by Jon Talton
Now, as we sit in my car, Rachel lays it out for me. The real Craig Summers bio was somewhat different than what appeared in the newspaper. In fact, he went through the University of Washington in three years on a full academic scholarship. Then he joined the Central Intelligence Agency, where he worked for a decade. When he became the chief executive of his first company, Praetorian Systems, it was a CIA front.
True, it sold new software for tracking ships by commercial satellite—but the technology came out of government labs, not Craig Summers’ brain. It was “sold” to the U.S. Navy and allied navies at first, giving the agency a way to launder some money at the same time. But it gave Summers and his team credibility as defense contractors, and soon less-friendly governments came calling, sometimes covertly. The idea wasn’t to sell the software, but to identify international arms merchants, offer virus-ridden software code to less-friendly governments, and find domestic double agents. It was a late Cold War enterprise. Once the Berlin Wall fell, Summers indeed made money from the sale of Praetorian—but it was his separation fee from the CIA.
Rachel claims she knew none of this until she was in college.
“I hated him when I found out,” she says. “I was in my student rebel days and had read about CIA abuses. When I grew up a little more, I came to believe he was serving the country. Then I got mad all over again after 9/11, when I read about the secret CIA prisons, rendition. The black sites. Dad was genuinely angry about it, too. He was horrified. He said he had never done anything like that, that it violated the agency’s own rules. I believe him. He’s a good man.”
It is hard to imagine Rachel of the calm dark blue eyes rebelling against anything, but we never really know anyone, do we? “And Moonglow Systems, that was a scam too?” I ask. It was Summers’ next company and biggest success.
“Dad was never in a scam,” Rachel says with heat in her voice. “And, no. Moonglow was all his. He’s a very good executive. He understood the possibilities of the Internet very early. He built that company.”
“With a nice nest egg from the CIA.” Maybe Craig Summers invested some of it with Troy Hardesty because Hardesty was involved with the CIA, too. Maybe that’s why Troy’s hedge fund survived the recession so well. Maybe her dad stayed on as a consultant with the agency. When I say this to Rachel she flares at me.
“I don’t know anything about that! I’ve never even heard this man’s name before you told me about this. How do you know he and Dad knew each other?”
I scan the parking lot in the rearview mirror, seeing nothing amiss. “So the guys who roughed me up are CIA. I need to keep you out of this,” I say. “Your note said he knew bad people. Did you write that?”
She shakes her head. “My part was the missing you terribly line. And that you were making a mistake, with us.”
“And 11/11—written as a date. You don’t know.” I sigh heavily.
She stares ahead and says nothing. I don’t think she knows. The sun breaks through the light cloud cover and suddenly the sound has a brilliant white V running across it. It lasts for long moments of silence.
“You said you have blood on your hands,” Rachel finally says. “What do you mean?”
Now it’s my turn to clam up. All I dare tell her is what I finally say. “It’s better, it’s safer, that you don’t know.”
“Those were almost exactly the words dad used, the day he just lost it about you. He said, ‘Oh, my God, I’m going to have blood on my hands.’ I don’t think I’ve ever seen him more upset.”
I ask her when this was.
“The Sunday after you dumped me.”
“So he was already pissed at me.”
“I hadn’t told him,” she says.
“So what set him off?”
“I don’t know. He was reading the paper. Maybe he was upset about this Troy Hardesty’s suicide.”
“But we didn’t report it. Neither did the Times.”
“Wait,” she says. “He was reading the business section.”
That was the day my first column on Olympic International appeared. My mouth is suddenly sandpaper. A giant container ship pushes south toward port. The sun has gone away.
Rachel takes my hand again. Her hand is cold and I instinctively cover it with my other hand to warm it.
“Why can’t you let this go?”
“Too much has happened,” I say. “All I can do now is tell the story. That’s the only way I can make things right.”
“Why can’t you just live a happy life?” she demands. “Aren’t you afraid?”
I tell her that I’m terrified.
“I was afraid to come here today,” she says. “But I’m not afraid any more. It’s too bad you are.”
