by Fritz Galt
“So, you’re painting Dean as a ‘perfectly normal’ guy?” Ferguson said. “Are you aware that he has been trained in close combat conditions, knows small and large weapons systems, trained with Army Rangers and has a black belt in karate?”
“Yes. But he’s a polyglot and a talented operative and well respected throughout the agency.”
“Are you suggesting he’s a walking time bomb?” Baxter said.
She shook her head. “There’s nothing in his record to suggest random violence.”
It might be the police show addict in her, but, “Exactly what evidence do we have of Dean’s guilt?”
“In Tyson’s Corner, it was eyewitnesses,” Barry said. “In Syria and Hebron, we have eyewitnesses and photographs.”
“But,” she pointed out, “that’s nothing beyond hearsay and circumstantial evidence. Do we have hard evidence? Do we have a murder weapon, for example?”
Baxter turned to the FBI man.
Ferguson shook his head. “Nothing that connects him to the murders.”
“Well, go do your homework,” Carla said. “Go to the crime scenes and find something: fingerprints, DNA samples. Something has to turn up.”
Baxter smiled. “I don’t think the FBI has access to forensic evidence in Syria and the West Bank.”
Her investigative skills were kicking into high gear. “I don’t know about the Syrians, but at least ask the Mossad.”
Baxter turned to Barry. “Do you have any contacts in the Middle East?”
Barry gave a slight nod.
Baxter lifted an eyebrow. “Then tell ’em to hunt us down some real evidence. I hate all this posturing and finger pointing. Have them produce a smoking gun.”
Carla was growing tired of the man’s obsession with weapons.
“Do you have any more questions for me?” she asked.
He looked her over. “I can’t tell from all of that psycho-babble whether he’s a cold-blooded murderer or a choirboy, whether he assassinated these victims or simply can’t remember what happened. Thank you for chasing down those who might have compromised him, but from here on out, I’ll let the big guns handle this investigation.”
He stood and pulled up his belt. It was a good thing because he was rapidly making a sexist ass of himself.
Carla returned slowly to the Mental Health Unit.
Ron was sniffing on an asthma inhaler. “You look pistol-whipped,” he told her.
She shook a finger at him. “I’ve heard enough gun metaphors for one day.”
He set his inhaler aside. “What happened?”
“Baxter took me off the case. Apparently, there’s nothing more that I can learn about Dean Wells.”
He smiled and nodded. “Another patient cured. All to your credit.”
She took credit for nothing.
“Care if I take his file back?” Ron asked.
“You can have it.” There was far more to the case than one file could ever tell.
She buried herself in her work and looked up only when Rachel appeared in the doorway.
“Working late tonight?” Rachel asked.
Carla checked her watch. It was already past five. The weekend loomed and she had run out of time to think about Dean’s case.
Where was Sharm el-Sheikh, for instance?
“It’s Happy Hour,” Rachel reminded her. She was already dressed in a casual skirt and blouse that hid the bandages on her arms and legs.
“Looking cute,” Carla said. “I take it you don’t observe the Sabbath?”
“You mean the Shabbat?”
Carla caught her glancing out the window at the fading daylight. The rule among Orthodox Jews was to cease all work, to not kindle any light or car ignition, to leave stores and restaurants and to turn off all machinery before the sun set on Friday.
“I’m not observant,” Rachel assured her, and smoothed out the pleats of her skirt.
“Great. Then, you won’t mind grilling brats and burgers?”
“Not pork.”
“No. But you need to be introduced to the real Virginia.”
Rachel nodded.
“I’m taking you to the ballpark.” She neatened her desk and logged off the computer.
“The Washington Nationals?” Rachel asked.
“Better than that. The Falls Church Athletics.”
As for the investigation, Barry Wiseman would ask the Mossad and possibly the Syrians to look for evidence to implicate or exonerate Dean. Would they throw him in prison again?
But this was Washington. Nothing much happened on weekends.
Chapter 34
In the Langley parking lot, Dean rolled down his car window to cool off the interior before heading home.
His travel itinerary for Egypt was set. He could reach the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula by airplane, but he didn’t want to arrive so publicly just as the Arab League summit was getting underway. It was better to sneak in under the radar and hope to avoid detection by Palestinian or Egyptian counterespionage agents. So he had arranged for a ticket only as far as Cairo. He would find some way other than air travel to get to Sharm el-Sheikh from there.
He had a hotel reservation at one of the Hiltons in Sharm. Plans were well underway with Bruce Johnson, a rising star at the U.S. Embassy in Cairo who handled an agent ring in the Red Sea area. Dean could count on Bruce to scout things out ahead of his arrival at Sharm el-Sheikh.
The upcoming mission to blackmail Omar al-Farak didn’t concern him as much as how he’d kill time before his Sunday flight.
It was a pleasant April evening.
He stared at a scrap of paper under one of his windshield wipers. It appeared to be torn out of a personal calendar. He grabbed the page to look at it.
Scrawled in lipstick were the words “Don’t Stalk Me.”
That morning, he had parked next to Carla Martino’s tiny car. Now the car was gone and this was tucked under his windshield wiper.
What had he done wrong?
