House Divided

by Mike Lawson

  “That’s right,” DeMarco said.

  “Paul didn’t like you very much.”

  That embarrassed DeMarco. “Well—uh, we didn’t really get a chance to know each other. And from everything I’ve heard about him, I regret that. Now could I please come in and talk to you?”

  McGuire finally opened the door but didn’t immediately allow DeMarco to enter. He looked up and down the block, as if he was looking to see if anybody was with DeMarco or maybe watching his house. The guy was really paranoid, which made DeMarco wonder if he’d been robbed before, maybe the victim of a home invasion.

  As DeMarco entered the house, he noticed two matching suitcases and a laptop case sitting in the foyer. “Taking a trip?” he asked.

  “Uh, yes. I’m visiting a friend in … who lives out west. The airport shuttle will be here in a couple of hours, so I don’t have much time to talk to you.”

  They took seats in McGuire’s living room which, unlike DeMarco’s living room, was as neat as a pin and smelled of furniture polish. DeMarco couldn’t recall ever using furniture polish. McGuire was also as neat as a pin: pressed jeans, pressed long-sleeve shirt, and tennis shoes so white they looked as if they’d just come out of the box. He had curly dark hair, was short and slim, and had eyelashes long enough for a Maybelline commercial. He sat on the edge of his chair, bouncing a knee, giving DeMarco the impression he was nervous, although he couldn’t imagine why.

  “How did you know Paul and I were friends?” McGuire asked.

  DeMarco said Paul’s landlady had told him, and then explained—for what seemed like the ten-thousandth time—that he was trying to find out if Paul had a will and where it might be. To his relief, McGuire said that Paul did indeed have a will. When your career was watching people die as Paul’s had been, and when the people dying were sometimes quite young, you learned very quickly you weren’t immortal. And since his financial life had been pretty simple, Paul had used an online form and had named St. James Church in Falls Church as the beneficiary of all his worldly possessions. He had kept his will in a safe deposit box at his bank.

  DeMarco felt like leaping to his feet and cheering. “Who was the executor of his will?” he asked.

  “I was. Or at least I was when we broke up a year ago. I don’t know if he changed his will after that, but I would assume he did.”

  DeMarco was willing to bet that Paul hadn’t changed his will—people tended to put off things like that—but decided it didn’t really matter. He was going to tell the pastor at St. James that Paul had left him four grand and, if he wanted the money, he could go through all the hassle of getting the state to give it to him. He was through screwing around with this whole mess.

  It occurred to DeMarco later that he should have left right then—but he didn’t. Instead he said, “I’m curious about something, Mr. McGuire. The FBI thinks Paul was shot because he might have been involved in a drug deal. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” McGuire mumbled. “I have no idea why he was killed. Look, if there’s nothing else, I have to—”

  Now that was wrong. No one who knew Paul believed he was dealing drugs. Everyone, in fact, was adamant he wouldn’t do something like that. So why wasn’t McGuire, the person who had possibly known him best, not equally adamant? And McGuire’s body language was off. He didn’t look DeMarco in the eye when he made the statement. He did what DeMarco called rabbit eyes: eyes darting away as if looking for a place to run to, a hole to crawl into. In DeMarco’s experience, rabbit eyes indicated a lie—a lie told by an incompetent liar—which made him wonder why McGuire was lying.

  “Well, what do you think he could have been doing at the Iwo Jima Memorial at one in the morning?”

  “I really don’t know,” McGuire said, but there it was again: the mumble, the rabbit eyes.

  “Do you know something about Paul’s death, Mr. McGuire?”

  “No. Why would I?”

  McGuire didn’t say this calmly, however. He practically shrieked, Why would I? as if he was desperate for DeMarco to believe him, but then he added in a calmer voice, “We hadn’t seen each other in over a year.”

  But DeMarco wasn’t buying it. “Mr. McGuire, Paul was my cousin,” he said. “He was your friend, your ex-lover. And he was murdered. Right now the FBI—”

  “Oh, God, the FBI’s involved?”