“There’s just a lot…” I let my voice trail off.
“You’re afraid you’ll fall in love with me.”
Maybe so. Maybe so. I put my hand against her soft, thick curls. The feeling lacerates me inside.
Chapter Twenty-seven
I drive fast back downtown. The Ballard Bridge is down and I sail past the masts of the fishing fleet without interruption. At home, I change into my navy pinstriped suit and slip on a red rep tie. I need sartorial armor. I slide the revolver into the briefcase I am now carrying, an old brown leather briefcase that my ex-wife had given me years ago. It still looks good. When I walk out of the building, George is sitting on his plastic crate, pedestrians walking by and ignoring him.
“All clear, el-tee.” He smiles.
“I was no officer.”
“Sure. Old first sergeants can always tell.”
I walk north on First Avenue and then climb the hill. Why did that shake me up? The agents seemed to have their own reality of my time in the Army, too. I had never even told George I had been in the service.
I check my watch and double-time it to the transit tunnel entrance on Third Avenue, in the old Washington Mutual Tower, then sprint down the flights of stairs. I catch my breath as I watch the buses and light-rail trains roll through. The tunnel is well-lit and clean, but it still smells of diesel fumes and I vaguely feel shut in. I think about Amber’s claustrophobia attack in the closet. My eyes scan for trouble even though my brain realizes I won’t see it coming. The wide platforms are crowded with people headed home from work. I am looking for only one.
Of the many reams of corporate fluff that come my way, few are of any use. But I remembered reading an article in the Olympic International newsletter about employees “doing their part to make Seattle America’s greenest city.” Somehow one detail stuck with me: Heidi Benson, director of corporate communications, always rode the Sound Transit 554 bus to her home in the east-side suburbs. Yesterday’s piece of fluff is today’s critical intelligence.
I wait forty-five minutes, lingering close to the wall and hidden by the clots of commuters. It is ten minutes after six when I see Heidi stalking down the platform toward an eastbound 554 that has just arrived. Heidi has strawberry blond hair worn in a pageboy and a face with fair, slightly freckled skin. She wears a black slacks suit that accentuates her long legs, and she moves as if her cone of personal space extends ten feet in every direction. If she could smile and unwind, scrape off some makeup, she might be considered pretty. I will never get that smile, particularly today. She stands beside the blue-and-white bus, examining some papers before stuffing them into her briefcase. Then she checks her Blackberry and looks at the ceiling, apparently not getting a signal. Other buses pull away with noisy roars. The 554 starts to fill up. Then she steps aboard.
I walk quickly to the back door and follow her inside. She doesn’t see me and sits by the window. I slide next to her, settling into the cushy Sound Transit seat. It takes a full three minutes for her to realize who is sitting next to her, and by this time the bus is rolling. My heart rate is up in the triple digits, but I keep my face calm and immobile.
“What are you…?” She lets the question hang. Then she says my name with the same
inflection she would use for a venereal disease. “What a coincidence seeing you here.” She cranes her neck, seeing if there are any seats she can flee to.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”
“Then make an appointment. In the meantime, I wish you’d move.”
She is cooler than I thought she’d be, given her outburst over the first Olympic column. But I can see her gripping her briefcase so tightly that her already white skin is nearly translucent.
“Please move.”
“I like it here.”
“Then I will.” She starts to stand but is pushed back in her seat as the bus blasts out of the transit tunnel and starts its way east.
“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” I say it in a conversational tone, smiling at her as if we were ordinary seat-mates on the commute home.
“I don’t want to know,” she hisses. “I want you to move.”
“We’re set to go with a story on Olympic Defense Systems. The CIA connection.” I say this in the same tone of voice but slow it down for emphasis. I watch her body go rigid. “We know everything, Heidi.”
She stares ahead and I can almost see her eyes start to fill with tears. They suddenly dry up like a desert lake. “You’re bluffing.”
“You know I’m not.”
