State of Lies

by Siri Mitchell

  I tapped Search, but it returned nothing new.

  I deleted death and typed killed.

  Nothing.

  My hope renewed, I tried once more, searching Lee Ornofo dead.

  It returned a link to an article published the day before in the Philadelphia Inquirer.

  “Lee Ornofo, aged 65, found dead in his home.”

  Conway. Edgars. Wallace. Ornofo.

  Four names. Four deaths.

  I needed to find proof of my father’s crimes and find it fast.

  * * *

  As I drove, reason did battle with my paranoia. By the time I reached Arlington, I realized my watchers couldn’t be Jim and June. They’d grown up in the area; they’d been living in their house for fifty years. And we’d moved in long before Sean started working on the Desert Sabre project.

  Once I got back, I took out my old phone and pulled up my pictures of Sean’s notes. I selected another name from my father’s time in Bosnia. Perry Jenkins. On June’s phone I searched for his name and his unit number. Got a hit on an oral history project that had been collected by Baylor University. Hoping they were focusing on veterans in their own state, I searched for all the Perry Jenkinses who lived in Texas. After calling several phone numbers, I found the right one.

  I asked Mr. Jenkins for basic information, the same as I’d asked the others. Then I asked him what his particular job was.

  “I kept the guns.”

  “What guns were those?”

  “The ones the patrols would take. We were assigned with a unit of Russian paratroopers, patrolling along the zone of separation. That was the border between the Muslims and the Serbs. We were supposed to keep the Serbs on the Serb side and the Muslims from coming over.”

  “And how did the guns figure into it?”

  “The Muslims would sneak over and, come to find out, they were hiding guns on the Serb side. They were stocking arsenals. Just ’cause we said the war was over didn’t mean it was over for them.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Depended on the night. Sometimes it was quiet. Sometimes they rushed the border. But once we figured out where an arsenal was, we’d raid it and take their weapons. My job was to keep track of the guns.”

  “The Muslim guns.”

  “Right.”

  “Was that difficult?”

  “Shouldn’t have been. There were a lot of guns, though. One night the patrol brought back about a thousand.”

  A thousand? “You said shouldn’t have been difficult. Does that mean it was?”

  “I don’t know. Something funny was going on. We’d have x number of guns come in one night when the patrol came back, then a couple days later we’d only have y number of guns. Guns don’t have legs, but there had to be some way they kept walking out.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “I told the major.”

  “Major Slater.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said those guns keep getting out. I think it’s the Russians. I think they’re passing them back to the Serbs.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “I had my suspicions. They were friendly with the Serbs. So that’s what I thought and that’s what I told the major.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d take care of it.”

  “Did he?”

  “I don’t know. I got reassigned the next week.”

  “Considering what you told the major, didn’t that strike you as odd? That you were reassigned?”

  “Not really. I mean, the timing? Okay, maybe some people would say it seemed a little fishy. But the major told me he’d take care of it and he was always good for his word. He wasn’t like some officers. And I’d just re-upped and requested assignment to a different post. Guess you could argue the point if you wanted to, but I didn’t.”

  I called more names. Many of my calls went unanswered. And according to the search I did on my phone, several of the people on Sean’s list had recently died. But those I got in touch with offered similar stories of my father’s time in Qatar, Afghanistan, and through his rise at the Pentagon.

  Putting the stories together filled out a pattern. If I’d harbored any hopes that he was just some pawn in a larger scheme, they’d been dashed. It was easy to see how his actions had been overlooked, though. His assignments had been discrete. Once they were over, he’d moved posts, changed positions, left behind the people he’d worked for and with. No one had been able to observe the pattern.

  The impression he’d left over the course of his career? My father was a good officer who took care of his people. When circumstances seemed suspicious, every single person I interviewed gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  But how much of a pass did one person deserve? And if he kept putting himself, and his men, in incriminating situations, at some point wouldn’t any normal person start to wonder? If the pattern kept proving the pattern, then couldn’t we just admit there was a pattern?

  It almost made me feel for Steven Edgars.

  The best defense for my father’s actions appeared to be that he was a good guy and everyone knew it.

  * * *

  My witnesses were dwindling; people on Sean’s list were being poached. The Russians were trying to make sure the information about my father would not get out. But what could I do about it? The deaths were in different states, different localities, different jurisdictions. Nobody was going to be looking for a connection; I was the only one who knew there was one. And if I alerted someone to it? There were several problems with that.

  Who would I tell? Sean and I were pretty sure the FBI wasn’t after us, but until I could prove what was going on, we could take no risks.

  But more importantly, how long would it take them to follow up?

  And what would keep them from throwing me in jail? I’d spoken to Mr. Ornofo. I’d spoken to Mr. Abbott. And I’d been the one to find Mr. Wallace dead. That made me a prime suspect.

