by Orca Various
The first of their two escorts knocked on a door, and a voice came from inside. “Come in. The door is open.”
The second man opened the door and gestured for Lee and Webb to go inside. He made it clear he would be standing just outside the door with his partner. Bodyguards for whoever was inside.
Webb followed Lee.
A woman sat behind a large desk of burnished wood. The desk was bare except for some sheets of paper and a pen. She wore the obligatory serious suit. Her skin was darker than Lee’s, and she was probably ten years younger. Traces of wrinkles around her eyes. A steady smile.
She stood, walked around the desk and greeted both of them with a handshake, saying, “I’m Agent Tracy Pollet. Normally, I’d start by suggesting you might be wondering why you’re here, but I was able to listen in on your conversation with the woman in Veterans Affairs, so let’s cut to the chase, okay? I’m interested in resolving the situation. Seriously interested.”
She pointed at three comfortable leather chairs in the corner of her large office, beneath a huge framed photograph of the president. The luxury of the office and the way the chairs were set up indicated to Webb that this woman held a high position in the organization.
As they settled in the chairs, Webb said, “Hard to believe I’m here. This is the CIA. You know how many movies and TV shows I’ve seen with the CIA in them?”
“It’s nice when they get the details right,” she said with a smile. “Like whenever it shows us as the good guys.”
“Good guys torch someone’s house?” Lee said. “If you want to cut to the chase, why don’t we get to that? My friend here might be all gaga about sitting in the office of a high-ranking CIA official, but I’m on a mission.”
“It’s why you wangled this invitation,” she said. Another smile. “I’ve checked your service record. You’re as smart as the reports indicate. You knew the kind of threat that would get us involved. So why did you go to the effort of getting us to bring you in?”
“Seemed easier than driving up and trying to get past security, not knowing who to talk to,” Lee answered. “And by the way, I’ve got a friend with a video camera who recorded what happened back at the coffee shop. Got the plate numbers of the Suburban that took us out here too.”
“In case we torture you and never let you out?” Tracy said, again with the hint of a smile.
“Just so you know,” Lee said. “A guy loses his house, he doesn’t want to take chances.”
“So why don’t we start there,” Tracy said.
Lee crossed his legs, imitating her body language. “You heard our conversation with Laura, so you know we’re trying to learn about Jesse Lockewood. There is something in his file that triggers a flag to let your organization know if anyone has interest in it. That was confirmed today when you had us picked up.”
“Keep going,” Tracy said.
“And when you sent someone with badges today, it confirmed something else. Someone in your organization has gone rogue on you. He—”
“Or she,” Tracy said. “I’m not a fan of gender discrimination.”
“I’m not a fan of any kind of discrimination,” Lee said. “But it’s a he.”
“You can be sure of that?” She seemed amused by Lee. Almost like they were flirting. Webb realized that she and Lee weren’t that far apart in age. She probably liked Lee’s confidence and intelligence.
“The only person who might have a reason to go rogue is someone involved in whatever happened to Jesse Lockewood back in ’Nam,” Lee said. “Lot of women in the CIA back then in Saigon?”
“Point to you,” she said. “And why did getting badged today confirm that someone inside the CIA has been working on his own?”
“Let me ask you this,” Lee said. “The first time the file was opened, did it ring bells here?”
“I don’t explain our internal affairs,” she answered.
“That means no. Because if it did, I would have been badged then instead of finding my house on fire. That tells us both that you have a rogue who wanted things taken care of without your knowledge the first time it came up. It took a phone call today from Laura Andrews to get you involved. We threatened her, so she turned to you guys. Right now, a smart woman like you is wanting to know who in your organization went rogue and why. You didn’t pull us in to find out why we were interested in the file, because you already know why after wiring Laura Andrews. You pulled us in because you need our help to get the answers to both those questions. You want to know who went rogue. And why. We have the answers, if you play nice.”
“He always sound this sure of himself?” she asked Webb.