“Now you listen to me!” She turns to the side and nearly leans over me. She stabs her finger toward my face. “This little ambush tactic is not going to work. I don’t know who you think you are. We’ve dealt with your publisher. This has been settled. The Free Press is not publishing anything.”
She becomes aware of the people watching her and slowly settles back in her seat, nervously running her left hand through her hair. It’s nice hair. What a waste. Her phrasing is interesting: “We’ve dealt with your publisher.” I wait to respond until we are halfway across Lake Washington. The bus sits so high on the floating bridge that it seems as if we are hydroplaning across the dark water. If we went off the road no barrier could save us. No exits would work. The water would be fatally cold. I make myself avoid looking.
“It’s too bad the way they always cut the flacks out of the real deal,” I say. “So I’m trying to help you do your job. The fact is, the four days of stories are already set to go. They’ve been edited and lawyered. And I mean lawyered to death. We’ve got the CIA connection nailed. The same with Troy Hardesty and Animal Spirits.” Her face winces as if I have slapped her. “We’re already bullet-proof. I’ve tried to give you a chance to be more open…”
She starts to speak but nothing comes out of her mouth.
“But you’ve stonewalled us. So this is your last chance. We always want to be fair and accurate. From the number of documents and sources we have, I know we’re being accurate. But I told the editors I wanted to make one more try. It’s only in your interest to have the company’s voice in these stories. To respond to the issues that they raise. And, Heidi, nobody deals with the Sterling family when the integrity of their newspaper is involved.”
Brave talk but I pull it off. She pulls her slim frame as close to the window as possible. Her eyes are glassy. I wonder how much of this information she is even privy to. I know I haven’t put the puzzle together. But her reaction tells me I am on the right path.
Finally, she gives a raspy, “What do you want?”
“I want an interview with Pete Montgomery.”
“That’s impossible. He’s the chief executive officer.”
“That’s the point. If Steve Ballmer and Howard Schultz talk to me, I think Pete can, too.”
“I’ll call our lawyers.” Her voice gains a little steel.
“You certainly can. But I have a deadline.”
She sighs.
“And I want to visit the ODS headquarters.”
“In D.C.? That’s out of the question.”
“I hear there’s a facility in Arizona. That will do.”
She refuses to make eye contact. I put my hand on her shoulder and she shivers.
“Don’t dick me around, Heidi.” I am smiling and my voice is almost a whisper. “This story will run with or without you. You know we’ll do it. We’ve done it before.”
Then I stand and walk to the back of the bus where I find an empty seat. I watch her motionless head until the bus takes the exit for the Eastgate Park and Ride station. She makes it a point to take the front door so she doesn’t have to see me. Out on the asphalt, she walks toward her car checking behind her to make sure I am not following.
“She’s quite a bitch, isn’t she?”
I turn to the man sitting next to me. He’s slender, with high cheekbones, olive-brown skin and dressed in regulation Friday casual. I’d guess he’s on the downside of forty.
“She can be,” I say. “How do you know her?”
“I worked for her until today. They laid me off.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re the columnist. You’re taller than your photograph in the newspaper.” He says this without humor.
The bus is moving again and I decide to ride to one more stop before heading back to Seattle. Disgruntled former employees can be useful, although you have to account for their biases.
“So what did you do?”
“I was in charge of communications liaison between corporate and ODS.” He says the initials with a vague British accent. I feel my lower back tighten.
“An interesting subsidiary.” I try to keep my voice neutral. I have on my wide-open, talk-to-me reporter’s face.
“More than that.” He smiles. “Did you dig deeper, as I told you to?”
I almost visibly shiver. The mysterious emailer. “I’m trying,” I say. “I don’t understand the connections. The CIA, Troy Hardesty, Animal Spirits…eleven/eleven.”
He grips my arm painfully, his slight frame deceiving.
“Not here.” He releases my arm. Then he reaches into his jacket, retrieves a business card, and writes an address on the back of it with his left hand.
“Come see me at my house tomorrow at ten. The wife and kids are going early.” He hands me the card. I give him mine. He quickly slides it into his shirt pocket.
