The Outside Man

by Don Bentley

  “Damn right, I don’t. If I’d known about the shooters, I’d have had an M4 in the passenger seat, low-profile body armor beneath my pearly snaps, and at least three spare Glock mags. Not to mention a countersurveillance team and my own crew of shooters. But you didn’t find any extra hardware in my truck, did you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s because I have no idea who those dudes were. But I think you might.”

  My statement wasn’t exactly a question, but his body language said that Rawlings understood what I was asking all the same. He pushed back from the table as he tried to worm his way out of answering. But he wasn’t the only one who’d learned his tradecraft at a federal schoolhouse.

  The Farm’s training course for fledgling spies was no less prestigious than the FBI’s Quantico Academy. I’d learned how to recruit and run assets from the very best in the business. In the seven years since, operational experience had honed my elicitation skills the world over. I might have been on the bench for a while, but I wasn’t too rusty to get information from a stressed-out FBI agent.

  “Look,” I said, leaning forward to bridge the gap Rawlings had created. “I’ve been straight with you—I don’t know anything. And I’ll give you something more: I’m not operational. Haven’t been for the last twelve months. But you’re right. This wasn’t a coincidence. Tell me what you know, and I’ll try to fill in the rest. If something you say pings, I’ll reciprocate. What d’ya say?”

  Rawlings stared at me for a long beat, his face drawn into the expressionless mask federal agents must practice in the bathroom mirror each night before bed. Inside, I was feeling positively antsy, but like Rawlings, I didn’t let it show. In this game of chicken, to the winner would go the spoils.

  Rawlings blinked first.

  “All right,” Rawlings said after exhaling through his teeth. “Here’s what I’ve got. It isn’t much. Yesterday, my squad got a lead from FBI Headquarters.”

  “You work CT?”

  Rawlings shook his head. “No, CI.”

  It took every bit of my spy-craft training to keep a straight face. I’d thought that Rawlings worked counterterrorism, or CT, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, my Bureau colleague worked counterintelligence. Rawlings was a spy catcher. This made no sense. But rather than reveal my ignorance and cede the initiative, I nodded my head while wearing my best bored expression.

  And I listened.

  “It’s not unusual to get a lead from headquarters,” Rawlings said. “On the CI squad, it happens all the time. Austin’s become one of the country’s tech hubs. Half of California has already moved here to escape the taxes, and the other half is house hunting. Apple, Google, Facebook all have downtown offices. Amazon won’t be far behind. Even the straitlaced Army moved their Futures Command here to take advantage of Austin’s mini–Silicon Valley vibe. With that much tech, you can bet that this place is thick with foreign agents looking to illicitly buy, or straight up steal, it.”

  “But this lead was unusual,” I said.

  Rawlings nodded, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He shook an unfiltered Camel loose and offered me one. I almost accepted, but didn’t. Building rapport was all well and good, but I still had hopes of getting laid tonight. I was willing to sacrifice many things for my country.

  Sex with my wife was not one of them.

  “Yep,” Rawlings said. He produced one of those futuristic-looking cigar lighters that was more blowtorch than match from his sport coat pocket, incinerated the cigarette’s tip, and took a long drag. “Headquarters is working a high-priority CI investigation, and the case agent running the show in DC found a nexus in Austin.”

  “Wait a second,” I said, feeling the beginnings of a ping. “That’s unusual in itself, right? I mean, I thought Washington’s job was to coordinate investigations, not run them.”

  “That’s correct,” Rawlings said after taking another drag. “But this case is different. Access to the case file is restricted. I caught the lead, and even I can’t read the corresponding paperwork.”

  “Why?”

  Rawlings shrugged. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because of the sensitivity surrounding the investigation’s target. Either that or the case agent has already managed to recruit some high-level sources, and she wants to protect their identities. Anyway, the lead from headquarters tasked us to put a suspected foreign agent under surveillance.”

