by Tom Hron
“Please dial your validation number and then press pound.” The computer’s voice always sounded so nasal, he thought.
He pressed his six-digit number and the pound symbol and waited.
An ear-piercing screech, modulated to the nth-degree, almost blew his left eardrum out, designed to do just that, or fry the computer or fiber optics or whatever else that wanted to get hooked up. He turned and walked back outside, using his little finger to relieve his ear.
Joe walked toward him from the barn. “Did you talk to the folks you wanted?”
“No.” Harry shook his head. “Like I said before, it looks like I’ve been fired.”
Squinting, Joe peered at him. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Maybe I can help.”
“Nobody can help me with this one, not even—” He stopped himself before he said too much, or whatever one might do when he or she felt threatened by something beyond his or her control. Never feeling more isolated in his life, he looked at the barrel-chested, moon-faced, weatherworn Apache in front of him, realizing he couldn’t tell him the truth but needing to warn him nevertheless.
“Joe … when I leave here … wherever you drop me, I can’t explain, but it’s really important that you say that you never saw me, never heard of me. Promise, okay?”
For a moment, Joe simply looked at him. “Hey, that’s not a problem, except don’t worry none about me. Anybody messes with me, I’ll scalp the bastard. But, regardless, you should let me help you.”
“No … not now, maybe not ever. It looks like I’ll have to do this one on my own.” He stood still, staring at the ground, then slowly added, “Maybe show me where I can clean up and get some rest.” He wanted to spend time alone as well.
When he finished showering and changing into the Levis and the blue cotton shirt that Joe had left out for him, he walked back into the kitchen. Joe was frying steaks and boiling potatoes, leaving the room filled with long-forgotten sounds and smells. Supper was what you called it. Dinner was for the city slickers in town, the bankers and the lawyers, the ones who were always eyeballing your money. He started feeling at home.
“Wish you wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble, and I hope I can stay awake long enough to eat. It looks really good.”
“Well, sit down.” Joe’s face lit up with a grin. “When you get done eating, go into the spare bedroom and sleep till you can’t sleep no more. It’ll do you good and then things will look a lot better when you wake up.”
They ate their supper and talked about the cows, the coyotes, and the ranchland, things Harry had grown up with but had long forgotten. He felt himself being drawn away from his world, the fly-by-wire life that had controlled him for so long. But he needed to go back, if only to find out where the next turn of events would take him. As hard as it was to believe, something or someone had destroyed the Aurora’s flight systems on the way down.
“Can you drive me to Phoenix tomorrow?” he asked. “I need to get back to Vegas.”
“Got enough money?” Joe eyed him over a piece of steak.
“Yes, and I have my credit cards as well. Thank you.”
“Then go get some sleep. I’ll have breakfast ready when you wake up and we can hit the road afterward. You’ll sleep a lot better now with your belly full.”
Harry left the table, loving Apache Joe. He would leave the bedroom windows open and listen to the sundown sounds. He undressed, lay down, and finally fell asleep.
They drove away on the dirt road the next morning, leaving the red valley behind. Harry wondered if he’d ever come back, then wished he somehow could come back. Did everyone feel so confused when his or her life was suddenly at risk? It wasn’t hard for him to sense that his life was about to change in a very dangerous way.
“I’ll take you down the Apache Trail,” said Joe. “You look awfully worried, and it’ll get your mind off your troubles. It’s one of the prettiest places you’ll ever see.”
They drove off the dirt road onto Arizona 288, crossed the Salt River on an old steel bridge, then turned west on 88, driving past Lake Roosevelt, colored indigo in the distance. Saguaro, creosote, and wait-a-bit bush filled the rolling land, all broken by rocky washes, ridges, and the long reservoir itself. Everything seemed to sing in the sleepy heat.