  Should I warn the rest of the people on the list?

  Morality warred with expediency. I only had five days left. Either I could spend my time building the case against my father, or I could spend it warning the people on the list that their lives were in danger.

  How many people were left?

  There had been almost two hundred men in his Desert Sabre company alone. And the further my father went in his career, the more people he had commanded. I could never hope to contact them all in less than a week. But I could hope to stop his confirmation hearing.

  At least I knew the significance of what Sean had discovered and why people had been so interested in keeping it hidden. I had the truth. I might not exactly have proof, but maybe it would be enough to convince someone to start an official investigation. Even the suspicion of scandal had been enough, in years past, to roil Washington.

  I borrowed June’s computer again and put my notes together. Then I printed out a copy. There was one obvious way to set everything in motion, but it required that I swallow my pride. If it could bring Sean back from the dead and stop my father from being confirmed, it would be worth it. So I did it.

  I called Jenn.

  “Georgie?”

  “I need to ask you for a favor.”

  She agreed to meet an hour later near the metro stop by the capitol.

  * * *

  I stepped out of the metro train and onto a platform at the Capitol South station. Skirting tourists and government workers, I walked through the impersonal, brutalist concrete tunnel and took the escalator up to the street. As I emerged into the sunlight I squinted, turning as I ascended in order to get my bearings. A line of flat-roofed brick rowhouses stood behind me. The white stone Cannon House Office Building sat in front of me. Tourists milled around the entrance to the station, consulting their guidebooks and maps to no avail; there was no Capitol Building, Library of Congress, or Supreme Court in sight. Anyone who spent time in Washington s
oon came to realize, unless you knew exactly where you were going, it was almost impossible to get there.

  Jenn was walking down the hill, toward me. She waved.

  I waved back.

  “So, favor?” Jenn asked as she approached.

  I pulled my notes out of my coat’s inside pocket and handed them to her. “Can you read this? Then pass it on to Senator Rydel?” He would be chairing my father’s confirmation hearings and he considered himself the president’s archenemy. If anyone could put to use what I’d found out about my father, it was him.

  “Should I read it now?”

  “No! No. Just read it later. Back in your office. Then pass it on. It’s about my father’s confirmation hearing. I’m hoping the senator can do something with it.”

  “Before the hearing? The hearing’s on Monday.”

  “I know. But it’s important. Please.”

  63

  Less than two hours later, she called me. We agreed to meet again that night at Northside Social.

  Northside Social was as close to a subversive, college-style coffee shop as Arlington had. It wasn’t the county’s fault. People in Arlington didn’t subvert. They did things the Arlington Way. They published letters to the editor. They set up working groups and advisory boards. And they generously funded things like veteran support services, affordable housing nonprofits, and free health clinics.

  The coffee shop itself was perched on an odd, triangular-shaped lot that projected into a busy intersection. I bought my coffee and joined Jenn outside. The warmth of the day still lingered. She was sitting at one of the square black metal tables. It was located along the sidewalk, well away from the other customers.

  I took a seat in the chair opposite her. “So did you talk to Rydel? What did he say?”

  She leaned toward me. “First, let me ask you, how did you find out about all of this?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Are they DoD? FBI?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She looked at me for a long moment and then sighed. “Fair enough.”

  “You did show it to him, right?”

  “I read it. And I did show it to him.” She dug around in her tote, fished out my papers. “He read it. He agrees the information is explosive. Game-changing. But he can’t do anything with it.” She offered them back to me.

  I took them, trying to make sense of her words. He wasn’t going to do anything? “Why not? He’s the chairman of the Armed Services Committee. He’s the one who’ll run the hearing.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Is it because he doesn’t believe in exposing espionage to the American people?”

  “It’s more complicated than that, Georgie.” Her face registered frustration.

  He wasn’t going to do anything at all? “Know what? I’m tired of complications. What about integrity? What about justice?”

  “I know you’re upset about Sean, okay? What I did was wrong. But what can I say? I’m sorry. I really am. But you can’t exact revenge by expecting Senator Rydel to hold up a hearing based on allegations that—”

  “Who are you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who are you? My friend, Jennifer Baxter, used to be interested in justice. She used to be a rebel. She used to talk about honor and integrity and working for the good of all Americans.”

  “That Jennifer grew up and went to Capitol Hill. You know what they say: You go to Washington to do good. You stay to do better.”

  “You’re seriously going to sit there and tell me this isn’t important.”

  She shifted. Glanced down at the papers in my hand. Rubbed her lips together. “I know it’s important. I know what it says about your dad. But in context—”

  “Context is just an excuse. You know it is. So tell me: What’s going on?”

  She said nothing.

  “Jenn?”

  She looked out into the intersection, then turned around and scanned the street behind us that served as a parking lot. Then she leaned forward. “There are things going on. Things you don’t know about.”