  “Without providing a reason?”

  “When FBI Headquarters tasks you with a lead, you don’t ask questions. If the paperwork had come from anywhere else, I’d have told the sending agent to pound sand, but flipping headquarters the bird isn’t conducive to a long career. And to add insult to injury, the assistant director in charge of counterintelligence called to talk to my supervisory special agent. He wanted to make sure we understood the tasking’s importance. Bullshit lead or not, we were going to play nice.”

  “When did it come down?” I said.

  “Yesterday afternoon. We put the target under surveillance last night to start building a pattern of life. You know the deal. The lead came with all the requisite authorities. Once we established a pattern of life, the black bag team was going to hit the target’s apartment and wire it for sight and sound. As of last night, the surveillance log was pretty mundane. Then again, after less than twenty-four hours, it’s hard to know exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “But you found something anyway.”

  Another nod. “Pure dumb luck, but sometimes that’s how it goes. Surveillance team leader followed the target to a Whole Foods parking garage. The target drove in but left on foot. The team leader was stretched thin, but made a snap decision to leave an agent on the vehicle. Sure as shit, somebody got in and drove away about an hour after our target beat feet. The agent snapped a picture of the new driver. Look familiar?”

  Rawlings opened the folder on the table between us, withdrew a single glossy picture, and handed it to me. The quality wasn’t fantastic, but it was good enough. I have an eye for faces—most spies do. Especially faces belonging to men who’ve tried to kill me.

  “That’s my guy,” I said, staring at the picture.

  “You sure?” Rawlings said. “You never got to look at him face-to-face, and glares on windshields can be tricky.”

  “Trust me, it’s him. He was about as close to me as I am to you.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit. I was standing on the hood of his car.”

  Rawlings wisely let that go, which was just as well. Something about the picture grabbed me and wouldn’t let go. Then it hit me.

  “You know him, don’t you?” Rawlings asked the question almost nonchalantly, like we were two guys talking politics over a beer. But I knew that behind that cool outer facade, his heart was a-thumping.

  “Got any more shots of him?” I said, stalling while I thought.

  Rawlings nodded and slid two more glossies across the table. Rawlings was old-school—unfiltered Camels, cuff links, the works. None of that newfangled digital-image shit for him. Probably still carried a flip phone. Even so, the two additional shots he placed on the table weren’t as good as the first. The surveillance agent had probably mashed down the button on her camera, snapping for all she was worth, and the pictures looked the part.

  These two images had been taken in a sequence. The first showed a profile of the mystery man’s face. The second revealed the back of his head as he turned away. Sucky photos, but the quality didn’t matter. The first shot I saw had been enough. The resemblance was uncanny.

  “Who am I seeing?” Rawlings said with the same nonchalant voice. But his fingers were tapping out a staccato on the table that would have made Lars Ulrich proud. Maybe that was why Rawlings smoked. His nervous fingers needed something to do while he interrogated wayward spies.

  “I don’t know,” I said, sliding the pictur
es back across the table.

  “What kind of bullshit is this? You told me if I shared, you’d do the same. So share.”

  “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know who that guy is, but I’m pretty sure I knew his father.”

  “How?”

  “He tried to kill me too. Maybe it runs in the family.”

  SEVEN

  I looked at my watch as I bounded up the worn concrete steps and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d made it. Barely. After finishing with Agent Rawlings, I’d had just enough time to scrub the worst of the grime from my face in the police station’s bathroom before retrieving my truck from the impound lot and flooring it across town in a desperate fight with rush hour traffic. I’d thought about asking Rawlings to sign a get-out-of-jail-free card in the likely event I blew through a speed trap or three on my wild flight, but decided against it. Even though my FBI friend was solely to blame for my time crunch, he didn’t seem to be in a sympathetic mood.

  Probably because our interview had ended on less-than-friendly terms.

  “Can I help you?” the young woman standing behind the hostess desk asked.

