“Miss Attison?” the bald man with the three-day-old scruff on his face asks from my doorway.
“Special Agent Grimman, please, have a seat,” I tell him, watching as he obliges following a firm yet brief handshake.
Part of me is surprised the FBI agreed to this meeting. The agency is huge, and even the Counterintelligence Division has four distinct branches. The one I’m interested in is the Counterespionage Section which prevents foreign intelligence agencies from successfully gathering and collecting intelligence against our government and citizens. I’m told Special Agent Grimman is the man who runs that section.
“The senator spoke to my boss, Karen Weisz, and she asked me to take this meeting with you. It’s a little unorthodox, to be honest, but he indicated to her that you have some concerns over our investigation.”
“That isn’t exactly―”
“Now, I have a concern of my own,” he interrupts in a patented Washington power move. “Namely, how you know enough about our investigation to have any concerns about it at all.”
Washington, D.C., is a city built on influence, reputation, and one’s position in the food chain. Political power among the nation’s leadership is what most Americans would easily recognize, but it’s not the only game played here. Everybody who lives and works here has to deal with people exerting power every day. By interrupting me like he did, Agent Grimman is letting me know that he doesn’t regard me as any type of authority and won’t be intimidated by me. It’s definitely one of those meetings.
“I’m sorry, Agent Grimman, but I wasn’t exactly truthful about the reason I wanted you here.” That will put him back on the defensive.
“Okay, you have my interest.”
“I thought I might,” I say with a weak smile. “I don’t have concerns, but I do have some information you might find interesting. You are involved in the investigation of the DIA, correct?”
“I already don’t think I like the direction this conversation is going in,” he admonishes.
“One of the people you are investigating is Eugene Hollinger, an analyst on the Middle Eastern Desk,” I inform him, ignoring his comment.
“How could you know that?” The flash of recognition on his face was unmistakable.
“He’s my fiancé.”
“This conversation is over,” he declares, rising from his chair and turning to leave.
“Agent Grimman, you’re going to want to hear this. Or I can take it up directly with your boss instead. It’s your choice.”
“Miss Attison, I don’t respond to threats. By approaching me with this information, you’ve already established a conflict of interest. I will not allow you, or anyone else in this building, to prejudice this investigation.”
“What if someone already has?”
“What do you mean?”
I extend my hand toward the chair and offer it to him once again. He gives me a look of annoyance but accepts the offer. I know I have a short window with him, so I might as well get straight to the point.
“I was approached by a high-ranking official in the DIA earlier today.”
“Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. It’s someone who is in the know over there. What I can tell you is there may be a plot to steer the investigation toward an individual in order to shield others from scrutiny.”
“You mean point the investigation towards your fiancé?” he replies in a voice that lets me know he’s unconvinced.
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Did your source say who was doing the steering?”
“Colby Washington.”
“As in Director Colby Washington? Miss Attison, do you have any idea how unlikely that is?”
“Yes, I do, and I share your apprehension.”
“So why are you telling me? Are you looking for me to stop investigating your fiancé?” Grimman asks, in a voice that dares me to say “yes.”
“No, because I know you can’t. And even if you could, I know you wouldn’t.”
The comment catches him off guard. Whatever he thought his conversation was going to be about, those expectations got shattered. Now he’s afraid I’m using a different tactic to manipulate him.
“Without confirming anything about who may or may not be under investigation, what are you asking me to do?”
“Nothing. My source told me that Colby Washington is going to use a lingering medical issue he has from Iraq to paint him as mentally unstable.”
“PTSD?” he asks after his face betrays him again. He knows about this dream thing, which means someone at DIA told him what was in the file Garrett Turner handed to me.
“Something like that. They broke into the home of his therapist and stole her notes pertaining to his case.”
“They broke into his therapist’s office?” he repeats with a genuine tone of disbelief. “You realize you’re leveling a serious accusation?”
“Yes.”
“Okay,” he says with a substantial sigh after a moment. “You say he’s seeing a therapist? Because what you just told me makes me question his mental stability. And yours.”
I hold his gaze but remain quiet. He’s right, it does sound crazy. If Garrett Turner had not handed me the notes himself, I wouldn’t have believed it either. I didn’t expect him to believe me outright. All I needed to do was plant the seed. Now I have to get him to ask me to add the water.
“Why would they break into her office, and why would they tell you they did it? It doesn’t pass the sniff test, Miss Attison,” Grimman concludes once it’s apparent I’m not going to say anything.
“My source instructed me to use the senator’s influence as Intelligence Committee chairman to get you to back off the investigation or the contents of the file would be leaked to damage his credibility and ruin my career.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” the agent asks, shifting his weight in my upholstered armchair.
“No. I’m telling you because I think you’re getting played, and for whatever reason, Colby Washington may be behind it.”