His attempt to build a friendship with her at lunch had utterly failed. She had alternated between receptiveness and outright hostility.
At last he got into his car and headed for home.
Maybe it was Carla who was doing the stalking.
How had she known about the ICE officers taking him into custody at the airport? There had been interrogators, presumably from the FBI, and military police guarding the doors, but nobody from the CIA. Where was she getting her information?
It amused him to think that she was paying such close attention to him. But what would concern her besides her psychological analysis? She was, in all ways, a dedicated professional. She had beautiful, almond-shaped eyes that spoke of a Mediterranean heritage. Her figure was petite, yet she didn’t lay off the desserts. She could be too much for a man to handle, yet she was afraid of him.
Their lunch conversation had been a disaster. Then José Gomez had come along and ensured its failure.
Dean pulled up to a red light and glanced around. Half the cars from the CIA took that route, but he didn’t see Carla’s car.
And then, what was with Gomez? Dean had never seen his boss look so shaken. After wandering off to place a call and get the stain out of his tie, Gomez had not returned to the cafeteria.
By mid afternoon, Gomez had finally returned to his office and called Dean in for a talk.
Waiting at the light, Dean recalled their conversation.
“Another screw-up in the field?” Gomez had asked, his face unsmiling, his gaze averted.
The light changed and Dean pulled forward. He considered his boss’s position. Of course, Gomez didn’t want another botched operation. It reflected badly on him. Twice Dean had been unsuccessful in bribing the Palestinians. Twice they ended up dead and in the news. Gomez had reason to be upset.
“I’m finally zeroing in on my target,” Dean had told him. “I think I’ll get him this time.”
“Remind me who that target is? I figured they were all dead by now.”
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“The guy’s name is Omar al-Farak. He’s the Foreign Minister of the Palestinian Authority.”
“And he wants to join al-Qaeda?”
“Not only that,” Dean had said, sitting forward. “He’s running for the presidency of the Palestinian Authority. With a good chance of winning, too. But I’ll get to him before all that happens. This weekend I’m heading him off.”
“Or do you mean knocking him off?”
Dean had shaken his head vigorously.
“Look,” Gomez had said, and jabbed a finger in Dean’s face. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I don’t think you can deal with these guys. They aren’t trustworthy. You want to try and turn him, fine. But the odds are against you.”
“Funny that you should use a gambling term.”
Gomez had looked puzzled.
“Sharm el-Sheikh has gambling, prostitution, alcohol. There are plenty of ways to blackmail a guy.”
Gomez had folded his long fingers together. “Blackmail, eh?”
“I’ve got it all worked out. We’ve done this a million times.”
“When are you leaving?”
“Sunday. Wish me luck.”
“I can still de-authorize this,” Gomez had warned.
Dean smiled as the traffic flowed past the blossoming trees. José didn’t de-authorize Dean’s trip. And he would take all the credit when Dean succeeded.
Exactly where was he going that evening? The sun still cast light against fluffy pink clouds. It was unseasonably warm. What did one do in McLean on a Friday night?
A string of red brake lights gathered ahead.
He reached for his cell phone and dialed one of the few friends he knew well enough to bother on a Friday night.
“Wassup, Buzz?” He heard the sound of a small crowd in the background. “What’s your crew doing tonight?”
“Are you kidding? It’s Little League season, and I’m coaching third as we speak.”
“How fun. Who are you playing?”
“It’s a preseason game against the Falls Church Athletics here in Pimmit Hills.”
“Where’s that?”
Dean hung up with a set of directions. The traffic was still sluggish, so he pulled onto a side street and headed toward the game in Falls Church.
Carla’s “Don’t Stalk Me” note fluttered on his dashboard and brought some troubling thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. He would be far away.
Chapter 35
The infield and outfield still smelled fresh from mowing. Dust on the base path had been suppressed by a mid-afternoon sprinkle. The foul lines were neatly drawn all the way to the foul poles at the outfield fence.
Towering over the Little League fields were banks of lights. Their effect was beginning to replace the waning sunlight. The co-ed team looked smart in their new uniforms, which the red dirt had yet to stain. Their step was lively, their actions crisp, their nerves on high alert.
Carla had shed her blazer and dress in favor of a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. She wore a Falls Church Pirates shirt from the previous year, but she would acquire all the A’s gear, the yellow-billed cap and green shirt, soon enough to cheer for her friend Kitty’s daughter.
But tonight she and her friends had to work the snack bar.
It took three adults to handle the preparation and sale of concessions. Rachel grilled the meat by the picnic tables and Kitty manned the shack behind home plate.
A loud whoop arose from the Athletics’ stands.
“Who just scored?” Kitty yelled out the side door.
“Joe did. And Dylan.”
Carla joined Kitty, who was handing out change to a child.
“We’re up by two.”
Carla settled in at the food preparation station and thought about the game. Every season began with absolute uncertainty. How would the players perform as a team? How would the hitting hold up? Who would be the star pitcher? There were also more immediate concerns. Were they good enough to hit the ball? What if they couldn’t get the pitch over the plate? Would the coach get mad?
Beating a team from the powerful McLean league was no easy feat. Many a Falls Church club had lost to the larger community to the north.