Joe followed 88 until he reached its long arching bridge beside the Roosevelt Dam and then turned onto the dusty Apache Trail, winding its way southwest in the mountains, sienna and yellow from the mossy green on their sides. The washboard road followed an almost dry, rock-laden brook, its banks choked with cottonwood and salt cedar, then ran toward a steep red mountain, cutting its way up its side, rising until it met its summit. Harry saw Joe grin.
“This’ll seem like we’re flying, okay,” Joe said, “and when we get up on top you’ll get a good look at the Superstition Mountains. Why don’t you stay here and we’ll go look for the Lost Dutchman’s gold. Still’s there, you know, because nobody’s ever found it.”
Harry laughed. “Someday I might just do that, but only after I find out what’s happening to me. Did you ever think you were one thing and then learn you were another? That’s where I’m at right now.”
“Sure, way back in Vietnam. It changes you when you see friends killed for no damn reason, and it’s been hard for me to trust anybody since. And besides, I’m an Apache.”
“Then why are you being so nice to me?” Harry glanced across the pickup cab. “You’ve been like my best friend.”
“I don’t really know, maybe it’s your face. Looks honest, and I don’t see that much anymore. You need to remember I come from an ancient people who’ve always stood by their word. Do you always keep your word, Harry?”
Nodding, Harry pursed his mouth. “Guess even when it gets me into lots of trouble.”
They drove further, up the cliff side, past Canyon Lake, the third reservoir along the way, and then through Tortilla Flats, a small mining town, all dusky clapboards because the site was so old. Now it was a tourist trap, filled with sightseers on its boardwalks. Harry fell silent … they were nearing Phoenix. He would be home in a few hours, and had someone really tried to kill him?
Finally, Joe pulled onto the Superstition Freeway and headed west, the collies on the sides of the pickup bed with their heads almost up beside the side windows. Both were grinning with their tongues hanging out. It had been a long time since they’d gone so fast, seen the big city, and all the cars whizzing by. Harry smiled at their clear joy.
“What’s the names of your dogs?” he asked. “They’re beautiful.”
“Cochise and Geronimo.” Then Joe grinned.
Harry laughed at himself. “I should have known as much, right?” Then he shook his head at his naivety, also at Joe’s light-hearted wisdom in choosing both names.
“You said you were in Vietnam long ago,” he asked next. “What did you do there?”
“Flew gunships and got shot down a couple of times.” Joe’s face suddenly fell into folds of sadness. “Godalmighty, that was a dumb fucking war, and all us veterans have been made out to be war criminals ever since, usually in every election. Do you fly helicopters or are you just a jet-jockey?”
“No, I fly them as well, and I’ve pretty much learned to fly everything.” It seemed that Joe was much more than he’d believed at first, and now there was a good explanation of why there hadn’t been much use in lying to him.
For a minute they drove on in silence. Finally, Joe added, “I really meant it when I said I’d like to help you. Keep my number and give me a call. Maybe I know what you’re going through.”
Harry nodded but didn’t answer, remembering what he’d been told about the Vietnam War, and Arizona’s past as well, to sense that Joe knew all about betrayal. Besides, the airport was coming up and it was time to fly home and face whatever danger he had to face. There was no turning back.
Joe stopped beside terminal four, a massive brown building with long windows, and faced him. “At least give me a call and tell me how thi
ngs are working out,” he said, “and let me know how you’re doing.”
“Okay, I promise.” Harry smiled because he had made a true friend. “Can I give you something for your gas?”
“No, and I’d be offended if you did. You know the rules when country folks are in trouble.”
Joe stuck out his hand.
Harry didn’t answer and simply shook Joe’s hand. There wasn’t any need to say anymore between men of the same nature. Stepping out of the pickup, he watched Joe pull away, the dogs still riding with the wind in their faces.
Three hours later, half convinced again that he could work things out in some oblique way, he arrived at the McCarren Airport. He would catch a cab home, get another good night’s rest, and drive out to Area 51 in the morning. Maybe he would call Lockheed Martin and go through them as well, since they were his actual employer, not the Air Force. Yes … he’d call Lockheed and start from there, he told himself.