“He does,” Webb told her. “It gets old fast. Try spending hours in a car with him.”
“You’re looking for someone about my age,” Lee told Tracy. “He would have been a young agent during Vietnam, and young enough to still be with the agency forty years later. So it means someone senior now, close to retirement. And that makes you nervous, because if it was someone who could keep the file hidden from you the first time it was flagged, it might be someone with more rank than you, and you have to be very careful. You need us.”
“You’re right,” Tracy said to Webb. “It does get old fast.”
She turned to Lee. “I think you’re more swagger than substance. While I would be grateful if you could answer a few questions for us as a courtesy, please don’t think you have any kind of leverage on the organization.”
“We know where Jesse Lockewood is,” Lee said. “Does that get your attention?”
She leaned forward, all amusement gone.
“Thought so,” Lee said. “So if you want to find him, why don’t we start with you telling us why his file was flagged?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Instead of answering, Tracy Pollet rose from her chair and went back to her desk.
She returned with the sheets of paper and the pen.
She read from the top sheet. “‘Jim Webb. Canadian citizen. Birthplace, Toronto, Ontario. Stepfather, Elliott McLuhan Skinner, dishonorable discharge Canadian Armed Forces as a result of suspected prisoner abuse and confirmed assessment as a psychopath, according to PCL-R testing standards.’”
“Former stepfather,” Webb said. “Also dishonorably discharged from marriage to my mother.”
“Yet you followed in your stepfather’s path,” she said, still scanning the sheet. “Junior cadet for three years during your mid teens. Reached black-belt status in martial arts. Tops in marksmanship.”
Tracy gazed over the top of the sheet at Webb. “You don’t look military.”
Lee said to Tracy, “I was liking you a lot, and still want to. Don’t start making this personal, or this is going to be a lot less fun for all of us.”
When she turned her gaze on Lee, Webb caught a glimpse of the steel beneath the woman’s relaxed posture. “You think I’m in this job because I’m looking for fun?”
“And you think you can intimidate me?” Lee said.
They traded glares.
Webb said, “Lee, I appreciate your stepping in there for me, but if you try to fight, I think she could flip you on your butt in less than five seconds.”
That was enough to break the tension.
“Not a chance,” Lee said. “Ten seconds at the earliest.”
Some of Tracy’s frost melted. She set the top sheet aside.
“My apologies,” she said to Webb. “Lee is correct. There was no need to get personal. I just wanted you to understand the resources we have here.”
She tapped the other sheets. “It’s important you don’t underestimate my resolve. These are nondisclosure agreements. I can save you a study of the fine print. If you sign them, you are bound by the National Security Act to keep confidential everything you learn in this office. Break that confidentiality, and you will face prison terms, and I will do everything in my power to turn every asset you have into dust. When you get out of jail, you will be old and broke.”
She gave them
the barest of cold smiles. “Unless you sign them, we don’t proceed. Are we clear on this?”
She handed each of them a sheet.
“Crystal clear,” Lee said. “Dang. We could have used someone as scary as you in our platoon.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was,” Lee said.
Lee signed without reading the document.
So did Webb. The choice seemed simple. If he didn’t sign, he wouldn’t have a chance of learning whether his grandfather was innocent of being a spy and a traitor. But maybe it wasn’t that simple. What if he learned the opposite?
Tracy rose again and put the papers back on her desk. Webb noticed that Lee watched her closely. Very closely. But not because he was afraid of her.
Tracy returned.
“We’re happy to help,” Lee said when she was back in her chair. “But now that the paperwork is out of the way, let’s get a few things settled first. If you discover someone rogue from your organization torched my house, the CIA will cover the cost of rebuilding?”
It took a while, but she finally nodded.
“And you’ll help this young man with his own questions?” Lee asked.
“Not so fast,” she said. She turned her attention back to Webb. “I need to know how this began from your end. And what your questions are.”
Webb gave Lee a questioning look.