  Why in the hell would he say that?

  “Yes,” DeMarco said, “and right now the Bureau thinks his death was drug related. But if you know it’s not—if you know what really happened—you need to tell the Bureau.”

  McGuire held his hands palm outward at chest level, as if he was fending DeMarco off. If he hadn’t been sitting down, he would have backed away. “I’m not going to get involved in this,” he said. “And I want you to leave. Right now.”

  “Are you leaving town because of what happened to Paul?”

  “No, I’ve had this trip planned for months.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  DeMarco stared at McGuire for a long moment, then said, “Mr. McGuire, I’m a lawyer and an officer of the court.” DeMarco actually had no idea if he was an officer of any court; that was just an expression he’d heard on TV. “And I think you know something about Paul’s death and if you won’t tell me what you know, then I have a legal obligation to contact the FBI and tell them that I think you’re withholding information in a homicide investigation.”

  “You can’t do that!” McGuire shouted. “You could get me killed.”

  “Get you killed?” DeMarco said. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “Please, just stay out of this. You could get killed too.”

  “McGuire, I wanna know what you know. Now tell me.”

  “Oh, God,” McGuire said.

  “Come on. Spit it out. You can either talk to me or you can talk to the feds.”

  McGuire didn’t respond immediately. He just sat there, looking down into his lap, shaking his head—but he wasn’t shaking his head as a sign he was refusing to talk. Instead, it was as if he couldn’t believe this was happening to him.

  In a softer, less threatening tone, DeMarco said, “Anthony, please, tell me what you know. You owe it to Paul.”

  McGuire finally raised his head and said, “Paul called me the day he was killed. He made a big deal about how he was calling from a pay phone, which I thought was strange, and he told me that a patient of his had told him something important.” McGuire then took a deep breath and said, “Paul said he thought this patient may have been killed. By the government.”

  “By the government?”

  “Yes. And he said he might be killed too because of what he knew.”

  “Who was this patient?”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  It had to be General Breed, DeMarco thought. “Did he tell you what this patient told him?”

  “No. He said if he told me then I’d be in danger, too.”

  “Then why’d he call you?”

  “He said that if anything happened to him, I was to call a reporter at The Washington Post named Robert Hansen.”

  “And tell Hansen what?” DeMarco asked.

  “That Paul had hidden something at the church.”

  “What church?”

  “His church. St. James.”

  “Did he tell you what he hid?”

  “No.”

  “Well, did he tell you where he hid it?”

  “No. He just said to tell Hansen it was hidden at the church. And then I saw on the news that a reporter named Hansen had disappeared.”

  “So then what did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was afraid. I didn’t know who to call.”

  “You didn’t do anything? You knew Paul might have been killed because of whatever this patient told him—and you just sat here?”

  “He said the government killed his patient. The government, for Christ’s sake! Who the hell was I supposed to call?”

  Gilbert made a copy of the D
eMarco-McGuire recording. He stood up, poked his head over the top of his cubicle like a timid gopher peering out of its hole, and saw that Claire wasn’t in her office. He left a message on her answering machine and went to lunch.

  25

  Aaron Drexler had Dillon worried.

  Clyde Simmer, his friend at the Justice Department, had told him that Drexler wasn’t a fool and Dillon confirmed this when he looked at the man’s academic record. And, as Clyde had also stated, Drexler worked quite hard; he spent fourteen hours his first day at Fort Meade. Bright and hardworking were good attributes in an employee. They were very bad attributes in an adversary.

  Drexler spent the first day going through the intercepts Dillon had given him and then focused in on one particular operation. The NSA, in conjunction with the FBI and Homeland Security, had been watching three young Palestinian students for over a month. The men were registered as students at George Mason University but spent very little time at the school they were supposedly attending. The reason why they were being watched was because they had made an abnormally high number of tours of the U.S. Capitol and had taken extensive notes and photographs while touring. Some of their e-mails, written in an extremely crude code, discussed security procedures they had observed. The entire surveillance operation was being conducted in a completely legal fashion and with all required warrants.