By the time he’d found a cab the nighttime had come and the city was lit up in all of its rainbow colors. Of all the places he’d seen, Las Vegas was the most beautiful after dark, glowing in red and yellow, wheeling with searchlights, dancing in blue, green, and gold. The slick city, the city of sorrow, and always, always the potluck of life—it fit his mood perfectly. Maybe its glitz had changed him and he hadn’t realized it, or maybe there was an important lesson to be learned in its vicissitudes. The cab stopped and he paid the driver and walked upstairs to where he lived.
He saw the living room lights were on when he reached his door. His breath caught halfway. Should he make a run for it or just go inside and face the music?
CHAPTER 4
CIA HEADQUARTERS
Alexis worried that she might be in trouble on Monday morning. Dewey wasn’t at work, and as far as she knew he hadn’t been late for anything in his life. Not once. The veteran troll that he was, he wasn’t the type to take his responsibilities lightly. He still wore white shirts and ties, that’s how ingrained he was, and the only reason he’d given up his three-piece suits was that he’d gotten too paunchy. She walked to her workstation, sat down, and faced his desk. Did his absence have anything to do with his odd behavior, and should she go over there and snoop around?
The telephone rang, startling her. “Miss Mundy, would you come up to personnel? Thank you.”
So much for good morning and how are you, she thought to herself. Grabbing her purse, she walked past the wall-to-wall storage shelving of the document library and out its door. The long hallway reminded her of being sent to the principal’s office in high school—clop, clop, clop, her footsteps echoed in the length of it, like marching to an apocalypse.
Two security officers, a man and a woman in police-like uniforms, semiautomatic pistols on their sides, were waiting for her when she reached the personnel office. Come with us, they said, and she followed them to the elevator. Her mind checked off the things she might have done wrong. Was there something that had violated Agency rules, infinite as they were? She didn’t think so, not really. Ten minutes ticked by as the officers led her higher and higher in the George Bush Center for Intelligence, the name the Pentagon-sized headquarters had been given during the Clinton Administration. Everyone looked at her as if she were an axe murderer as she passed by. Where were they taking her, for crying out loud?
After what seemed like a Mar’s expedition, she was led into the office of the deputy director of operations, Damon Magruder, the individual who ran the day-to-day spying around the world.
She stared moon-eyed at the CIA’s coat of arms, an American Eagle holding a red compass on a background of blue and white, which was hanging on the entryway’s wall. She had hit the big time, but under the worst of circumstances, and whatever had gone wrong in the library must have been an unmitigated disaster. The office receptionist, an African-American woman dressed in a classic yellow Donna Karan suit, told her to wait. Picking up a magazine, she sank into the softest chair she had ever sat in. Dewey was probably inside getting his ass chewed off, and then it would be her turn. They must have gotten into some old, top-secret boxes they weren’t supposed to see.
After a few minutes, the receptionist led her to a conference room furnished with a twelve-foot burled walnut table and a dozen chairs of the same design and another CIA coat of arms hanging by the doorway. Everything screamed money and power, and she wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to see the secretary of state sitting there. Her anxiety shot higher. This was more than big time. She felt so small, sitting there all alone.
Three middle-aged men marched in, one behind the other, dressed in lawyer-like dark suits of one color and another. The first man had dark brown hair, the second jet-black, and the third was graying all over. The gray-haired man sat first and motioned for the two others to sit alongside him, and for the next few moments they just stared at her. The one with the brown hair had green eyes, round and unblinking, almost like a lizard’s eyes.
The man with the gray hair frowned, changing his expression for the first time. “Miss Mundy, I’m Damon Magruder, on my left is Phillip Scirpo, the director of the National Security Agency, and the gentlemen on my right is Daniel Reechi, a special advisor who often works here with us.” He paused a moment to let everything sink in, then continued, “Before we begin, I want you to understand we’ll be asking you about a very serious matter, and it’s critical that you tell us the truth. Can we depend on your full cooperation?”
