Color Of Blood

by Keith Yocum

  “Nope.”

  “OK, well, we were sitting in the cafeteria, and you were sort of warning me about having anything to do with Massey. Remember?”

  “Nope.”

  “And you said that he was working closely with the Pennsylvania Avenue folks, right? Maybe even JSOC?”

  She took a sip.

  “And you said the people at Pennsylvania Avenue were coming up with a host of crazy ideas in order to demonstrate progress in the war to people at home. Do you remember that?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “Look, I really have to be going, Cunningham.” She tried to stand, but he reached across and grabbed her wrist.

  “Just one more question, OK?” he said, feeling her tendons tighten. He let go of her wrist.

  She glared at him.

  “One of those crazy ideas involved shipping rare earth metals to Iran, didn’t it?”

  She frowned.

  “Come on, Sally,” he said. “You must know what I’m talking about. Was one of these crazy ideas to ship rare metals like Europium to Iran? They use Europium in nuclear reactors and even nuclear weapons detonators. Did you know that?”

  “Cunningham, what the hell are you talking about? I think you might want to consider getting a full psychiatric workup.”

  “Sally, it’s common knowledge that the Administration would do anything to stop American soldiers from being blown up by IEDs in Iraq. The media is full of stories showing our poor guys maimed by these bombs. We’ve all heard bizarre stories of plots to keep Shiites and Sunnis from killing GIs.”

  “I can’t remember all of the stupid ideas that were thrown around, Cunningham,” she said. “And what’s the point? None of this stuff moved off the blue-sky list to live ops.”

  “No, I think this one did,” Dennis said. “Yeah, I know it’s crazy, but someone kicked this project off using contractors to ship these metals to Iran. And I know you must have heard about it.”

  “I told you, Cunningham, that one never happened. Do you have a tumor or something?”

  “OK; but stick with me. What was the logic of that particular idea?”

  “Oh, Christ, who knows what the idea was?” she said, pushing her chair back. “Maybe some people thought Iran would do anything to acquire this stuff, including restraining Shiite militias and pointing them at the Sunnis to get them to stop? I don’t know. A million scenarios are hashed out daily.”

  “But didn’t anyone think that this particular idea was a really, really bad one?”

  “That’s why it was never approved,” she said, standing. “Stop worrying about shit that doesn’t go down; worry about the shit that does.”

  “You’re wrong, Sally. It was certainly approved. Someone gave a green light to the program, and it looks like Massey ran it through his group.”

  “That’s total bullshit,” Sally said.

  “Sally, I found the mining operation tucked away in Australia. I tracked a shipment of Europium to Iran. There’s no compelling reason for the US to be shipping rare earth metals to Iran unless they get something really, really big in return. There was an Operations guy before me who stumbled upon the same scheme. He was working for Massey, and the kid tried to alert the news media, but the Agency killed the story.”

  Sally twitched at the mention of news media. She sat back down and scanned the interior of the Starbucks, looking at the face of every patron and employee.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s just me.”

  She stared hard at him for several seconds. “You understand that I’m required to report this conversation?”

  “Of course I know that,” he said. “But for the record, you folks are absolutely one hundred percent out of control.”

  “Poor, poor Dennis,” she said, standing. She was out the front door before he could fold up his Washington Post.

  Chapter 42

  He passed through the guardhouse at the Langley parking lot without incident. He half expected to be detained there but was relieved to avoid that indignity.

  Dennis went directly to his office and waited.

  Agitated, he fiddled with his computer.

  Why did I go through all this trouble? he wondered. What was the point? To prove I could break into their little operation? Big fucking deal. At least Garder tried to do something about it. I’m just sitting here waiting to get punished like a naughty child.

  Dennis stood up and walked quickly down the labyrinth of hallways to the main entrance. At the front desk, he asked one of the receptionists to call him a cab. He kept looking at his watch. He had been inside the facility for twenty-two minutes. Dennis estimated Sally had a forty-five-minute head start.

  It took twelve excruciating minutes for his cab to arrive, and he relaxed only slightly when the cab got through the main gate.

  ***

  The lie was not so hard to pull off. First, the secretary wrinkled her nose and called her superior. Dennis repeated his pitch, and after nearly thirty minutes of confusion on the part of staffers, Dennis found himself speaking to congressman Daniel Barkley’s chief of staff in her small, disheveled office.

  “I’m sorry, but you say you’ve been sent here to report directly on a sensitive constituent service request the congressman has requested? Is that what you’re saying?” Veronica Chastain said.

  “Yes. Sent directly from the inspector general to report on something the congressman had requested regarding one of his constituents. Representative Barkley said it was very important, and that’s why I was sent to deliver the information personally to him.”

