Sigma Division

by Steve Richer

“How do you know I won’t arrest you? That’s my job.”

  The woman sounded as if she was about to laugh. “You’ve been around, at the other universities. I know you’ve been asking questions. You’re curious now, you want to know what I know. You want to know how your boss is screwing you.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. When?”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  Spicer was taking deep breaths as he turned off the ignition of his Chevrolet. He couldn’t believe how he had missed this feeling, his heart beating fast with the prospect of something happening beyond boredom and suburban quietness.

  He reached for his little red gym bag on the passenger seat and from it pulled out his pistol. It was fully loaded and he chambered a round.

  A few minutes later he was walking through the Korean War Veterans Memorial. South of the Reflecting Pool on the National Mall, the Memorial was in the shape of a triangle with thick granite walls which contained photographs from the conflict. More impressive was a series of huge stainless steel statues of US military personnel in combat gear.

  Had it been left up to him, Spicer would have chosen to meet the woman at a McDonald’s, but she had insisted on this place. She said it was appropriate for what they had to talk about. Lingering in the back of his mind was the possibility that he was being lured here so he could be murdered. That’s certainly a way he would have done it.

  He strolled through the sculptures and the place was otherwise deserted. Out of the blue, he heard a noise behind him, rock against concrete. He spun in a flash, reaching inside his leather jacket, getting ready to leap for cover.

  “We’re alone,” the same woman’s voice said.

  He scanned the darkness and a woman came out from behind a Navy corpsman statue. She was in her late 20s, her dark hair cascading past her shoulders. She was tall, he would say athletic, and that gave her a self-assured, independent demeanor. She walked toward him, keeping her head up high.

  “How do you know we’re alone?”

  “I checked.”

  He took his hand out of his coat as they both walked toward each other.

  “Aren’t you afraid of me?” he asked. “Even a little bit?”

  “If you were here to take me in I’d already be in some undisclosed location, some place where cries of pain can’t be heard, right?”

  Once she was next to him, she started walking again and he tagged along. Just a couple of tourists.

  “Why don’t we start with the specifics? What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Clara.”

  “At what university do you work?”

  “To say so would jeopardize my situation even further and I’m not ready for that just yet.”

  Spicer nodded. “Fair enough. Why did you write the article?”

  “I was scared, okay?”

  “Of what?”

  She stopped walking and turned to face him. “Of the project! What else?”

  “What was your research about?”

  “I said I won’t divulge anything.”

  “Well, you gotta give me something. You obviously didn’t come here to talk about your views on spring fashion trends.”

  They resumed their stroll. Spicer glanced at the mural and spotted the inscription Freedom Is Not Free. How fitting, he thought.

  “While doing my research,” she began. “I came upon a 1972 study sponsored by the Department of Defense and the CIA. It advanced theories which would definitely make thought-reading possible. I can’t tell you how this is related to my research but it scared the living shit out of me.”

  Thought-reading? That was far-fetched and he wasn't sure if he believed her. However, it was obvious she herself believed it and that was the creepiest part.

  “What scared you so much?”

  “Look, it used to be surveillance cameras on freeways, then spy satellites. Now it’s drones and NSA reading your emails. Then what? What’s the next logical step? Don’t you see? Thought-reading, the ultimate invasion of privacy.”

  “Jesus,” Spicer whispered although he again had trouble believing she was even being serious. The world was filled with nut jobs who saw conspiracy theories in everything from chemtrails to TV lineups.

  Clara said, “I know you’ve been snooping around. What did you find out?”

  “Not much, just bits and pieces about what the Project is researching. Psychology, dictatorships throughout history, signal emissions, nothing conclusive.”

  She looked at him and she seemed like she was softening up.

  “But it scares you too, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Spicer admitted.

  “Tell me, why didn’t you take me in?”

  Before he knew it, Spicer was speaking his mind. “I want to know. I need to know that I’m not doing anything illegal. I’ve turned over a new leaf and damned if I’m not gonna change.”

  Traces of a smile appeared on her face.

  “I’m glad to finally have an ally.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll contact you again soon.”

  She touched his arm gently, keeping eye contact with him for a pregnant second. And she hurried away.

  Chapter 14

  On Saturday, Spicer was running out of clean clothes to wear so he had to face the inevitable fact that laundry had to be done. He still hadn’t found a convenient laundry service nearby. In his building, there was a laundry room on each floor and each wash cost an astronomical two dollars.

  He dropped some whites in the machine and soon Esther walked in with her basket and bottle of fabric softener. She immediately brightened up when she saw him.

  “Hey!”

  “Good morning, Esther.”

  Having obviously started well before him, she took her wet clothes out of a washer and wrung the water out.

  Spicer took some mental notes and went on. “I want to apologize.”

  “What for?”

  “I know I haven’t called. It’s just that I’ve been very busy. Work’s got me traveling all over the place and…”

  He dropped some detergent powder in, acting casually but keeping an eye on her nevertheless.

