Nature of the Game

by James Grady

  “Nick, I need to see Nick.”

  “He should be at his office,” she said.

  “I can’t make it there,” he said, and she saw that was true. “Car smoked up, died in Pennsylvania. Stole a bus ticket to West Virginia. Hitched to Maryland with a minister. Let me off at the Beltway sign that said Takoma Park. Rest of the way, I humped it. You’re in the phone book, gas station knew the street.

  “I can’t hump it anymore,” he said.

  Low in his throat, the dog growled.

  “I’m sorry.” Jud’s face lost the little color it had. “I don’t want to be trouble.”

  His eyes were moist. Raindrops dotted the sidewalk behind him, falling faster, harder.

  “I can wait on the porch,” he said. It was covered. He shrugged. “They might see me sitting out here.”

  The Washington suburb of Takoma Park is filled with trees, winding streets—America’s Azalea City, with acres of pink- and red-dotted bushes. No one watched from her neighbors’ closed windows. No one sat in the few parked cars. It wasn’t a busy street. Nor was it a hard street to find.

  Propriety and compassion overrode Sylvia’s caution. “Don’t be silly. Come inside. But don’t move fast. The dog doesn’t like strangers.”

  “Smart dog,” said Jud, shuffling with her as she backed into the house, her hand tight around the collar.

  She kept ten feet between them, led them past the full bookcases of the living room, past the fireplace with its mantel of happy pictures to the open dining room and its round oak table.

  “You can sit there,” she said.

  Jud collapsed onto the chair.

  The dog strained against Sylvia’s grip.

  “Easy,” she said. “Easy.”

  She let him go. He trotted to Jud, smelled him, then moved between his human and the stranger.

  “Long as everything is fine, he won’t hurt you.”

  Why are you talking so tough? she thought. But then she looked at him, saw he didn’t care: Jud’s eyes were lost in the table’s brown mirror finish.

  Sylvia propped the kitchen door open. Her view of Jud was blocked as she moved to the wall phone, but she could see the dog; she’d know if Jud moved.

  Nick’s machine answered her call: “Come home right away!” she told the tape.

  Juanita. She was going to her cousin’s. Sylvia called that house. A man answered, and Sylvia told him, “Digale à Juana que venga à mi casa lo mas pronto, que pueda por favor.”

  She hung up, walked back to the dining room.

  “You’re Spanish is still good from Mexico,” muttered Jud. “The Peace Corps.”

  “How did you know about that?” she asked.

  “Nick.”

  “What else did he tell you?” She crossed her arms over her chest; felt the touch of unseen eyes.

  The wreck of a man shrugged. “That he loves you.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head, pressed her hand over her eyes. “Look, I don’t mean to be so …”

  “Paranoid,” he finished for her. “That’s smart.”

  “That’s not the most reassuring thing to tell me.”

  “I don’t want to lie to you,” he said.

  Her neck felt cold. She blurted out, “We don’t want your trouble.”

  “Me either.” Yet again he said, “I’m sorry. I need to talk to Nick. Tell him … bad news.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to say it more times than I have to.”

  “Is that all you want?”

  “I don’t want to hurt him. I never did. Or you.”

  “Then maybe you should have stayed away from us.”

  “Yeah.”

  Why doesn’t the phone ring! she thought. Where’s Nick?

  “You can’t stay here tonight,” she said, hating herself for fears she didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore.

  “Okay.”

  The dog Finally sat, but kept his eyes on Jud.

  Suddenly she felt too cruel.

  “Do you … Are you thirsty?”

  “Got a drink?”

  “We don’t have any liquor in the house.”

  “Oh,” he said, and they both knew he recognized the lie.

  “Do you speak Spanish?” she asked.

  “I can order beer and say gracias. Tequila. Señora and señorita. Eat the worm.”

  “All we’ve got is milk,” she blurted.

  “Milk?” He shook his head. “I’d love a glass of milk.”

