by HN Wake
“How’s he doing?” Patel meant Otis Reddenbacker, who was sitting in a holding cell.
“He’s gone to sleep,” Ernest said.
“The fucker’s asleep?”
“Cops, right?” Ernest settled back into a nearby plastic seat. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin and his eyes stung from the dry AC air in the building. He knew a pungent musk filled the room as they made it down the final stretch of a 24-hour vigil waiting for Patel’s program to crack the password on Otis Reddenbacker’s laptop. Leaning back into their chairs, each enjoyed the tangy first hit of their fourth coffees. Their combined breath would have stopped a stampeding buffalo.
Ernest eyed the dark screen. “How much longer?”
“We’re so close. Maybe twenty minutes?”
They fell back into silence, sipping their coffees, minds far away from the cramped room.
Five minutes later the screen lit up and both men jolted forward. The chair bowed under Ernest’s weight. He leaned back to equalize the pressure across all four legs and set down his coffee.
Patel’s face was at the screen. “Yes!” His fingers found the keyboard. “We’re in. Where to start, where to start?”
On the screen, folders scrolled past. Ernest held his breath as Patel moused to the top of the list. “Let’s start at the beginning and work our way down.” He clicked on the first folder. Inside it had forty or fifty documents named only as ordered numbers: 1.1, 1.2, 1.3. He opened the first file. It was a form. A government-looking, bureaucratic form.
Ernest’s broad shoulder touched Patel’s as they both leaned in to read. The title, centered across the top of the page read, Standard Form 86. Below it read, Questionnaire for National Security Positions.
Both mouths dropped open as their eyes scanned the page.
John Luther Brennan
Date of Birth: 04 12 60
Social Security Number: 309 75 2574
Passport Number: 202 489 1122
Citizenship: USA
Residence Information (going back 10 years) including the name of neighbor
It was the official background check for the Attorney General of the United States of America. Patel arrowed down into the meat of the form, all 46 pages scrolled past, all 46 completed. Anyone who wanted personal information on the Attorney General John Brennan—it was right here. They both sat back, breathless and stunned.
Ernest spoke softly. “Open the next one.”
Patel clicked on the second document.
Nick Erlanger. Head of Secret Service.
Ernest picked up a yellow pad and a pen and began making a list. “We need to open them all.”
Patel’s finger clicked rapidly. “I mean, holy shit here, Ernest.”
“I know,” he replied soberly.
In the silent hallway, Ernest woke up Castle on two rings. He spoke quickly, “It’s big.”
“Talk to me.” Castle was immediately awake.
“It’s fifty SF 86s. Fully complete. Home address, known associates, medical.”
“What? SF 86s? As in official SF 86s?”
“Yes.”
“How the fuck did this Reddenbacker get background clearance documents?”
“I have no idea.” Ernest looked up and down the empty hall, bright from overhead florescent panels. “Sir.” The pause hung on the stale air.
“Yes?”
“John Brennan’s is there.”
Silence.
Ernest continued, “And Erlanger and ten other heads of agencies. Among others.”
Silence.
“I’m coming in,” Castle said before he hung up.
Thirty minutes later, Ernest sat in Castle’s office on the thirtieth floor along with Mary Epper from the Counterterrorism Analysis Section Research. Ernest had worked with her in the past and found her efficient and smart.
Mary began. “So, we know it’s the form filled out by any federal employee or federal government contractor who is eligible for access to classified national security information. The background checks are done by the Office of Personnel Management—OPM— and they contract a lot of that out. It depends on the access you need—Confidential, Secret or Top Secret. It can take anywhere from 50 to 500 days for the background check process. We’re not taking into account the Top Secret levels of Sensitive Compartmented Information (SCI), which refers to intelligence sources and methods, or Special Access Programs (SAPs).” She looked at her notes for the first time. “OPM hires investigators—2,500 federal employees and 6,700 contractors—to do these checks. Currently, there are about 5.6 million—or just over 1% of the population—who hold security clearances. 1.5 million hold the Top Secret level.” She looked up. “CIA, Marshals Service and the ATF do their own. As do we.”
“What about senior government officials?” Ernest asked.
“The president, vice president, members of congress, and supreme court justices are not required to have security clearance checks. The theory is that the public has already vetted them. And not to put too fine a point on it, but given the various scandals—many believe some of them wouldn’t have passed the checks—and then where would they be? They couldn’t grant them clearance. I’m not sure they could do their jobs—no, I know they couldn’t do their jobs without access to privileged information.”
Castle said, “They dig for anything they can use as blackmail, right?”
She nodded. “Or something that could compromise someone.”
“Like sex scandals.” Ernest said.
“Yes. But also other things that may cause concern. Like international travel that is fishy. They also interview acquaintances and friends throughout your life to make sure you are who you say you are.”
“What about business dealings?” Castle asked.
“Yes, for example, someone who has ties to Russian businesses. That would be a concern.”
The room went silent for a long moment.