  Drexler called Dillon at one point and said he wanted to see all the paperwork associated with the Palestinian student operation—requests for warrants, interagency memoranda, surveillance observations, that sort of thing. Then he added, almost as if it were an afterthought, that he also wanted a list of NSA personnel who were monitoring the Palestinians’ communications—and Dillon immediately understood what Drexler was doing. Drexler was thinking that since the Palestinians lived in Arlington and not too far from the Iwo Jima Memorial, that maybe the NSA technicians who were monitoring the Palestinians had intercepted the Russo transmission inadvertently. When Drexler made his request, Dillon said. “Oh, I thought you understood, Mr. Drexler. We don’t have people monitoring those men. Our computers do all that for us. And as for the those intercepts I gave you, no one’s even listened to them yet.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me!” Drexler said. “What the hell’s the purpose of recording all this crap if you don’t listen to it?”

  “Well, we will. Eventually,” Dillon said, doing his best impression of a flustered, fumbling bureaucrat. “It’s just that we’re so understaffed. It’s the budget cuts, you know.”

  The next request Drexler made was for a list of all personnel on duty between the hours of midnight and six A.M. on the night Russo was killed—and Dillon happily gave him the information he wanted.

  Whenever a person entered and exited an NSA facility, they swiped their ID badge through bar-code readers so that security personnel—including those in counterintelligence—would have a record documenting where people went and what time they arrived and departed. What Drexler still hadn’t grasped, however, was the size of the NSA. There were almost three thousand people working the night Russo was killed, and Dillon gave him all three thousand names, including the names of security guards, cleaning and maintenance personnel, and folks who came in early to prepare breakfasts in the cafeterias. When Drexler asked that the list be sorted by people’s occupations, Dillon said, “Oh, I’m sorry, we can’t sort the information that way, not automatically. All we want to know is who’s on base and where they’ve been in case something happens.”

  The reality was that Dillon could have sorted the information by shoe size and eye color if he’d wanted to, but Drexler had no way to know that.

  But now Drexler was no longer looking at the files Dillon had given him. In fact, he’d called Dillon and rudely demanded that the files be removed from his office, saying he couldn’t work surrounded by such clutter. For the last six hours, Drexler had been talking to people in the NSA’s Human Resources department—the folks who handled hiring and promotions and personnel records. And that’s why Dillon was worried. He couldn’t understand how talking to the folks in HR could possibly help Drexler, and therefore he was concerned that he was missing something.

  Dillon placed his feet up on his desk and looked at the Picasso on the wall. The painting, as he’d told Drexler, was a self-portrait of the artist from his blue period and actually had been given to Dillon by his mother. In the painting, Picasso wasn’t bald as he became later in life. In this portrait he had a full head of dark hair, a thin, scraggly beard, and wore a heavy cloak buttoned to the collar as if he’d painted himself in an unheated room during the winter.

  “What’s he up to, Pablo?” Dillon said to the painting. “Why’s he talking to the drones in HR? Those people can barely find their offices; they don’t have the slightest idea what we really do here.

  “Come on, don’t sit there looking cold and confused. Help me out. Why’s he looking at personnel files? What will that gain him?”

  As there were more than thirty thousand people who worked for the NSA, reviewing personnel files to find whatever he was looking for would take Drexler forever. And as for the files themselves, they didn’t give details related to classified assignments or specific operations. Drexler had to know that and, if he didn’t at first, he must know it by now. So what was he up to?

  He sat glaring at Picasso another full minute, and when the Spaniard remained mute, he said, “Oh, all right, I’ll call him.”

  Dillon hated talking to the people in HR. They had shelves of manuals filled with confusing and contradictory regulations, and none of these manuals ever told them how they could do something, only how they couldn’t. If you wanted to hire, fire, demote, or promote an employee—it really didn’t matter which action you had in mind—the HR people could always find a regulation that stopped you but never one that aided you. Dillon had always suspected that somewhere in the warren where the HR folks lurked like troglodytes was a hidden Mission Statement that read: We will help no one—and be proud we didn’t.

