Valley of Spies

by Keith Yocum

  In each exchange, the words “Ghorbanis” and “Melbourne” were repeated until they reached Lebanon. The recipient in Lebanon is, according to the CIA station there, a member of the Ministry of Intelligence, the Iranian spy agency.

  The report further stated that the Ghorbanis made no obvious plans to visit Melbourne; they did not make airline reservations or rental car arrangements. Furthermore, the report mentions that the Ghorbanis have studiously befriended a young couple two doors away in their neighborhood; the husband of that couple works at the Waihopai eavesdropping station.

  The DNA in the Ghorbani’s car was pulled by an agency operations team, working without New Zealand assistance, during a nighttime operation. It was “touch DNA,” that is typically a small flake of skin left behind by someone touching an object.

  Dennis looked at the bottom right corner of his laptop and saw that it was nearly 6 p.m. He yawned, stretched his arms above his head, and took a sip of water from a glass next to the computer.

  Judy had called earlier and said she’d be arriving early tomorrow morning in Auckland, would rent a car and drive to Wellington to take the inter-island ferry to Picton on the South Island. She would be in Blenheim by 2 p.m.

  He was feeling better. Just the thought of her joining him in New Zealand lifted his spirits. And his immersion in the Forrester case kept his gloomy mind busy.

  Forrester, he reminded himself. Of all people to go missing, it was Dr. Forrester. How strange. Was Rangi right? Did she plan her own disappearance?

  And if he was wrong, who did take her?

  The DNA evidence was startling; the lab showed it belonged to Forrester. No doubt there. But so much else was circumstantial. The text messages and digital bread crumbs to Lebanon were interesting and suggested a link between the Ghorbanis and Iranian intelligence services. Still, Dennis was not interested in whether the Ghorbanis were spies for Iran, but only whether they kidnapped Forrester.

  The decision had been made in Langley, after consultation with their New Zealand counterparts, that it was better to leave the Ghorbanis alone and in place. It was easier to keep tabs on spies you knew, because they often lead to other spies. Hence, the Ghorbanis were not to be brought in for interrogation on the Forrester disappearance.

  The agency would simply slap the Iranians somewhere else, covering their motives but not their thirst for revenge.

  Dennis’s phone rang.

  “Cunningham, it’s Simpson. I’m down in the lobby. Meet me in the hotel bar in ten minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? And how did you know I was even here?”

  “Jesus, Cunningham. You’ve grown rusty in retirement. You have an agency phone and a laptop. We know exactly where those devices are at any time. Assuming you haven’t sold them yet on eBay. Ten minutes. I don’t have much time here.” Simpson hung up.

  Simpson sat at a high-top table and barely acknowledged Dennis when he sat down. Two men sat nearby, staring directly at Dennis. They had the telltale twitchy nature of all bodyguards.

  The waitress swung by and asked Dennis if he wanted a drink or menu.

  “Sparkling water,” he said, “with a lemon slice.”

  “You on the wagon, Cunningham?”

  “No, just not interested right now. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  “Why would I?”

  “As a courtesy, and to give me a chance to review some notes,” Dennis said.

  The waitress returned with Dennis’s water and left.

  “My countdown clock says you have twelve days including today to make a recommendation. I had a meeting in Honolulu and thought I’d detour here, though it was a long detour. I haven’t heard a peep from you. The director is anxious for your report. I, on the other hand, know you aren’t going to change the outcome. The report and its conclusions are solid. We have no idea why Franklin’s dragging his heels on this one. Ridiculous. And you, of all people. That’s how far we’ve fallen at Langley.”

  Surely Simpson knew of Dennis’s reputation for surliness. This was waving a red flag at the bull.

  And because it was obvious, Dennis paused.

  “What do you want?” Dennis asked.

  “An update that I can bring back to the director.”

  “You could have done that on the phone. You didn’t need to fly thousands of miles out of your way to give me shit in person. The phone would have been fine.”

  “Cut the shit. What’s your early take on this thing? Lots of folks are waiting in the wings to get things rolling. We have a rare opportunity to remove someone special from our list of Iranian adversaries. The window is tight. I just need you to give me a nod, and I can put things in motion.”

  “A nod?”

  “Yes.”

  “A nod and a wink, or just a nod?”

  “Asshole.”

  “That’s neither a nod or a wink.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Have a nice flight,” Dennis said, standing up. “Remember, sitting down for those long flights can aggravate hemorrhoids. Be sure to get up and stretch every now and then.”

  Back in his hotel room Dennis resumed his position in front of the laptop and tried to push the visit from Simpson out of his mind. Something was indeed wrong with this Forrester disappearance. What was he not getting?

  Or was there nothing wrong with the Forrester case, and he was just depressed, angry, and full of self-doubt?

