by Keith Yocum
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2016
A Kindle Scout selection
Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 1
He was not angry. Not now. It was too late for that. As he lay on the ground staring at a pair of shoes that were inches from his face, he felt a profound disappointment. The shoes belonged to the person who had just shot him. How sad and strange that he missed the hints that led to this moment. So many peculiar things had occurred, and now, as the deafening roar of the discharged weapon faded, he could see how stupid he’d been in not figuring it out. He, the smart one! The one too cynical to be taken in by lies. And if regret were not enough to torment him as he slid away, it was that damn poem (a poem of all things!) that kept repeating in his head like a skipping vinyl record: “Happy are men who yet before they are killed can let their veins run cold.”
Six months earlier.
They looked at each other in near silence.
The only sound came from Marty’s school bus–yellow No. 2 pencil he tapped on top of his desk like a droning metronome.
“It feels demeaning,” Dennis said.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” Marty said. “It’s nothing of the sort. It’s a project you could take on without skipping a beat. You’d be done in a couple of weeks, maybe a month.”
More silence.
“Dennis, this is the perfect assignment to get you up and running again. Get your sea legs back. Open and shut in a month, max.”
“This kind of thing is more suited for a junior investigator,” Dennis said. “What about that new hire, the kid you hired about a year ago from Army CID?”
“No,” Marty said. “I can’t have some beginner chasing down this one.”
“But an MIA?” Dennis said. “I can’t remember being asked to evaluate a Missing-In-Action investigation. I didn’t think we had purview over that kind of stuff. Operations folks police their own work.”
Marty sighed.
“Dennis, the CIA Office of Inspector General has a wide scope of practice, and you know that. We have efficiency experts, accountants, lawyers, and a small team that does the really crappy work. You’re on that team, and you’re there because you’re good at it. The IG has been asked to review an old investigation into an MIA. I’m repeating myself here, but you’ve just returned from a six-month medical leave of absence, and this is the perfect assignment for you. Please trust me on this one, OK?”
Silence fell over the two men again, but it was different. Dennis’s expression was one of reluctant acceptance. Marty beamed in victory, dancing the kind of small, triumphant jig that managers do every day after cajoling employees to take on tasks they tried to avoid.
“Four weeks max,” Marty repeated.
“OK,” Dennis said, standing.
“Read the report I sent you and get your travel planned. We’ll go over the case tomorrow and get you going.”
***
“How does it feel to be back at work?” Dr. Forrester said.
“OK,” Dennis said.
“Just OK?”
“Well, I suppose it’s better than sitting at home.”
“Must be nice catching up with your fellow workers there,” she said.
“I guess.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about being back.”
“No, I’m glad I’m back at work,” he said. “It’s just that I know what they’re saying about me. I hate gossip. It was easier when I didn’t have to see my coworkers face-to-face.”
“But you don’t really know what they’re saying about you, Dennis,” she said. “Try not to let your imagination get ahead of reality. I’m sure they’re glad to see you. Just get back to work, and I’m sure things will be back to normal.”
She stole a glance at the clock on the wall behind him. Like one of Pavlov’s tired, drooling dogs, Dennis was trained to know the session was coming to a close. He wondered sometimes whether Dr. Forrester knew how irritating that little upward glance was to her patients.
“I’m going to be traveling soon and may have to reschedule some appointments,” Dennis said.
“Really?” she said. “Travel will be good for you, Dennis. Just let me know what dates you can’t make, and I’ll try to reschedule them. I have to say that you’re doing quite well. I’m confident that getting back to work will do great things for you.”
***
There are deep, dark holes and there are deep, dark holes.
Dennis knew he had recently climbed out of a deep, dark hole and was just at the lip of it, timorously peering into daylight. He liked the idea that he was done with the darkness. Still, he was aware of the perverse magnetism of the dark cavern below. He had thought he had climbed out before, only to fall back into the inky abyss.
This time was different, though. He could feel the warm, life-giving sunshine on his face. It would take a lot of energy, he knew, but he wanted to stay out of that damned hole. Dr. Forrester was right. Marty was right. Get going. Move forward; the past will take care of itself. Move toward the light.
***
“I don’t quite understand the problem,” Dennis said.
“What do you mean?” Marty said.
“Why the IG’s office needs to review this investigation.”
Marty looked down at his open file folder, frowned, and glanced up at Dennis. An outsider observing the two men would think their relationship was odd. Their interchanges were punctuated with long silences and small physical gestures like a tapping pencil, or a scratch of the tip of a nose. But it was nothing more than the well-established nonverbal ritual of two adults that had worked together for many years. Dennis, slightly introverted, felt comfortable with silence; Marty, slightly extroverted, used silence as a tactic.
