Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

  “Are you pissed off about something?” he said.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “How can you not be sure?”

  “I’m just trying to figure you out,” she said. “Simon is due back late next week, and I need to act. And I would have already acted, but you have convinced me not to disclose anything to the AFP. And I can’t figure out whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

  “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. We hardly know each other, but if you don’t believe I can help you, then perhaps you should contact the AFP. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  She drove on for another minute in silence.

  “Is there something I should know about you?” she asked. “I mean are you suffering from some kind of psychological problem that I should know about? You told me that you’re seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “I’m seeing a psychologist, not a psychiatrist,” he said.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “One gives meds, the other does talk therapy. I need talk, not meds.”

  “Is it because of your wife’s death? Was that it?”

  “Yes,” he said, turning away and looking at the gas stations and small strip malls whizzing by.

  “I’m sure it must have been awful to lose your wife,” she said. “But are you seeing the psychologist because of your work or anything like that?”

  “No: just my wife.”

  “I’m sorry. You must have loved her deeply.”

  “I think it was more guilt than love.”

  “Guilt? What do you have to be guilty about?”

  “It’s a little complicated.”

  “Everything’s complicated with you. Go ahead, try me,” Judy pressed.

  Dennis stared out the side window.

  Judy was determined not to speak to save Dennis discomfort; she desperately needed to find out more about this man. She found him both thrilling and strange, but good strange or bad strange?

  They drove on for another minute, and Dennis suddenly started talking as if he were halfway through a story.

  “I usually asked Martha—my wife’s name was Martha—to pick me up from Reagan Airport or Dulles, depending on where I was coming from. This one time I was scheduled to stay in New York for one more night, but at the last moment the meeting was canceled, and I switched flights. But I forgot to call Martha, and when I got in it was eleven p.m., so I just took a cab. I called home while in the cab and no one answered.”

  Judy leaned a little toward Dennis because he was talking very quietly. She pulled up to the small fish-and-chips shop and parked. The sun was sitting low on the horizon, and a cool Indian Ocean breeze whispered past the car. She wound down her window to let the air in.

  “When I got home it was near midnight, and Martha wasn’t home. Her car wasn’t there, either. So I got a little worried and called her cell phone, and it just went to voicemail. After I hung up, Martha called me right back. She said she’d seen the call was from me. I asked her where she was, and she said she was with her girlfriend, Mary. She sounded a little tipsy, and I told her to take a cab or just stay over, but she insisted on driving and said she’d be home as fast as she could. I called her back a few minutes later to talk her out of it, but it went to voicemail.”

  Judy heard the tension in his voice.

  “About forty-five minutes later I got nervous because she should have been home by then. And that’s when I got the call: Maryland State Police. Martha had been in an accident. She had lost control doing eighty miles per hour on the Beltway and hit an abutment: killed instantly. Toxicology report later showed she was drunk.”

  Judy reached over and put her hand on Dennis’s arm. “I’m very sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you about this. Let’s go inside and get a bite to eat.”

  Dennis did not move.

  “She wasn’t with Mary that evening,” he said, staring at the silhouetted Norfolk pine trees bordering the street and the beach beyond. “She was having an affair with someone she worked with. Guy was divorced. It had been going on for a while. She hadn’t expected me home that evening, so she was going to spend the night with him.”

  Judy felt like the air had been sucked out of the car, and she experienced a brief wave of dizziness. She dropped her hand off his arm and started to speak, then stopped.

  “The guy she was having the affair with called me the next day and told me the whole thing. He was in tears, and he said he was originally not going to tell me, but then changed his mind. He thought I should know. Guess I’m glad he told me, sort of. Never occurred to me that she’d be having an affair. Afterward I just sort of got depressed, couldn’t get out of bed. Normal depressed stuff, I gather. Got a referral to see this psychologist. Hate the psychologist sometimes, but it seems to help. So there you have it.”

  ***

  Dennis had barely touched his fish but seemed very interested in the chips. Judy tried to make small talk, but he appeared to have lost enthusiasm. In the past thirty minutes she had learned a great deal about her American friend, and she was now not sure it had been such a good idea to press him. She had felt the pain and self-doubt caused by a wayward spouse, but Dennis’s experience was far worse.

  “Can I show you some phone records,” he said, in what she now recognized as the Working Dennis Voice.

  “Yes, of course,” she said.

  He pulled out several sheets of paper that had long rows of numbers.

  “These are the records of Phillip’s mobile numbers, the two numbers you gave me,” Dennis said. “I’d like to see if you recognize any of the numbers that went in and out of those phones on these particular days.”

  “Dennis, before I do that, I have to ask where you got this information. It’s not easy to get access to phone records in Australia. I mean, forget the fact that these numbers are my former husband’s— which I find disturbing enough—but these records are highly confidential, even for someone with my authority.”

  “Why is it necessary that you know where this came from?” he asked. “Can’t you just look at it? I think we’re onto something here.”

  “No, I won’t look at it until you tell me. I would feel more comfortable with the information if I knew it was authentic.”