  As she gingerly sat a cold glass of milk on the table, a baby’s crying floated downstairs to them.

  “That’s Saul,” said Jud.

  “No!” snapped Sylvia. “I mean, stay here. I’ll go … take care of him. Stay here.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  The dog came with her. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  Saul smiled at her from his crib. He wore overalls and a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, socks. He was standing without holding on to the bars. He reached out for Mommy.

  Probably he was wet, but she didn’t want to change his diaper, risk exposing him. Not even for a minute.

  When they came downstairs, the dog led the way. He kept between his baby and the stranger.

  “He looks like Nick,” said Jud of the son the mother carried into the dining room.

  “Yes.” Saul clung to her neck: Who was this guy? “I have to fix him something to eat.”

  “Sure.”

  “You … Are you hungry?”

  “Been awhile.” His milk glass sat on the table. Empty.

  Shit, she thought. I should have asked sooner and I shouldn’t have asked at all.

  In the kitchen, the baby held on to her leg as she opened cans of tuna fish. But by the time she dumped the tuna into a bowl and started mixing in mayonnaise, he’d wandered to the door. Sylvia kept an eye on him as he held on to the doorjamb and stared at the man sitting where his daddy always sat.

  The dog moved close to his boy.

  “Hi, Saul,” said the gravel voice in the dining room. “How you doing?”

  Saul stared, drooled.

  Jud smiled. Saul smiled back. Jud made a monkey face, an orangutan. Saul blinked. Jud scratched his arms and mouthed simian noises, bounced around in his chair. The baby’s smile became a grin, and he pointed at the funny man. Jud covered his face with his hand; peeked through his fingers. The boy giggled. One after another, Jud slapped his hands down his own face, a surprised monkey grin showing between blows.

  Saul laughed, hit his own face. Jud laughed with him. Excited, Saul ran into the kitchen, to Mommy.

  Jud laughed again, shook his head at the son.

  Then he cried, quietly and completely, tears running down his cheeks as he stared at the empty doorway.

  She must have heard me crying, he thought, because she called out, “Here comes your sandwich,” but waited a minute before she walked into the dining room bearing a tray with two tuna fish sandwiches with lettuce and tomato on whole wheat bread, potato chips, a fresh glass of milk.

  A baby boy who adored his father toddled behind his mother, who loved them both.

  Jud had time to wipe his cheeks.

  As she sat the tray down, she asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.” He forced the words out, got his breath back. He could smell the bread, the tuna. “Sure.

  “I was just being a monkey,” he said. “For the boy.”

  He looked at the wide blue eyes beside her knees.

  “Monkey man!” Jud said. Made the face. Made Saul giggle.

  Sylvia sat at the table, that brave with the dog nearby. She scooped her son to her lap. Spoon-fed him from a bowl of tuna.

  “Who are you?” she asked Jud.

  The food melted in his mouth. His stomach rumbled with denial, with anticipation. One sandwich disappeared in five bites.

  “I’m your husband’s best friend,” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  Half the second sa
ndwich went inside him; his guts struggled with the abundance of riches. His hands trembled, and he wondered where they kept the liquor.

  “Guess not,” he said. “Guess I was just dreaming.”

  “Not with my family,” she whispered, embarrassment at her anger flushing her face. She could feel the paring knife she’d hidden in the right back pocket of her jeans. She hated herself for doing it, found comfort in its pressure.

  Jud heard the love in her words, wanted to weep; coveted her devotion. He finished his sandwich. Held out a potato chip.

  “Here,” said Jud. Saul took it. “I’m the monkey man.”

  THE INSIDER

  Wes had called ahead after leaving Nick, so they were waiting for him at the main gate. An escort car led him along the road winding through the trees, around the massive building, down into the CIA’s underground garage.

  They drove slowly through that dank concrete cavern. By an elevator at the end of a row of cars stood Kramer, head of security. Two men with wary eyes and loose suits were with him. The escort driver motioned for Wes to park.

