had voice-drop alternatives.”

“Voicemail?”

“Essentially yes, but with a greater security element. Voice verification and some other security bells and whistles.”

“Do you carry a weapon?”

“Not on this case, though I am fully trained. I have several thousand rounds through a variety of handguns and assault rifles. Keep in mind this is a domestic assignment. Highly unusual. Different rules.”

“Rules for a game that shouldn't even be played. It is illegal for the CIA to operate clandestine programs domestically.”

Sue paused for another moment. “I know you don't owe me anything. But it seems everyone involved with you is more informed than I am. Tell me about your nephew. Maybe I can help.”

Dan stared straight ahead. The car was now heading north on Rock Creek Parkway. Lights from the back patios and decks of million-dollar properties on the cliffs overlooking the park flashed through the trees.

“My nephew had a rare disease called CIPA,” Dan said, voice cracking almost imperceptibly.

“I've never heard of it.”

“I'm not surprised. There have been fewer than two dozen cases reported worldwide since it was identified. Most patients don't survive to school age. Only a handful of cases have lived past the age of eighteen.”

“What is it?”

“The official name is Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. The first part of the name is self-explanatory. Anhidrosis means the patient does not perspire.”

“Insensitivity to pain and the inability to perspire?”

“That's right. My nephew could not feel pain in the conventional sense.”

“Jesus. Sounds awful and great at the same time. At least you never had to worry about him getting hurt.”

“On the contrary. We all had to worry about him being hurt and not knowing. When he was in elementary school he broke his wrist skateboarding. It wasn't until he dropped a couple of glasses in the kitchen days later that my brother realized he was injured.”

“I can see why the life expectancy is so short.”

“The body is a well-designed machine. Multiple systems exist to perpetuate the body's own survival. Think about it. Fevers are designed to kill off infection within the body. Sweat enables the body to cool down. Swelling helps to protect injuries. Eyes produce tears to keep them lubricated and protected. The list goes on and on. Pain is a major component of the body's self-protection system. Pain informs you something is wrong. Take away all of those warning systems and it's like driving a car with no dashboard. No check engine light. No gas level indicator. No door ajar warning. Like driving down the street with no seatbelt, the doors open, running on fumes with a malfunctioning engine, and being oblivious to the danger.”

“When did they discover your nephew had the disease?”

“Shortly after he began to teethe. As an infant he cried for emotional reasons. When he wanted attention. Wanted to be picked up. Those episodes of normal emotional display masked any serious physical ailments. I mean, the baby cried so the parents didn't worry. What his parents didn't recognize was the baby never cried because he had gas, or because he had a fever. Those instances were masked by my nephew's unusual medical condition.”

“So what changed when he had teeth?”

“My brother found him one day in his bed, face covered in blood. As a toddler, he had chewed through his tongue, lips, and nibbled on his fingers. He had no sensation of pain. Nothing to tell him to stop. It scared the shit out of my brother. My sister-in-law was beside herself.”

“But your nephew survived.”

“He had a diligent family. Checked his temperature twice a day. Inspected his body constantly. Installed plastic windows in the house. Taught him how his body should react to certain things, extreme temperatures. Explained and showed him that hot objects would burn him. Showed him cold objects could also be dangerous. He was well-versed in anatomy. Basically, they tried to give him the tools to self-monitor.”

“To give him his own dashboard.”

“Exactly.”

“Did he have injuries growing up?”

“Many.”

“And . . .”

“They were managed. Treated normally. But what wasn't normal was the attention his condition attracted. A broken arm was not a simple broken arm when the patient was one in a billion and couldn't feel pain. There was a lot of medical interest.”

“Must have been hard to grow up like that. To keep the implications of that in check.”

“It was a mental challenge, to be sure. I taught him martial arts, hoping more than anything that he would realize he didn't have to fight. To teach him to take the high road. Boys are boys and I wanted to remove the curiosity associated with any potential physical altercation. I hoped if he knew he could fight well, he wouldn't be curious to show others he could fight well. I hoped to filter out some of the natural adolescent bullshit.”

“I can see where teaching him to fight would have some danger to it.”

“For both of us. I learned it's not easy to fight someone with no pain reception. Pain submission holds were worthless. He wouldn't tap out. And he also knew I wouldn't hurt him. He used all of those to his advantage.”

“He beat you.”

Dan smiled. “On occasion.”

“So what has Reed Temple been doing with him?”

“That is the million dollar question.”

