Viking Bay

by M. A. Lawson

  “Drop whatever you’re doing and come to my office,” Mercer said.

  “I’m down at the gym in Alexandria,” Kay said. “I just finished with that stupid hand-to-hand combat course you’re making me take.”

  “Yeah, well, drive fast.”

  3 | A week after she was fired from the DEA, Kay received a phone call.

  “Kay, my name is Anna Mercer,” the caller said. “Barb Reynolds suggested we hire you, so we need to meet and talk.” Before Kay could ask who we was, Mercer said, “I’ll be flying in from D.C. tomorrow. Meet me in the bar at the Sheraton on Harbor Island at four p.m.” Kay didn’t like Mercer’s dictatorial style, but as her employment prospects weren’t all that promising, she agreed.

  Kay arrived at the Sheraton promptly at four, dressed casually in form-fitting white slacks, a yellow tank top, and sandals. It was June, eighty-five degrees outside, and she hadn’t felt like putting on anything more formal. She looked into the bar and saw only one person there, a woman sitting alone at a table with a view of San Diego Bay. The woman raised her hand when she saw Kay; she obviously knew what Kay looked like, even though they’d never met.

  Mercer was in her forties, pretty and trim. She had short dark hair and smart brown eyes. She was also dressed very well for a person Kay assumed was a civil servant. Kay didn’t know the brand name of Mercer’s white linen suit, but she was pretty sure she couldn’t afford it. She did know the brand of Mercer’s shoes—she was a bit of a shoe freak—and she definitely couldn’t afford them.

  A waitress arrived as soon as Kay took a seat across from Mercer and asked if Kay wanted a drink. Mercer was drinking what appeared to be a Manhattan, the maraschino cherry bobbing in the whiskey.

  Kay wondered if it would be appropriate to drink at what was essentially a job interview and decided: Why not? It wasn’t too early in the day for a cocktail. Plus they wanted her badly enough to fly someone out from Washington to meet with her. “I’ll have a Stoli martini with a twist,” she told the waitress.

  While waiting for her drink to arrive, Kay made an attempt at small talk, asking if Mercer had been to San Diego before—she had—and if she’d had a pleasant flight—“The usual hassle” was Mercer’s response. Mercer made no attempt to be friendly or put her at ease, and Kay was glad when her drink was served so they could get down to business.

  “So. You have a job for me,” Kay said.

  “Maybe,” Mercer said. “There are a few things that need to be done before we finalize anything.”

  “Like what?”

  “We need to complete background checks on you equivalent to those required for a Top Secret Security Clearance.”

  Kay knew that for a Top Secret clearance, the government looked at an individual’s work history, tax returns, financial solvency, and travel abroad. They looked at every document they could get their grubby little hands on. Federal agents also interviewed people who knew the person and tried to get them to spill dirty secrets; they talked to past employers, neighbors, and ex-spouses. What Kay didn’t understand was what Mercer meant when she said the background checks would be equivalent to those required for a Top Secret clearance. It was either a Top Secret clearance or it wasn’t.

  “Then a doctor here in San Diego will give you a very thorough physical.”

  “I had a physical just a year ago. There’s nothing wrong with me,” Kay said.

  “Things can change in a year,” Mercer said. “I should know. And we can’t afford to waste a lot of money training you and find out later that you have some incurable disease.”

  Now, that was cold.

  “Following the physical, you’ll fly out to D.C. and meet with a psychiatrist we use.”

  “You think I might be nuts?” Kay said. She smiled when she said this, but she was actually offended that her prospective employer questioned her mental health.

  “No, we don’t think you’re nuts exactly, but the type of people we employ tend to have issues—we probably wouldn’t hire them if they didn’t—and we consider an in-depth psychological profile a prudent precaution.”

  “I don’t have any issues,” Kay said, no longer smiling.

  “Sure you do. You have authority issues. Control issues. Trust issues. You’re conflicted about your daughter. You like sex, but you appear to have no desire to have a normal relationship, get married, and have more kids.”

