“We’ll make note of your interest,” she adds tightly. “Certain folks here are always interested in what you’re working on, Alex.”
I roll my eyes. Some other journalists are intimidated by that sort of statement. Take it as a warning of sorts. But I’m not easily intimidated. Maybe because I grew up here, in a newsroom. Sitting in a chair in my mom’s office, doing my homework, while she made just these kinds of calls. Received her fair share of veiled threats. Ones that never materialized into anything.
“Worth it to get to the truth,” she used to say. And it’s a mantra I’ve always believed. Always put into practice. I’ve never backed down from a tough story. Not the one about illegal wiretapping on military bases overseas. Or the one about the CIA’s arms transfer that fell into terrorist hands. Uncovering wrongdoing in the military and intelligence services—that’s my thing. And it’s something a hell of a lot of journalists don’t want to touch. My best stories have been the ones others were afraid to write.
“Please do,” I say, saccharine sweet. “And if you think of anything else, you know how to find me.”
I press the end button and look at my phone. The background’s a mountain, one of those stock photos preloaded on the phone. Used to be more personal. A lot of things used to be different.
I open up the contacts again. Scroll until I find the name I need. Hana Ito. I choose the work number—she won’t have her cell on her—and place the call.
“This is Hana,” comes her voice, as the call connects.
“Hana, it’s Alex.” My number comes up as Unknown. Lots of people I know might not pick up otherwise.
“Alex,” she says. “What do you want?”
“Got a question for you.” With most of my Agency contacts, I’d have to beat around the bush until I had them on their cell. You never know who’s listening in on calls. But not Hana. She’s a senior analyst, works counterintelligence. Has her own office, not a cubicle like most of the rank and file. And as she’s explained to me before, no one’s monitoring her calls, because the information she deals with is too highly classified.
“Do you have anything for me?”
She’s nothing if not direct. Got to respect that. Probably why we get along.
I’m not exactly a people person, like a lot of journalists are. But I’m a damn good reporter. I know how to make a deal.
“No,” I say. “Nothing now. But I’ll owe you.”
“Nope. Sorry, Alex. Call me if you have something I can use.”
She disconnects, and I pull the phone from my ear. Can’t even be disappointed about this one. Hana’s only ever given me information if I’ve given her a lead first. She’s as eager and ambitious an analyst as they come. If I tip her off to a big story before it breaks, she gets a jump on putting together classified analysis on the topic. Her own version of a scoop. She told me once she’s had more articles in the President’s Daily Brief than any other counterintelligence analyst. I believe it.
There’s a peal of laughter from the other side of the room. I glance over—can’t see a thing—then back down at my phone.
I scroll through my contacts again until I find the next name I’m looking for. Beau Barnett. Hana’s my best source on the analytic side of the CIA; Beau’s the best on the operational side. Still looking for someone in Science and Technology. That’d be the trifecta. The big three. The heads of those directorates are known in the press as the Gang of Three. They wrote a string of stinging op-eds a couple years back, decrying roadblocks in the intelligence process, things like budget cuts and the need to attribute everything to a specific source.
Welcome to my world, I remember thinking. And it struck me more than ever before just how similar the fields are. Journalism and intelligence. We’re all just trying to find the truth.
I met Beau in Baghdad years ago, and we overlapped again in Lebanon. He’s a CIA case officer, now in management ranks. Senior guy, well connected. But down to earth as can be. Back in the U.S. now, but he did a stint in Damascus. He would know, for sure. I try his cell first.
“Beau, it’s Alex,” I say when he picks up.
“Alex. How the hell are you?”
“Doing well, old friend. You?”
“Oh, you know. Headquarters rotation, so I’m fairly miserable.”
I laugh. “There’s gotta be something good about it. Catching up with old friends?”
“Are you suggesting we catch up?”
“Yeah. Let’s grab a drink at—”
“What do you need, Alex?” I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Better to discuss it in person.”
“You know I can’t answer your questions.”
“And you know I wasn’t supposed to give you leads.” I’d never say more than that on the phone, but he knows exactly what I mean. He owes me.
He sighs. “Brewster’s at five?”
“See you there,” I say with a smile.
I’m going to pump him for info, and he knows it. But when we were abroad, he did the same thing. Pumped me for info, about my sources. I never gave names, but I’d give him leads. In exchange for information I needed, of course. Nothing overtly classified, but useful tidbits nonetheless. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.
In the end, we’re after the same thing, really. Sources. People with access to information, who are willing to provide it: for money, or to do the right thing, or for some other motive. He always saw my sources as ripe for recruitment. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if he recruited a few.
I look at the computer screen again. That tip. Ninety percent. Then, abruptly, I roll my chair back into the aisle. “Hey, Damian,” I call out down the row of cubicles. That new woman two cubes down shoots me an annoyed look.