The first thing that flashed through her mind was she hadn’t done anything wrong, and the second was she didn’t like being treated like a felon, no matter how serious Magruder thought the matter was. Feeling her college psych courses kicking in, she straightened herself. Tall was good, she thought. She fixed her eyes on them, one at a time, staring each one down.
“Good morning,” she said at last, staying straight-faced. “What would you like to know?”
Magruder looked unhappy that she’d gotten her nerve up. Scirpo seemed surprised. Reechi was still all reptile eyes.
“Where were you this past weekend?” Magruder then leaned forward, placing his elbows on the tabletop.
“Two girlfriends and I spent the weekend in New York.”
All three exchanged glances. “Give me their names and addresses,” said Magruder next.
Seconds passed. Her friends would think her guilty by simple inference, but what choice did she have, at least not without looking guilty of something? In college, she’d read the classic novel, Catch 22, where the main characters were screwed no matter what they did. “Melissa Bartolomei and Jennifer Kellaney,” she answered. “Both work at Sprint, and you can reach them there during the week.”
Then Scirpo leaned forward. “Miss Mundy, when was the last time you saw Dewey Chambers?”
“Last Friday, just before I left work.” She started feeling frightened.
“What did you talk about before he left,” asked Scirpo, leaning even further across the table.
“He wondered what I’d planned for the weekend, then said he was staying home.” She drew a breath, catching on a bit, but not really believing it. “Why are you asking me these questions, and where is Dewey?” she asked.
Magruder’s eyes darkened. “We’ll get to that in a moment. What were Chambers and you doing on Friday? Tell us in as much detail as you can.”
She drew another breath. “We were working on Opendoor like we have for a long time, declassifying old Second World War files. Dewey would look at them and then have me log them on my computer. We had inventoried over—”
“Did you ever read any of those files?” Magruder had almost snapped at her, and she wondered why.
“I glanced through some I thought might be interesting, but I didn’t have time to read them, so no. Dewey did that, telling me there might be a few that wouldn’t be released, or that portions would be blacked out. I wasn’t—”
“How many—?” This time he did snap at her.
“… since we began work on Opendoor?”
“Yes, how many?”
“I don’t know … maybe a couple. Dewey kept some locked in his desk, so I never saw those, and he never talked to me about them.”
Slowly, Magruder leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on her. “Dewey is dead, Miss Mundy. Did you kill him?”
She wanted to scream but clapped her hands over her mouth instead. She started sobbing, her eyes staring sightlessly at the faces of Magruder, Scirpo, and Reechi. Had she killed Dewey Chambers? There was no reason that Magruder should have even asked that question, not in her mind. She let the tears stream down her cheeks and onto her fingers, giving herself time to think. Maybe something else was going on, something really dangerous. After a minute, she pulled tissue from her purse, dried her eyes, and blew her nose.
“Dewey and I were friends and there wasn’t any reason in the world I would’ve ever hurt him. Why are you attacking me like this?”
Magruder gazed steadily at her. “Maybe you don’t understand the seriousness of this situation. A key employee of this agency, one with high-level security clearances, is found murdered. We learn that you were the last person around here talking to him, then find out you were in New York at the same time.” His voice suddenly rang with sarcasm. “—mind telling us where you stayed?”
“At the Paramount, on west forty-sixth.” A shiver crept down her spine.
Magruder rocked forward in his chair, almost as though he were lunging at her. “What a coincidence. Chamber’s body was found only a couple of blocks away. What are you not telling us, Miss Mundy? We want the truth.”
“—nothing.” She felt herself losing control, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong. Stay tall! Taking a deep breath, she straightened herself once more. “Mr. Magruder, I have told you the truth, and I didn’t even know Dewey was anywhere near me this weekend. Call my girlfriends because they hardly left my side, and the bellman and registration desk and all the places we shopped, they’ll remember us. The FBI is the controlling agency in these situations, so let me talk to them.”