“We’ve been asked to vet MIA investigations in the past,” Marty replied. “Just because you haven’t pulled one of these assignments doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Dennis said. “I’ve read the report fr
om those two Operations guys, and I don’t understand what else they could have done. The investigation seems thorough, and I don’t see why they’re being second-guessed. That’s the demeaning part, Marty. You don’t have to send me on a Cub Scout assignment to get my sea legs back. Why not attach me to a legitimate project?”
“Ah, I see,” Marty said. He shut the folder, threw the pencil onto the desk, and leaned back in his creaky office chair.
“I don’t have to tell you that since the Iraq War started four years ago, our department has been raided, and we have very few investigators remaining.”
“Yes, I know that,” Dennis said.
“And it seems half the crew here in the IG’s office is about to retire, and God knows how they’ll run the place when we’re gone. They don’t pay us worth shit.”
“Yes, I know that, too,” Dennis said.
“You know what you should never do, Dennis?” Marty asked.
Dennis braced himself for the exchange, one that he’d heard many times.
“You should never have three kids, and then get divorced from a woman who does not remarry,” Marty said, his voice rising. “And then do you know what you shouldn’t do next?”
“No, what shouldn’t I do next?” Dennis said without looking up.
“You should not marry another woman and have two more kids,” Marty said. “That’s what you should not do. You following me?”
“Yes,” Dennis said. “That’s something I won’t do.”
They stared at each other.
“Still,” Dennis said, “I don’t mean to be a pain, but this case doesn’t seem to warrant a follow up.”
More silence.
“Representative Daniel Barkley,” Marty said, as if the title and name formed a complete sentence with subject, verb, and noun.
“Representative Daniel Barkley,” Dennis repeated slowly. “Republican from New Hampshire, chairman of the House Intelligence Committee.”
“He has requested that the inspector general of the Central Intelligence Agency look into the disappearance of an agent, to wit, the MIA in question here.”
“Why would the chairman care about a junior agent who has disappeared in a friendly country? Out of thousands of agents who are actually in hostile countries? And was this an official request from the Intelligence Committee?”
Marty smiled. “Now that’s the cynical, suspicious, no-bullshit investigator I was looking for. It doesn’t matter who asked what of whom; it’s none of your damn business or mine. The IG ordered me to review the validity of a prior investigation, and you’re the investigator I’ve chosen. Simple as that. Any questions?”
“No,” Dennis said. “I guess not.”
“And permit me to make a very strong request,” Marty said. “Actually, an emphatic request, if that’s not too strong.”
Dennis stared, unsure where Marty was going.
“I’d like you to tone down your normal investigative style, Dennis. It’s OK to take one of our pompous, narcissistic field agents or station chiefs down a few pegs with your confrontational style, but it’s really not appropriate with folks in a backwater consulate.”
“My style?”
Marty smiled. “You know exactly what I mean. Play clean. Be nice. Don’t piss anyone off.”
Dennis stood up and turned to leave.
“Sure you have no questions?” Marty asked. “Did you read the last page of the report?”
“What are you referring to?” Dennis asked, turning to face Marty.
“The treaty requirements,” Marty said. “Please pay attention to that. I don’t want us to get into any trouble over there.”
“Remind me again,” Dennis said, confused.
“The US-Australian Security Pact. Requires us to be shadowed by a friendly when we’re investigating any intelligence activity on Australian soil. Anything you do inside the consulate in Perth, the Embassy in Canberra, or any US installation is our stuff, of course; when you physically investigate anything outside of those facilities you need to be shadowed by an Australian investigator. I agree these pacts are silly—please don’t start about that—and we routinely disregard them. But the Aussies have become a pain in the ass since the start of the Iraq War and are threatening to pull their ground forces out. The IG would greatly appreciate not receiving a complaint from the Australian government about a breach in our security pact.”
“I haven’t been shadowed by a friendly in years.”
“Dennis, please let their guy follow you around.”
“Fine.” He turned, opened Marty’s office door, and walked past his assistant, Lorraine. She smiled at him, and he smiled back. He had taken several steps before he heard his name being called. He stopped and looked at Lorraine.
Lorraine tilted her head toward Marty’s open door.
Dennis returned to the doorway and stuck his head in.
“New Hampshire,” Marty said. “The MIA’s parents are from New Hampshire, the same New Hampshire that our Representative Barkley is from.”
