by Keith Yocum
“Give it to me,” he said.
She handed it to him. He tore it in half, then in half again, walked over to the trash bin, and the pieces fluttered down like confetti.
“Now, can we just get some sleep?” he said.
Judy picked up Dennis’s cell phone that was being charged on the table. Without disconnecting it, she slowly punched in a series of numbers.
“Who are you calling?” he said.
“I’m calling a painting company.”
He stepped forward and yanked the phone out of her hands, pulling it off the charge cord.
“Damnit, Judy, what’s got into you? You can’t just call that number. Jesus.” He sat down and reconnected the phone charger.
“I don’t mind saying you confuse me sometimes,” he said. “But that’s OK. It’s good to be confused, I guess.”
“You’ll be making a very big mistake if you don’t call that number,” she said.
Dennis got up and poured himself a juice glass of white wine.
“Maybe we can talk about this in the morning,” he said, rubbing his eyes again.
“As soon as you go to bed, I’m going to call the number and tell them that you want to hire them for a paint job. I memorized the number.”
Dennis was halfway to his mouth with the small glass when he stopped and returned it with a bang to the table top.
“Please stop this, Judy! I do not want to take another job.”
“You wouldn’t be doing it for Dr. Forrester, you’d be doing for me. And us.”
He threw the wine down as if it were a shot of tequila. “I think I’m going crazy or have a tumor. I keep hearing voices talking nonsense. I’m going to bed.”
Back in bed he rearranged his head on the pillow and tried to sleep, but his eyes ripped open when he heard Judy speaking from the kitchen: “Yes, I’m calling for Dennis Cunningham. He’d like to have that paint job he was talking to you about. Cheers.”
“Jesus Christ!” he yelled down the hallway. He pounded the pillow with his fist.
She crawled into bed after changing and snuggled up against him from behind, putting her arm around his stomach.
“You’re my tumor,” he said in a muffled voice.
“Not all tumors are bad,” she said. “Some are pleasantly benign.”
He made a noise she could not understand.
The next morning Judy got up early, dressed, and made a cup of tea. Dennis got up with her, and they acted like nothing happened the night before. He got ready for his daily bracing walk. A cold misty rain awaited him. Judy left to return home and change for work. She kissed him on the forehead before leaving. She seemed content and at ease as if something important had been settled inside her.
Dennis, on the other hand, felt nervous and agitated, like something strange had been unleashed.
He cut his walk short since his poncho wasn’t long enough to protect his legs from the rain. The flat white coffee warmed him, and he had just put the porcelain cup down when his phone went off. The number was blocked, but he had an idea who it was.
“Cunningham, who the fuck was that calling in? Why would anyone else know that number and what to say? And besides that, your deadline was up.”
“Calm your jets, Simpson,” Dennis said. “I just asked my girlfriend to call that number and repeat what I said. Kind of a joke.”
“Big goddamn joke, you jackass. I can’t for the life of me understand why the director thinks you’re going to do anything to help us. I’ve read your file ten times, and each time, you’re still the same asshole who doesn’t give a shit about rules and protocol. You think everything we do is just a joke.”
It had not taken Dennis long to reacquaint himself with some of the bureaucratic truisms of the intelligence establishment. Dennis knew instinctively that Simpson hated having to deal with him, and was only following orders from the director, whom Simpson probably didn’t like much anyway. So, while Simpson could bitch as much as he wanted about Dennis’s breach of protocol, there was nothing he could really do about it. The last thing Simpson wanted to do was go back to the director and say that Cunningham was not following the precise rules of the trade and therefore was disqualified. No, Simpson was going to suck it up because he had to. Those were the only rules that mattered to Dennis. And he was already enjoying himself.
“When do we start?” Dennis said. “I’ve got some tee times to schedule this week.”
“You’ll be contacted, asshole.”
“I think that’s about the second time in this conversation you’ve used that term. You could be a little more creative.”
“Fucking asshole.”
“Brilliant,” Dennis said, but Simpson had already hung up.
The questions were extraordinarily repetitive and asked by a middle-aged man wearing a tweed sports jacket, white polyester open-necked shirt, and black pleated slacks.
Judy felt calm and focused, and was careful not to contradict herself, even when the questions were open-ended, such as: “How would you and your partner Daniel normally prepare for interviewing a family about a potential drug problem with their adult child?”
She knew Daniel would be asked the same questions, and while they were told not to rehearse their answers, they had worked together for so long that there was no need.
After ninety minutes of polite but increasingly pointed questions, the interview ended. Judy had taken lunch at a nearby sandwich shop with Francis LeStang, another investigator she was fond of.
“I just can’t believe they’re putting you and Daniel through this,” LeStang said. “We’re all petrified. Is this what it’s going to be like every time there’s a shooting?”
“Daniel thinks it’s because of what happened in Brisbane a couple of months ago,” Judy said, nibbling at her curried egg-salad sandwich.
“The one where the copper was wounded?”