Castle spoke to the ceiling, “So where in the crap did this small town cop get SF 86s?”
31
New York, NY
The air brakes of a large truck hissed and wooden crates clanged against a sidewalk, waking Mac with the instant awareness that she was in a city. Her second thought was to establish that she was in a warm, soft bed and wearing a t-shirt and underwear. A firm, male body was pressed against her back, an arm curled over and around her waist. Her shoulder throbbed.
Her eyes flew open and reality flooded in. Yesterday had been the debacle of the failed Patriot News operation, and the catastrophic nosedive down the subway stairs. She remembered the doctor and the popping of her shoulder. She remembered the pills.
The arm tightened around her waist. She was in the Bowery Hotel with Joe. He must have come while she was drugged because she couldn’t remember opening the door. In fact, everything after the shower was a blank. It must have been the pills.
She stared across the white linen, the magnitude of her bad decisions and close call clenched her chest like a straight jacket. It was time to fix this.
She rolled over, winced against the searing pain, and pushed her face into his chest. His hands gently closed around her back, sensitive to her pain. Just like Joe to be caring even in his sleep.
She whispered, “I’m sorry.”
He stirred, still drowsy. “It’s okay.”
“I don’t remember you coming here.”
“It’s okay, Mac.” He muffled against her scalp.
Her heart raced. “Did we talk?”
“You’re fine, Mac. You were hurt. The doctor gave you meds. You’ve slept through the night.”
“Are you mad?”
“No.”
Joe’s gentleness and understanding made her feel undeserving. She pulled away from him. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.”
In the cold bathroom, she stared at her reflection and the dark circles under her eyes. Time to fix this.
A sling rested on the counter. She lifted it, deciphered its use, slung it over her shoulder, an
d slid her aching arm through the fabric. The pressure in her shoulder immediately lightened.
Back in the room, she found Joe propped up against the headboard, his chest bare, the sheets up around his waist.
She sat next to him and found her voice. “I feel like I’m failing. Like everything is failing. This op. Coming back home. Rebuilding a life. You. I’m just not doing any of it right.”
“Maybe you’re trying to carry the burden all by yourself.”
She waited for her own reaction, waiting to see what his words meant deep inside. Nothing came.
His voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t have to be a lone ranger.”
Something fluttered in her stomach. What did that mean?
“You can let people in,” he said.
Ah. Her heart kicked up a beat. He wanted her to let him in.
“You’re a good person, Mac. You can let people know who you are.”
Her heart raced. She glanced away.
“You can tell me about your life, Mac. I won’t be scared. If stuff happened to you, it won’t make me love you any less.”
Her throat parched and her chest tightened. He may love her less, she thought, if he knew lots of things she’d done.
He watched her knowingly. “We can talk about things. It won’t ruin this—what we’ve got.”
She swallowed against the dryness.
“It will make things better between us. If you let me in.”
She hesitated, her voice was small. “Maybe it’s better if you don’t know?”
He thought about this. “I don’t think so.” He took her good hand, forced her to face him. “The good and the bad. I’m okay with all of it. ”
She shrunk in on herself, her pulse clamoring against her neck. An image of a six-story boat overloaded with people flashed across her mind. Two girls, blood dripping, eyes full of terror, racing to the deck’s edge. Around them, hundreds of blank, lost eyes watched in silence as they jumped, feet first, into the ocean.
“I am sure you have done things you are not proud of,” he said. “I get that, Mac. You worked for the CIA. I wasn’t born yesterday. I have a pretty good sense what they had you doing. I’m sure you’ve done some shit that would scare most people away. I’m not most people. I know who you are, who you were before all that.”
She looked away, took a long deep breath through her nose and released it slowly, pushing the images away. She looked back at him, digging deep for the strength he needed from her. God, revisiting all those demons was going to be brutal, but she had to start somewhere. Because it had always been Joe.
“Okay.” Her eyes stung. She wanted to deserve this man.
He nodded, gently. “Not now. Don’t tell me now. You’ve had a major trauma. But know that I am here.” He squeezed her hand. “We all have warts, Mac.”
She allowed a thin smile. Maybe she did deserve him.
He chuckled. “You realize that means you have to listen to my shit too. My warts are pretty bad. Puffy, gross.”
Her grin grew. She looked into his blue eyes. “I do love you.”
“I know. Isn’t it great?” He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “How’s your shoulder?”
“It’s horrible.”
He kissed her lips, whispered into her mouth, “You want some breakfast?”
32
New York, NY
The morning sun streamed at a sharp angle across rustic wooden tables, lighting up the glasses of water in the plush Bowery Hotel dining room. They had ordered eggs over easy and toast. The toast was a hardy Italian bread. The smell of the coffee in the silver pitcher between them tickled her nose.
She recounted yesterday’s operation as they buttered their toast.
He took his first bite. “So, in the light of day, and let’s call it the failure of the operation, what are you thinking?”
