The Joshua Stone

by James Barney

  Califano nodded in agreement. “What’s odd, though, is that all his personal effects are from the same era. Look at this. His shirt and trousers were made in Germany, part of a Walter Rauscher suit that was hand-tailored sometime in the mid-1950s. His shoes are Johnsonian wing tips, made between 1952 and 1960. His hat is from Hutatelier Fuhrmann in Berlin, which went out of business in 1972. He has a receipt in his wallet from the Woolworth’s in Beckley dated September 14, 1959. And check this out.” Califano fanned five bills across the desk. “He has twenty-two dollars cash in his wallet: a ten, two fives, and two ones. And every single one of these bills is dated prior to 1959. Hell, even his underwear is vintage.” He paused to ponder these facts for a moment. “Wherever this guy’s been for the past fifty years, he hasn’t gotten out much.”

  “Yeah,” said Ana quietly. “What about the things he said in the examination room? Any hits on those?”

  “Some.” Califano tapped a few keys on the keyboard and pulled up a customized spreadsheet on the screen. “I’ve broken them into three groups. In one group, there are personal names. I counted three: Mildred, Millie, and what sounded like Opie. The first two were easy. His wife’s name was Mildred. She died in 1956. I found a collection of Holzberg’s personal correspondence in an online database at Princeton, and in some of his letters, he calls his wife Millie. So no mystery there. But I have no idea about Opie. Still working on that one.”

  “What’s the next category?”

  “Next, we have several expressions about time. Or, more specifically, about the timing or sequence of events. In several places, you could hear him muttering, ‘Es ging alles so schnell.’ ”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “ ‘Everything happened at once.’ He also said, ‘Nicht genug Zeit,’ or ‘Not enough time,’ on several occasions.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Another word he used was ‘Synchronizität,’ which means synchronicity. You familiar with that concept?”

  Ana shrugged. “It’s like synchronization, right? Everything happening in a precise sequence?”

  “Not quite. Synchronicity is a philosophical theory that basically says two seemingly unrelated events may, in fact, be linked in some invisible way.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “It’s just a fancy way of saying that things that look like coincidences sometimes aren’t. There might be some link between them that you can’t see. Or maybe nobody can see. Kind of like it’s part of a pattern, but you can’t see the whole pattern at once, just bits and pieces of it.”

  Ana pursed her lips and bobbed her head slowly from side to side, apparently not yet convinced that “synchronicity” was anything meaningful.

  “Anyway,” said Califano, pointing back to his spreadsheet. “The third category is where I put all the miscellaneous things he said that were either indecipherable or nonsensical. Of these, there are really only three phrases that seem worth pursuing. First, he mentioned something called ‘Bogentechnik.’ ”

  “Which means what?”

  “Best that I can tell, it’s a bending technique, or a bowing technique.”

  “Okay.”

  “Another interesting phrase was something he said in English several times. ‘Murder of science.’ ”

  “Oh yeah. I remember him saying that, too.”

  “It seems like such a unique phrase, but I’m not getting any clean relational hits on it.”

  Ana shrugged. “Sounds like he thinks science is under attack.”

  “I suppose. But it’s kind of a weird way of saying it. And it doesn’t seem to fit with the context of anything else he said. Just sticks out like a sore thumb, which is why my program is having such a hard time with it.”

  “Are you getting any hits on it?”

  “Nothing meaningful. Clarence Darrow apparently used similar language during the Scopes ‘Monkey Trial’, arguing that fundamentalists were trying to grab science by the throat and throttle it to death. But I’ve seen no evidence that Holzberg himself was passionate about that issue. At least, he never mentioned it in any of his writings. There was also some guy in the nineteenth century who used the phrase ‘murder of science’ in an essay about the influence of money on science. But, again, there’s no particular correlation there.”

