Valley of Spies

by Keith Yocum

  Finally, Dennis thought. Here we go.

  Forrester dipped his head down and reached into the small dark space. Dennis peered over the man’s shoulder.

  “Huh,” Forrester said. “Nothing here.”

  “You sure this is where she kept her notes?”

  “Yes. This is the safe that was required by the agency.”

  Dennis pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight app. Both men’s faces crowded the small open door to the safe.

  “That’s odd,” Forrester said, turning to Dennis. “Why isn’t there anything in the safe? You know, you’re starting to bother me. You accuse me of having an affair, maybe even being involved in my wife’s death, then you convince me to help you break every HIPPA rule for privacy in my wife’s office, and there’s nothing here. You knew there was nothing here!”

  “Hold on,” Dennis said. “Just wait a second. Maybe you misunderstood where she kept her notes.”

  “I told you already where she kept those notes; they were separate from her other patients’ notes. It was part of the contract. You’re not telling me everything, damnit. What are you trying to do?”

  “Mr. Forrester, I know a lot of this today is a little strange, but—”

  “A little strange?”

  “OK, very, very strange. But let’s keep our eye on the prize. Those notes are more important than ever. You said they were supposed to be in this safe. We can both see they’re not there. She must have put them somewhere else. Let’s focus on that. Where does she keep the notes for her other patients? Help me here.”

  Dennis could see Forrester struggling with how to proceed; he was justifiably confused and suspicious of him, but he was also trying to help solve his wife’s death.

  Forrester walked over to a low, horizontal, two-drawer beige metal filing cabinet. He found another key on the chain and unlocked it. He pulled out the top drawer, and it was half filled with hanging files and manila folders inside those.

  “These are her non-agency clients,” he said.

  “Do you mind if I see if any of the agency clients’ names are in there?”

  “No, go right ahead.”

  Dennis knelt and flipped through each folder reading the name on the tab. They were in alphabetical order and he quickly went through them.

  “Nope,” he said standing. “None of the five. Where else could they be?”

  “I have no idea. Unless you already stole them and are playing some kind of weird game. You’re a strange man, Cunningham.”

  “Yes, well that may be, but your wife’s notes are missing, and that’s not a good sign. Can we at least look around to see if they’re here?”

  Forrester seemed to pout as he helped Dennis look through every possible place in the office that his wife could have stored her agency patient files. After twenty minutes, the two men sat down in the therapy chairs to take a breather. Dennis sat is his normal therapy chair and was comforted somewhat by that.

  “Do you have an alarm system?”

  “Yes. That was also required.”

  “Has it been set off recently for any reason? Have you lost power?”

  “No.”

  “Is it a standard residential alarm service?”

  “Yes. Most people on this street have the same service. It’s advertised on TV.”

  “Alright. I think I’ve bothered you enough today. And I’m profoundly sorry for the photos upstairs. It was clumsy. But you have to believe I’m trying to figure out what happened to your wife. And the missing notes are not a good sign right now.”

  “I can’t believe she took them with her,” Forrester said. “This is very strange. I wonder if I should report it to the CIA?”

  “No. Please don’t do that just quite yet. Give me a day or two to check on a few things. Then, by all means, let them know. But I have one more small favor to ask. It’s simple. I need you to call your alarm service and tell them that you need a report of all the activity for your alarm starting the week your wife left to New Zealand, until today. Now, they’ll probably tell you that they can’t produce that kind of report, but they do have the data. It’s just a pain for them to pull it. You’ll have to threaten them really hard.”

  “And what are you looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. But I need that report ASAP. I think you’ll agree with me that something is not right with your wife’s office.”

  They stared at each other. Forrester sat in his wife’s chair, and Dennis in his normal patient chair. He felt strangely comfortable, but anxious, just like the old days.

  He prayed that Simpson would not answer his phone. It was a Saturday morning and the deputy director of operations of the largest and best-funded intelligence service in the world could be in Berlin, Germany or sitting in a McDonald’s in Bethesda, Maryland, eating an Egg McMuffin.

  Just don’t answer the damn phone, Dennis thought. I don’t feel like talking to you today.

  On the third ring, it went to voicemail.

  “This is Cunningham checking in. Have decided not to go to New Zealand. A lot more going on here. Have been reviewing Dr. Forrester’s patients for leads. Also, folks at NZSIS say that Forrester’s body was moved from another grave to the beach where she was found. I’m expecting the autopsy report from the Kiwis and will forward that to you. Some of the fingers on her left hand were fractured. She was killed by a double tap, .32 caliber, which tends to confirm the Ghorbani angle. I’m still planning to finish this up on time.” He deliberately left out the part about Dr. Forrester’s missing therapy notes. He would hold that back a bit longer.

  Dennis hung up and sat in the Starbucks in Rosslyn. He took another bite out of his breakfast sandwich. His blood pressure was up; he could feel rhythmic throbbing through the arteries in the neck.

  After Keating, he called Karl. Aware that he was in a public place, he hissed with invective.

