Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  He sits off to the side, a passive observer in the domestic legal drama playing out before him. On one side of the table sits the case officer in question, Jim Harling, flanked by his attorney, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair. Harling appears focused and engaged.

  Harling’s wife is not present, but it’s typical for each party to sit out on the depo of the opposing side. Instead, Mrs. Harling is represented by her attorney, a sharp woman named Evelyn Moreno. She’s familiar to Alex, either from law school or from one of the many Bar Association functions he attended while he was an associate at Garnett and Lockhart. She questions Harling with a tone that is pure detached professionalism, neither friendly nor cold. “Your job was to persuade foreign citizens to work for the CIA.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I work for the State Department. I’ve never been employed by the CIA,” Harling responds.

  “At this point, Mr. Harling, I’m going to remind you that you’re under oath,” Moreno asserts.

  “I understand.”

  “And I understand that you’re lying. You’re perjuring yourself. I know for a fact that you’re a nonofficial-cover case officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  At this, Alex leans forward. “Mr. Harling’s testimony is that he works for the State Department. Let’s move on.”

  “No, Mr. Garnett, I’m afraid I cannot. Your client is committing perjury.”

  “And you’ve made that allegation for the record.” Alex gestures to the stenographer sitting off to the side of the table, dutifully taking down every syllable on her steno machine.

  “Did you advise your client to lie in this deposition?” Moreno asks with incredulity.

  I advised my client to follow CIA policy and regard his status as an Agency employee as classified information, Alex thinks but doesn’t say. Rather, he turns to the stenographer and notes, “Objection. What instructions I’ve given to my client are privileged.”

  Checkmated, Moreno switches gears and picks up a clipped stack of documents from the selection neatly arranged in front of her, like a legal buffet. On the bottom right corner of each is an alphanumeric stamp, known as a Bates stamp, that indicates the papers are official documentary evidence in the divorce proceedings. “Let the record reflect that I am presenting the witness with a series of documents Bates-stamped HAR0036 through HAR0038. These documents were obtained from a third party via subpoena.” She slides the stack of papers toward Harling’s side of the table. “These are your bank statements from February, March, and April of last year,” she says, picking up a duplicate set to read for herself. “You had a total of nine thousand dollars in February.” Her finger glides down the rows of dates and figures. “Then eighty-nine point eight million in March. Almost ninety million dollars.” She clearly considers it highly unlikely that a government employee would come into possession of that much money through legal means. “Did you win the Powerball, Mr. Harling?”

  “Objection. Ask a question. A legitimate one.”

  “Well,” she says, turning a page of the bank statements, “that was March. By April, you were back down to nine thousand.” She looks up and stares at Harling; the import of these numbers is obvious. “Where did the nearly ninety million dollars go, Mr. Harling?”

  Harling holds up the April statement and points to a notation near the top of the second page. “It was a bank error. The bank found it and fixed it. The bank says so right here.” He taps the notation with a finger.

  Moreno flips to the page in question in her own copy of the bank records. “Actually,” she says, “the bank’s statement specifically reads”—she turns to the steno for the record—“and I’m quoting from it now, ‘Fund incongruity noted and corrected. First Federal apologizes for the discrepancy but claims no responsibility.’” Moreno sets the paper down with a theatricality normally reserved for addressing a jury.

  Surprisingly, Harling’s lawyer remains silent. Although Alex isn’t a divorce attorney, he’s enough of a litigator to know that when your client is in trouble, as Harling clearly appears to be, you step in and, if nothing else, stall the other side’s momentum. But Harling’s attorney, who bills out at four hundred an hour minimum, is like a statue.

  “I need a minute with Mr. Harling.” The words are out of Alex’s mouth before he realizes they’re his. Nevertheless, now committed, he stands up from the table. “Jim?” he says, looking over to Harling.

  “This isn’t a good time to stop,” Moreno protests.

  Alex waves this off. “Just a minute. Jim?”