—

Dan pulled the burgundy sedan to the curb behind Detective Wallace's unmarked police car. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and cut the zip tie on Sue's wrist.

“Thanks. I think I've had enough restraints for the evening.”

“That's what happens when you lie. No one trusts you. Out of the car.”

Seconds later, Dan opened the passenger side of Detective Wallace's unmarked car and Sue sat down. Dan shut the door and Wallace rolled down the passenger window. The detective flicked on the interior light and surveyed Sue's face. The bruise and swelling had worsened. A broken blood vessel colored the corner of her eye a deep red. “Did he hit you?”

“No.”

Dan squatted on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb and rested his forearms on the frame of the passenger window.

“The guy responsible for the shiner on her face was involved in Detective Nguyen's death.”

Wallace turned serious. “Enough games, Dan. I am going to need a name.”

“I can do better than that.” Dan reached into his pocket and pulled out Major's driver's license with his real name and address on it. He flipped the ID onto the detective's lap. “But there is still one loose end to snip. The man giving the orders to kill is still on the street.”

“You're going to force me into behavior that could make me lose my job.”

“No offense, but you have to be close to retirement age. Now, what do we have on the BMW?”

Wallace pointed in the direction of Dan's sister-in-law's house. “It pulled in the driveway ten minutes ago. I didn't want to blow my cover, so I watched from down the block and then moved to this spot. There are good lines of sight from here. The BMW is in full view. We can observe several lights on in the residence. We have a straight shot into half of the living room. You can almost read the books on the built-ins on the far wall.”

“Did you see who exited the car?”

“Not really. I caught a glimpse of the door as it shut.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No one arrived by car or entered through the front.”

“That doesn't mean anything.”

“What's your next move?”

“I am going inside.”

“That's the plan?”

“I'm winging it.”

“What should I do with the girl?”

“Keep an eye on her, but if she wants to leave, let her go. If she tries to come in the house, arrest her. She does not have permission to enter the residence and I am the executor of the estate.”

Dan stood and then added, “Don't believe her innocence for a second. I may try to keep you from losing your job, but the people she works for won't.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“I also need you to call the Alexandria police. Tell them two individuals were held captive in the basement of the Stonewall Jackson House in Old Town and that lethal force was used in order to escape. Tell them the two victims are now with you.”

—

Dan walked up the driveway and stepped onto the front porch. He reached behind a decorative street-number sign on the wall next to the porch light and brandished a key used for emergencies. A moment later, he opened the front door and stepped through the foyer, gun drawn.

A standing pedestal light illuminated the corner of the living room near the window, on the far side of a wingback chair. Dan edged towards the living room, garnering a glimpse of a reflection of a person seated in the chair. The face was distorted by the window panes, the details concealed in the shadow cast by the edge of the chair. Dan registered a metal object to his right as he entered the room and his eyes momentarily averted from his target. A walking cane rested against the skirt of the person in the chair, a small leg brace wrapped around the ankle.

Dan stepped forward, gun at eye level, and pivoted towards his target. The person in the corner chair didn't flinch as Dan acquired a direct line of sight. He lowered his aim, the sights on his weapon falling to a point directly between the eyes of the woman who had brought him into the world.

“I had a feeling it was you.”

Dan's mother—ten years deceased—tried to smile and failed. “I had a feeling you would have that feeling.”

Dan shook his head, tears involuntarily forming in his eyes. His mother's hair was up, tied neatly behind her head. The salt-and-pepper color he remembered was now fully gray. Wrinkles rippled across her forehead and dripped from the corners of her eyes.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“Don't start. I'm in no fucking mood.”

“I was hoping you hadn't lost your manners.”

“I think we're a little beyond that, don't you. Planning to wash my mouth out with soap?”

Dan's mother eyed her son from his shoes to his head. “You are injured.”

“Been better. Been worse. I want Reed Temple. Or at least that was his name earlier this evening when he was tying me up in a basement, ordering me to be killed.”

“He is gone.”

“Destination?”

“Somewhere you can't reach him. He was reassigned. New passport. New identity. New cell phone. Cash. He will be in the air in a couple of hours. By dawn he will be in another country. With a new life. More accurately, his old life back, reissued with a new identity.”

“He killed Conner.”

“It was an accidental death.”

“He also tried to kill me.”

“You survived.”

“He is a murderer.”

“He is a patriot.”

Dan stepped back as if his thoughts of revulsion manifested into muscle movement. The gun was re-aimed, finger now on the trigger.

