Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

  But they didn’t.

  Dennis rechecked his bag for the final leg to Dulles and quickly found a bar in the terminal that was packed with tourists, business travelers, and vacationers. Roll-on suitcases and travel bags clogged the walking space at the bar, lending it the feel of a college dormitory. A TV set over the bar showed CNN: a piece on an IED attack near Baghdad that had killed two US Marines and wounded three more.

  He ordered a hamburger and beer and looked casually around the bar for the telltale signs of surveillance. He spotted a young couple that had come in after him and sat near the entrance.

  They were too unnaturally natural, the kind of fake interaction that was not difficult for Dennis to spot. He guessed they were young agents in training and were being graded by someone more senior nearby. Perhaps the trainer was the Southwest Airlines steward sitting at the end of the bar.

  What am I missing? he thought. Something is not right. Why would they not take me into custody right away?

  Dennis ate his meal slowly and kept an eye on the time. He made his way eventually down to the gate and settled in with a copy of the New York Times. The front-page story featured the US military’s attempts to identify and destroy IEDs before they were detonated by using cell-phone signals. Most IEDs were set off using cell-phone calls to the explosive device, he read.

  The young couple showed up at the gate for his flight, and it comforted him somehow to see the Agency acting in a way that he expected. He still could not spot the trainer agent, but it didn’t matter really; all was in alignment in the spook universe.

  The key was to avoid confusion and self-doubt; the worst virus an intelligence agent can come down with. The correct balance of wariness and suspicion is useful, too much is debilitating. Dennis was not a field agent, but he had learned so much about their training and behavior over the years that much of their craft was part of his knowledge base.

  The flight to Dulles was uneventful, and except for a small patch of turbulence over the Continental Divide, he was able to sleep a little. The flight landed at 9:30 p.m., and now Dennis was convinced they were not going to pick him up at all. They had plenty of chances to take him earlier.

  The klaxon sounded, and the baggage carousel finally started its rhythmic, train-track clanking as the bags tumbled out from behind the rubber flaps. He edged to the lip of the conveyor belt and grabbed his beaten roll-on bag. Dropping it on the floor, he pulled up the handle, wedged his briefcase onto the handle, and dragged it toward the door for taxis.

  Marty stood at the door. He wore an old khaki-colored raincoat looking like a character out of an old black-and-white spy movie.

  Dennis tried not to act surprised, because he was.

  He nodded to Marty as he got close.

  “Come this way,” Marty said and walked through automatic doors.

  Outside, a black SUV was idling. Two men got out as soon as they saw Marty approach.

  Dennis always felt better when he could anticipate and prepare, but at this point he was genuinely surprised. One of the men reached out and took Dennis’s luggage. The other man opened the backseat door for Dennis. Marty got in beside him. One of the men drove, and the other sat in the passenger seat, turning back to look at Dennis. He had a pistol in his lap; with no silencer attached it was clearly there for effect.

  “Where is the weapon you were given for the assignment?” Marty asked.

  “In the suitcase,” Dennis said. “It’s broken down and stored in the handles.”

  “Should I have you frisked?” Marty asked.

  “No, I’m clean,” Dennis said, yawning. He did his best to feign disinterest, but he knew Marty could see through it.

  They drove in silence onto the Dulles Access Road toward Interstate Route 495.

  “You shouldn’t shoot people,” Marty said suddenly. “It complicates things.”

  “People shouldn’t shoot at me, either,” Dennis said. “And then try to strangle me. And then drug a good friend and threaten to shoot me again.”

  “Mmm,” Marty said.

  Dennis wondered why he had referred to Judy as a good friend. It didn’t sound right.

  They drove south on Route 495 until they got to Route 50 and headed east. Again, he was a little confused about where they were taking him. At Seven Corners they turned onto Leesburg Pike heading south. After another fifteen minutes they pulled in front of his house. A man and woman were walking a large golden retriever, and Dennis nodded to them as he got out.

  The two men got out of the car, but Marty stayed inside.

  “Be in my office at nine a.m.,” Marty said.

  “OK,” Dennis said.

  Dennis waited for them to open the back for his bags, but the men just stood there.

  He leaned in through the open door.

  “Marty, can I have my bags, please?”

  “No.”

  “I need my keys. They’re in my briefcase,” Dennis said.

  “Your front door is unlocked,” Marty said. “Goodnight.”

  ***

  It was always difficult to know who knew what inside Langley. The next morning Dennis walked the same hallways he had walked for years, nodding to the same people. Some smiled like they always did, and others ignored him like they always did. Some even said, “Hi, Dennis.”

  Did they know I was off the reservation? he wondered. Surely someone told someone, who whispered it to someone else. No emails and no texts, just whispers. People can always deny a whisper; they can’t hide from a digital or written communication. Which ones knew he was now a problem child?

  Dennis searched Lorraine’s eyes closely for a sign that she knew, but she smiled like she always did and said, “He’s waiting for you, Dennis. Welcome back. Did you bring me a koala bear?”