Dennis nodded and turned again.
“How are you doing, Dennis?” Lorraine asked.
“Feel great.”
“Good to see you back,” she said. “We missed you.”
“Thanks, Lorraine. It’s good to be back.”
***
A bump.
It was nothing more than a small thermal disturbance that jostled the airplane, but it was enough for him to taste that copper-metallic sensation of anxiety in the back of his throat. He cinched his seatbelt tighter. The pilot illuminated the seatbelt sign, and the serious voice of the co-pilot directed passengers to check that their belts were fastened.
Dennis looked out the window of the passenger jet. At thirty-six thousand feet there was a thin smear of haze between the jet and the dusty gray-red soil of the Nullarbor Plain a mile below.
Another thermal shook the airplane, and Dennis clutched his armrests, his heart now racing far ahead of itself.
Calm down, he thought.
But he could not calm down. It was the same embarrassing fear Dennis had battled his entire adult life. He could take on the most delicate assignments in the oddest corners of the Earth to confront the CIA’s most troublesome employees, but he would pulsate with anxiety when an airplane ran into turbulence. He knew, according to Dr. Forrester, it was related to his fear of losing control, but that knowledge did not seem to help.
Thank God no one is sitting next to me, he thought, closing his eyes. Breathe, let it out slowly; breathe, let it out slowly.
After ten minutes the jet stopped shuddering, and he waited to see if they were clear of the chop. Satisfied they were in clean air, Dennis flagged a stewardess and asked for a glass of water.
***
Regina, the mother hen in the travel office, had warned him about the jet lag he could expect from the long flight to Western Australia, but Dennis failed to pay attention to her recipe of pre- and postflight sleep, over-the-counter melatonin, blindfolds, and bourbon.
Over the years he had taken to the air on every conceivable form of transportation from vintage DC-3s to state-of-the-art Russian Mi-24 Hind helicopters. He barely tolerated the air travel and treated it as a kind of penance that offset the perverse pleasure of his job, which was to hunt bad people in the Agency.
Still, as he sat on the springy hotel bed in the Hilton in Perth, he felt exhausted and tried to remember what Regina had recommended about jet lag. Was he supposed to go to sleep immediately as if he were still on US eastern time, or was he supposed to stay awake until nightfall?
Overcome with fatigue, he fell backward onto his bed, arms flopping out to each side.
He stared at the ceiling and focused on the infinitesimally small blinking red light of the smoke detector: blink, ten seconds later another blink, followed by yet another blink . . .
At first he did not comprehend the sound; it was loud and disturbing. His unconscious interpreted the sound as if it were a jet taking off, but the noise cont
inued at non-jetlike intervals, and he found himself staring at the hotel telephone on his bedside table.
“Hello,” he said hoarsely.
“Mr. Cunningham?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Stephen Casolano. I work at the US Consulate here in Perth. I was just checking to see if you got in all right, and if there was anything I could do for you. The consul general asked me to check in.”
“No, um, I’m fine, Stephen. Just trying to catch up on some sleep.”
“Absolutely, sir. Sorry to have woken you.”
“Not a problem.”
“Well, good afternoon—um, good night, sir.”
“Goodnight, Stephen.”
Chapter 2
He poured himself a large glass of water from the bathroom faucet and set up in front of his laptop. He had grown to resent the Agency’s digitization of the intelligence business and their infatuation with new electronic devices and security software.
Truth be told, Dennis had sinned in his handling of computers. He had fried two laptops on previous assignments and was determined not to do it again. The Agency insisted that all sensitive material for traveling personnel be digitized, encrypted, and loaded onto specially constructed laptops. After three attempts with the wrong password, the hard drive would be destroyed by the release of a small amount of acid that ruined the hard drive’s thin magnetic coating. Any attempt to open up the plastic shell of the laptop would also release the acid.
After the second laptop was destroyed—and a new one sent out by diplomatic pouch to Bangkok two-and-a-half years ago—Marty threatened to ground him.
“If you can’t remember a simple goddamn password, Dennis, then you don’t belong out there any longer,” Marty said. “You can sit at a desk here in Langley and battle coronary artery disease and hemorrhoids like the rest of us. Simple as that.”
Dennis reached for his wallet and extracted his Virginia driver’s license. Holding the laminated object six inches from his face, he read the tiny text he had made with a thin-tipped Sharpie pen. Of course it was against Agency rules to write down your username and password, but like so many Agency rules, he didn’t care. The fact that the Agency required passwords to change every six months further displeased him and justified his rebellion.