For Carla, even being on the same field as McLean was an honor. It meant Falls Church could play with the big boys and girls. They could even lead by two points in the fourth.
By that inning, all the initial anxiety of opening night was long past. Kitty’s daughter Loraine and her team would do well that year.
The ballpark was humming that night, and business was brisk. Carla had to order more pizza. “Handle the orders for a second,” she told Kitty. Then she placed a call to Dominos. “Three large cheese and three large pepperoni.” She gave them the league’s credit card number.
By the time she hung up, the stands were cheering again. “What just happened?”
Kitty cracked a smile. “Why don’t you sit in the bleachers for an inning. I’ll come out for the end of the game.”
That worked for her. But first, she wanted to check on the grill.
Rachel was flipping burgers like a pro. Her hair bunched by a rubber band, she was the angelic version of a baseball mom lost in a cloud of smoke. How could Carla have imagined her observing the Sabbath?
What else didn’t she know about the young woman?
“Let me be,” Rachel said. “Just take these back to Kitty.” She handed her a plateful of hamburgers.
Okay. Rachel didn’t mind missing the game. She was busy keeping small children away from the good-smelling food.
The plate was scalding hot in Carla’s hands. She dropped it off with Kitty.
People were lined up with greenbacks in hand.
“Sure you don’t need me?”
“I’m fine. Enjoy yourself.”
She climbed to the top row of the bleachers and surveyed the field. Loraine was playing first, where she could stretch her long limbs for the putout.
McLean’s team, Northwestern Mutual, already had a runner on second and a tall boy at the plate. When the catcher stood up to toss the ball back to the pitcher, he had to duck under the batter’s elbow. Growth hormones had already kicked in for some boys and girls at that age, making them look oversized for the small dimensions of the field.
Crack!
The bat connected with a solid sound. There was no “ping” to that hit. The ball flew high toward the lights of centerfield. Dylan, who was on Loraine’s team the previous year, backpedaled.
The runner at second paused, then reluctantly tagged up.
Dylan’s glove shot up.
The batter streaked around first, and headed for second.
Plop. Everybody heard the ball land solidly in Dylan’s glove. The stands went nuts.
He reached back and whipped the ball toward the shortstop playing cutoff. The runner had tagged up.
“He’s going!” Carla yelled.
The shortstop nabbed the throw and realized too late that the runner was past him. He spun toward third and sent the ball flying over the third baseman’s head.
Nobody was there to back up the throw, and the ball skidded toward the Athletics’ dugout.
The third base coach swung his arm in such a wide circle, he knocked his hat off his buzz cut and his cell phone fell out of his pocket.
“Home!” Carla shouted to the third baseman.
The catcher threw off his facemask and stood his ground over the plate.
The runner streaked up the line.
The throw came in high. The catcher leaped in the air. The runner stretched a leg out to slide.
The umpire changed position for a better view.
The ball landed in the catcher’s mitt and the catcher fell on top of the runner. Nobody could hear if the cleats scraped across the plate because of the screaming in the stands.
“He’s safe!” the umpire cried. He spread his arms out to signal the call.
Carla dropped to her seat. “Oh, those er
rors are going to kill us.”
She looked through the chain link fence at the McLean fans, who stood and cheered wildly. One man turned his back to the field and screamed with the others as he waved a hamburger over his head. The fellow hadn’t changed out of his business suit and looked for all the world like Dean.
She had to get him out of her mind.
“What happened?” Kitty called from the snack bar.
“They scored a run on us,” Carla shouted back.
“Crap.”
Much as Carla hated giving up a run, she wouldn’t miss seeing it for the world.
The McLean fans were still applauding. She really disliked how parents flaunted their status by wearing suits to the ballpark.
The grandfather in front of her pulled on a hunting jacket. She hadn’t noticed how cold it was getting.
The next batter struck out to end the inning.
Loraine trotted to the dugout with a big smile on her face. Then she pounded a batting helmet on top of her head.
It was time to let Kitty watch her daughter slug one out of the park.
Chapter 36
Carla didn’t realize how much sleep she had needed until she rolled over in bed and checked her alarm clock. It was already 9:30 that Saturday morning.
Rachel had settled comfortably into the upstairs bedroom in Carla’s Victorian house, but would need some diversion for the day.
When Carla entered the kitchen, she found Rachel working on her laptop.
“Bad news,” Rachel announced.
Carla wasn’t awake enough to respond. She headed for the coffeemaker that was already brewing coffee.
“I’ll explain,” Rachel said. “Do you know what the Aleppo Codex is?”
“Barry Wiseman told me about it,” she mumbled. “It’s an old book that Dean brought back from Syria.”
“Well, I was just checking The Schmooze.”
“The Schmooze? Isn’t that insulting?”
“It’s a website for Jewish communities. The term refers to chatting. I was checking when the last scrap of the codex was found and made public. There was the one leaf from Chronicles mailed to Brooklyn from Aleppo. Then there was the scrap of Exodus carried around in a man’s wallet for many years. Those came to light decades ago. I wanted to know if there was anything more recent. So I checked the news sites and searched for the most recent stories. And guess what?”