  “You idiot,” he said, using his open hand to cup his mouth against the phone. “I want my money back. You and your lame team completely screwed this up.”

  “Hey, chill out. They did the best they could. You gave us a ridiculous timetable and we tried to meet that. If you would have given us more time, I’m sure we could have figured the daughter angle out.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You’re incompetent, Karl. Maybe you’re not just pre-diabetic but pre-senile as well. I want my fucking money back because you suck and your team sucks.”

  “You shoulda stayed retired. And stuck to the whiskey. The wine is goin’ to yer head, my friend.”

  “Your goddamn incompetence is going to my head.” Dennis hung up.

  There was one more call he needed to make, and he did it quickly to get it out of the way.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Cunningham,” Louise said. It was a statement, not a question or a salutation.

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Since when do you start off conversations with pleasantries? Did you fall on your head?”

  “Not you too,” he said sharply.

  “What’s wrong. You in a bad mood?”

  “Yeah, it’s only 11:10 in the morning, and my day really sucks. Go figure.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Guess I didn’t help much.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Like I said, I’m sorry.”

  “Since when do you apologize?” he shot back.

  “This call’s going swimmingly,” she said after a brief pause. “What do you want?”

  Dennis took several deep breaths. The sound of the hissing milk steamers combined with the piped-in rock music to provide the modern version of silence.

  “Cunningham, are you alright?”

  “Yes. Actually no. I’m not alright. I told you, I’m having a bad day.”

  “Anything I can do for you? What do you nee
d?”

  Dennis realized he was rubbing his temple with his open hand.

  “I don’t know why I’m complaining. Bad habits.”

  “You sound depressed.”

  He swallowed. He was depressed and angry at everything and everyone: Karl, Simpson, Keating, the Kiwis, the Ghorbanis, the weather, the missing Forrester files…”

  “Yes, I guess I am. It happens. I just need to take a walk to clear my head.”

  “Is it the Forrester stuff, or something else?”

  Louise had never shown any interest in Dennis’s state of mind, nor any sympathy whatsoever; their relationship was neutral at best and antagonistic at the worst. But he was feeling extremely vulnerable and dropped his normal guarded approach to her.

  “It’s everything.”

  “What’s going on with you and Judy? Are you two going through a difficult time? These things happen. You’ll get through it.”

  “It’s this idiotic case. There’re just too many layers. Usually, I get excited about the chase. It charges me up.”

  “That’s why I recommended you. You’re good at this stuff.”

  “Used to be good.”

  “Jeez, Cunningham. You don’t sound right. Go take a walk. Get some fresh air.”

  “Sure.”

  Neither spoke for several seconds.

  “I got an idea,” she said. “I’m going out to dinner tonight with a group of friends. Why don’t you join us? Couple of guys you’d find interesting, and a woman that works at the Pentagon. We’re all single and love getting together when we don’t have dates. You sound depressed and lonely.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not good company when I’m like this.”

  “Bullshit. You still at the hotel in Rosslyn?”

  “Louise, I appreciate your interest, but it’s really not necessary—”

  “Be out front at 6:30.”

  “No,” he said.

  She hung up.

  Judy and Craig landed in Meekatharra at 1:30 in the afternoon. She had raced back to her house, put together an overnight bag with clothes and personal items, then raced to the private airport for the AFP jet.

  Craig was thrilled to be out of the office and kept up a steady chatter in the plane, while Judy tried to keep him on task.

  “You have the camera?” she said.

  “Right.”

  “You have the rental car ready at the airport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember, Miller says we’re tourists checking out the scenery. Kadlec is getting in around 3 p.m., and he’s expected to head right for the gold mine. He and his accountant are staying in Meekatharra and will likely have dinner with the general manager of the mine, a Canadian named Phillipe Desaulniers. Connester says we need to catalog everything Kadlec does, including how long he’s at dinner, how much he drinks, whether he looks relaxed or angry. Anything and everything.”

  “Judy, we’ve already gone over that. No worries.” He reached over and grabbed her forearm and shook it reassuringly.

  She did not like him touching her; not that the gesture was condescending or immature, but because it felt so warm and inviting. His smile, his good looks, and his rugged, almost care-free, enthusiasm were unnerving and enticing. She wished that Dennis would come back soon.

  Their landing was bouncy as the small jet was tossed by the thermals roaring up from the hot, red countryside. It might be winter in Western Australia, but the interior was still warm.

  After getting their rental car, they hung around the airport parking lot waiting for Kadlec’s private plane.

  “Do you think I look touristy?” Craig said, pulling the collar of his short-sleeve golf shirt.

  “You look appropriately silly,” she said.

  “Well, you look smashing in those shorts and a tank top.”

  “You’re are a bit of larrikin,” she said.

  They both heard the approach of a jet and got into the car.

  “Welcome to sunny W.A., Mr. Kadlec,” Craig said starting the Toyota Landcruiser. “My colleague and I will be watching you closely as you pinch loads of money from the taxman.”