  “It is authentic. And I’m trying to help,” Dennis said.

  Judy softened her voice, realizing he was agitated. “Yes, of course I know you’re trying to help, but I’m a law enforcement professional, Dennis. Surely you can see that? And I would be in serious trouble if I was party to hacking into Australian phone records.”

  Dennis put down the papers. “These records came from US intelligence sources that I have access to.”

  Judy put her hand on top of Dennis’s left hand as a way to soften her persistence.

  “But where did they come from? I need to know.”

  “NASA has a satellite station near Geraldton, north of here,” he said. “Have you heard of it?”

  “Yes. They use it for the space station and satellites, things like that.”

  “Adjacent to it is also a listening post for the National Security Agency. They listen to everything—especially in Asia—and catalog all of it into massive databases. I just asked a friend of mine to dig out records on two numbers that were picked up at the listening post.”

  “You mean your NSA is listening in on domestic calls in Australia?” Judy said.

  “Australia is one of the Five Eyes, correct?”

  “You’re talking another language. I don’t work for the Australian Signals Directorate or any of the intelligence services here. I’m a policewoman. And don’t look at me like that, it’s condescending.”

  “I’m sorry. The Five Eyes include the US, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, and the UK. We all share signals intelligence at a very high level. One of the ways each country gets around its own internal laws against eavesdropping on their citizens is to tap into signals intelligence from one of the other Eyes. So we’re scanning everything in Australia, an
d then we later share it with Australia if they request it. That’s how it works.”

  “Is this public knowledge? I don’t remember reading anything about this.”

  “All I know is you’re one of the Five Eyes,” Dennis said. “Let’s just stop there.”

  “And the NSA is monitoring every phone call in Australia?” she said.

  “To my knowledge, they’re listening in to every call everywhere in the world, so the distinction of country of origin isn’t really important. Now can we get going on these records? There’s something here I need your help on.”

  “I’m not sure I should be looking at these records,” Judy said. “I’m fairly uncomfortable with this, Dennis.”

  “I have a theory about who your snitch is inside the AFP in WA, and why you were picked by Voorster,” Dennis said. “You can either help verify my theory, or we can stop. You can call your friend back east and go another route. Your call.”

  Judy sat back in her plastic chair. The fish-and-chips shop was busy with take-away orders, and a constant stream of people filed through. She sat there, looking down at the columns of data.

  “Sometimes you just have to do what you think is best,” Dennis said. “In my world it’s never black or white; it’s always gray. But that’s my world. I’m not here to contaminate you with my way of thinking. I’m here on my own personal mission, and to be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing in a fish-and-chips shop in Western Australia showing you NSA intercepts. Actually, I take that back: I know what I’m doing, but I’m not sure why I’m doing it.”

  A teenage boy and his girlfriend walked into the shop to order take-away. As they flirted at the register, Judy made up her mind.

  “Let’s see the reports,” she said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Dennis pushed his chair around the small table so that they sat next to each other. He had used a yellow highlighter to box in the dates he wanted her to concentrate on. Methodically he showed her that Phillip had made many calls on both his personal and business mobile phones the day of the famous PowerPoint presentation by Miller.

  “What time was the presentation?”

  “Umm, let me think. It was ten o’clock. Yes. Ten a.m.”

  “How long did it last?”

  “About ninety minutes,” she said.

  “All right, so here we are at Phillip’s mobile phones starting at eleven thirty a.m.,” he said, pointing with his right forefinger. “To set the scene: the presentation is over, and my guess is some folks at the office are going to lunch and others are back to work, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now let’s look at Phillip’s outbound calls after eleven thirty on his work line. Do you recognize any of these numbers?”

  Judy ran her finger down a list of numbers.

  “Ah, here’s one I know. It’s Martin in our office. An investigator: does mostly white-collar crime.”

  “Why is Phillip calling him?”

  “Oh, Phillip knows half the bloody office. He’s a solicitor in a small town, Dennis. Knows everyone; I’m not surprised. It was awkward at times, but I only had to recuse myself in a handful of cases. You’re not suggesting this is a big clue?”

  Dennis ignored her comment. “And these calls, they have the same prefix. Are they going to the AFP office here?”

  “Yes,” Judy said. “Ha. That’s going to Stephanie, one of the admins: probably shagging her as well. God. And this one is to Patrick. He’s on the drug squad.”

  “What would he talk to them about?” Dennis asked.

  “Everything and nothing. It’s just Phillip; he’s always poking around, always looking for business. What can I say? He’s a slick solicitor with the gift of the gab.”

  “Now look at his personal mobile number,” Dennis said, moving another sheet to the top of the pile. “Not many calls on this one line, as you can tell. Let’s start looking at calls after eleven thirty a.m. on the same day, OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK, here at two thirty-three p.m. he makes a call to this number. It’s an international number. It lasted for almost five minutes.”

  “All right.”