Dan's mother slowly raised and lowered her right hand, hushing her son as if trying to calm a dog. “Put the gun down. Have a seat. Let's talk.”

“I'll stand.” Dan moved his finger slowly to the side of the trigger guard but didn't loosen his grip. The veins in the back of his hand bulged.

“Your eyebrow is starting to drip,” his mother said.

“And now the concerned mother routine?”

“Very well,” his mother said. “We can discard the niceties. When did you know it was me?”

“I've known for a while. My first clue was the initial police report on Conner. According to a dead police detective, there was nothing in his medical records regarding CIPA. We both know how substantial his medical files were. Dozens of visits to multiple hospitals for myriad reasons. All of them included references to pain insensitivity and CIPA. But when the police obtained the medical records, only the injuries were included in the files. How could a very pertinent piece of his medical records disappear from multiple medical files? And why? From that, I knew his death was related to his condition and I needed to find someone who had the knowledge of the illness and the ability to have records erased. On top of that, there was the incident involving the disappearing phone call. No phone record of the call to my house Vicky made the night Conner died. Coincidences like that do not occur. It was obvious it was the work of an intelligence operation.”

“You couldn't have suspected me at that point. As far as you knew, I was an English teacher and I was deceased.”

“I suspected Dad. I had him pegged for it, really. It wasn't until I talked to a helpful gentleman from the Russian Embassy that I considered it was you. He mentioned how the Russians identify agents working under diplomatic cover at embassies overseas. It was something so simple perhaps I should have realized on my own. He said official cover operatives at foreign posts have to perform two jobs. One is a legitimate job, albeit a cover job, and the other is spycraft. This is common knowledge. What he said next was not. He said if you want to identify a foreign intelligence agent working under diplomatic cover, just keep track of the employees putting in the longest hours at the embassy. Dad never worked at the embassy. You did. And you always stayed up late. I didn't think much about it when I was growing up. I always thought we moved when Dad found a new job with better pay.”

Dan's mother laughed a quiet cackle. “Oh, my dear Dan. I wasn't following your father around the globe. He was following me.”

“So I have realized.”

“Your father was a geologist. He was very good at what he did. He loved his job. And big companies with unlimited resources are scouring every corner of every country for oil and gas deposits. It was a perfect marriage. He could work anywhere. I could teach anywhere.”

“Except you weren't teaching.”

“I wasn't
only
teaching.”

“How does the CIA capitalize on an English teacher?”

“My official cover was as a foreign service English language officer. We establish English programs in foreign countries to ultimately facilitate better relations with the US. We teach teachers how to teach more effectively and try to positively influence the lives of students through the expansion of English.”

“I understand the diplomatic perspective. I am not sure I follow the intelligence side.”

“Take a poor African country, for example. The establishment of English programs, as with most aid programs in Africa, is rife with corruption. The ruling party and those in power want their children to learn English. Rules will be bent, broken, and created to serve those in the inner power circle. After the program is filled with the children of the elite, there will be some elements of the general population who will be offered a place in some classrooms.”

“Sounds like a wonderful program.”

“It serves two purposes. One, it provides an opportunity to interact with the offspring of the power elite in a manner that cannot be accomplished through standard diplomatic channels. It helps mold these children to view the US and other English-speaking countries in a more favorable light. Two, when properly leveraged, one can get meaningful intelligence of the lives of those in the inner circle of power through their children . . . all under the auspice of learning English.”

“Using children to spy.”

“At no risk to the children.”

“It is a little thing called ‘principle.' Africa doesn't have the best track record regarding the treatment of their children. Chopping off arms, forced labor camps, using them as soldiers. And now you have the US, employing these children as spies.”

“The world is not black and white. And the Belgians started the African custom of limb-chopping.”

Dan changed the subject. “Tell me about the plane crash that killed you and Dad.” Dan nodded towards his mother's injured leg. “And if you tell me my father is still alive, I will shoot you right here, right now, mother or not.”

“No, son. He is dead. Your father and I were, in fact, in a plane crash. That is the truth.”

“Don't call me ‘son.' Again. Ever.”

“I understand you are angry.”

“You have no idea what anger is. I want the details of the crash.”

“It was a small single-engine plane taking off from Johannesburg in heavy rain. It crashed less than a minute after takeoff. Your father and the pilot died on impact. There wasn't much left of the aircraft. The last thing I remember is looking over the wing as the plane banked left and the ground closed in at a great speed.”

“And you survived. Conveniently.”