  That night he had another dream about the death of his mother and father. He was a young boy again living in the Chicago’s Irving Park neighborhood. In the dream, he was terrorized by someone trying to break into their home. He froze as the glass window broke and someone tried to enter the ground floor. He didn’t know who was breaking in, but he could feel the presence of evil. It frightened the boy so profoundly that he could not move a muscle.

  Dennis woke up confused, his brain still reeling from sleep chemicals and the emotional impact of the dream.

  Lying in the dark, he stared at the illuminated hotel clock as if it held some power to fend off the doom that lingered like a bad hangover.

  And dreams lie, as humans do.

  In real life, the man coming into the house was Dennis’s father. A drunkard and abusive husband, he was a Chicago cop who came home one afternoon from work, shot his mother dead while she was folding clothes, then shot himself while sitting in his favorite rocking chair. Dennis, an only child, found them that way after school.

  It was Dr. Forrester’s therapeutic skill that dragged him screaming and fighting into his past to revisit that event and review its effect on his life.

  Staring at the glowing blue numbers on the clock radio, he knew it was Dr. Forrester’s disappearance that was dragging him back down again.

  How odd, he thought. I’m not even sure I liked Dr. Forrester. But here she is kicking the living shit out of my insides again.

  At breakfast in the hotel, while stabbing at his scrambled eggs, Dennis had a thought that caused him to put down his fork. He stared at his coffee, took a sip, picked up his fork again, then dropped it.

  He picked up his phone and dialed Simpson’s number. As expected, it went to voice mail, and Dennis said, “Hey Simpson. I need the names of the agency personnel that Dr. Forrester was seeing in therapy. Probably for the last two years. I need them immediately.” He hung up.

  Simpson was in an airplane, but probably had access to cell phone service. It was worth a shot. Why hadn’t Dennis thought about this angle earlier? Rangi’s suggestion that perhaps Forrester disappeared on purpose had opened other possibilities.

  As outlandish as it seemed, could one of Forrester’s CIA patients have planned this whole thing?

  Dennis felt a tiny wave of anxiety ripple through his chest, like a low-voltage shock.

  Was this idea a manifestation of his depression o
r the genuine question of an investigator?

  Judy, where the hell are you? he thought.

  Chapter 7

  She called later that morning from Wellington after a brief layover in Sydney.

  “How are you?” Judy asked.

  “Great. Really looking forward to seeing you.”

  “I reckon I’ll be in Blenheim around 2 p.m. Should I just go to the hotel?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there. Just call me when you get off the ferry.”

  Right after he put down the phone, it rang again.

  “Cunningham, you’ve got to be crazy,” Simpson said. “Forrester’s agency patients?”

  “Yeah. Should be simple enough,” Dennis said. “But quick, please. I’m running out of time.”

  “I’m not giving you those names. They would never allow it. And besides, it’s a stupid idea. Let me guess: you think one of her patients followed her to New Zealand and kidnapped her?”

  “I was directed to provide a judgment on the recommendation. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Not going to give you her agency patients,” Simpson said. “Come up with some other lame idea.”

  “The director won’t like it that you impeded the investigation.”

  “The director will never know about it, you jackass,” Simpson said. “Remember? I’m your contact. You work through me. Do you think you can just call up the director of the CIA and talk to him? You have lost every single one of your marbles, Cunningham.” Simpson hung up.

  Dennis threw the phone onto his bed and stood up.

  Shit, he’s right, Dennis thought. HR would never approve the release of their medical files, and even if they did, the bureaucratic machinery of getting authorization would take weeks. I don’t have weeks, I’ve got eleven days!

  He grabbed the phone off the bed, put on his coat, and tugged on a baseball cap. He would go for a walk and let the environment wash over him. He’d had luck in the past walking around shopping malls or crowded city blocks seeking a moment of inspiration. But inspiration and depression don’t mix well, and Dennis fought the impulse to get back into bed.

  Get moving! Walk, you stupid son of a bitch!

  Bolting out of the hotel he moved quickly to the sunny side of the street. Although it was winter in the southern hemisphere, the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees. But a cool breeze sweeping inland from the ocean made the walk more challenging. He needed the warmth of the sun and vitamin D to combat his moodiness.

  Dennis was lost in thought as he ran through a mental file cabinet of ideas on the Forrester disappearance.

  Obviously, if the DNA sample from the Ghorbanis’ car was accurate, the case was closed.

  What was it about the Iranian connection that was odd? The sigint message intercepts were not definitive, he thought. They were nothing more than Rorschach tests for analysts who interpret conspiracies out of the simplest conversations.

  He walked for an hour until he found a luncheonette and sat down to eat. The inspiration he hoped for never materialized. The only feeling he felt was hunger and a dull one at that.

  Dennis was eating a sandwich at the small table when his phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and saw that it was an agency number.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “Cunningham?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Louise Nordland. How are you doing?”

  He waited several seconds for that to bounce around his addled brain.

  “What can I do for you, Louise?” he said, putting down his sandwich.

  “How’s the progress on your assignment?”