She chewed slowly then took a sip of coffee. “I intrinsically don’t like the idea of a US Senator being blackmailed, despite what she’s done. I find it repugnant. I was trained for years to defend this country—the liberty, the freedom, the pursuit of happiness—these sound ridiculous while we’re sitting here in this five-star hotel dining room, but when you’re in the depths of the trenches these are the ideals that keep you going. So all I see when I think about this blackmail is a threat to our democracy, the rules, the structures, that I defended for so long.”
“So you want another crack at it?”
“I don’t know. I think I want to walk away from it.”
“But you’re not sure. Explain that to me.”
She pushed her hair away from her face and looked around the dining room letting her thoughts collect, then looked at Joe. “When I told Senator Gillis I would do this, it’s like a part of me was finally free. I was finally in charge. Not Langley, not the Mandarins. It felt…” She looked around the room, then back to Joe. “It felt like I was able to finally start forgetting about all the bad shit. I could start focusing on good stuff. Helping people. Doing things that are 100% good. That I could make those decisions.”
“Okay. I get that.”
“But now I have you. Yesterday everything changed. Now I don’t want to take the risks. I hesitated. My aversion to risk made me doubt myself.” She thought about this for another long moment. “I am less effective and that’s dangerous. Maybe I shouldn’t be doing these types of ops at all.”
They ate in silence.
When they were finished he set down his napkin and began a new topic. “I saw a therapist once, a few years back. Shit wasn’t going the way I wanted it. I felt a bit lost.”
She hadn’t known this. She had not been in touch for a long time and had clearly missed a lot of his historical moments.
He continued, “So I went to therapy.”
“Did it help?” A deeper question was starting to hum in her mind.
“It did. We talked through a lot of things. I was angry and depressed. With her help, I pulled myself out of it. But that whole period in my life sucked.”
The hum was getting louder. She asked, “When did that happen?”
His blue eyes held hers. “About 15 years ago.”
The hum pierced her consciousness. She whispered, “Around the last time I saw you?”
His only answer was to raise his eyebrows.
The hum exploded.
He waited.
She whispered, “Because of me?”
He nodded.
She faltered, “Was that…did I trigger…my leaving…your depression?”
He nodded.
She blew out air, blinking. “Oh my god. I don’t know what to say.” The weight of his admission was crushing. How had she not known the strength of his feelings toward her? How had she been so insensitive as to just walk away from him and not consider him? Her selfishness overwhelmed her. She grasped for straws, anything to assuage the guilt. It had all been done in the name of the Agency? She had walked away to save him from association from her, to protect him? The excuses didn’t work. She had chosen her path, she had chosen the CIA over Joe. Her selfishness was untenable. “I’m so sorry.”
He spoke softly. “I know. I knew you would be sorry.”
“But you knew I was going away,” she said trying to fight off the growing mountain of shame.
“I didn’t want to believe you would just disappear.”
“You thought I would change my mind? About going into the Agency?”
“I thought I was the exception to their rules. You’d always told me about your CIA stuff. I thought I was outside those rules.” He took in a deep breath.
“I’m so sorry—” Words caught in her throat. How could she fix this? “I’m so sorry.”
“I know,” he said.
I will make it up to him, she vowed. I will fix this.
He said, “Mac, I can’t let you do that to me again. If something happens to you now, it happens to me.”
He was absolutely right. She nodded, “I agree.” Suddenly the decision was
easy. “We call this off.”
He stared at her across the table.
She nodded her head emphatically. “Yeah, we call this off. Senator Gillis. The blackmail. Patriot News. Cable news. Jesus, these aren’t our priorities. You are my priority. We call this whole operation off.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to ask that of you.”
“No, I’m sure. We call this off.”
Her phone pinged. 89 had sent her a message. “I sent you the video feed from outside Patriot yesterday.”
She looked up, read the message to him with a chagrined look.
He shrugged. “May as well see what your guy found. We can hand that off to Laura and the senator as we ride off into the sunset.”
33
Philadelphia, PA
Herbie stood in an empty unit on the third floor of a converted warehouse in the Manayunk section of Philadelphia. A bright sun beamed through huge windows overlooking a park. Despite the dust motes floating in the air, the loft was unusually clean and barren. A kitchen alcove held no dishes or pans. The bathroom nook was completely empty. A naked mattress leaned against the far wall. Only a big, green architect’s desk remained, pushed up against the windows because it was probably too heavy to move easily. Its companion was a solitary stool.
He stepped to the desk and looked out over the greenery. In the center of the park were a swing set and a dog run. Was that a statue of a pretzel in the middle of the park? Two churches stood sentry across from each other across the green expanse. Bells began chiming from each church, a battle of sound.
Herbie was an atheist. It bothered him that people put such faith in religion. Any religion. He felt the world would be a safer, calmer place if people didn’t get so worked up about what they believed about an afterlife. Hell, if people paid more attention to fixing the here and now, they wouldn’t be in the mess they were with climate change, population explosion, and food scarcity.