  “This is unusual,” she said. “We had no notice you were coming.”

  Dennis handed over his CIA identification badge.

  “Feel free to call the IG’s office,” Dennis bluffed.

  She pushed his badge back across the table. Dennis could tell she was irritated.

  She picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit extension.

  “Where is he?” she said and listened. “Right.”

  She hung up.

  “I can squeeze five minutes out of the congressman’s schedule to chat with you. That’s five minutes,” she said holding up the splayed fingers of her right hand. “Not seven or ten minutes—five. Please do not hold him up in any way. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Dennis said.

  “Please wait outside in the front office. We’ll call you.”

  Dennis returned and sat. After twenty minutes he began to fidget; after thirty minutes he began to fight the temptation to leave. After forty-five minutes he stood up, smiled at the receptionist, and left the office.

  She raced after him and asked where he was going.

  “Back to my office in Langley,” he said.

  “The congressman is on his way over now. Please return, if you don’t mind.”

  Dennis had barely sat down in an overstuffed leather chair when a young man appeared and invited Dennis to follow him.

  Dennis walked into the congressman’s massive, ornate office, and was directed to a chair in front of Representative Barkley’s desk, as the congressman finished a phone call.

  After hanging up, Barkley smiled brightly and said, “I’m sorry, but my staff is a little confused about why you’re here. How can I help the IG?”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you requested his help about six months ago to look into the disappearance of the son of one of your constituents who is an employee of the Agency. His name was Geoffrey Garder.”

  “Oh, uh, yes, I remember,” Barkley said. “The agent had disappeared, or something like that. But that was a pro forma request, and I certainly didn’t expect a personal briefing on the case. Please just give the report to Veronica,” he said, waving his hand and smiling politely. “She’ll be glad to take the debrief. And thank the IG for his help, would you?”

  “Actually, the agent went AWOL, sir,” Dennis said. “He’s not dead. Or at least we don’t think so.”

  Barkley looked confused.

  “He went AWOL because he
discovered an illegal and unauthorized operation that the Agency was conducting to funnel rare earth metals to Iran in exchange for that country’s help in pulling back on their support of Shiite jihadists in Iraq.”

  Dennis had practiced his one-sentence elevator pitch for the powerful Chairman of the House Intelligence Committee while waiting, and he was pleased at how smoothly it was delivered.

  “I’m sorry, but what is your name again?” Barkley said, leaning toward Dennis.

  “Dennis Cunningham, senior investigator in the CIA Office of Inspector General.”

  “Are you here at the behest of the IG?”

  “No, sir,” Dennis said. “I’m here at the behest of me. I just thought you and the Intelligence Committee would like to know about this program before the only two people who are in a position to tell you about it disappear from the face of the earth, sir. As chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, I doubt you know about this program.”

  Barkley sat up in his leather chair, its brass tacks shining brightly like rows of Christmas lights in the glare from the huge window.

  “This is an awkward conversation, Mr. Cunningham,” Barkley said. “I don’t know who you really are, whether you’re wearing a recording device, or having mental health problems.”

  “That’s a negative on both questions,” Dennis said.

  They looked at each other. The congressman sat perfectly still in his chair, and Dennis noticed that it looked like he was hardly breathing.

  “Mr. Cunningham, I’m going to note my conversation with you, and then I’m going to share it with the IG’s office. You, more than anyone, must understand how these things are handled. This is an out-of-channel conversation that I’m uncomfortable with. You understand that?”

  “Of course,” Dennis said. “But I felt like someone outside of the Agency should know about this program.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Cunningham.” He reached for his phone and dialed an extension.

  “Bill, could you please come in here and escort Mr. Cunningham out of the office?”

  ***

  He walked slowly away from the Rayburn Building down First Street SW and toward the National Mall. It was a chilly spring day, and he felt a cool northerly breeze against his face and neck as he walked past street vendors selling American flags, plastic busts of presidents, as well as countless postcards and cast-metal, miniature Washington Monuments. After twenty minutes of walking, he slowed near the Natural History Museum and sat on one of the empty benches on the Mall.

  His cell phone rang, and he reached in his pocket.

  “Hey, Marty,” Dennis said.

  “You need to get back here ASAP,” Marty said. “Massey has scheduled a meeting with you at one thirty this afternoon in his office. You have to be there, or they’ll send people out to get you. Do not, under any circumstance, do anything other than be in Massey’s office at one thirty. Whatever the fuck you did, it’s very serious.”

  “I’ll be there,” Dennis said.

  “For the record, you are a Class A train wreck, Cunningham,” he said.

  ***

  He arrived at Massey’s office at 1:15 p.m. and was told to take a seat in the small waiting room. Dennis bided his time by looking at an old copy of US News & World Report.