  Thirty seconds later, in a small alcove serving a dual purpose as a copy/coffee room, Alex asks Harling how it is that a midlevel CIA case officer has almost ninety million dollars in his bank account in a given month. Even if Harling had saved the money, which was unlikely, that didn’t explain why it showed up in his statements one month and disappeared the next.

  “It was a bank error,” Harling says with a rather convincing shrug. “These things happen.” The fact that Harling appears completely sincere and believable isn’t lost on Alex. But neither is the fact that Harling is a covert operative and, therefore, a professional liar.

  “A mistake of ten or twenty bucks might happen, sure. A rounding error is more common, yeah. But ninety million dollars?” Alex shakes his head.

  “Tell me, how is this any of your business?” Harling asks.

  “I work for the general counsel. If a NOC is embezzling Agency funds—”

  “I didn’t take a nickel.” Harling cuts him off, his face turning red.

  Alex adopts a less confrontational tone. “Look, I’m not saying you took money, exactly. But a spook like you, nine years in the field…” Alex shrugs and adds a friendly grin for good measure. “Money has a way of falling into your lap. Am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Harling says, but he doesn’t soften. On the contrary, he takes a confrontational step forward, holding back the outrage behind his eyes like a horse straining at the bit. “And I turn my head away. Watches, cars, off-the-books cash, outright bribes.” Another step. He’s talking through gritted teeth now. “I turn my head away.”

  “But a cute Iraqi passes, you stare straight ahead.” In seconds, Harling has Alex on his back on the coffee-and-copy room’s linoleum floor, his Brioni loafer pressing on Alex’s throat. Alex stares up at the muzzle of Harling’s Browning Hi-Power 1935, poised just a few inches from the bridge of his nose.

  “I have to take that shit from my wife’s lawyer,” Harling says. “I understand that. I have to let her do her thing. What I don’t have to do is take that kinda shit from you. Do we have an understanding?”

  “That’s a nice move. They teach you that at Langley?”

  Alex can’t tell if Harling is amused or impressed that he’d crack wise under these circumstances, but it doesn’t matter once the gun disappears beneath Harling’s suit jacket.

  “Let’s get back in there” is all Harling says.

  FIVE

  OFFICES OF ELTON, CARCETTI, AND MORENO

  PARKING GARAGE

  7:30 P.M. EDT

  THE REST of Harling’s deposition passed without incident, albeit with painful slowness. By the time Moreno finished excavating the microscopic details of Harling’s professional, personal, and marital life, Alex was wishing Harling had pulled the trigger on his Browning back in the copy room.

  Nevertheless, Alex retains the presence of mind to conduct his own inquiry down in the parking garage of the building that houses Moreno’s law firm. He politely confronts her about the $89.8 million that appeared in and disappeared from Harling’s bank account as swiftly and silently as Harling’s gun had back in the copy room. It was Harling’s reaction, clearly an indication of some inner tension, that has Alex thinking there’s no bank error. His job today was to safeguard the CIA’s secrets, but he feels like he’s stumbled onto something else entirely.

  Reading the bank documents himself does not quell this feeling. The actual numbers cement the reality that last yea
r, CIA case officer Jim Harling was a temporary custodian of almost ninety million dollars without any good explanation.

  “The bank wouldn’t tell you who initiated the transfers?” Alex asks, his eyes compulsively scanning the bank records.

  Moreno shakes her head. “That wasn’t covered in the scope of my subpoena.”

  “So do you have any idea where the money came from?”

  “I’m a divorce attorney, Mr. Garnett. All I care about is where the money went.”

  Alex is considering his next move, if any, when a red 1965 Ford Mustang, lovingly restored to mint condition, rockets past, its engine roaring like a vengeful god, laying down rubber on the garage’s cement floor. The Mustang’s driver, whose fuck-you stare to Moreno is visible as he blazes past, is unmistakably Jim Harling.