  He laughed and said, “No, I think they’re a protected species.”

  She knew.

  Marty was on the phone and motioned for Dennis to sit down.

  “Yes. Of course. He’s on it, and we’ll get a report as soon as soon he can file it. No. That’s not what I said. He’s not sure what the story is yet.” Marty did not look at Dennis, who sat down and closed the door.

  “Yes, as soon as possible. Agreed.” Marty hung up.

  He sighed. “Too many investigations, too few resources.”

  They stared at each other for several moments.

  “Welcome back,” Marty said as an afterthought.

  “Thank you,” Dennis said.

  “There’ll be an inquiry.”

  “Of course.”

  “But just not right now.”

  Dennis tried to catch himself before he frowned, but it was too late, and his forehead furrowed deeply.

  “Yes, I know that sounds odd, but the whole thing is odd,” Marty said quickly.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Dennis asked.

  “You’re supposed to get back to work.”

  “Back to work?” Dennis repeated slowly.

  “Yes.”

  “Like nothing happened out there?”

  “Not exactly. I told you: that will be dealt with later, but in the meantime you have two new cases on your docket. Read up on them and get working.”

  This was not right, Dennis knew. Something was wrong.

  “Can I have my luggage back?”

  “Negative.”

  “Can I talk to Massey?”

  “Double negative.”

  “You want me to go back to work as if nothing happened?”

  “Did you lose your hearing in Australia? Some kind of virus?”

  “OK then,” Dennis said, standing up. “I’ll get back to work.”

  ***

  “Are you pleased Phillip’s case is not going to trial?” Sarah asked.

  “Of course I am,” Judy said. “For once Phillip is doing the right thing and pleading out. It’s been very tough on Simon. The sooner the case disappears, the better for all of us. The media are like locusts. Don’t know how anyone in the public eye can tolerate a
ll the attention.”

  Sarah reached over her small kitchen table, picked up the bottle of Shiraz, and poured more for both of them. Their dinner plates sat cold and empty.

  “So why do you look so down all the time?” Sarah asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” Judy said. “I’m not down.”

  “Well, maybe you just look lonely.”

  “I am lonely, but that doesn’t mean I’m lonely for him,” Judy said. “I know you keep circling back to him.”

  “How long have we been friends?” Sarah asked.

  “A long time.”

  “Precisely. I think you fell in love with this fellow, and it’s eating away at you. And from what you told me about your crazy adventure up north, I’d say you bonded.”

  They both laughed.

  “Has he contacted you at all?”

  “Yes, he wrote me a letter.”

  “A letter? Like an old-fashioned letter through the post?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Well,” Judy laughed, “he’s a clever one. He said nearly all surveillance is on digital communications these days and very little is done on old-fashioned analog things.”

  “What did he say in his letter?”

  “That he missed me and thought of me often, but that he couldn’t contact me and forbade me to contact him. He said his main goal was to keep me out of trouble.”

  “That’s all he said?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he sign the letter?”

  “He signed it Dennis.”

  “Not ‘Love comma Dennis’?”

  “No, that’s not his style.”

  “Do you think you’re going to see him again?”

  “I would hope so,” Judy said. “But to be honest, it seems unlikely. He’s a mysterious man, and he’s almost certainly in some kind of trouble for what he did here.”

  “You should go to him.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sarah.”

  “Absolutely go to him. You’re more than smitten by him. I’ve never seen you so glum. You’re man-struck. Go.”

  “No, Sarah. He doesn’t like surprises. And for all I know he’s in some forced labor camp for wayward CIA employees.”

  “Do they have forced labor camps like that?”

  “That was a joke.”

  ***

  The radio frequency bug detector was easy to purchase, and Dennis had used it several times throughout his house looking for any surveillance devices that were sending signals. He never found a signal and decided that they were simply listening to him through his landline, a well-established trick in which an individual’s telephone can be turned into a listening device remotely. To avoid being listened to in this fashion, he covered the two telephone mouthpieces with Saran Wrap, and then a coating of aluminum foil held in place with rubber bands. During the evenings at home he covered his mobile phone in aluminum foil to prevent it from being turned on remotely, put it in a plastic Ziploc bag, and put the bag in an empty shoebox in his closet after turning it off. Even the most junior agent knew that mobile phones could be remotely turned on and converted into listening devices.

  As the days went on, he did not think they were actively eavesdropping at all. He concluded they were handling him like any other awkward and embarrassing employee. Since Dennis was no longer overseas doing bad things, he was no longer a problem. It was easier for the Agency simply to park a problem than deal with it.

  Dealing with a problem required paperwork, depositions, interviews, assessments, and adjudications. All of this left an analog and digital paper trail that Dennis guessed was not in the Agency’s best interests. At least on this case.

  If the Agency had to divulge every circumstance in which an employee went a little bonkers, well, the Agency would be depopulated of 50 percent of its field agents.