Damian rolls his chair out into the aisle. “Yeah?”
“ClandestineTips. Got to be some way to figure out who sent a message, right?”
“You sat through that training, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothing.” He shakes his head. “Text-only messages are untraceable.”
I know it’s true. I heard the presentation. But if there’s anyone who’d know a work-around, it’s Damian. Our resident tech expert.
“Text-only?” I ask.
“You weren’t paying attention, were you?”
“I got the gist of it.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Only loophole is when there’s an attachment. A file, a picture, whatever. Then it’s traceable…with some work.”
Damn. No attachment in this one. “Okay, thanks.”
“No problem.”
He slides back toward his desk, and I roll back to my own.
I look at the tip again, on my screen. Four attempts to run it down so far, and I’ve hit three dead ends.
But one path is still open. Still a possibility.
One is all it takes. One scrap of key information, one favor, one lucky break. It’s all I need.
And I’ll be damned if I don’t make it happen.
* * *
—
I get to Brewster’s ten minutes early. It’s dark inside, and I blink to force my eyes to adjust. It’s a relaxed place. A favorite of the Post journalists. Old worn bar, plain tables and chairs. Unpretentious, with cheap drinks.
Beau’s already here. At a table in the back, a pint in front of him. I walk toward him. He’s ex-military. Still favors army green, and anything that’s tight across his biceps. Always looks in need of a shave. He half stands as I approach. I slide in across from him. A server, a young guy with a bored expression, approaches before we’ve even had the chance to say hello.
“Get you anything?” the server asks.
I nod toward Beau’s pint. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“You got it.” The server heads off.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Alex.”
I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment? “Well, it hasn’t been that long.”
“Long enough for some things to change.” He nods toward my left hand. “Trouble in paradise?”
Damn. How did he notice that already?
I look down at it. I can still see the indentation in my skin, a shade lighter than the surrounding skin. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. “I’ll talk if you do.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I got a tip.”
His eyebrows arch.
I lean forward. “Ninety percent of human intelligence on Syria’s biowarfare program comes from a single source?”
Beau’s a straight shooter. That’s why we’re friends, I think. That and the fact that he’s more loyal to the truth than to any agency. He gave me key information on that story I broke about CIA arms transfers. And he did it because it was the right thing to do.
He gives me an inscrutable look. One I can’t read. Then he takes a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving mine. “Ninety percent, huh?”
The server returns. Slides a pint of beer in front of me. Some of it sloshes over the sides. I wait until he’s gone to speak. “Sound about right?”
“Who’s calculating these figures? Some analyst with too much time on his hands? There’s no way I’d know exactly what percent—”
“But there’s one key source?”
He takes another drink. A long one, two gulps. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It’s tough there. Hard to operate. And a program like that? Pretty damn restricted.”
I fight to keep my face impassive. “Who’s the source?”
He gives a quick, firm shake of his head.
“Crypt?” The encryption, the name they give the source. I know the lingo from my time in the field.
“Come on, Alex. You know better than to ask that.”
I do, but it doesn’t hurt to try. “That’s a huge amount, Beau. What if we lost the source?”
“We sure as hell better not.”
“Ninety percent?”
“Look, when we get a good source, we run with it. What are we supposed to do? Not take the info?”
“Get some other sources.”
“Easier said than done. Good sources are damn near impossible to find. You know it as well as I do. Now”—he nods toward my left hand—“your turn.”
“We found out we weren’t on the same page. About kids.”
The words taste bitter. It sounds like we were irresponsible. Like we didn’t talk about the issue before we got married. We did talk about the issue. He just changed his mind. And I didn’t.
“Sorry, Alex.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, when it is a big deal. A huge deal.
“Divorced, then?”
“Separated.” Technically separated. He’s filed already, but it’s not official yet.
“Maybe you’ll be able to work things out?”
“Not really a middle ground here, is there?”
“Guess not.”
We each take a sip from our glasses. There’s nothing really left to say about it, is there? That’s the point Miles and I reached, too. Not a damn thing left to say. I’m not having kids I don’t want, and he’s not missing out on something he does want.
“About this source,” Beau says, and I’m relieved he’s changing the subject, turning it back to something I want to talk about. “Who gave you the tip?”
“You know I can’t say.”
“You don’t know, do you?”
I shrug.
“Make sure the info’s good before you run with it.”
“I know how to do my job, Beau,” I snap. I couldn’t run with it even if I wanted to. It’s an anonymous tip I can’t fully verify. The Post has standards, thankfully.
“Just sayin’,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Could be someone making shit up.”
I smile. “Or I could have myself an insider.”