  “Could just be nonsense,” said Ana. “I mean, the guy is showing signs of dementia.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Califano mulled over that possibility for a moment and then pointed back to the spreadsheet. “Anyway, the last thing he said tonight was, ‘Es gibt zehn mehr.’ ”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Something like ‘There are ten more.’ ”

  Ana looked confused. “Ten more of what?”

  Califano shrugged. “No idea.”

  Ana yawned and checked her watch. “All right. Well, we’ve got a flight in four hours, so I’m going to get some sleep. There’s a cot and linens out in the hall for you. Just let the guard know when you want them brought in.”

  “Okay. But, hey, wait a second.” Califano said this just as Ana was turning to leave.

  “Hmm?”

  “Dr. McCreary said you were supposed to stay with me at all times. So I thought, you know—”

  “Stop right there,” said Ana, cutting him off. She paused for few seconds before continuing. “Mike, did you know the CIA has an entire training course on flirting? Literally, the psychology of flirting.”

  “Uh, no.” Califano’s voice was suddenly quieter now, lacking its previous ring of self-assurance. He fidgeted perceptively in his chair.

  Ana sashayed over to where Califano was seated and leaned down provocatively until her hair was dangling in his face. “Sensuality,” she said softly. “Sexuality. Seduction. These are all tools that can be exploited by a skilled agent to gather information from a target. These techniques work especially well when deployed by women, and men are particularly vulnerable to them. No offense. It’s just science.”

  “None taken. I guess.”

  Ana reached out and gently stroked the collar of Califano’s jacket. “That’s why the CIA provides special training in this area to all of its covert officers, both men and women. We learn how to use these techniques and how to avoid getting ensnared by them.”

  “But I wasn’t . . . I mean, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Shhh. You didn’t need to, Mike.” Ana pushed herself away from the chair and brushed her hair back. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before. You telegraph your emotions like a neon sign. I knew you were about to say something suggestive, probably something corny sprinkled with a tiny hint of sexual innuendo. Our psychologists call that technique ‘escalation.’ ”

  “No, I—”

  “Come on, Mike.” Ana straightened her back and crossed her arms. “I’ve been with the agency for twelve years now. And one thing I’ve learned is that it’s best just to nip these things in the bud. Get them out in the open. So, just to be clear, just to make sure there is no confusion about this going forward, I take my job very, very seriously. And I don’t mix business with pleasure. Okay?”

  Califano sat in stunned silence. Thorne had, in fact, just nailed him to the wall. He had been just about to say something suggestive to her. It was going to be some lame joke about having a slumber party in the workroom. The joke had not even crossed the threshold of vocalization before Ana sensed it was coming and “nipped it in the bud.” Damn, did he really telegraph his emotions that much? Or was Ana Thorne just a goddamn mind reader? Whatever the case, the contours of their working relationship were now clearly defined. Just as well, he thought.

  “We good?” Ana asked with a crooked smile.

  “Yeah, sure. Thanks for the clarification.” Califano maintained a neutral expression, as if nothing she’d said had bothered him in the slightest. But, in truth, Ana had just drilled straight into his ego. And it hurt. “All business, no pleasure. Got it.”

  Ana uncrossed her arms and seemed to soften just a bit, perhaps sensing
that she’d been a little too tough. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I’ve just learned—”

  “No, I got it. Like you said, it’s best just to be clear about these things. Avoid misunderstandings. That’s my policy, too.”

  “Right. Okay. Then I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Ana had not quite reached the door when Califano called out from behind her. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  Ana turned around apprehensively. “As long as it’s not a personal question, then yes.”

  Califano stood and approached her. “Well, I’m actually not sure if it’s personal or if it’s something related to your work. But in the interest of nipping things in the bud, as you say, I’d like to just get this out in the open.” He stopped when they were face-to-face.

  Ana already knew what the question was. She could see it in his eyes, which were focused on the right side of her head, where her mangled ear and scarred neck were barely visible beneath her hair. “It happened when I was seven,” she said flatly. Best to get it out of the way, she figured. At least, that’s what twenty-five years of experience with these scars had taught her.

