Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  But there’s no one in the room.

  There’s not even the computer Gerald said was there. Instead, all there is is dust. Dust and old file cabinets of rusted green metal filling the room, reaching to the ceiling.

  Alex’s gaze crawls over the cabinets, and he has the growing sense that no one’s seen the inside of this room in months, if not years. The cabinets are marked with alphabetical ranges or simply letters: A–F, B, A–G, A–M, D–L, E–M, F–Q, N–O, N, and on and on and on. Rage building inside him, Alex starts pulling drawers at random, which takes no small amount of strength. The drawers protest with rusty, metallic groans. Clearly Alex is the first person in decades to open them.

  Inside, he finds hanging folders with handwritten plastic-covered labels. The dust has even managed to get into the drawers, and he is soon choking with every breath. He covers his mouth with one hand while with the other he pulls out random files. They all look like employee records, with names, dates of birth, Social Security numbers, and pay-grade levels, relics from the days when the bureaucratic flotsam and jetsam of the CIA was kept on paper instead of stored in massive underground EMP-proof computer farms.

  Alex opens a file labeled “Parking Permit Requisitions.” He stares at it briefly, hoping its dry, bureaucratic contents somehow hold an answer to the mysteries of the past twenty-four hours. Then, oddly, a red dot appears on the file. It lingers for a beat before it slides off the page and out of view. Alex turns around and finds the red dot again. In the center of his chest. Suddenly, two more join it. All three generated by the SureFire laser sights mounted on the M4s that three green-jacketed guards are pointing straight at him.

  “Very slowly, sir…place your hands behind your head.”

  Alex doesn’t need someone carrying an M4 to tell him anything twice. He puts his hands behind his head as instructed, taking care to move as slowly as possible. “I’ve got an explanation for this,” Alex says, hoping he can come up with one by the time he’s asked for it.

  “This area is restricted,” the green jacket says.

  “Right…” Alex lets the word trail off, his mind racing to come up with a line of bullshit to get him out of this mess. “Yeah, sure, but…see, the thing is, the GC…” Again, his voice trails off; he’s stalling, trying to buy time until his cleverness kicks in. “GC—that’s my boss, the general counsel—he asked me to pull all the KH-Eleven satellite tracks for Burma.” He shakes the parking-permit requisition file he’s still holding, hoping his thumb is covering the label, hoping that the file looks like it contains photographs taken by an Enhanced CRYSTAL KH-11 imagery intelligence satellite.

  Alex sees the guard consider, his eyes darting up to the file, then back to Alex. Alex is watching the man’s finger relax, ever so slightly, on the gun’s trigger when a shrill beeping cuts through the room and the tension.

  “My phone,” Alex says flatly.

  “Cell phones are prohibited at headquarters.”

  Alex ignores that. With glacial slowness, he lowers his hand, the hand that isn’t clutching the file, and reaches slowly into his suit jacket. His eyes are pleading, It’s cool. I’m not going for a gun. The guards seem to believe him because they don’t open up with the M4s. Just as slowly, he places the phone to his ear.

  “What the fuck happened?” Gerald screams on the other end. He’s loud. Loud enough that Alex is afraid the guards might hear, so he presses the phone against his chest to muffle the speaker.

  “That’s Arthur Bryson,” Alex lies, indicating the phone.

  “Mr. Bryson’s calling you on a cell phone you’re not supposed to have on the premises?”

  Alex holds the phone out to the guard. “You wanna talk to him? He wants to know what’s keeping me. He sounds a little pissed.” He holds the phone out farther. Gerald has, mercifully, fallen silent. “Go ahead.”

  The guard says nothing. The minute yawns. Alex’s heart races. He’s no longer afraid of being shot, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to be fired.

  After an eternity, the guard shakes his head. “I don’t need to talk to Mr. Bryson.” Alex notes that the man isn’t looking to his partners for approval, suggesting he’s the one in charge. Which means he’s the one Alex has to convince. He relaxes his grip and lowers the proffered phone. A relieved smile threatens to break out across his face and it’s all he can do to suppress the grin. Until the guard speaks again. “But we’re gonna have a talk with your immediate superior.”