* * *
—
I step into my loft an hour later. Couldn’t be more different than Brewster’s.
Everything’s modern. Sleek, streamlined. And neutral.
I love the loft, always have. But I sure as hell miss the color.
We redecorated six months ago. Back when it was still our loft, before it was my loft. I wanted some pops of color. A bright wall, a bright rug, something. He wanted neutral.
We went with neutral.
He got his way a lot there, at the end. Since I wouldn’t compromise on kids, I started compromising on everything else. It’s what I do: make deals.
And then he just left.
“You can keep it,” he’d said about the loft. And it felt like a stab to the heart. Because he loved the place as much as I did. We lived there together for five years.
“You don’t want it?” I’d said. Because how could he just walk away?
“Makes more sense this way.”
He didn’t say it, but I knew what he meant. Makes sense for you to stay here. Because I’ll eventually move to the suburbs, or somewhere for the schools at least. Someplace where it’s safer to raise kids. Where they’ll have a yard and a swing set—
I set my bag down on the table in the center of the room. The one that doubles as kitchen table and home office workspace. The one where Miles and I used to eat meals and play board games. Where we laid out all our wedding-planning materials—
I pour myself a bourbon at the bar in the corner. Take a sip. Let the warmth run through me.
I didn’t even want the damn wedding. Wanted to elope. Why the hell am I feeling nostalgic about the wedding?
I sit down at the table and open my laptop. Power it up. Navigate to ClandestineTips, start the program. Scan the inbox: nothing from the same username. But there are a couple of new messages.
I click on the first.
To: Alex Charles
From: xxxwxyzxxx
Message: UFOs are real. Look into what happened in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in 1972. The extraterrestrials are here. They’re waiting. And they’re hostile. I can’t say more, or they’ll come for me.
I roll my eyes and close the window. Not a day goes by without a tip about UFOs.
Next one.
To: Alex Charles
From: Timothy Mittens
Message: Hello, Alex Charles! I live in the Shenandoah Valley. A home in my neighborhood was recently purchased by the CIA’s Director of Operations, Langston West. Why??? Check it out!! 1457 Mountain Bluff Road!! All my best, Timothy Mittens.
Attached is a selfie of a lanky, smiling man—late thirties, I’d guess—with thinning blond hair. Standing in front of a cabin, pointing to it.
Clearly the idea of an anonymous tip is lost on this man. And poor Langston West probably just wants a place to relax. To escape. Guy’s been a household name since he famously announced an end to the days of spy swaps, vowed to let spies rot in U.S. jails. Well, good luck with your hopes for privacy, Mr. West, staying next to this fool—
A ding. A new message. I close this window, scan the inbox—
There it is, from Afriend123.
Doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is the information. Have you corroborated it?
I write back immediately: Yes. And then: Could we meet?
The response comes immediately: No.
I take a sip of bourbon and consider what to type next.
Do you have any other pertinent information?
What the tipster gave me, it’s interesting, but it’s not enough for a story.
I stare at the screen, waiting.
Yes.
Another sip.
Then I type: I’d appreciate anything you could share.
A moment later: The source. His crypt is Falcon.
Crypt. Falcon. This is an insider. Only an insider would have this info—
Another message appears:
And he doesn’t exist.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Alex
Doesn’t exist?
I just had a CIA case officer more or less confirm that the U.S. gets most of its human reporting on Syrian biological weapons from one source.
A source that might not exist?
Now, that’s a story.
Adrenaline runs through me like electricity. I love this feeling. The one I get when I know I’ve got something, and it’s something big. “No feeling like it,” my mom used to say. And she would know. She broke her fair share of stories. Before she adopted me, anyway.
But how the hell do I confirm it’s true? I don’t know who Falcon is. Beau didn’t seem to have any indication the source wasn’t real.
Oh my God—the implications of that. The CIA is relying on a source that doesn’t exist. That’s a front-page story for sure. A truth that needs to be told.
That’s a Pulitzer.
Black women don’t win journalism Pulitzers.
I can hear my mom’s voice in my ear, at her retirement party. Recounting those words to me. Uttered by a jealous co-worker when she was a young reporter. Long before I came into her life. “I decided then and there I’d prove him wrong,” she said to me. She took my hand and smiled at me. “I never did. But you. You’re another story, Alexandra. You can. You have the same passion I did when I was your age. More, even. You have such a strong sense of right and wrong. And you’re fearless. You’re determined.”
I stare at the chat on the screen. Force myself to focus.
I need something to work with. A lead I can look into. Something else to corroborate. My fingers find the keyboard.
I need to know more.
I wait. Stare at the screen. Who are you, this person I’m communicating with? You know something. How?
How do you know Falcon doesn’t exist?
No response.
You Can Run Page 7