  “Gene, it’s okay. Really.”

  She brought her clothes to a dryer.

  “No, it’s not. I really had a good time the other night. I’d really like to do it again. When work won’t keep me so tied up, I would really like to spend some time with you.”

  “It’s weird dating your neighbor, uh?”

  Spicer smiled. “Sure as hell makes it impossible for me to blow you off.”

  They both shared a chuckle and turned their machines on. Yes, he definitely liked her.

  * * *

  Across town, in the suburbs of Virginia, Houseman was wearing a candy striper uniform, and with dignity. It was sunny and he looked young as he strolled around the hospital grounds, especially compared to the frail old man in the wheelchair he was pushing. The patient was nearing 100 and he had Parkinson’s, shaking uncontrollably.

  “And how are you feeling today, sir?”

  The old man managed to nod in the affirmative despite his condition and the thick blanket covering most of his body.

  “Are you comfortable? Do you need a pillow?”

  The man’s head went from left to right, it was a no.

  Houseman had been volunteering at the same hospital for over 30 years. To be honest, in the beginning it had been to bolster his image, because in Washington everything was about your image, about perception. Still, it didn’t take long for him to realize he was actually enjoying the work. It was relaxing to socialize with people who didn’t have an agenda and it beat bowling.

  As he swerved to avoid a couple of smokers, he noticed a nurse was coming his way.

  “Mr. Houseman?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s somebody to see you.”

  She pointed over her shoulder at Michaels who was standing near the main building.

  “Thank you. Could I trouble you by
asking you to take this gentleman back inside?”

  “No problem,” she said as she took over the wheelchair.

  Houseman gave her his most sincere smile, said goodbye to the old man, and walked to Dr. Michaels.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you here this morning.”

  With a sigh, Houseman said, “I gather the situation is irrefutable?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That’s unfortunate. Let’s go inside, I need coffee.”

  “Good, the operative is meeting us.”

  They remained silent as they walked to the hospital cafeteria and found a table by the windows. Houseman blew the steam off his coffee.

  “Our fears are verified, right?”

  He was speaking at a third person sitting across from them. It was a woman.

  Clara.

  She shook her head. “There’s no doubt about it. Your boy’s been asking questions he shouldn’t even have thought of.”

  “Do you think he found anything significant about the project?” Dr. Michaels asked.

  “No. But if he keeps at it he’s bound to.”

  Houseman began nodding, like a kid who finally admitted his dog had to be sent away to Dogland. He forgot his coffee and stood up.

  “Sir, about my transfer…”

  “Please, we’ll talk about this later.”

  He walked away toward the exit and Michaels swiftly followed.

  He said, “It’s gotta be done.”

  “I liked that man. He had a lot of potential.”

  “Yeah well, we don’t have much of a choice, Gerald.”

  Houseman exhaled loudly and stopped. “I know.”

  He walked away.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Spicer was waiting in line at Starbucks. The place was busy, loud with idle chatter and crappy music blasted through the speakers. He was shifting from one foot to the next, impatient and in need of caffeine. Most of all, he was thinking about what was going on at Sigma.

  People trying to denounce a secret government project, his needing to keep things under wraps. The mysterious informant Clara had reached out to him and mentioned outlandish claims of thought-reading, but it somehow seemed too easy. He’d tried investigating her but he couldn’t find anything about her through available databases. Her phone number had been filtered through anonymous VoIP bouncing through hotspots around the world.

  He knew that he wanted to find out what was going on and he also knew that it was getting dangerous.

  A man entered the restaurant. He was in his 30s, solidly built. He was wearing wraparound shades and he was walking with a focused gait. Instinctively, Spicer was on high alert. Something was going down.

  He glanced around to see if the man was making contact with someone else, possibly coordinating an attack. Then he located the restrooms as a possible exit.

  The stranger kept coming closer, walking swiftly and with confidence.

  Spicer kept his breathing in check and without making any sudden movements, he grabbed his keys from his pocket and balled his hand into a fist. He made sure that the keys were protruding between his knuckles. This was a lethal makeshift weapon.

  The man in the sunglasses lowered his zipper and reached into his jacket. The CIA man had his eyes glued on him. The line was moving ahead of him but he stayed still. He had to get ready to counterattack if necessary.

  What came out of the man’s jacket was a long-stemmed rose. He turned to a young woman sitting at a table and handed it to her as he smiled and removed his shades. A moment later they were kissing.

  Spicer let out a long breath and realized he was sweating. Relief washed over him.

  The teenage cashier was leaning over the counter for him. “Next!”

  He barely heard her. All he could think about was that whenever he felt in danger it was because he really was in danger.

  Chapter 15

  Sleeping and doing nothing this weekend had not made Spicer relax. When he came out of the elevator at the CIA headquarters, awash in Monday morning office drones, he felt just as tired as on Friday. He headed toward his office when Ned appeared slightly behind him.

  “Hey, boss.”