  Alex deflates, knowing the conversation the guard is suggesting won’t be a pleasant one. “That would be Leah Doyle,” he says.

  “Let’s go see Ms. Doyle, then.”

  NINE

  LEAH SAYS nothing as Alex waits in her office. He stands at attention while she stares at him, inscrutable. The green jacket lingers near the door, curious to see how this drama is going to play out. It’s almost as if Leah is daring Alex to say something, but Alex knows that’s the wrong way to go. The guard brought Alex straight to Leah’s office and told her the whole story, like a cat proudly placing a dead mouse at its owner’s feet, and now it is Leah’s turn to respond. Instead of laying into Alex, however, she wields her silence like a club. He would prefer being yelled at.

  After what feels like forever, Leah asks, “What were you thinking?” Apparently Alex takes too long to reply, because Leah follows up with “Running around the CIA, running through a restricted area…you could have gotten yourself shot. You should’ve gotten yourself shot. In fact, I have half a mind to have the sergeant here shoot you now like he should have ten minutes ago.” The green jacket grins slightly, as if suggesting this is not an entirely unattractive idea to him, but Leah remains cold.

  Seconds drip past. After a painful interval, Leah shakes her head. She’s obviously angered but still hasn’t raised her voice a decibel. Instead, she just turns to the guard and, in a level tone, says, “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  The guard nods and exits, knowing a dismissal when he hears one. He closes the door behind him and, once the two are alone, Leah motions for Alex to sit. She sits across from him, her interrogatory gaze unrelenting. Once again, the silence is painful. But now that the green jacket is gone, Alex fills it, speaking slowly and choosing his words with care. “I’d like, if you don’t mind, to explain—”

  “Except you can’t explain.” Leah cuts him off. “Because if you did, that would mean you’d have to either lie to me or tell me the truth, and if you told the truth, you’d be contradicting the lie you told to Sergeant Powell.” She fixes him with a look. “Because we both know you weren’t in that file room on Bryson’s orders.” Alex resists the urge to nod and just meets her steely gaze instead.

  “Leah—”

  But Leah looks away and cuts him off again. “Shut up.” There’s another pause and Alex realizes that this time, it’s not deliberate. This time, Leah is trying to figure out what to do. This, Alex thinks, is good. When she looks back at him, she says, “People in the office said you got a phone call just before lockdown…”

  “That’s true—”

  “I know it’s true,” she says, interrupting him yet again. “I had the phone logs checked.” She exhales, exasperated. “On the incredibly unlikely off chance that Bryson did, in fact, call you on your cell.” Leah shoots Alex a checkmate glare, having caught him in a lie. But then it occurs to Alex that it might not mean checkmate so much as strike one, because now Leah softens. “People in the office said you got a phone call and that you looked unwell. That you looked ashen.” She waits for Alex to reply. Wisely, he doesn’t. “I’m going to assume those two events are related.” Alex’s expression confirms that they are. “I’m going to assume your running around the office has a legitimate explanation of a personal nature. I’m going to assume it was a onetime thing.”

  “It was and I’m—”

  Again, she stops him, holding up a cautioning finger. “Actually, I’m not going to assume this was a onetime thing. I don’t need to assume it. Because I know it. This was a one
time thing.” There’s no question mark at the end of that statement.

  Alex has a multitude of potential responses here, but he chooses the safest one. “Thank you.” Leah doesn’t say anything. Alex takes this as his cue to leave.

  But just as he gets to the door, Leah adds, “Don’t forget that I read that psych profile we did on you your first day here. Don’t think I don’t know how professionally self-destructive you can be. If I’m being honest with myself, the only reason I’m not firing you right now is the possibility that on some level, that’s exactly what you want.” Alex looks back at her, defiant. “And I think you’re better than that.”