  The other reason he didn’t want to call the people in HR was Dillon figured that he should be able to figure out what Drexler was doing without having to talk to anyone. He was a good poker player, and a good player knows the hand his opponent is holding even though he can’t see the cards. Such should be the case with Drexler: Dillon should have been able to deduce his intentions from the actions he’d taken without having to ask the people in HR a thing.

  But, dammit, it didn’t seem as if he could.

  He picked up the phone, called the head of HR, and said, “You imbecile! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Dillon, of course, had no idea what the man had done either, but he’d learned over the years that when dealing with HR it was best to put them immediately on the defensive.

  “I want you in my office. Now!”

  When the HR man was standing on his carpet—large, lumpish, and sullen—Dillon asked him what Drexler was doing.

  “He’s asking about m-m-m-managers,” the HR man stammered.

  “Managers?” Dillon said.

  The HR man started to say something else, but Dillon raised a hand to silence him. He sat there for a moment, thinking, then said, “Ah!” Turning to the Picasso, he said, “Now I understand.”

  He asked the HR man a few more questions, to confirm that he was right, and then dismissed him.

  “How are you doing on researching our friend Mr. Drexler?” Dillon asked.

  Claire shrugged. “I’m making progress.”

  “Well, my dear, you need to speed things up. Drexler has seen through my little ploy, the one where I buried him under a mountain of useless intercepts, and now he’s taking a different approach.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Dillon, can’t you just make that sour-faced shit disappear? What the hell’s he doing now?”

  This was why Dillon sometimes preferred to talk to Pablo rather than Claire: Pablo didn’t swear at him.

  “Mr. Drexler is now looking at
people, Claire. Not intercepts.”

  “I don’t understand,” Claire said.

  “You will. Drexler’s been talking to folks in HR and, based on the questions he’s been asking, I’ve determined that he’s made a very nimble intellectual leap. He’s concluded that somewhere within the NSA there is very likely a group of people doing exactly what your division does and that this division is hidden among other legitimate divisions.”

  Claire smiled. She smiled so rarely that when she did it made Dillon think of those cactus plants that bloom only once a year.

  “Well, good luck with that,” she said. “My division’s not on any org chart and my people aren’t even assigned to me.”

  Dillon knew what she was thinking. Everyone who worked for Claire—as far as personnel records showed—was assigned to a legitimate staff position in Dillon’s other divisions. In the terminology the HR folk used, Claire’s people had been temporarily detailed to her division, but no paperwork existed to show these temporary assignments. And then there were people like the late Alberta Merker, people who had cleverly crafted background covers that made it appear as if they didn’t work for the NSA at all. Compounding Drexler’s task was the fact that the NSA’s HR division was notoriously slow and a lot of personnel paperwork was out of date.

  Claire consequently thought it would be impossible for Drexler to find the people in her organization—and she was right. And this meant that she still didn’t understand what Drexler was doing.

  “Claire, it’s not your people he’s looking for. It’s you he’s trying to find.”

  “What?”

  “How many GS-Fifteens are there in this agency like yourself, people who hold a senior supervisory rank yet don’t manage people? In other words, people who don’t appear to have a function that matches their pay grade?”

  “Well, there’re a lot,” Claire said.

  And she was correct about this too. There were a fair number of high-ranking folk at the NSA, GS-14s and 15s, who didn’t manage people. Many were overeducated technical types—mathematicians, linguists, code-breakers, computer wizards—brainiacs, in other words, stuck off in cubicles by themselves. And there were a few other high-paid folk walking aimlessly about who had been removed from upper management positions due to their incompetence and then given semi-useless staff assignments because that alternative was less painful than firing them. But there were relatively few people like Claire Whiting: seemingly talented senior people who were not scientific specialists and yet didn’t appear to have any clearly defined role in the agency.