  “At three eleven p.m., there is an inbound call from that same international number. And look down here, later, at seven fifty p.m. he makes an outbound call that lasts twenty-two minutes to the same international number.”

  “Who is he calling?” Judy asked. “Surely with your vast network of Yank spies and banks of supercomputers you know who he’s calling?”

  Dennis smiled for the first time that evening. “The number is listed to a company called Learmouth Importers Pty Ltd., headquartered in Singapore. But that’s it. Singapore records are hard to penetrate—I mean not as bad as the Swiss, but that’s all I could get right now.”

  Judy suddenly could not handle sitting in the small shop any longer. “Let’s go for a walk, Dennis,” she said, standing. “I can’t breathe in this place.”

  The sun had set, but there was still an ochre glow on the horizon. She led him down the street until they were walking parallel to a beach. The breeze off the ocean was cool, and she let it lift the smell of fried fish off her clothes and skin. Her mind raced as she thought of the phone calls. She did not understand where Dennis was going with this information, but she was worried nevertheless. She did not know why she was agitated, but she was.

  Judy found a bench, and they sat facing the darkened beach a hundred yards away. She could smell the thick, sweet ocean air. In the distance she could make out the white foam at the water line and heard the waves thumping the sand, one after another in an endless array.

  “OK, I’m waiting,” Judy said, picking out a strand of her hair that had whipped into her mouth. “What’s your theory? I can’t figure it out, if indeed there’s anything to figure out.”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” Dennis said.

  Judy noticed he seemed energized the more he talked about the phone calls and the clues. Now, as he defended his dissertation, he was almost buoyant.

  “I don’t think there’s a mole inside the AFP office in WA at all,” he said. “But before I go on, I want you to agree to be open-minded about what I’m going to say.”

  “Just proceed,” she said.

  “All right. I think Phillip is the mole.”

  “Oh God, Dennis,” Judy said, throwing her head back. “Phillip?”

  “Just listen. My guess is that Phillip has been informally representing this gang for some time, troubleshooting, making suggestions, and maybe feeding them some information whenever they need it. When you and Daniel investigated the murder of that Asian, the old guy Lynch on your team said there was probably another man in the room that was being warned. My guess is that the guy being warned was Phillip. He must have pissed them off or owed them something. Who knows?”

  “Phillip? Dennis, please!”

  “He’s probably into this group in a big way—maybe he’s borrowed money from them or who knows what. But once that big cache of drugs was discovered on the freighter and you arrested Wu at the airport, all hell broke loose. Voorster is their leader, or one of their leaders. He leaned on Phillip to help them stop these seizures. It’s costing too much money for them not to do something radical. They need a snitch inside the AFP to tip them off in the future, and Phillip probably volunteered you.”

  “Stop, Dennis; this is silly.”

  “Think about it. He’s desperate, and he sees you as weak, susceptible to pressure. Phillip tells them that the one thing that would turn you upside down is a threat to Simon. He knows that, but he also knows they’d never really do anything to Simon—or he convinces himself that’s the case.”

  Judy turned to look at Dennis. She could see his eyes shining like wet marbles, a street lamp the only illumination.

  “Now, the only way they can stop you from going to Miller, or anyone else in the AFP, is to convince you that they have a snitch inside. So they concoct a scheme to
scare your parents, knowing you’ll turn around and raise hell back at the AFP, which you did.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  “And Phillip dutifully keeps calling around the office—like he always does—waiting for someone to tip him off to the AFP response. I mean, if they knew that you were going to raise hell about your parents, they must have also known that the AFP would respond in a big way. Voorster was going to use whatever facts Phillip could pick up from his calls to convince you they had a snitch inside the AFP. You said yourself that when they had you tied up, the only proof they mentioned about a snitch was that there had been a presentation. They didn’t quote your boss or provide any additional details, right?”

  “That’s true,” she said, craning her head slightly to see his face in the darkness.

  “So Phillip reports back to Voorster about a PowerPoint presentation, which is all they have to go on. Then they grab you from your house. And one more thing, Judy. You thought you heard someone say ‘No’ when this guy cut the tip of your toe off.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And let me guess; you think that was Phillip?”

  “Yes. He was there. They decided to disguise their voices because Voorster’s accent is distinctive, and maybe they were worried that Phillip would say something stupid, which he did.”

  “Why did he yell ‘No’?”

  “They must have told him they were just going to scare you about cutting off your finger, which they did. But when they took off your shoe, he realized they were going to hurt you, and he told them to stop.”

  For the next five minutes Judy and Dennis sat on the bench, staring at the Indian Ocean on a moonless night. The low marine haze obstructed the horizon, but looking directly up, Dennis could see several bright stars.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that we need to find out if that international number Phillip called is Voorster’s?” Judy asked.

  “Yes. Did you find out if he’s still in the country?”

  “He’s renting a private residence in a ritzy suburb not far from here,” she said.

  “Then we watch him someplace public and call that international number,” Dennis said. “If we see him answer, and hear his voice, he’s our guy. I can verify it afterward with another call to my friend.”