  * * *

  Alex’s mysterious caller mentioned a fourth victim, Brenda Zollitsch. Armed with that information, he heads for one of the building’s stand-alone computers. For security purposes, the Agency’s computer network is a closed system. Connections to the outside world of the Internet—with all its Trojans, viruses, and phishing schemes—are understandably limited to specific computers, and one must have special authorization to access them. Fortunately, Alex’s position as a lawyer in the Office of General Counsel affords him said authorization.

  A quick Google search immediately identifies Brenda Zollitsch as a stenographer, which leads to a conclusion as firm as bedrock: She was killed because she was present for Jim Harling’s deposition. Alex knows this with the same surety as he knows that the transcript Zollitsch took of the deposition has, by now, disappeared.

  Although there are no articles reporting Zollitsch’s death, Google tells him that she lived in Arlington, Virginia. Back at his desk, Alex places a call to the Arlington County Sheriff’s Office and navigates his way through several layers of bureaucracy. His CIA bona fides are helpful in this regard, but the process still takes nearly half an hour. He manages to get confirmation on Zollitsch’s passing before he’s eventually handed off to a weary-voiced homicide detective.

  “My name is Alex Garnett. I work for the CIA’s Office of General Counsel,” Alex says. “I was told that you’re investigating the Brenda Zollitsch homicide.”

  “It’s not a homicide,” the detective rebuts. “And what’s an Office of General Counsel?”

  “It’s the CIA’s legal department. Two days ago, I oversaw a deposition. I have reason to believe that Ms. Zollitsch was the stenographer for the proceeding.”

  “Okay.” Clearly, the detective has lost both interest and patience.

  “Ms. Zollitsch died yesterday.”

  “Yup. Coroner ruled it a suicide this morning. She overdosed on Ativan. She’d been taking it for anxiety.”

  “Detective, are you aware that an attorney and the witness in this deposition also passed away within the last two days?” The long pause on the other end of the line confirms that the detective was not. “Jim Harling died in a car accident, and Evelyn Moreno had a heart attack.”

  There’s another pause. “Were they in the same car?” the detective asks.

  “No. What difference does that—”

  But the detective interrupts him. “I’m not seeing how those two deaths could be related to each other. Or how Ms. Zollitsch’s suicide could be related to them.”

  Alex swallows bile. “I told you. They were all present for the same deposition two days ago.”

  Alex thinks he’s done a good job of camouflaging his frustration, but the detective’s response implies otherwise. “Mr. Garnett, I understand that you’re agitated,” he says. The cop takes a deep breath. “But try to see this from my perspective for a second, all right? You’re telling me about three unrelated deaths. One from natural causes, another from a vehicular accident, and a third from a suicide.” Alex decides it would not be a good idea to bring Alan Miller’s death into the mix, so he lets the detective continue. “You’re also telling me that these three individuals have nothing whatsoever in common apart from the fact that they were all involved in the same legal proceeding. I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Garnett: That looks a whole lot like coincidence to me. I heard of a case once, commuter plane crash, six fatalities, all of ’em were Libras. It didn’t make me believe in astrology. Just coincidence.”

  Alex sighs into the phone. He starts to consider his options and realizes he has none.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Garnett?”

  Now it’s Alex’s turn to pause. “No, Detective. Thank you for your time.”

  * * *

  The restaurant, 2100 Prime, in the Fairfax Hotel in Dupont Circle is a throwback to the steak joints of the 1950s. Alex moves briskly through the restaurant. The Mad Men–like décor is all but lost on Alex as he practically sprints to where Grace, a friend of hers from medical school, and the friend’s husband are already seated. He doesn’t check his phone, but he estimates he’s a good twenty-five minutes late. Although his life was threatened and his job nearly lost, there were filing deadlines he had to deal with. The business of the court continued, even in the face of death threats and dinner obligations.

  “Sorry,” he says as he takes his seat. “Killer day at work.”

  “Are you feeling okay?” Grace asks. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean, you look pale. Are you sick?”