  Kay wondered whom Mercer had talked to and started to protest, but Mercer held up a hand, silencing her. “Hey, we’re okay with all those things. But we need to make sure you don’t have some deep-seated psychosis or phobia that we’re not aware of, the type that could affect your work. By the way, you may be hypnotized as part of the evaluation. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” Kay said. “It all depends on the job I’ll be doing and my pay grade.” Although Kay didn’t have any big secrets she was hiding, she didn’t like the idea of someone hypnotizing her and probing into the dark corners of her mind. But what she really didn’t like was Mercer’s attitude, acting as if Kay was so desperate that she’d do anything to land a job.

  As if Kay hadn’t spoken, Mercer said, “In addition to the psych eval and the physical, you’ll also be polygraphed. That’s just to make sure we haven’t missed something in our background checks. The flutter testing is nothing to get alarmed about unless you’re a Chinese spy.”

  The polygraph testing didn’t bother Kay or surprise her; Top Secret government programs often included periodic lie-detector tests.

  “So what agency will I be working for?” Kay asked.

  “You won’t be working for an agency. You won’t be employed by the federal government.”

  “Whoa!” Kay said. She’d assumed that she’d be working for the feds based on what her friend, Barb Reynolds, had said—or implied—and working for the feds was important for two mundane reasons: The government had a good health insurance program—which mattered now that her daughter was living with her—and a good retirement program in which she already had ten years invested.

  “You were a GS-13, weren’t you, when you worked for the DEA?” Mercer said.

  “Yeah. Well, a temporary 13. They fired me before they made me permanent.”

  “Your starting salary will be twice as much as a GS-13 makes.”

  “Really?” Kay said. That was good news.

  “Yes. We know the cost of living in the D.C. area is high and that you’ll have to pay full price for health insurance for yourself and your daughter. But the main reason we’re willing to pay so much is because of the risks you may be asked to take.”

  “Like what?”

  Mercer shook her head. “Sorry. Before I can tell you more you need to complete the physical, meet with the psychiatrist, and get polygraphed. Then you’ll be required to sign a nondisclosure agreement that legally prevents you from ever discussing your employer and what you did for him. A really smart lawyer prepared the nondisclosure agreement, and if you violate it, we’ll sue you and ruin you financially and maybe even throw you in jail. Or maybe we’ll just kill you in the interest of national security.”

  Mercer smiled slightly when she spoke of killing Kay, like that old joke you always hear in the movies where the CIA agent says: I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you. At least Kay assumed it was a joke. She also wondered what her job had to do with national security if she wouldn’t be working for the government.

  “Look,” Kay said. “I can’t agree to any of this without having a better understanding of what I’ll be doing.”

  “Why not?” Mercer said. “Your last employer fired you and isn’t about to give you a good recommendation, so the likelihood of you getting a decent job in law enforcement is almost zero. We, on the other hand, are impressed by what you did in both Miami and San Diego, including your little adventure down in Mexico with the Olivera cartel. We’re offering you
a job at twice your previous salary doing things that are compatible with your prior experience. What have you got to lose?”

  Before Kay could say anything, Mercer opened her purse and pulled out a cashier’s check. She noticed that Mercer’s purse, like her suit and shoes, was top of the line—leather softer than a baby’s bottom—and she had the unwanted image of a newborn calf being sacrificed to become a handbag. Mercer handed her the check and said, “That’s to compensate you for your time while you’re completing the physical and the psych eval.”

  The check was for ten thousand dollars. Wow. Like Mercer had said: What did she have to lose?

  She later found out that the answer to that question was: her life.

  —

  THE NEXT TWO WEEKS passed quickly as Kay was cracked open like a clamshell and rudely poked at both mentally and physically.

  She had no problems with the physical. She was, in fact, surprised that she didn’t have high cholesterol or high blood sugar or some other biological indicator that she should change her eating habits. She really paid no attention to her diet and when her daughter wasn’t around, tended to feed primarily off junk foods. The only reason she still wore a size 6 dress was that she exercised fanatically.