  The day went from normal boring to extremely boring. They followed Kadlec and his accountant to the mine. Craig drove past the turnoff to the facility and pulled over a half-mile down the road. They took turns with the binoculars watching for Kadlec’s return. As the afternoon wore on, Craig began to talk about what they would order for dinner.

  “I’m thinking of a steak tonight,” he said, sitting on the hood of the car. “Big juicy steak. You like steak, Judy?”

  “Sometimes,” she said, peering through the binoculars. “Not my fave.”

  “Bet you’re a fish eater, lots of veggies. Health nut, I reckon.”

  “Oh please.”

  “You’re in such good shape. Bet you’re a runner too. How many miles do you run a week? Fifty?”

  “Your mind is going all the time. You can’t sit still! And food. Who thinks of food out here in the bush?” Judy pulled her eyes away from the binoculars and gave him an exaggerated frown. But, his comment about her being in good shape had not been lost, and she fiddled with the adjustment on the lens.

  Dennis was more than a little agitated at Louise for cajoling him into going to dinner with her group of singles. What if he was feeling low? And since when did she care about his state of mind or wellbeing? She was simply trying to keep him together long enough to finish the project.

  Louise pulled up in a metallic-blue BMW 3 series. The sun was low and sent long, towering shadows across Rosslyn.

  “Hey,” he said getting in the passenger side. “Wish you hadn’t pulled this on me. You seem to think I’m going off the deep end or something.”

  “Oh, stop being a baby,” she laughed. “Just enjoy yourself and get out of your funk.”

  Dennis shot her a quick look as she pulled into traffic. He could not remember a time when she laughed.

  She wore fashionable round sunglasses, her pure blond hair bounced on her partially exposed shoulders from a light blue open-necked blouse. He could barely make out the faintest whiff of perfume or body lotion.

  “What are you looking at?” she said, cutting aggressively through traffic to circle back onto Key Bridge into Georgetown.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  She laughed.

  “So, here’s the drill tonight,” she said. “There’s six of us, including you. There’s Sarah, a gorgeous black woman who works at the Pentagon; Steve, who’s at State; Francisco, he’s a mid-level diplomat at the Peruvian Embassy; and Mark, at DOJ. Mark’s a hoot. And he’s gay.”

  “All single?” he said.

  “Yes, when we can’t get dates, it’s better to share a couple of bottles of wine at a nice restaurant and laugh it up, instead of sitting home and having a bottle of wine by yourself.”

  “I’m the stay-at-home-with-the-bottle type,” he said.

  “That’s not healthy.”

  “Now you sound like Dr. Forrester.”

  That statement shut down the talk for a few minutes as Louise navigated crowded M Street.

  “What happened to your husband? You were married last time we worked together.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Just asking.”

  “Didn’t work out. Fifty percent of marriages don’t work out.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s better for him and me this way. Life moves on. People can stay stuck in something that doesn’t work.”

  “No, I hear you.”

  “And how about you and Judy? Still an item all the way over in Australia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wedding bells in the wings?”

  “Mmm. I don’t know if I’m the marrying type. I don’t know why w
e can’t just live together.”

  “Does she want to get married?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “Louise, come on. I’m not in the mood to talk about that stuff.”

  “Are you in the mood to be good company tonight? I told the group you were coming and were a funny guy.”

  “Me? Funny? Gee, thanks for setting me up.”

  “Would you just chill? Here we are.”

  Despite his trepidation going into the evening, Dennis found that he liked the group. Mark, the gay guy, was as funny as Louise said. Half the evening was taken up laughing at his jokes.

  And Sarah was as gorgeous as Louise described. A tall, thin woman with skin the color of burnt almond, she had green eyes and a lusty, deep laugh.

  “Now, Dennis, I have to ask, where did you get those blue eyes?” Sarah said at one point. “Lordy, they are like headlights on high beam. Louise here has blue eyes, but not like those 100-watt bulbs!”

  Dennis laughed and just shrugged. “They came with the package. Mom, Dad, or a distant Viking relative. Who knows?”

  “Well, you must be a woman slayer. Damn, Louise, you didn’t say he was that good looking.”

  “He is a cute one,” Mark said.

  “Get in line there, my gay friend. I think Dennis is a lady’s man.”

  “He just doesn’t know how much fun the other side is,” Mark said, sparking a round of laughter that even Dennis couldn’t resist.

  By the time they had dessert and more drinks, Dennis was a little drunk. He didn’t need the McCallan 18, neat, with his chocolate mousse. But everyone was piling it on, and he was enjoying himself.

  He was intrigued with Louise, who displayed a funny, self-deprecating sense of humor that he never guessed she was capable of. At one point she brought the house down when she described a spin class where her prosthetic foot almost fell off.

  The group broke up at 10:30 and after the requisite hugs and handshakes, Louise and Dennis stood to wait for the valet to bring up her car.

  “I think I drank too much,” Dennis said.