  “Just…an extremely tough day at the Agency.”

  “Alex is working for the CIA, believe it or not,” Grace explains to the other couple.

  “Feel free not to believe it,” Alex offers. “I barely do myself.”

  “I thought you were an attorney,” Grace’s friend says, a little confused.

  “I am. The CIA needs lawyers too,” he says as his phone rings. He removes it from his suit jacket and notes the Virginia area code on the incoming number. “I’m really sorry,” he says as he rises from his seat. “It’s work.”

  “Work already made you a half an hour late,” Grace notes.

  “It’s been that kind of day.” He heads toward the restrooms and stands in the corridor.

  “Hello,” he says into the phone.

  “Mr. Garnett? I’m Dr. DeVeau with the Virginia Department of Health. I’m a coroner in the chief medical examiner’s office.”

  Alex knows that already. He’s the one who called DeVeau in the first place. “I was told you performed the autopsy on Alan Miller?”

  “Yes. That’s right. His attorney requested it.”

  “I know. I’m Mr. Miller’s attorney. Was,” he corrects. “Can you tell me what the cause of death was?”

  “I’m afraid you’re going to need a court order if you want to review the autopsy findings, Mr. Garnett.”

  “Off the record.”

  “I don’t do off the record. That’s how people lose their jobs.”

  “Doctor.” Alex works to keep his tone level. “My client passed away while in the custody of the State of Virginia. The lawsuit I will file can drag in a large number of state employees or a focused group.” DeVeau doesn’t respond, which suggests to Alex that his threat may have been too subtle. “People mired in lawsuits also have a tendency to lose their jobs.”

  There is a chasm of silence on the other end of the line. Then Alex hears DeVeau suck in a breath that’s followed by an exhale of surrender. “Off the record, sir, Mr. Miller died of cardiorespiratory arrest.”

  “I’m not a doctor, but isn’t heart and lung failure pretty much what everyone eventually dies of?” Alex chides himself for letting his frustration get the better of him. He won’t get much cooperation if he continues using this tone.

  DeVeau sighs. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s the result of my findings.”

  Alex wills patience into his voice. “Did you run any tests that might point to the cause of the arrest?”

  “Of course we did,” DeVeau responds with the same exasperation Alex is struggling to avoid displaying. “We ran a toxicology screen and a chem panel, and we did a full blood workup. There were no findings of note. Nothing unusual, in other words.”

  “What about gamma-hydroxyarsenat
e? Did you find any traces of that chemical in his system?”

  “What? There is no such compound.”

  But Alex knows there is. He wonders if the Department of Defense had managed to devise a variation on GHB that was both fatal and undetectable by standard medical tests. “It’s a reformulation of GHB, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid.”

  “I know what GHB is. But it’s not something we test for. I mean, it’s not part of the standard tests.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, Alex thinks. “Could you please test for it? Could you run a screen or something to determine whether there was any GHB or GHA in his system?”

  “GHB is very difficult to detect, Mr. Garnett,” DeVeau says sharply. “It’s cleared out of the body extremely quickly.”

  “Please, Doctor. This is important.”

  DeVeau sighs a final time. “It’s late. I’ll look into it tomorrow. Don’t worry; Mr. Miller isn’t going anywhere, believe me.”

  DeVeau ends the call. Alex is about to go back to the table when Grace comes up to him in the corridor. “Everything okay at work?” she asks in a tone that is definitely below room temperature.

  “Like I said, tough day,” Alex answers. That much, at least, is the truth.

  “Are you all right? You look stressed.”

  “I am stressed,” he allows. Again, the truth. But the truth can conceal a lie if it’s rendered incompletely. Why don’t you just tell her? he asks himself. Someone threatened your fucking life today. But another voice in his head answers, And if you tell her that, she’ll freak out too. Assuming she doesn’t take the opposite view and decide you’re a paranoid nutjob. “Things got a little tense at work today,” he says. “Someone outside the Agency made a threat.”