  Startled, Spicer stopped in his tracks and turned around to face him. “Jesus, you scared the hell outta me.”

  “Too much coffee, uh?”

  “Caffeine level: zero.”

  “Listen, Dr. Michaels wants to see you ASAP.”

  Spicer groaned. “What for?”

  “Do I look like his diary? How the hell would I know? I’m not a mind-reader.”

  “Great.”

  The term mind-reader gave him pause. Was this a coincidence? He changed course and headed back toward the elevators, his partner following.

  “Yeah, and there’s something else,” Ned added.

  “Am I gonna have to guess?”

  “I saw a couple of security officers roaming around your office.”

  Spicer came to a halt again. Blood drained from his face.

  Shit.

  * * *

  Battles were won one skirmish at a time so Spicer went to his superior’s office, and after a bland greeting he sat down while Michaels did the same across the desk.

  “I’ll go right to the point, Spicer. Our current arrangements with you aren’t working.”

  “So I’m fired.”

  “Come on, nobody uses that term anymore. You’ve been downsized.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “That newspaper article did you in. You spent too much time, too much money, and you have nothing to show for it.”

  “Yeah but…”

  Dr. Michaels shrugged smugly. “What? Did you find the author?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “That’s just my point.

  “So, what now?” Spicer asked. “Am I being transferred?”

  “No, this time it’s over.”

  It was like a sucker punch. Spicer lowered his eyes, not sure if he computed all of this.

  “Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t see it coming. You’re old school, Spicer. You’re a dying breed.”

  Spicer looked back sharply at his boss. “I know a Hungarian family who knows I’m very contemporary.”

  “You’re from the Cold War, I’m from the New World Order.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You’re from a time when two countries ruled the world. I’m from a time where there’s only one.”

  The worst part, Spicer realized, was that Michaels actually believed what he was saying.

  “So that’s it?”

  “I’ll fill out some forms, you’ll get your full pension.”

  “Goody,” Spicer said as he stood.

  They stared at each other. Michaels couldn’t hide the fact that he was savoring a victory.

  * * *

  The golf course was practically deserted at this time of year. Trees were losing their leaves and the sun couldn’t be bothered to show up. Spicer couldn’t see what the big deal was, especially bundled up in two sweaters and a windbreaker which failed miserably to break the wind.

  Kilmer had told him that they should feel privileged that they were letting them play as a twosome when they usually would have been paired with strangers. Having rented shoes and using his friend’s spare clubs, Spicer did his best Tiger Woods impersonation and got ready to take a whack at the ball.

  He focused as best as he could, swung back, and drove. The ball sputtered and only managed to travel about 30 yards, disappearing into the deep rough.

  “Curling’s more my sport,” Spicer said dismissively.

  Kilmer couldn’t suppress a smile as he put his own ball down on a tee. “Golf’s the sport of retirement. Get used to it.”

  “Who said I was retiring?”

  “You’ve been fired, they’re giving you your pension. Where I’m from, we call that retirement.”

  He took his stance, preparing to hit the ball. He was about to swing when Spicer spoke.

  “I
don’t get it, I was so close. Have you ever heard of a government firing an employee because he didn’t do something fast enough? That’s gotta be the biggest contradiction in modern-day America.”

  “You used to obey orders and not ask why.”

  Spicer rolled his eyes. “I used to be young.”

  “You used to be smart.”

  There was silence for a moment and Kilmer again extended his arms, preparing to swing.

  “They had to know I was on to something,” Spicer said, interrupting his friend once more. “They must’ve had me under surveillance.”

  The older man looked up, somewhat irritated at his inability to play and Spicer not letting things go.

  “Would you mind shutting up for five seconds? Five whole seconds, it’s all I’m asking.”

  Spicer offered a tightlipped smile and took a step back as he presented him the palm of his hands in concession. Kilmer waited two seconds to make sure this was really happening and then he swung, driving his ball 300 yards down the fairway.

  “Look at that baby.”

  “Wish it could’ve been Houseman’s head,” Spicer mumbled.

  The smile on Kilmer’s face faded as he twirled his club.

  “Gene, listen. They obviously don’t want you digging up any more than you have so far. I’m sure they have their reasons.”

  “You know me, I’ve never been curious before. If I am right now, don’t you think I have my reasons?”

  “Whatever their project is, you fuck with it and you spend the rest of your life in jail. That’s all that matters right now. You see something classified and they’ll call you a spy.”

  “That’s a step up from what I used to do. I don’t want to have lived my life in vain.”

  Both men headed for the golf cart although Spicer could have reached his ball just by stretching far enough.

  “What are you talking about?” Kilmer asked.

  “I’ve done bad things all my career. I’d like to do something good for a change.”

  “Maybe the Anchises Project, Sigma… maybe they’re good.”

  “When something’s good, people brag about it. They fired me.”

  Spicer shoved his club in the bag as an alternative to breaking it in half.

  Chapter 16