  “I have a dinner reservation for Drake,” I said.

  In true Austin style, the hostess’s hair sported at least three colors, two of which I couldn’t name. Her lips and nose were both pierced, and the start of a tattoo snaked from beneath her left shirtsleeve. Even so, she took one look at me and sniffed.

  Audibly.

  Okay, so maybe my cleanup job in the patrol station’s sink hadn’t been as thorough as I’d hoped.

  “Your party’s arrived, sir,” the hostess said. “She’s sitting at a table in the back.”

  “She looks fantastic, doesn’t she?” I said.

  The hostess took another long look at me, and I could see her weighing her options. Did she tell the crazy man the truth and risk her job or act politely and not ruffle his feathers? To her credit, truth won.

  Again, this was Austin.

  “She looks amazing,” the hostess said with a pointed glance at my rumpled shirt.

  My sport coat covered the bloodstained spot on my shoulder, where the policeman’s 5.56 round had nicked me. Luckily for my wardrobe, the ricochet that had clubbed my calf hadn’t broken the skin. It hurt like hell to walk, but no permanent damage. Even so, there was nothing I could do to camouflage my rumpled shirt or the oil spots on my jeans where I’d taken a knee in the dirty streets.

  On any other night, I would have changed before meeting Laila. But this was Taj’s Place—one of Austin’s hottest Indian restaurants. I’d made our reservation almost two months ago, and there was no way I was giving it up, blood or no blood.

  Besides, tonight wasn’t just any other night.

  “I appreciate your honesty,” I said to the hostess. “What’s your name?”

  “Emma.”

  “Emma,” I said, taking my money clip from my pocket, “you’re right—the woman in there is way out of my league. It’s been six years, and most days I still can’t believe she married me. Tonight’s our anniversary, and I’m a bit unprepared. Here’s a hundred bucks—would you please run to the flower shop across the street and bring back a dozen roses? I’d do it myself, but I’ve kept her waiting long enough. You can keep the change.”

  For a long moment, I thought Emma was going to refuse, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached up, straightened my collar, and smoothed the front of my shirt. “Make sure you compliment her outfit,” Emma said, pocketing the stack of twenties. “She’s rocking that dress. I’ll send out champagne.”

  * * *

  —

  Emma was right—Laila was rocking that dress. Though she was facing away, it wasn’t hard to pick my wife out of the crowd. She was wearing a cream-colored sheath, open to the back, that accentuated the mass of midnight hair tumbling across her bare shoulders. Seeing my wife across a crowded room always stopped me in my tracks. But tonight, the sight of her profile made my stomach clench.

  I walked to the table in quick, even strides and bent to kiss her almond-colored shoulder. Even after six years of sharing the same bed, the silky feeling of her bare skin sliding across my lips made me shiver.

  “Hey there,” Laila said, reaching up to run her fingers through my hair. “You’re late.”

  Her comment was a statement, not an accusation, but I felt guilty all the same. As a former military officer–turned-spy, I had a life that revolved around timelines. I wasn’t late. Not ever. But tonight, on our anniversary, I’d kept my beautiful wife waiting for the better part of thirty minutes. Not exactly a promising start.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, sliding around to the seat across from her, the one facing the door of course. “I ran into some trouble.”

  “My God,” Laila said, her green eyes widening at my appearance, “baby, you look like shit. What happened?”

  My wife cursed sparingly. Her Afghan mother and Pakistani father were immigrants, and while Laila wasn’t a practicing Muslim, many of her parents’ mannerisms had rubbed off, including an aversion to foul language. Laila using two minor curse words in the same sentence was the equivalent of a Baptist dropping the f-bomb. She didn’t curse often, but when she did, it was worth noting.

  “Not sure yet,” I answered, reaching across the table to thread my fingers between hers. “But I think it was work related.”

  “Why?”