Agent Grimman rubs the stubble on his chin. I’m betting he has put some long hours in already. He needs rest and, more importantly, perspective. He knows this is a high-profile investigation that can make or break his career in the bureau. As much as I’m sure he wants to tell me I’m wrong, he’s scared that I might actually be right.
“We’ve already looked into Colby Washington. We didn’t find anything. Everything is squeaky clean with him. It’s a significant leap of faith asking me to believe a word you’re saying.”
“I’m sure he’s a Boy Scout, at least on the surface. The problem is, once you’re finished with your investigation into Boston, you’ll find he’s not the mole. How many people are going to die in the time it takes you to reach that conclusion?”
“Boston?” he asks, puzzled.
“My fiancé’s old army nickname. Look, Boston isn’t your guy, and I don’t know if Colby is the mole or not, but I thought you needed to know what’s going on.”
“Is it possible your source lied to you?”
I think back to my initial reaction to what Garrett was saying. I thought he was hiding something. He may have been outright lying. There was really no way to tell.
“Yes, it is entirely possible. If I’ve learned anything in this town, Agent Grimman, it’s that nothing is as it seems.”
.
~ CHapter 32 ~
director Colby washington
“No, sir, I issued no such order!”
“The FBI believes you may have. Director Weisz never would have called me if one of her agents didn’t convince her that it was the truth.”
“Admiral, I swear, I made no such order to steal anything from Eugene Hollinger’s doctor.”
“Did you know about it?” He must know I did, or at least suspect it. This is a lost cause. I can plead ignorance and try to lie my way out of this all I want, but my fate was sealed the moment Vice-Admiral Troxsell picked up his phon
e and called me at home.
“No, sir, I didn’t,” I lie.
“So, you’re saying you didn’t know anything? You knew nothing about Garrett going to Capitol Hill and trying to blackmail a staff member of the chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence? The same staff member, it just happens to turn out, who is engaged to be married to an analyst you just suspended.”
“Maybe you should be asking Garrett about that, sir.”
“Who says I haven’t? Do you know what he told me?”
Of course I do. He told the admiral that I was the mastermind behind everything and that he was executing my orders. He may have gone so far as to say I threatened his career if he didn’t go along. No wonder he was so eager to meet Gina. If she played along, he would benefit, and if she didn’t, as it seems happened, he puts me on the hot seat. The worst part is he can sleep well tonight knowing I never saw this coming.
“Colby, I didn’t like being in a position to have to constantly question your leadership. Now you’ve crossed a line you shouldn’t have.”
“What are you saying, sir?”
“I think you know what I’m saying.”
I don’t bother responding. It’s been a constant fight to keep Garrett in check, and I’ve been successful at it for a long time. This investigation into the mole and Boston’s seeing a therapist for these visions of his gave my deputy all the ammunition he needed to plot my demise. All that’s left is for the director of the Defense Intelligence Agency to pull the trigger.
I have been pacing around the living room since the beginning of the conversation. With my wife and child long gone, the room has no hint of a feminine touch. I am married to my career now, and the walls of my living room are adorned with testaments to that. Like the selection of them hanging in my office, they are the highlights of my entire life. A life that’s about to come to a crashing end.
“I have to apologize to you, Colby. I would much rather do this in person. You’ve had a long and distinguished career and you deserve better than a late night phone call. You’re a legend in the halls of the DIA, and I don’t want to see that reputation get tarnished by your recent … errors in judgment.”
“This isn’t right, Admiral. Please do not hang me out to dry without getting the story right,” I plead. I know it’s falling on deaf ears.
“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. There are too many prying eyes on this, and I have to think about the integrity of the agency. I’m sorry, but I need your resignation on my desk by the end of the day tomorrow.”
“My resignation?” I ask, playing dumb.
“You brought this on yourself. I’m offering you the easiest out. I promise that none of the alternatives are going to appeal to you.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I deserve more than to be cast out like this without due process. I have been faithfully serving the agency for thirty years now. I have earned the right to―”
“Earned the right to what? I admire the work you’ve done in your career, Colby, I really do. But I cannot have a director working for me that I don’t have confidence in. Whether these allegations are true or not, I have lost that confidence. I’m sorry it has come to this, but I have made my decision.”
“Who’s going to take my position?” I struggle to ask.
“Garrett Turner is your deputy. He’s capable of handling the job until a permanent solution can be decided upon.”
“Sir, I―”
“I’m afraid I have to cut this short. I have some damage control to do with Senator Ludwig and Karin Weisz. Thank you, again, for your service. Remember to have that document to me by the end of the day tomorrow.”
The line goes dead, and my career just died with it. The last official act I will ever perform is to type a letter saying I want to be released from my duties. It is a position that Garrett has long coveted and has now managed to wrestle away from me once and for all.
I pick up the picture of my wife and son from the end table near the couch. It is fading now, just like many of the memories of them. The accident that took their lives was so long ago. What would she say to me now if she was here?