“Son,” Lee said, “now that we’ve brought the organization in on this for help, sooner or later they are going to find out what they want. This is the CIA. She can find out how often you change your socks, what brand of toilet paper you use and if you flush after you pee or if you’re an environmentalist who prefers to let it mellow if it’s yellow. If you irritate her, she can make sure you never get inside the United States again. No more Nashville music dreams for you. If you really make her mad, she’ll get your friends and cousins and family dragged into it. They can be put on No Fly lists, get audited every year by whatever tax organization runs Canada.”
Lee glanced at Tracy.
“Revenue Canada,” she said. “Occasionally, they cooperate with us. As we do with them.”
Lee said to her, “Any other kind of threat you want to throw in there to convince him he shouldn’t hold back? Or did I cover everything?”
“Lasers from outer space that make your tires go flat when you’re parked at the mall,” she said to Webb, sounding dead serious. “New thing. We’ve kept it from the public. It doesn’t kill anyone, but it can make life a constant pain for people.”
Webb was glad she was back to good humor and joking around—at least about the lasers. And despite what Lee had just said, Webb couldn’t help but think this was a pretty cool experience, all in all. This was the CIA. The CIA!
“Go ahead,” Lee told Webb. “Tell her everything, from the beginning. About finding that fake Canadian passport of your grandfather’s. The identification cards tucked inside.”
Webb did.
When he finished, Tracy said, “We might be able to help you if you help us find the rogue. First, I need to know what you want before I agree to anything.”
“Hang on,” Lee told Webb. “Put on your list a green card so you can stay in the States as long as you want.”
“We can make that happen if you’re helpful enough,” Tracy said. “But tell me what you really want.”
“I want to know if my grandfather was a spy in Vietnam,” Webb said, his heart thumping as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff. He dove with outstretched arms, trusting there would be a safety net for him. “I need to know if he was a good guy or a bad guy.”
TWENTY-NINE
Groups of tourists buzzed all around Webb, their whispered conversations forming bubbles of noise beneath the arch of the rotunda.
Lee was still at the hotel. Webb was in his Stampeders T-shirt again. Normally, the rotation would make this a BC Lions day. A franchise with the longest active playoff streak, the only team in the western division to have won the Grey Cup at home. Twice, of their ten. Played in Vancouver, a city at the edge of the Pacific with one of the coolest vibes in the country.
Webb didn’t want a tour of the rotunda, didn’t want to be part of the bubbles of noise. But he didn’t have a choice. The chase was almost at an end, and it had led them to a congressman. Before he could meet with the congressman for a public-relations visit, the congressman had insisted Webb take a tour as part of “the Washington experience.” The congressman had sent one of his aides to take Webb on the tour, a guy named Gerald who was barely older than Webb.
Their differences were apparent though. Webb had done his best to wash the Stampeders shirt in the hotel-room sink, but the hair dryer had wrinkled it, and on principle, Webb had refused to iron it. Maybe people ironed NFL shirts or AFL shirts, but he doubted it, and he knew for sure nobody ironed CFL shirts. In contrast, Gerald wore a navy-blue suit with a white shirt and a perfectly knotted red silk tie. Probably even the tie was ironed.
Webb’s hair was in a ponytail. Gerald had dark hair in a neatly trimmed businessman’s cut. Webb’s ambition was to play music, even if it meant live sets in bars where people were more interested in beer than music. He guessed Gerald’s ambition was to end up in administration in the White House.
The differences in their appearance didn’t matter to Webb. What bothered Webb was the way Gerald acted so superior, probably because Webb wasn’t dressed nicely.
But worse, they were wasting time. Webb needed to be in Congressman Nathaniel Warwick’s office at exactly 2:00 PM, which was in less than fifteen minutes. But Gerald was playing tour leader in the rotunda.
“Hey, Gerry,” Webb said halfway through a lecture on the series of paintings that represented important moments in American history. “How about we pretend you gave me the tour?”