  I paused, considering my response. The thought of lying to my wife never crossed my mind. We’d begun dating while I was finishing my company command in the Ranger Regiment and married shortly before I’d reported to the Farm. She knew what I was and what I did.

  But that wasn’t to say I was completely transparent about the operational aspects of my professional life. My wife understood I was a spy, but there was much that she didn’t know, and rightfully so. And yet I’d officially resigned my DIA position a year ago. I was no longer a part of the clandestine world.

  At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

  “Here’s what I know,” I said, opting for a sterilized version of what happened. “Earlier today, a team of men tried to kill me.”

  “Who were they?” Laila said. To her credit, she didn’t react emotionally. Instead, she applied to my problem the same intellect that had put her on the path to partnership at one of the nation’s largest accounting firms.

  “I don’t know. But one of the shooters looked familiar.”

  “Like you’d met him?”

  I shook my head. “Not him. Maybe his father.”

  “Where?”

  “Syria.”

  The word Syria dropped into our conversation like a platter of three-day-old fish. Fortunately, this was the exact moment when Emma made her entrance.

  “Happy anniversary,” Emma said, presenting Laila with a bouquet of pink roses as a waiter placed two flutes of champagne in front of us. “Did he compliment your dress?”

  “He didn’t,” Laila said, accepting the flowers. When my wife was angry, her eyes glittered. Right now, they were flashing like twin jade disco balls.

  “I was about to,” I said, enduring a death glare from Emma. I’d spoken to exactly two women in this restaurant and somehow managed to piss them both off. Maybe I had a gift.

  “No,” Laila said, “you weren’t. You were going to tell me about Syria.”

  “Syria?” Emma said, giving me another appraising glance. “Have you been?”

  “No,” I said, just as Laila said, “Yes.”

  I inclined my head slightly toward Emma, trying to give Laila the not-now signal, but she stared back without acknowledging the gesture at all, her eyes shimmering. With a sigh, I looked at Emma and said, “It’s complicated.”

  “Men usually are,” Emma said, placing her hand on Laila’s bare shoulder. “I’ll tell the server to give you a couple of minutes. Let me know if you need an
ything, sister.”

  “Thank you,” Laila said, never breaking eye contact with me.

  After another pointed glance, Emma spun on her heel and sauntered back to the hostess station, leaving me to face my radioactive wife. Alone. To be fair, the word Syria carried with it a dump truck’s worth of baggage. Fifteen months ago, a mission gone wrong had cost the life of my asset and his family and crippled my best friend. The damage to me had been no less substantial, just more subtle. I’d begun seeing the asset’s dead wife and toddler daughter while experiencing uncontrolled seizures.

  A year ago, I’d returned to Syria to rescue a captured CIA paramilitary officer held captive by an ISIS-inspired splinter cell. This time, I’d brought the person I was responsible for home alive, though my body had been broken in the process. Laila and I had agreed it would be my final mission. After returning to the States, I’d resigned my DIA position, and we’d moved to Austin, trying to put both physical and emotional space between our old life in DC and the new one we were trying to create.

  Except that my old life had just decided to make an appearance in my new one. And the crazy thing was, I couldn’t say I was disappointed.

  “Wait,” Laila said, reaching across the table to grab my arm. “Your test results. I almost forgot. Did you still see the doctor?”

  “Yes.”

  “So?”

  “He said everything was fine.”

  “Fine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sure he said more than that.”

  “He did,” I said, remembering the sheaf of papers with the spidery blue handwriting. “But nothing new. MRI results are the same. The damage to my brain is visible, but not getting worse.”

  “So you’re not in a flare-up?” Laila said, smiling as she asked the question. She gave my wrist a squeeze, and I tried to smile back.

  “No.”

  Laila’s expression turned from joy into puzzlement as she tried to make sense of my reaction.

  Then it hit her.

  “And now you’re petrified because you can’t blame your exposure for what’s been happening,” Laila said, withdrawing her hand from mine.