  “Leave the keys in it!” Kramer yelled as Wes climbed out of his car. He carried his attaché case of money and documents.

  “Give me your gun,” said Kramer.

  “That’s not in the deal,” answered Wes.

  Kramer kept his eyes on the big man and angled his head toward his two aides. “You’ll never even see Andy’s hands move.”

  “I won’t be watching him.”

  “We don’t need his help to get it,” said one of the suits.

  “Never mind,” said Kramer. “The major might be a fool, but he’s not a fanatic.”

  The four of them rode elevators to the top floor. The carpeted executive corridor was empty. Kramer led Wes to the unlabeled brown door. Knocked. They went inside.

  Air Force general and Deputy Director of the CIA Billy Cochran sat behind his desk. He peered through his thick glasses.

  “He reads clean on electronics scan,” said Kramer. “He’s carrying a gun, but no wire and no recorder.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kramer,” said Billy. “You’ll handle the rest?”

  “Personally. And my men are just outside the door.”

  Kramer left them alone.

  “Where’s Director Denton?” said Wes.

  “Is answering that part of our deal?” said Billy.

  “Just tell me.” Wes took a chair in front of the desk.

  “He’s attending a conference at the State Department, with his secretary. And Noah Hall got an urgent call from the White House just before you arrived. A political crisis that required him to leave the building.”

  “You handled that nicely.”

  “Those men are your superiors—not me. You spurned my help before. So why are you bringing me your ‘deal’ now?”

  “They’re politicians, but they play minor league ball: all careers and no risks.”

  “What does that make me? And who then are you?”

  “I’m a soldier.”

  Billy’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Selfless in the service of your country.”

  “You took the deal,” said Wes.

  “I lifted the burn and alert notices so you could come in. Like a stay of execution, my intercession can be reversed. You are a man in a world of trouble.”

  “You ought to know. It’s your world, sir.”

  “I don’t kill people in the desert.”

  “Really? Well, that’s not important now. Denton and Noah didn’t trust me. They screwed me up and deserted under fire. But I should have expected that when I took their job. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t care. I can’t remember, it doesn’t matter. I needed a mission, they gave me one. Now it needs finishing, and they can’t do it. Wouldn’t if they could. I came to you because you’re the insider, and that’s where the answers are.”

  “To what? Your wounded phantom, Jud Stuart?”

  “This isn’t about him. He’s just the body in the bag.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The deal was you’d have Kramer run three names for me.”

  “You’ve been given everything in the system about Jud Stuart.”

  “We’ll skip past that lie.”

  “I do not lie.” A sentence as flat and hard as a saber.

  “But you’re a genius at structuring the truth: in the system. What does that mean?”

  “Ask your names,” said Billy, picking up the phone to where Mike Kramer waited in front of a computer terminal plugged into the greatest network of information in history.

  “Beth Doyle,” said Wes.

  He gave Billy what other data he could remember, and the general relayed it to Kramer. Billy hung up.

  “This will take time. Now—”

  “We can wait.”

  In silence, they did.

  Wes tired of watching the thick glasses of the man behind the desk. On the walls hung Billy’s collection of Japanese woodblock prints from the era of emperors. The prints were beautiful, the warriors bold with their drawn swords and wise as they knelt to work on their calligraphy, swords sheathed by their sides.

  Twenty-two minutes later, the phone rang. A fax machine behind Billy’s desk hummed. Billy answered his phone, listened. He hung up, tore a freshly transmitted sheet out of his fax machine, and passed it across the desk to Wes.

  An old passport photo.

  “Yes,” said Wes.

  “There are legions of Beth Doyles,” said Billy. “But your data indicated her. No arrest record or warrants. A lot of foreign travel: visas for Asia, Europe.”

  “Who does she belong to?”

  Dryly, Billy said, “The records indicate she’s single.”