  Her relationship with her daughter turned out to be the thing that most interested the psychiatrist—and Kay hadn’t expected that. She thought the shrink would be more concerned about affairs she’d had with a couple of married men and with Marco Alvarez, the drug lord she’d killed in Miami. She’d slept with Marco for almost a year to build a case against him, and she’d expected the doctor to explore the moral issues associated with her using sex to put a man behind bars. But he didn’t, and actually passed over that phase of her life rather quickly.

  What the psychiatrist was most curious about was how she and her daughter got along, if she felt guilty about her, if she resented her, if she understood her own feelings for the girl. Why the shrink cared about all this shit, Kay didn’t have a clue; she didn’t see how her feelings toward her daughter had anything to do with her job. In the end, the doc must have concluded that she wasn’t a total psycho—or a completely unfit mother—and gave her a clean bill of health.

  Anna Mercer called Kay two days later and asked how soon she could move to D.C.

  “I don’t know,” Kay said. “I have to sell my house in San Diego and . . .”

  “We’ll take care of selling your house and moving your furniture.”

  “And I’ll need to find a place in D.C.”

  “We have a real estate agent here that will do that for you. Just give her a price range and she’ll find something that will make you happy.”

  “But the big thing,” Kay said, “is I have to find a good school for my daughter, and I know that’s going to be a hassle.”

  Kay had had a hard time getting Jessica into a decent private school in San Diego until she strong-armed a snooty Catholic school principal. She told the principal that if she didn’t enroll Jessica, DEA Agent Kay Hamilton was going to make her overpriced parochial school the new front line in the war on drugs. Kay said this knowing that half the brats who went there snorted, swallowed, or smoked some banned substance. After that, the principal had a change of heart.

  “Pick any school you want in the D.C. area,” Mercer said. “We’ll make sure your daughter is accepted.”

  “You can actually do that?” Kay said.

  “Yes.”

  Now, that impressed Kay.

  “Be at this address next Wednesday at one p.m.,” Mercer said, and rattled off a number on K Street. “You’ll sign the nondisclosure agreement at that time, and then I’ll introduce you to Callahan.”

  “Who’s Callahan?” Kay had asked.

  Mercer hung up.

  4 | The following Wednesday, Kay entered a twelve-story office building on K Street and proceeded to room 711. On the wall outside the door was a small brass plaque that read The Callahan Group. Higher up on the wall was a security camera looking down at her. She tried to open the door, but it was locked. Then she heard a click, and the door opened the next time she turned the knob.

  She found herself standing inside a small reception area, and sitting behind the only desk in the room was a large black man—extremely large.

  “I’m Kay Hamilton,” she said. “I have an appointment with Ms. Mercer.”

  The man nodded, as if he’d been expecting her, and said, “I need to wand you before you go in.”

  “Wand me?”

  “For weapons and eavesdropping devices.”

  “Okay,” Kay said, wondering what in the hell these people did that required such precautions.

  The receptionist stood up—although it was hard to think of a guy who was six-foot-six and built like the Incredible Hulk as a receptionist. Holstered on his belt was a Dirty Harry .44 Magnum with a seven-inch barrel and a walnut grip. Whoa. He passed a standard metal detector over Kay, then some other device the size of a pack of cigarettes with an antenna sticking out of it. Apparently satisfied that she was neither packing heat nor wired for sound, he picked up the phone and said, “Anna, Kay Hamilton is here.”

  A moment later, Anna Mercer opened the door behind the receptionist’s desk and waved Kay toward her. As she passed through the door, Kay noticed a keypad next to it for entering a cybercode.

  Mercer’s office was beautifully decorated, but windowless and not very large. She had a glass-topped table she used for a desk, and Kay thought it might be an antique because the legs were gilded and elaborately carved. On the floor was a thick Oriental carpet that looked expensive and on the table was a Tiffany-style lamp, a laptop, a normal phone, and a second phone that Kay recognized as a Stu III encrypted phone. In one corner was a Gardall safe with a large combination lock. Above the safe was an oil painting depicting a canal in Venice that looked as if it had been painted by some famous old-time artist; Kay didn’t know anything about art.