  Only three things warranted disclosure up the chain of command, and eventually to the congressional committees: (1) the killing of an Agency employee (contractors don’t count), (2) the defection of an employee to an adversarial intelligence service, (3) and the worst infraction of all—the unauthorized disclosure to the press about a clandestine activity.

  Dennis had done none of these things, and he guessed they knew nothing of his efforts to track the movement of the shipping container. He was still a problem child but not one that they needed to admonish. If the existence of the mining operation in the outback was so sensitive, then it was better not to draw attention to it by disciplining Dennis.

  Still, Dennis understood at least some pro forma surveillance of him was taking place, and it was comforting in an odd way. Twice he had seen a young woman following him at Tyson Corners Mall. If it were a serious effort, they would have several teams, but just one person probably signified a training exercise. He was certain they were listening to every phone call and capturing every keystroke on his computers.

  Once Dennis realized what they were doing, he began to relax and adopt his old habits. He caught up with his intelligence friends at the local watering holes and began working on several new cases in the IG’s office.

  He had long phone calls with his daughter, Beth, and he was surprised at how much he enjoyed talking to her. He even found himself offering her advice on office politics, since she was having trouble with her manager.

  How fatherly, he thought. Why had he never done this before?

  Marty kept his distance, and Dennis fretted over the biggest piece of the puzzle still missing. At first it seemed simple enough, but the more he considered the where, the more paranoid he became.

  Dennis had shared his quandary with his Bureau friend, Parker, and asked for some advice.

  “I need to get access to the Internet to check a website,” Dennis said. “But I can’t do it at work, or at home, or on my phone, because they’ll know what I’m doing, and I think they’re having me tailed. It’ll be such a pain to go through the trouble to slip a tail and find a computer and all that crap. It seems so simple, but it’s not. I feel like they know everything I do.”

  “You just need someone to go on the Internet and look something up?” Parker said.

  “More or less.”

  “Surrogate. Find a kid or someone totally random. Pay them a few bucks. Have them slip the info to you on a piece of paper. Simple. Use an intermediary.”

  “Shit, you’re right,” Dennis said. “Duh.”

  “And how do you know I’m not being asked to watch you?” Parker said.

  “Fuck off,” Dennis said.

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “This business we’re in sucks,” Dennis said.

  “Of course it does,” Parker said. “Our orders are: Go find bad people. Catch bad person doing something bad. Arrest bad person. Prosecute bad person. Oh, and don’t break any rules, except maybe those rules. And those ones, too. Then go get more bad persons. Repeat.”

  “But sometimes we work for bad people,” Dennis said.

  “Well, there’s the rub,” Parker said, finishing his Crown Royal with one gulp. “That’s what makes this business so exciting. We never really know who the bad people are. Even when we think we do.”

  ***

  “You look tan and fit,” she said. “Were you somewhere warm, I hope?”

  “Yes,” Dennis said. “The desert.”

  “Did you get a chance to relax?” Dr. Forrester asked.

  “More or less.”

  “How are you feeling these days?” she said.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well, work is kind of complicated, but I’m not feeling depressed, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How are you sleeping?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “How’s your drinking?”

  “No big benders to speak of.”

  “You really need to watch your drinking, Dennis.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your daughter? Have you tried to keep in contact w
ith her? She’s the only close family member you have.”

  “Actually, that’s going really well,” Dennis said. “We talk more now than we have in years. I like talking to her.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Oh, everything: her work, my travels. Stuff like that. It’s fun.”

  “Does she ever talk about her mother?”

  “Sometimes, but not as much anymore: time for her to move on. Me, too.”

  “And you’ve still never told her the true story about what happened around the car accident?”

  “No. I won’t do that to her. She doesn’t need to have her mother’s memory defaced.”

  “Well, you could always change your mind in the future,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  “And how about you; have you started to move on in your personal life?”

  “You mean like dating?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  Dennis sighed, and the expression was not lost on Dr. Forrester.

  “I met a woman, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Really? How is the relationship going? How does it feel?”

  “It feels—well, actually it felt really, really good: kind of exciting all over again. I felt like a silly teenager.”

  “You sound sad; is the relationship already over?”

  “It’s complicated because of work: can’t really discuss it. But maybe one day I can resurrect the relationship. She is really terrific.”

  Now Dr. Forrester sighed.

  “Ever since I’ve been on the approved list of therapists for the Agency, I’ve heard more heartbreak caused by the term ‘complications’ than you can imagine. I just hope they know what they’re doing over there to all these people.”

  “They don’t know, and they don’t care,” Dennis said. “Maybe it’s better that way.”

  ***

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” the young woman said. “A venti mild roast?”

  “Yes, you remembered,” Dennis said. “That would be great. How are your classes going?”

  “Ha! You remembered, too. Well, I like Art History and Western Civ, but not the math,” she said. “I’m not one for the math. Still, thanks for asking.”