“Yes, that one. Daniel said the officer was shot when he turned his back. Something like that.”
“Ridiculous,” LeStang said. “They’re going to investigate every single incident when an AFP officer turns their back? I’d just as well go back to uni and get a degree in forestry. Idiots.”
Judy laughed. “It does seem that the system has nothing else to do but create more things for the system to do.”
“Too right, Jude,” LeStang said laughing. “Too bloody right.”
At 2 p.m. Dennis’s phone rang, and it was a local number.
“Hello?”
“Dennis Cunningham?” asked a man with an American accent.
“Yes.”
“My name is Bill Lawson and I’m calling from the consulate here in Perth. I need you to come in and meet with me, preferably today. We’ve received a high-priority request.”
“I could be there in about an hour, would that work?”
“Sure, ask for Bill Lawson.”
“Will do, Bill.”
The consulate was on St. George’s Terrace, across the street from the Perth Concert Hall in a nondescript office building with a handful of foreign flags flying. Several consulates were in the building.
Dennis checked in on the fourth floor of the building. He waited no more than five minutes before a husky, fiftyish man showed up in the waiting room.
“Hey,” he said holding out his hand, “I’m Bill Lawson. You’re supposed to be Dennis Cunningham.”
“Correct,” Dennis said standing.
“Come along with me please.” Lawson led him through another door that required a passcode, down a hallway into a small windowless room.
“You know the drill, so bear with me,” Lawson said.
There were numerous drills Dennis encountered in his career, and he did not know which one Lawson was referring to specifically.
Lawson asked him to remove anything made of metal, and Dennis used his knuckles to
rap his forehead. “Including this?” he said.
“Ha, you’re one of the funny ones,” Lawson said. “If it’s made of metal, then let’s have it.”
After the belt, phone, coins, glasses, and watch were placed in a bin, Dennis stood up and was wanded. Then he was asked to stand in front of a device that was adjusted to his eye level, and a scan was made of his face. Another scan was made of his pupils. Lastly, he was asked to place both palms down onto a machine with a glass plate that emitted infrared light.
“Still doing this silly vein biometric stuff?” Dennis said.
“Yep,” Lawson said. “Everyone’s got a unique vein structure in their palms and it’s more accurate than fingerprints, which, as you know, can be faked.”
Lawson left the room and returned five minutes later. “Follow me, please.”
They walked down another hallway and entered another room that was passcode protected. The room was spartan. A single CCTV camera pointed down from one corner near the ceiling. In the middle of the room was a white Formica table with metal legs and two small plastic chairs. On the table sat a black, ultra-thin laptop and charger, and a cell phone and a charger.
Lawson, the designated intelligence operative at the consulate, was of course not supposed to be an intelligence operative, according to international rules of diplomacy. But consulates are often important waypoints for moments just like these in faraway reaches of the globe. Lawson was likely a state department security official nearing retirement and was rotating through Perth with his wife to have some late-career fun.
Lawson explained how to use the encrypted cell phone. Then he showed him how to use the phone as a hot spot for accessing the internet and email. For a situation where there was no cellular signal, and it was important that Dennis use standard Wi-Fi for his computer, Lawson instructed Dennis how to ensure the encryption program was operating properly on the laptop.
There were no printed instructions, and Lawson made Dennis repeat all the steps for both devices.
“We’re good to go, then,” Lawson said, sliding the computer into a black carry case. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that you will be receiving a call today on the phone.”
“I think I’m in some kind of crisis,” Judy said.
Cilla, her best friend, listened carefully as they each sipped a glass of wine at the restaurant bar near Judy’s office.
“What kind of crisis?” Cilla asked. “You don’t seem to be in a crisis to me. How is it going with Dennis? Is that what you’re talking about?”
Judy commenced a long monologue that detailed the shooting in Golden Bay, the follow-up investigation, her fears that Dennis was not happy in Perth, and maybe not happy with her. She finished with the conflict around Dennis being offered a job that would separate them again.
“Whew!” Cilla said. “I spoke to you a fortnight ago, and you were pleased as punch about your life, and today the sky’s falling. Why didn’t you tell me you were involved in the shooting in Golden Bay? I saw it on the telly.”
“It was too upsetting to talk about,” she said.
“And the investigation? What happened with that?”
“Nothing. They agreed that Daniel and I acted responsibly. Classic bureaucratic shit. I don’t think I can do this any longer.”
“Do what any longer?”
“Police work.”
“Heavens, Judy, you are in a crisis. You love your work. And you’re good at it.”
“The shooting scared me, Cilla. I thought about Trevor and my parents. And Dennis. It’s strange but given the other things that have happened to me, this single shooting has taken its toll.”
“I can’t imagine what being shot at feels like,” Cilla said. “It’s too gruesome to contemplate. But without switching subjects too quickly, how is it going with Dennis? What is going on? He’s such a charming rascal, and you two go so well together.”