  “Was it a fire?” Califano asked, his voice softening with the appropriate degree of compassion.

  “Car accident.” Which was partly true, insofar as she’d been in a car when a bomb exploded nearby. Ana now braced herself for the inevitable follow-up questions, of which there were always many.

  To her surprise, though, Califano said nothing further except, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Ana mumbled. Califano was already making his way back to his computer. Now it was Ana’s turn to satiate her curiosity. “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”

  Califano turned. “Nothing personal, I hope.”

  “Well, I would put this more in the category of work related, since I like to know as much as possible about the people I work with.”

  Califano already knew what was coming, but he said nothing. Let her ask, he told himself.

  “It probably won’t come as a surprise that I did a background check on you after Admiral Armstrong insisted that you be involved with this project.” Ana shrugged. “Standard protocol.”

  “Uh-huh. And stalking me at work? That was standard protocol, too?”

  “No, that was more to satisfy my own curiosity. You see, when I checked your record, I noticed a gap of about three years between when you finished graduate school and when you started at DOE. I’m curious as to what you were doing during those three years.”

  Califano shrugged. “Research.”

  “Research. Really?”

  Califano flinched. “Look, if you already know, then why don’t you just tell me. Or are you waiting for me to telegraph it to you?”

  “Mike, I know you’re a convicted felon.”

  Califano’s heart skipped a beat. He hated those words. Convicted. Felon.

  Ana was inching closer now. “I don’t know what you did, because your record is scrubbed cleaner than any I’ve ever seen. I mean, seriously, I’ve never seen a more conspicuous blank in a person’s record. State and local police—nothing. FBI—nothing. Military—nothing. BOP—nothing.”

  As Califano knew all too well, “BOP” stood for Federal Bureau of Prisons.

  Ana continued, still inching forward. “But I know for a fact that you spent time in federal prison. Ashland, Kentucky, was it?”

  “Wait a sec—”

  Ana cut him off. “Nope. My turn. Now, I can see that you’ve got the trust of Admiral Armstrong. So I can only assume you’ve got your life together and that you’ve atoned for whatever sins you committed in the past. And that’s great. Good for you. But here at the CIA, we’re kind of sensitive about people who’ve actually spent time in federal prison. I’m sure you can understand why. So here’s my simple question for you. What were you in for?”

  Califano was on the verge of saying something incredibly stupid, but he managed to stop himself. Let it go. Let it go. That was the refrain running through his mind. But for some reason, he couldn’t. Not like this. He longed to give his side of the story, to explain what had really happened, to make her . . . what, respect him? He doubted that was going to happen, even if he told her everything. Besides, Admiral Armstrong had made it clear that he was never to tell anyone about his past. And that included CIA officers. Even pretty ones with green eyes and wicked psychological skills.

  Califano took a deep breath and waited for the emotional storm surge in his body to subside. When it finally did, he locked eyes with Ana and said calmly, “I know where you got those scars.”

  Ana seemed physically startled by this comment. She cocked her head back, and, for the first time since Califano met her, she stumbled over her words. “You don’t know sh— I mean, of course you do; I just told you how I got them.”

  “No. I know where you got them. As in geographically.”

  Ana was quiet for several seconds as she processed this comment. “You think this is funny?” she said finally. “Some sort of game?”

  “No, not at all. In fact, guess what? I’m just as serious about my job as you are about yours. So while you were out changing into your yoga outfit, I did my own little background check . . . on you.”

  “Impossible,” Ana muttered.

  “Hardly. To begin with, your real name isn’t Thorne, although Ana is your real first name. Short for Anastazija, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Ana was icily quiet.