“I was in a coma for two days. Another half a year in rehabilitation. Broken back, legs, pelvis. I have more metal below the waist than I do bone. Cold weather does me in. Hate winter.”

“And you decided to leave me and my brother without parents? Clean it up with a closed casket funeral?”

“You were grown men. You had lives of your own. Lives you were free to live. Your father was dead. What you see in this chair is my life. My life to lead. The agency and its mission are in my blood.”

“More than your own children, apparently. So who knew about your secret life as a spy? Did my brother know? Dad?”

“Your father knew. Your brother did not.” His mother glanced out the front window. “I saw to it that you were taken care of.”

“It isn't about the money.”

“But it gave you the opportunity to do what you want with your life.”

“Maybe I would have preferred the opportunity to have a life with you in it.”

“I wasn't going to be around forever. My death was an inevitable eventuality, as it is for everyone. My departure from your life was only premature. The airplane crash reminded me that life can end at any moment.”

“What about Connor, did he know you were alive?”

“He did not.”

“What happened to him?”

“He died serving his country.”

“Explain.”

“He was recruited by the CIA under the premise of a medical study. Contacted regarding his medical condition and asked whether or not he would be interested in participating in a program to advance the interests of the United States.”

“For money?”

“We appealed to his patriotic convictions. And he also got paid.”

“You use the word ‘patriotic' as if it is a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Conner chose to help his country. The choice was his. We merely opened the door to him. He was eighteen at the time. He was able to make the decision for himself.”

“You recruited your own flesh and blood and it killed him.”

“He volunteered.”

“He didn't know any better. He was a child. I see a recurring theme.”

“Eighteen, Dan. If that is a child then we need to re-examine our definitions. The military is full of children. Wars are won with children. Tanks are driven and fighter jets are flown by children. Bombs are dropped by children. And the new drones, well, most of the really talented operators are not too much older than twenty. Who knew the video game generation would prove to be such an advantage?”

Dan shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing.

His mother continued. “Connor understood that in all likelihood he would not survive long-term. He wanted to help.”

“Help with what?”

“Do you remember 9/11?”

“Of course.”

“How did you feel that morning?”

“Sick. Shocked. Sad. Disgusted. Angry.”

“Angry. Every red-blooded American was angry. And if you would have asked any American on that fateful morning if we should use any method at our disposal to bring those responsible to justice, every American would have said yes. Yes to torture. Yes to drones. Yes to occupying foreign countries. Certainly yes to working with American volunteers in the name of creating super soldiers. Super spies.”

“Do you know how mentally unstable you are?”

“I am not talking about science fiction, Dan. This is very real. We are close. We are very close to medical advances that will provide advantages to the way wars are fought, the way intelligence is gathered. And if we don't accomplish it first, the Russians or the Israelis will. Imagine a soldier who can feel no pain. Combine a soldier or a spy who can feel no pain with one who has a superior memory. A soldier or spy who is not slowed by the elements. These are no longer far-fetched. They are doable. We are not talking about superhuman, mutant capabilities. We are talking about replicating capabilities of a very select number of individuals with very special skills. Imagine adding soldier enhancements like an exoskeleton. Smart bullets. Now you are talking about humans who are no longer purely human. Humans who can serve as virtual robots—robots we can use without relinquishing security controls to the binary whims of computer systems, programmers, and hackers.”

“So what happened with Conner?”

“He had a reaction to one of the experiments. An allergic reaction to pain-inducing medication. We were testing pain thresholds, using compounds that exponentially increase pain reaction in humans. Imagine an injection that could create a pain reaction so great that the pressure of a simple handshake could bring crippling agony.”

“I can imagine the implications.”

“Yes, you can. Torture. With a single injection, we could extract meaningful intelligence through extreme pain, without any physical implications. Grab an arm, squeeze, and get the answer to your interrogation question. Release the arm and there is no damage. No long-term effects.”

“I'm sure it's great.”

“We were testing this medication on Conner as an ancillary evaluation of his pain receptors. He showed no discomfort when injected with this compound. He had no pain reaction to the test compound, unlike the discomfort demonstrated by normal humans in the control subject groups. Unfortunately, the allergic reaction to the injected compound wasn't realized until it was too late. He didn't suffer.”

“Of course he suffered. He suffered mentally. He suffered with fear. It may have not been painful, but he suffered. Don't confuse the two.”

“It was an accident. You act like I didn't care. I had him under near-constant surveillance. He was being observed at school. Supervised by the Resident Assistant in his dorm. He was being watched here.”