  Next to Mercer’s desk, resting regally in a wicker basket, was a large, snow-white Persian cat with aquamarine eyes. Mercer noticed Kay looking at the animal and said, “That’s Scarlett. She’s not in a good mood this morning.”

  Kay didn’t know what to say in response to that. She was also surprised that a seemingly no-nonsense person like Mercer would bring a pet to work.

  Like the last time Kay had seen Mercer, the woman was dressed in a gorgeous suit—this one hunter green with matching high heels, which Kay loved. If she ever got to know Mercer better, she was going to ask where she shopped. Mercer pointed Kay to one of the two chairs in front of her desk and pushed a manila folder toward her.

  “That’s your nondisclosure agreement. Read it if you want, but if you don’t like something in it, too bad. We’re not going to change a word. Sign it on the last page.”

  “I haven’t agreed that I’m going to work for you yet,” Kay said.

  “The nondisclosure agreement covers everything you’ve done in connection with the Callahan Group since the day we met in San Diego. You need to sign it before we proceed any further.”

  Kay opened the folder and saw a twelve-page document written in incomprehensible legal gibberish. She flipped through the pages—she didn’t bother to read every word—and signed it. She figured: What the hell. If she ever felt like disclosing something, a piece of paper wasn’t going to stop her.

  “Okay,” Mercer said. “It’s time for you to meet Callahan.”

  —

  KAY FOLLOWED MERCER down a long, narrow corridor. She noticed another surveillance camera as they were walking. They passed several closed doors—Kay didn’t hear anyone behind the doors—until they came to an office at the end of the hall. There was another camera above this door. Mercer rapped, the door lock clicked, and Mercer pushed open the door.

  The man behind the desk was gray-haired and overweight, and the first word that came to mind when Kay saw hi
m was rumpled. He was wearing a blue shirt that had never been introduced to an iron and a baggy gray suit that Kay suspected came from some outfit like the Men’s Wearhouse—and not from the part of the store where they kept the high-end clothes. He had bright blue eyes and a heavy, pale face. Unlike Mercer, he smiled at her and seemed friendly. He reminded Kay of a well-known actor who had died the year before of a drug overdose, but Kay couldn’t recall the actor’s name.

  There was a conventional wooden desk in the office instead of an elegant table like Mercer had, and the desk bore marks of repeated abuse. Kay could see what looked like cigarette burns on one edge of the desk and rings where hot drinks had been placed without using a coaster. Like Mercer, he had a laptop and an encrypted phone, but his desk, instead of being neat and organized like Mercer’s, was covered by small mountains of paper. A greasy McDonald’s bag sat on the keyboard of the laptop, and Kay could smell not only French fries but also cigarette smoke. But that couldn’t be, she thought; no one smoked inside office buildings anymore.

  Instead of individual visitor’s chairs, there was a brown leather couch in front of Callahan’s desk. (Kay later learned that Callahan often ended up sleeping on the couch—and sometimes passed out on the couch.) Today’s editions of the Washington Post, the Wall Street Journal, and the New York Times were spread out all over the couch.

  “Hey, sit down,” Callahan said. “Push that shit onto the floor.”

  Kay gathered up the papers, made an attempt to fold them neatly, and then, when she couldn’t figure out where to put them, dropped them on the floor near one end of the couch. She and Mercer sat down.

  Callahan didn’t say anything for a moment as his blue eyes took her in. “Wow,” he said. “You’re a knockout.”

  Mercer turned to Kay and said, “Fortunately—for Callahan, that is—the nondisclosure agreement you just signed prevents you from suing him for sexual harassment.”

  The name of the actor suddenly popped into Kay’s head. Philip Seymour Hoffman—that’s who Callahan reminded her of.