  “You know what I mean: is she one of you?”

  For a heartbeat, Billy didn’t answer.

  “There is no indication,” he said, “that she has ever been employed by a government security, intelligence, or law enforcement agency. No indication of contact, no registry in an active file or a cross-reference in anything other than routine customs and State Department records for travelers.”

  “What else?”

  “What else could she be?” Billy’s hands spread wide. “All that travel? She could be a recruit of a foreign agency.”

  “That wouldn’t matter for this.”

  “But if there is any chance of that,” insisted Billy, “our CI people and the FBI should be notified.”

  “No chance. Keep her out of their files.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have had us run a check on her.”

  Wes shook his head, sighed. “Would it show if she worked for a private eye named Jack Berns?”

  Billy polished his glasses with a tissue.

  “Our files contain the license records for this area. Nothing showed up, but my understanding of that profession is that its regulation leaves something to be desired.”

  “No,” said Wes, “she wouldn’t work for him.”

  A great weight floated from his heart; another one settled in its place.

  “Give me your second name,” ordered Billy.

  Wes handed him the driver’s license of the man who’d followed Nick Kelley, the man Wes had ambushed at Union Station.

  The number two man at the CIA frowned. He telephoned the data on the Virginia driver’s permit to Kramer.

  During the ten-minute wait, Wes closed his eyes. He imagined Beth, her hair, her mouth, her smoky taste. Her look as she held his gun, as she walked out the door. He heard her laugh and remembered how it filled his heart.

  The phone rang.

  “Yes?” Billy listened to the voice from another room. His eyes withdrew behind the thick glasses. “I see … Thank you.”

  After he hung up, Billy frowned, then pushed away from his desk, turned his back on Wes, and walked to the windows. Today his limp was noticeable. He stared out the glass at the rain-gray sky and the tops of the trees in the Virginia forest.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me for the next name?” said We
s. He waited like a fielder, eyes on the man at the plate.

  “How far gone is this?” Billy finally said.

  “Too far to stop.”

  “You’ve done a good job, Major. You should be proud.”

  “Fuck you, sir,” said Wes.

  The expletive turned Billy from the window.

  “If we were in uniform,” he said evenly, “I could throw you into hell for that.”

  “Yes sir,” Wes told the man silhouetted against the sky.

  “I respect uniforms,” said Billy. “As, I suspect, do you. For their precision. Their sense of purpose. They represent an extension of our institutions, and our institutions are us at our best. They are our salvation.”

  “Don’t you want to know the third name?” said Wes.

  “I did not intend to make intelligence my career,” said America’s most respected spy. “The military, yes. But here …”

  His gesture swept beyond his office.

  “I dislike HUMINT,” he said. “Agents in place, legends instead of identities, floaters, contracts … covert operatives. Covert operations. They breed a culture and a mind-set that dulls the precision of institutions. Means can become ends. Men can be seduced by that, lost in it. Perhaps like Jud Stuart.”

  “Forget about him. You know the third name.”

  “Varon,” said Billy. “General Byron Varon. Retired.”

  “What do you know about him and Jud Stuart?” said Wes.

  “Knowledge is a precise term, Major.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, General. I’m a lawyer. I know all about exactitude and fine lines and how only God can’t hide behind ignorance. We’re not talking about the law here. We’re talking about truth.”

  “The truth is that our job is to preserve this country,” said Billy. “Democracy stands or falls on its institutions.”

  “It stands or falls on its people,” answered Wes. “I told you this was gone too far to stop.”

  “But not too far to avoid more damage. Not so far gone as to start witch-hunts.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Wes.

  “I do.” Billy shook his head. “This business is secrecy and secrecy breeds fantasy, even among the most brilliant of minds. The things I’ve heard! That people believe! Grand conspiracies. There is no grand conspiracy. Just small whirlpools.”

  He walked back to his desk, took an unmarked file folder from the top drawer, and handed it to Wes.