She would tell me to keep fighting. From the time I was a child growing up in the rough section of Camden, New Jersey, my life has been a struggle. When we met and married, she was eager to help me achieve my dreams in any way I could and suffered the long hours I had to put in to climb the promotion ladder. It was only natural that I immersed myself in my work when the drunk driver took them from me.
I set their picture down and move across the living room to a framed picture on the wall of me shaking hands with former president Bill Clinton. The photo was taken after some work I had done on the Bosnian conflict earned some high praise from my superiors and resulted in a visit to the Oval Office to be congratulated by the president himself. It was the highlight of my early career but seems like so long ago. Whatever happened to that young black man with so much promise?
If Garrett thinks I am going to roll out the red carpet for him, he is sorely mistaken. I am not going to make it that easy for him. The DIA has been my life. And it is the one thing I have left worth fighting for.
I pull a cell phone out of the briefcase I tossed on the couch when I got home. I hit the power button and wait for the device to come alive. This is not my personal cell. It is only used for special occasions, and now is the time to put it to work by calling in a favor. If Garrett wants a war, then that is exactly what he is going to get.
“Senator, it’s me,” I say as the phone goes directly to voice mail as it should. He will get the message soon enough. “We need to talk.”
.
~ CHapter 33 ~
eugene “Boston” hollinger
I’m standing in a room, looking at a picture on the wall. I can’t make any detail out through the fuzzy haze that has enveloped me. I hear a murmur, and then I hear myself speak.
“I know what he’s doing. He needs to be taken out.”
“What are you suggesting?” The voice mumbling a moment ago is now much clearer.
“You know exactly what I’m suggesting.”
“I’m not sure I can help you. There are too many eyes on this now.”
“After all the favors I’ve done for you over the years? This is the least you can do for me.”
My view shifts and I try to make out what I see. A fireplace. A couch. A coffee table. Pictures on a wall. Lots of them. Is this a living room or an office?
“It is a big risk given the current situation over in the DIA.”
“You don’t think I know that? I’ve stuck my neck out for you countless times and now I need your help. You owe me.”
“You are overestimating my capabilities,” the voice says after a long pause.”It’s best if we table this discussion until things settle down. We should go dark on our communications.
“That’s unacceptable. I need him out of the picture. Now.”
My eyes open and I sit up in bed in the dark room. I go through my memory exercises, switch on the light, and then reach for the notepad I placed on the nightstand. I try to recount every aspect of what I saw in the memory and commit it to paper, fighting the wires connected from my scalp to the laptop computer in the process. My hand struggles to keep up with writing the description of the dream as I remember it. The room, the phone, wall, the voice … I know that voice. Where have I heard it? Then it dawns on me.
Fed up with the losing battle against the wires, I pull them off one-by-one. I don’t need an EEG to tell me that wasn’t a dream. When they are all disconnected, I reach over and move my finger along the track pad to bring the laptop out of sleep mode. The program displays squiggly lines before stopping when I removed the connections. The time in the corner reads seven after two.
I rip the page from the pad and I switch the light off. Remembering we’re being watched, I curse myself for turning it on in the first place. After getting out of bed and groping for my clothes in the darkness, I dress and begin
feeling along the wall for the door. I find the knob and move the few feet down the hall to Tara’s bedroom.
“Tara?” I say, giving her shoulder a firm but gentle shake. I’m surprised at the softness of her skin.
Her eyes open and she recoils in a panic. She struggles towards the headboard, thrashing at the covers. Afraid she’d going to scream, I cover her mouth with my hand.
“Shhhh! It’s okay, Tara, it’s only me.”
“Boston?” she blurts out after I remove my hand. “You scared the life out of me! What are you doing in here?”
“I need you to meet me in the living room. Don’t turn on any lights,” I command.
“Why? What time is it?” she says, fighting to control the growing alarm in her voice.
“Just get dressed and meet me downstairs,” I repeat before leaving her room and treading carefully as I make my way downstairs. I head right for the window once I reach the main floor. Louisiana is already standing there peering through the slats in the blinds.
“You see him?” Louisiana asks me as I join him.
“No. What am I looking at?”
“The silver BMW, about two hundred feet up the block on the far side of the street. That’s our boy. He’s got an expensive ride.”
I recognize the car from earlier. The three series model has been there all night. That isn’t much of a red flag. It’s not a car that you wouldn’t expect to be parked on the road considering the wealth in this neighborhood, and there’s no way to know for certain that it’s not a neighbor’s car.
“How do you know?”
“Bro, the interior light switched on forty-five minutes ago and then back off. You don’t think any of her neighbors in this part of town sleep in their cars, do ya?”
“I guess not. What are you doing up?” I ask Louisiana.
“Couldn’t sleep. Maryland has some kickin’ sleep apnea or somethin’,” he explains, pointing over his shoulder at Maryland who is curled up in a couch and snoring. “What’s your excuse?”
The Eyes of Others Page 15