  * * *

  RESTAURANT MONTMARTRE

  8:17 P.M. EDT

  “You’re an asshole,” Grace observes after Alex tells her about the day’s events. She’s the smartest person Alex has ever known, and that’s including his very accomplished father. He told her the story about Harling’s depo in the hope that she might be able to offer an innocent explanation for Harling’s month as a multimillionaire. Being called an asshole wasn’t exactly the explanation he had in mind.

  Still, the reaction wasn’t entirely inappropriate. In the months since Alex joined the CIA, the evenings when he’s made it home in time for dinner have incorporated a recitation of the day’s events. Alex relates the stories against a backdrop of his fitting fairly well into the Agency. (Although, he has to admit, he’s grading himself on the curve of his previous lackluster employment experiences.) Nevertheless, there have been times when he can sense disapproval lurking beneath the surface of Grace’s expression, threatening to break free.

  Alex has no desire to wake this sleeping giant, so he decides to play Grace’s observation off as a joke. “This is support?”

  Grace lights up the room with her megawatt smile. “C’mon, Alex,” she says, almost amused, “you accused your client of embezzlement—”

  Alex cuts her off right there. “He’s not my client. And the divorce lawyer accused him first.”

  She smiles again. Alex has always considered Grace’s smile to be like a musical instrument, capable of a thousand different notes. Now she’s playing a piece that might best be titled Don’t Bullshit a Bullshitter. He knows the tune well. “You were kicking up dust again.”

  Kicking up dust is Grace’s expression for “making waves” or “rocking the boat,” all of which Alex has a tendency to do with gleeful abandon, most often where his job—whichever one he happens to be holding at that particular moment—is concerned. But that’s the whole point. “I’m a lawyer. Dust-kicking is part of my job. One could even argue it’s in the job description.”

  Grace looks like she’s about to laugh hysterically. “Last month, you called Senator Hollings a Rotarian bureaucrat.”

  “I was being kind—”

  “My point,” she says gently, “is that I doubt insulting members of Congress is part of your job.”

  “No. Insulting members of Congress would fall under discharging my duties as an American citizen.”

  “Okay,” she allows. “That’s fair. But what about insulting the Intelligence Oversight Board last month? That’s the president’s board, Alex. The president. Of the United States.”

  Alex offers a shrug. “The IOB’s been reduced to an ineffectual rubber stamp. Someone had to stir things up.”

  “And you were only too glad to volunteer.”

  “What does that mean?” Alex asks.

  He watches her shift uncomfortably in her chair. She picks at her tuna tartare, moving it around on her plate. “You’re a lawyer. You’re always going to make an above-average income.”

  “Okay…” he says, not knowing where this is going.

  “And once my loans are paid off—”

  “You went to medical school,” he says with a smile. “Your loans will never be paid off.”

  “Once my loans are paid off,” she reiterates, pressing past the joke, “I’ll be able to make a pretty decent living too.”

  “Okay.”

  “My point is, I’m not worried about money. But it might seem like I am when I say that I’m worried about you. I’m worried about your career choices, your professional trajectory.” Alex sours a bit at this, a topic he finds barely more palatable than his relationship with his father. “I thought the CIA would be the perfect job for you. Being a lawyer for spies, in an arena free from your father and his connections.”

  Alex decides not to dissuade Grace by reiterating the exchange he had with Arthur Bryson on his first day. “I’ve quit more than my share of jobs. My father’s firm, then the public defenders’ office.” Grace nods. “And you’re worried I’m going to quit this job too.”

  Grace shakes her head. “I’m not worried you’re going to quit. You seem to be putting yourself on a path to getting fired, though.” She leans across the table, taking his hand. “You’re not your father. You could never be like your father.” Her eyes find his, probing. The bottom line: “Even if you find success.”

  * * *

  GEORGETOWN, DELAWARE

  9:31 P.M. EDT

  William Rykman stares into Paul Langford’s eyes. They’re wide with horror and agony, and not just because his eyelids have been surgically removed. Tears tinged with blood pool in rivulets beneath them as they dart around furtively. The image is remarkably lifelike. And it should be. It was recorded on 1080p hi-def video.