“In the meantime, I think it would be a good idea for you to move, and get off the bus before Issaquah.”
***
I call Amber and she says she can’t come over tonight. Maybe I imagine something in her voice, distance, a pulling back. Normally, it would give me relief—another bit of transitional fun. She got the best of me, and I the best of her. But this night her absence gnaws at me. The bed looks impossibly large.
For the first time in days, I go to the Conspiracy Grrl Web site, knowing I am probably being tracked. The screen shows “error 404.” The site is down. Even my Conspiracy Grrl has abandoned me tonight.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Saturday, October 30th
I have lit a fuse. It’s attached to my cell phone. I watch it sitting there on the nightstand, attached to the charger cord, as I wake during the night. Heidi Benson won’t let our encounter sit through the weekend. The only question is whether she and her big boss will think I’m bluffing. The Blackjack stays silent. I think about what Rachel said; her father’s reaction to my Olympic column. That’s how I got into this. And I wish I could claim to be the most prescient journalist on the planet, but the truth is that I picked the topic at random. I had made a list of companies we weren’t covering intensely because of the staff reductions. Olympic came up. I started asking questions. Now people are dead and missing and eleven/eleven. The street erupts with the sound of loud drunks at closing time. Then I only hear the occasional train whistle until I fall into a deep sleep.
I rise early, with no woman in bed to make coffee for. So I dress, walk down the street to Starbucks, then climb in the car and drive. Before I leave the curb, I study the business card: Olympic International Corp. James Mandir, Corporate Communications Business Partner. It has no mention of Olympic Defense Systems. On th
e back is his address, written in a neat, draftsmanlike hand. I check it against my worn street map in the car. There’s no way I’ll use Mapquest and give my minders a chance to see where I’m going. On the atlas page, the address looks like it sits amid a spaghetti splatter of streets. I leave the page open on the passenger seat as I let the car amble through downtown, then out to Magnolia, where I park and watch.
While the fit, well-off Maggies walk and jog past, I let my paranoia run wild. I check the car for a tracking device: in the glove box, under the seats and dash. I climb out and get on my knees, looking for anything amiss on the underside or the bumper. The sky is partly cloudy—their satellites can see me. I stand and brush myself off as a young woman pushes her stroller by: You are odd, her look says, you don’t fit in here. That’s true enough. I start the car again and take the long way back across Interbay Yard and around the backside of Queen Anne Hill, through the sleepy Saturday campus of Seattle Pacific University, down Westlake past the yacht brokers, before finally reaching the freeway and driving east.
I’m not being followed.
Across the lake, the car starts the long climb that will take me into the Cascade foothills. The mountains are jagged purple. It was a cool morning in the city, and I can feel it grow colder when I touch the car window. The interstate soars and sags as the wall of tall evergreens grows denser. The land undulates upward, showing hill upon hill, revealing sudden valleys. The signs promise I am near Lake Sammamish State Park, but then it’s time to exit. I have never been an east-sider. I am a city kid. But I can remember when there was nothing out here, just the highway to Snoqualmie Falls. My parents would take Jill and me there during the few calm periods in our family life. Now it’s suburbia, with a new parkway that gives way to new streets. It’s all calm and pleasant and would drive me insane.
I go through the same drill again, just driving and checking. I have given myself plenty of room to arrive on time. Finally, I make three turns and swing around a crescent street where Mandir’s address sits in neat black letters on a gray house with white trim. It’s a long, pleasant split-level with wide windows and a two-car garage that seems to overwhelm the rest of the house. Tall evergreens and aspen with their last gold stand behind the place and it’s surrounded by a perfect lawn and hedges. I pull into the driveway, to the side with the closed garage door. The other garage door sits open, presumably from the departure of his wife and children. The house has a red front door atop a short white staircase at the end of a flagstone walk. I scan the rearview mirrors one more time, wondering if my notepad will spook him. I decide to take it, grabbing an extra pen. I leave the gun in the car.