Gerald sniffed. Disdain. Gerald was good at that.
“It’s Gerald,” Gerald said. “Not Gerry. And Congressman Warwick insisted that I give you the VIP tour.”
Webb had guessed that using Gerry instead of Gerald would irritate Gerald, and he felt a twinge of guilt that he’d been correct. But two factors were in play. Webb was irritated by Gerald’s air of self-importance. And Webb was nervous about what was ahead; he realized he was taking out that nervousness on Gerald.
“Gerald,” Webb said, “on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the highest, how high would you rate me as a VIP here in DC? Or anywhere else in the world?”
Gerald hesitated.
“That’s my point,” Webb said. “Why bother with a VIP tour if I’m not a VIP?”
“Follow me,” Gerald said, spinning away from the oil painting in front of them. “We’ll take the tunnel to the congressman’s office.”
The tunnel, Gerald explained, was a wide underground hallway that allowed senators and congressmen to go directly back to their own offices after a vote, out of sight of the public.
When Webb asked if that also included getting away from journalists, Gerald’s only answer was another irritated sniff, so Webb took that as a yes.
On the other end of the tunnel, they passed the guards who cleared badges for anyone headed back to the rotunda, then climbed stairs to hallways that looked and smelled as if they were part of an ancient high school.
Each congressman had a suite of offices behind wooden doors marked with their names. When they reached the door marked Nathaniel Warwick, Congressman, Albuquerque, New Mexico, Gerald pushed through and spoke to the secretary as if he’d just managed to sign a peace accord between Israel and Palestine.
“VIP tour completed,” Gerald said. “Mr. Brandon Sayers is here for his appointment with Congressman Warwick.”
The secretary was a middle-aged black woman in a nondescript green dress. “That’s nice, Gerry,” she said. And winked at Webb.
Gerald sniffed again and spun on his heels. Maybe he’d learned he couldn’t force the woman to call him Gerald.
“Stampeders,” the secretary said to Webb, smiling at the T-
shirt. A name plate sat on her desk. Elizabeth. “My husband loves the CFL. How about them Eskimos, eh? Gerry, on the other hand, wouldn’t know a football if it hit him in the—”
She didn’t get to finish her statement.
“Welcome,” a voice interrupted. “Brandon Sayers?”
Elizabeth stood, pushing back her chair as she did. She said, “Congressman Warwick, this is indeed Brandon Sayers. For your two o’clock.”
Congressman Warwick walked forward, extending his hand to Webb. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I know your father, of course. A good man. A very good man. I hope you enjoyed your tour.”
The congressman was fit, Webb thought. Warwick was sixty-three, something Webb knew from the Warwicks’ website, but he looked ten years younger. The skin on his face was tanned. And tight. Did congressmen get face-lifts?
There was a hint of gray in Warwick’s sideburns. Just enough to look distinguished for television cameras. His teeth were perfect—straight and white, but not so white they looked artificial. His deep-brown suit jacket was without wrinkle.
They shook hands.
“Hello, sir,” Webb said. Webb didn’t see any flicker of judgment cross the congressman’s face, nothing to indicate that Warwick disapproved of long hair or visitors in blue jeans and CFL T-shirts. But Webb, under the fake name, was supposed to be the son of a rich campaign supporter in New Mexico. The CIA had set it up.
“My office,” Warwick said, extending his arm to the open door behind him.
Warwick paused to speak to the secretary.
“Elizabeth,” he said, “make sure we get someone here with a camera for the photo op.”
He aimed a perfect smile at Webb. “Leave your address with Elizabeth, and I’ll make sure to sign the photo and have it framed before we mail it to you. If there’s anything else I can do for you or your father, please let me know.”
Another man walked into the front-office area. A man taller than Warwick, but about the same age. A man showing nicotine-stained teeth as he grimaced at Warwick with an expression that was probably supposed to be a smile, a man wearing a wrinkled black suit, peppered with dandruff or cigarette ashes or a combination of both.