  “Louise, I gather you’re some mucky-muck at the agency now, and that you recommended me for this assignment. But you must also know that I’ve been directed to work through Simpson, not you. And I’m not an employee any longer, I’m a contractor. Getting fired or reprimanded has absolutely no effect on me.”

  “Yeah, got all that. How is the assignment going?”

  “You know, even hearing your voice is throwing me off my lunch. Talk to Simpson if you want information on the assignment.”

  “I’m out on a bit of a limb with this one,” she said. “Kenny is not convinced about the recommendation from operations. I share his concern. I thought that if anyone could shed some light on it, it would be you.”

  “Talk to Simpson, Louise.”

  “It’s entirely appropriate for you to backchannel through me. The director asked me about it this morning.”

  “Tell the director to talk to Simpson.”

  “Simpson told the director that you’re leaning toward agreeing with the analysis from operations.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes. He’s already started preparations for the action plan based on your position.”

  “That’s bullshit. I think you’re making all this up just to pry out some feedback. I know your style, Louise, and this crap won’t work. Talk to Simpson.”

  He hung up.

  They kissed like long lost lovers, though they had been apart less than a week.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Dennis said. “It’s been a tough couple of days.”

  “Not to worry. I’m here now.” They kissed again. Then he took her roll-on suitcase from her, and they went to his room.

  She unpacked and took two drawers for her clothes.

  “Why do women pack so many shoes?” Dennis said. “How many pairs did you bring?”

  “None of your business. Pay attention to your own clothes.”

  Later, they went for a brisk walk.

  “What do you know about ‘touch DNA’?” he said. “I’ve tried to read up on it, but I’m just not good with this stuff. You’re a policewoman, you know about this stuff.”

  “Dennis, I’m not a crime lab technician, if that’s what you mean. I can only tell you what I’ve had experience with.”

  “OK, ‘touch DNA.’ Tell me what you know about it.”

  “We’ve been using it for several years, and it’s very useful for cases in which a crime scene offers up nothing. Also, it’s useful for cold cases, but I’m not on the cold case team.”

  “How does this DNA test work?” Dennis said.

  “It used to be that we needed blood or semen samples the size of a fifty-cent coin for DNA testing. Then the size of a five-cent coin was enough and even smaller. Now they can use skin cells.”

  “That’s the ‘touch’ part?”

  “Yes. We all shed skin cells, and they’re left behind on things like a pistol grip, a door handle – items like that. If the tech swabs for those cells and gets a match, well, there you have it. And the tests are much faster than for standard DNA tests.”

  “Alright, here’s the real question: How accurate are they?” Dennis said, pulling her over to a small bench inside an empty bus shelter.

  “Mmm. Well, there are problems. I guess the big one is secondary contamination. You touch my hand, then I touch a door handle, and some of your skin cells are transferred to the door handle, but you never touched the door handle.”

  “Well, that’s a problem,” Dennis said.

  “Of course, but in many investigations, there is no plausible scenario for secondary contamination. A lawyer would have to show that person A was in physical contact with person B, who then transferred skin cells to an object involved in the crime. But if person A was living a thousand miles away from person B, it’s just not possible, if you see what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do. So, here’s a scenario, and let me know what you think.”

  “Dennis, is this classified information you’re going to tell me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Am I going to break any laws by hearing this?”

  “Not if you don’t know it’s classified.”

 
“But you just told me it was.”

  “I said it might be. And that means the breach—if there is one—is all on me, not you.”

  “I can’t keep track of your convoluted thinking, Dennis,” she said. “You’re very confusing.”

  “Just hear me out,” he said. He described the broad case against the Ghorbanis, the sigint intercepts afterward, and the DNA evidence.

  “So, what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The whole thing? The case against the Ghorbanis for abducting Forrester?”

  “Heavens, I have no idea, Dennis. I’m not capable of commenting on your intelligence intercepts. Surely you understand that?”

  “I don’t care about that; how about the DNA?”

  “I have no idea how sophisticated your teams are at capturing those samples, but I would assume they’re pretty good, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’d think they’re pretty good. But what about the issue of cross-contamination?”

  “Again, you’d have to consider who was in contact with Forrester and how they might have deposited the skin cells. I mean, from what you’ve said, it stands to reason that Dr. Forrester was in the back seat of that car, or one of the Ghorbanis was in contact with the doctor and then touched the back seat.”

  “The report I read doesn’t say whether there were six skin cells in the back seat or five hundred. I don’t know.”

  “Why are you questioning it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, to be honest. It’s too perfect, which, as you can imagine, is not a real reason.”

  “Well, you must have another theory then,” she said, standing up. “Can we walk some? I’m getting cold.”

  “I have two opposing potential theories,” Dennis said. “One, that Forrester disappeared on purpose. Either she ran away with someone, or she was depressed and killed herself. I know it’s kind of lame, but one of the Kiwi investigators threw it out, and I realized it was at least worth thinking about.”