“He’s bored here, but I think he’s just bored with me. Or that’s what I thought. I told him to take that new contract job. In fact, I made him take it. I thought I was being selfish and insecure for stopping him. Maybe he does need to work. And maybe it will not affect our relationship. Maybe.”
“Will this job take him away again? That’s been the hard part for you two.”
“Yes, I suppose he’ll be traveling. I don’t know where.”
Chapter 5
I’m going to be your handler on this project, since it’s very time sensitive, and frankly, I’ve been ordered to manage you,” Simpson said. “So, you can imagine I’m about as excited as you are about this assignment.”
Dennis sat in his apartment with a pad of paper and doodled.
“You have two weeks—that’s fourteen work days—to make a recommendation on this case. Your recommendation with be confined to one of three options: one—you agree with the earlier conclusion that a particular foreign service is behind the abduction; two—you disagree with the earlier conclusion, and you offer reasons why; three—you are unable to make a choice between one or two and are unable to provide meaningful input.”
“You can’t be a handler,” Dennis said. “You’re a deputy director, for chrissakes. You’re up to your ears in alligators, and you can’t give this project the attention it needs. I’ll be asking you for information, and you’ll be in five simultaneous conference calls. I’ll be lucky to hear from you next year.”
“This is not starting well, as I anticipated,” Simpson said. “You didn’t hear me. I was ordered to manage you. That was from my boss—the director of operations—who was ordered by his boss, the director of the agency. Do you want to keep wasting time telling me what I’m capable of, or should you get off your ass and get to work?”
“I’m getting off my ass as we speak,” Dennis said slowly, writing the word “ass” in capital letters on the pad.
“As a contractor, you are responsible for your own expenses, and you’ll need to submit them at the end of the project. I’ll be sending you a contract that you’ll sign and return using the laptop you’ve been given. Do that immediately. Next, I’ll be sending you a backgrounder file that you will need to read ASAP. After reading it, please call the following number and speak to Colin McCarthy. He will be your main contact with NZSIS. You will need to get there right away and dig into the details. Speed is required in this matter if we haven’t made that clear already.”
“NZSIS? That’s the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service?”
“Yes.”
“Why the Kiwis? What do they have to do with this?”
“Dr. Forrester disappeared in New Zealand while attending a psychology conference.”
“No one mentioned that before.”
“As you can imagine, this is another reason why the director agreed you would be the right person for this project since you’re geographically close. And your benefactor said as much.”
“The person who recommended me?”
“Yes, that benefactor.”
“Franklin asked whether I wanted to know who recommended me, and I said ‘no,’” Dennis said.
“Yes, the director asked you, and you declined.”
“Well, I changed my mind. Who recommended me?”
“Are you certain you want to know?”
“Yes, I do.”
“The name is Louise Nordland. She is a confidante of the director’s, and one of the most influential people on his staff.”
“Nordland!” Dennis said, tossing his pen onto the table top.
“I understand you’ve worked together before.”
“That depends on how you define ‘together.’”
“Well, however you define it, the director is giving you fourteen days from now to make a recommendation. Is that clear?”
“Clear as a goddamn bell.”
Judy sat next to Dennis in the small apartment ki
tchen and could feel the drift in his personality. During his ten-month stay in Western Australia, Dennis had become a softer, more reflective person. He smiled more often and seemed vaguely relieved of something. His short-cropped, brown hair sported flecks of gray, and he looked like a man growing content with his life. His shoulders seemed less prominent, almost rounded, and he tended to slump slightly when sitting.
Now, sitting rigid in front of his new laptop, Dennis’s jaw was more prominent, as his facial muscles stretched. His forehead sported several horizontal creases as he stared at the screen. His intense blue eyes, as always, were fathomless beacons.
“New Zealand?” Judy said.
“Yeah. Forrester attended a conference in New Zealand with a friend, another psychologist she’s known for years named Phyllis Caldecott. I guess some medical professionals are required to have training every couple of years to get re-licensed. I gather you can attend a training program in an exotic location and write off some of the expenses for the trip on your taxes.”
“She went to a conference with an old friend and then disappeared? In New Zealand? North or South Island?”
“The conference was in Wellington on the North Island, but she traveled to the South Island with her friend to do some sightseeing. They were doing a wine tasting tour in the Marlborough area, and one night Forrester had a headache and ran out to a pharmacy near their hotel, and never came back.”
“Is she married?”
“Yes, says here her husband is Nicholas Forrester. Works for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Two grown children; one daughter married, one son single.”
“When did she disappear?”
Dennis looked at the screen for a moment, scrolled, and said, “Caldecott calls the police that night when Forrester doesn’t return. May 22, at 10:20 p.m. local time, she contacts police in Blenheim.”
“Who does the agency think is responsible for the disappearance?” she asked.
“Where’s your phone?”
“In my purse in the other room.”
He grabbed his cell phone off the kitchen table, stood up and put it next to the milk inside the refrigerator, and closed the door.