  “Yes!” I hit the papers with the back of my hand. “Things like this!”

  “No, I—” When she started speaking again, I could barely hear her. “You know how my dad is. Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.”

  I nodded.

  “He made a mistake. It was after my mother died.”

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “It involved what turned out to be a female Russian agent and a long weekend in the Hamptons.”

  My gut clenched. That would mean that this was about more than just my father. Bigger than just a secretary of defense nomination. “Jenn—”

  She took my hand in hers. “And ever since, ever since, it’s been okay. It really has. The Russians have never asked him to come down on a certain side of any case.” Her gaze bored into mine. Searching. Begging. “It’s not like that. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s just that every now and then, he’s asked to do someone a favor.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Exactly.”

  “Are you a part of it too?”

  She stiffened. “I just need you to know, it wasn’t me hitting on Sean that afternoon, Georgie. It wasn’t my idea, okay? I never would have done that.”

  “But you did. You did do it.” I pulled my hand away. “Just another one of those favors?”

  “You have to believe me. It’s never my idea.”

  “What else have they asked you to do?”

  “It would have been really nice if you had taken me up on the offer to stay with me. After your house exploded.”

  “That wasn’t— You weren’t—” What was she saying? “The Russians wanted me with you? Why?”

  She said nothing.

  “Because if I was with you, then they could—” It felt like my brain had frozen. I was trying to work through the possibilities, but my mind wouldn’t cooperate. “If we had stayed with you, then—” What was it the Russians were after? “Sean. We would have walked right into their arms and Sean wouldn’t have had any choice then but to appear.” And then the game would have been over. The Russians would have won. How close I’d come to taking Jenn up on her offer after I’d heard Sean in the crawl space!

  She didn’t seem surprised that I was talking about him as if he were alive.

  “That’s the reason you came on to Sean. Who else have you had to—”

  “It’s not like that.” She sat back and her face warped into an ugly, unrecognizable mask. “If I didn’t do what they asked, then my father would be in jeopardy. Can’t you understand?”

  I understood completely.

  “And he’s never hurt anyone. He’s never done anything against the law. Not really.”

  “Who else?”

  A tear slid down her cheek. She glanced away toward the street again and headlights glistened on her cheek. “It’s never what I’ve wanted.”

  “Jenn. Listen to me. This is not okay. The Russians aren’t Americans. This is standard high school government class stuff. They don’t get a say in our government. They don’t get to do things like this. You have to make a choice. Either you’re for us—you’re for liberty and justice and democracy—or you’re not.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Who? Who else?”

  Her gaze drifted back to me. “They asked . . . They wanted . . . Senator Rydel.”

  The chairman of the Armed Services Committee who had presidential ambitions. The chief justice of the Supreme Court. The soon-to-be-appointed secretary of defense, who also hoped to be president one day. My breath caught. It was civics class all over again. What were the three branches of government? Executive, legislative, and judicial.

  The chief justice had been the tie-breaking vote on cases of campaign finance and internet oversight. The senator, chairing one of the most powerful Senate committees, had made decisions on weapons systems, nuclear energy, and national security. And my father? He would have access to top secr
et government programs and intelligence. He would be charged with the readiness of the military, developing strategies and priorities, and prosecuting war. Or not.

  My father and Senator Rydel were already being talked about as presidential contenders. One for the Democrats, the other for the Republicans. To the Russians it wouldn’t matter who won. They had both been compromised.

  It was a once-in-a-generation achievement. The three branches of government, which were supposed to function as a check and a balance to each other, rendered impotent because they were working together on behalf of our enemy.

  She reached out and clutched my hand. “I didn’t know about your father. I didn’t know—”

  “But think about what you did know. You knew they had your father and you knew they had your senator.”

  “I know. I know. What should we do?”

  “Did Rydel read this?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he knows about my father.” My universe was rearranging itself; I was seeing things through new eyes, from a new perspective. There were different rules in operation now. If Rydel held my father’s treason over him, then he could effectively make my father do whatever he wanted. And what the senator wanted was what Russia wanted. It was double jeopardy. The Russians could pressure my father from one side. The senator could blackmail him from the other. “Does the senator know about your father?”

  “Yes.” The answer came quickly.

  “Your father knows about the senator.”

  “No. I would never tell my father that I had to—”

  I held up a hand. Of course she wouldn’t. That meant her father was in the same situation as mine; he could be pressured from two sides. But only the Russians knew about Rydel. “So the senator lets the president’s nominee be confirmed as the new secretary of defense, and the Russians get access to the highest level of American military secrets.”

  “And my senator can’t say anything about it”—she eyed my papers—“because he’s in the same position.”

  Right. She’d drawn a very clear picture. “Then can you give this to someone else?”

  “How would Rydel not know where the information came from? And how would my father not be exposed?”