  “You have an undergraduate degree in political science from Georgetown. Graduated with honors. The only Bs you got were in physics, calculus, and art history. You grew up in Danbury, Connecticut, and went to boarding school at Choate. Mom and Dad are both doctors, which explains the pricey private school. You speak fluent Croatian, which confused me at first until I learned that you were adopted at age eight. You were recruited by the CIA while you were still at Georgetown, and you’ve been here ever since. You’ve been an analyst, a field agent, an assistant section head at the embassy in Athens. And your newest gig, assistant director of DTAI.” Califano was on a roll, but he suddenly paused and cocked his head to one side. “Must not leave a lot of time for a personal life, huh? You live alone, and you’ve never been married.” Califano gestured with an open palm. “Should I go on?”

  “No,” replied Ana with a bitter smile. “You should go fuck yourself.”

  Califano didn’t miss a beat. “So, wait. It was okay for you to spy on me at work, but because I did a little extracurricular research on you, now I’m way over the line. Is that it?”

  Ana shook her head. “You know what? This conversation is over. And if I find out that you violated the CIA’s security protocol with your little hacking expedition, you’re going to be seeing a lot more of Ashland, Kentucky, is that clear? And not even Admiral Armstrong will be able to save you.”

  Just then, there was a knock on the door, and the security guard from outside eased the door open and poked his head through. “Everything all right in here? I heard some commotion.”

  “It’s fine, Joey,” Ana said in an exasperated tone. “We’re just finishing up here.”

  The guard closed the door, and Ana turned back to face Califano. “Look,” she said, doing her best to de-escalate the situation. “Let’s just keep this professional, okay? You stay out of my personal life, I’ll stay out of yours.”

  Califano was silent for a few seconds before forcing a smile. “Deal.”

  Ana was just turning to leave when Califano decided to add one last comment. “Lijepe snove,” he said in remarkably good Croatian. Sweet dreams. He even got the intonation almost exactly right.

  Ana’s posture stiffened slightly, but she did not otherwise move, or blink, or say anything for several seconds. Finally, she turned and left without saying another word.

  Califano watched her leave and immediately wanted to punch himself in the face. Crap, that was stupid. Ana Thorne was precisely the type of woman who would drive him crazy eventually, if he let her. She was
like a puzzle. Something to solve. But he doubted he would ever be able to solve that puzzle. More likely, he’d wind up in a straitjacket. He dragged both hands over his face and eventually turned his attention back to the computer screen, hoping for little more than a distraction.

  He got one.

  Something on the screen immediately caught his eye. The relevancy engine had turned up a new result. He clicked on it and was surprised by what appeared on the screen. After checking it twice, he picked up the phone and dialed a ten-digit outside number.

  “Hello?” said a groggy male voice on the third ring.

  “Hey, it’s Mike Califano. You said to call you at any hour if I found something important.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you’re gonna want to see this.”

  10

  FROSTBURG, MARYLAND

  Tawnya Johnson checked the Budweiser clock on the wall of the Stop & Shop convenience store. It read 3:05 A.M. God, she hated this time of night—the midpoint of the graveyard shift. The dead hour. No one to talk to. Nothing to do but stare out the window at the traffic whizzing by on Highway 68. Where are all these people going, anyway? she wondered.

  Most nights, the Stop & Shop stayed reasonably busy until about 1:30 A.M., when the last of the long-haul truckers and traveling salesmen bedded down for the night at the Huntsman Motel next door. For the next hour after that, a few stragglers still came in for cigarettes, snacks, and beer. But then the “dead hour” began, which lasted until the early birds started showing up around 4:30 A.M. for their morning coffee. It was the solitude of this two-hour stretch that Tawnya truly hated.

  A pair of bright headlights suddenly flashed through the store window, and Tawnya watched with curiosity as a dark blue Chevy Impala pulled slowly into the parking lot. A few seconds later, a long-haired man in a black leather coat got out and made his way to the front door of the store. He seemed tentative, glancing behind him several times before entering the store. Shit, Tawnya thought when she finally got a good look at him. She’d seen all types in this store, but this guy was something else. If not for his late-model car, she would have guessed he was homeless.