  Rykman takes a sip of his Macallan. Aged eighteen years and smoky. He toasts to Langford’s memory, holding his glass up with a grin to no one in particular. And why not? It’s been a good day. In fact, it’s been a very good day for the Overwatch and, therefore, a very good day for William Rykman. More important, it’s been a good day for America. All the right assets are now in place. It took six months, but Rykman is ready to pull the trigger on plan B.

  It’s not easy, Lord knows, to make history, but the work has its moments of satisfaction. It’s like having the power of a god. It’s that feeling of omnipotence combined with the disturbing images on his TV that produce the sensation Rykman now feels between his legs. On the plasma, Donovan is inserting a catheter somewhere it doesn’t belong. Although Rykman would never admit it, it’s his favorite part of the recording. Deciding not to let it go to waste, Rykman reaches for his laptop to bring up a website he favors and give himself some relief. Then his secure cell phone rings.

  It’s Donovan. Now that Langford has “retired,” Donovan is the only one with this phone number. Rykman answers the cell. The TV is already on mute out of concern for the neighbors, who wouldn’t approve of Langford’s animalistic screams.

  On the other end of the line, Donovan relates information that makes Rykman lose his erection. Rykman takes a deep breath, considering his options, calculating odds and angles. It’s a pure numbers game, a computation done in terms of human lives, and Rykman engages in it with dispassion. And when he’s done, the math is very simple. He relays his instructions to Donovan, confident that Donovan will execute them flawlessly. He’s a good man, that Donovan. A very good man.

  Rykman ends the call and finishes off his scotch. On the TV, Langford has passed out, despite the drug cocktail formulated to keep him awake. Rykman looks at the man’s lidless, unconscious eyes. He should get some sleep himself. Tomorrow will be an eventful day.

  SIX

  ROUTE 123

  8:20 A.M. EDT

  BETWEEN THOUGHTS of his own troubled relationship and Harling’s possibly ill-gotten gains, Alex had a fitful night’s sleep. The combination made for an interesting stew once he started dreaming, his subconscious devising disturbing encounters among himself, Grace, and Harling in a variety of odd locales. At one point, the three of them stood on a rooftop overlooking the Capitol. It was rotated at a 180-degree angle, so the tip of the Washington Monument was digging into the top of Alex’s head,
threatening to impale him. When morning finally arrived like the cavalry, Alex couldn’t get out of the condo fast enough.

  After he’s caffeinated, he makes the now-familiar morning commute down George Washington Memorial Parkway to Langley. He usually spends the time listening to NPR or an audiobook, but this morning he’s hoping to call Evelyn Moreno early and catch her in her office. Even if he had the standing to subpoena Harling’s finances, which he doesn’t because the CIA isn’t chartered for domestic activities, he would have to get up the ass of a local bank. And a formal investigation would take too long and send up too many red flags. Despite what Grace thinks, there actually are limits to how much shit he’s willing to stir. And even if he were willing to launch a formal investigation, he doubts a single bank statement is enough to provide grounds for one.

  His best bet is to convince Moreno to pressure the bank as part of the divorce case, he thinks as he dials her office number. If Harling came into possession of several million dollars once, then it might not have been the only time. And that fact would certainly be of interest to Moreno. Alex is optimistic he can use her doggedness to his advantage. The protracted ringing on the other end of the phone, however, suggests that Moreno hasn’t shown up for work yet. But to Alex’s surprise, when the receptionist comes on, she doesn’t offer to take a message. Instead, she murmurs a polite, but uncomfortable, “Is there anyone else who might be able to help you, sir?”

  “No,” Alex responds. “Could you leave word for Evelyn, please?”

  A long silence follows. Alex starts to wonder what the hell could be going on, but he doesn’t wonder for long. “I’m very sorry, s-sir,” the receptionist stutters. She sounds like she’s struggling to keep her emotions in check. “But Ms. Moreno passed away this morning.”