  After ten minutes he was ushered into the huge office. Massey and two other men were already there. The weasel-faced assistant, that followed his master everywhere, sat to Massey’s right; another man Dennis had never seen before sat to his left.

  The secretary left and closed the door behind her. Dennis sat in the only chair remaining; it was positioned directly in front of Massey’s desk. The three men stared at Dennis; Dennis stared at them. An ornate clock on a shelf behind the three men tick, tick, ticked.

  Dennis’s normal operating style, of course, was never to talk first, but this situation was different.

  “So,” Dennis started, “I don’t have the pleasure of meeting the man sitting to your left.”

  “That would be Dr. Norris,” Massey said.

  “A medical doctor?” Dennis asked.

  “Yes,” Massey said. “A psychiatrist.”

  “There’s no telling who will show up next in your office,” Dennis said. “Maybe the Rolling Stones?”

  “Very funny, Cunningham,” Massey said.

  “Maybe I’m just nervous,” Dennis said. “It’s been a long, strange trip since you sent me looking for Garder six months ago.”

  “Indeed it has,” Massey said, “for all of us.”

  “I know that you’ve been running an illegal and dangerous program that is certain to get the Agency into very hot water once Congress finds out. That’s why you wanted Garder found.”

  Massey, Dennis noticed to his credit, did not blink once or show the slightest flicker of distress.

  Massey put his hands on the desk and interlaced his fingers together, dropped his eyes, and just for a moment, Dennis thought he was going to pray.

  “How long have you been feeling depressed?” Massey said.

  “Who says I’m depressed?”

  “Weren’t you on sick leave for half the year because of depression?”

  Dennis shifted in his chair.

  “I’ve been back to work for a while. Who said I’m depressed?”

  “How long have you been having suicidal thoughts?” Dr. Norris said.

  “The only time I get suicidal is when I talk to doctors like you,” Dennis blurted. “That was a joke. Massey here is getting on my nerves, so I’m a little edgy.”

  “Are you always this angry?” the doctor said.

  “Who said I’m angry?”

  Dr. Norris stared at Dennis.

  “And you knew Garder was faking his death all along,” Dennis said to Massey. “I was just sent there to close the official file on him and get the congressman and Garder’s parents to stop squawking. Meanwhile, you were trying to find the guy before he went public with what he found.”

  “Your medical file shows that you talked openly about your suicidal feelings with your therapist,” Dr. Norris said in a calm and authoritative tone.

  “So?” Dennis said. “That was a while ago.”

  “Your file shows that you’ve had a history of erratic behavior, including belligerence directed at superiors.”

  “About eighty percent of Agency employees are belligerent to their superiors on any given day,” Dennis said.

  “Your file also shows that you experienced a severe childhood trauma,” Dr. Norris said.

  Dennis felt like someone had just turned his chair sideways. He tried to collect himself by focusing on a maroon ballpoint pen in Massey’s shirt pocket. For the first time since entering the room, he felt warm.

  “Isn’t that true, Mr. Cunningham?” the doctor persisted.

  Dennis stared at Massey’s pen.

  “You were raised in Chicago, right? Your father was a Chicago police officer, correct?”

  Dennis kept staring at the pen, trying to figure out whether the color was actually maroon or a dark red. Actually, he thought, maybe it was ocher.

  “When you were ten years old, you came home from school one day and found your mother dead on the living-room floor. Isn’t that right? She had been shot in the head by your father. You found him in the kitchen, according to the police report, with a fatal gunshot wound to his temple.”

  Dennis slowly bit the inside of his cheek and stared at the ballpoint pen. The clock ticked loudly on the mantel, and Massey shifted in his seat.

  “So you’ve been depressed for a long time, isn’t that right, Cunningham?” Massey said. “It’s quite unfortunate what happened to your family; you being the only child and all. Raised by an aunt and uncle in Minnesota: very sad state of affairs. And you’ve suffered a lot lately with your wife’s passing. It’s understandable how depressed a person can be in those circumstances.”

  The weasel-like man next to Massey stirred slightly in his seat and scratched the top of his head.
/>
  “We’d like you to turn in any firearms you have in your possession,” Massey said. “We have your Agency-issued handgun, but our records show you also have possession of a Glock 17 handgun that you purchased at a sporting goods store two years ago in Virginia. We believe it would make sense, given the circumstances, for you to volunteer your weapon.”

  Dennis was already at the door, turning the knob, when Massey said loudly to great effect, “It’s for your own wellbeing, Cunningham.”

  ***

  He was furious that he had not driven to work that day and had to wait twenty minutes at the front desk for another cab.

  He had the cabbie drive him back to the National Mall and ordered him to stop near the Science and Technology building. Dennis told the cabbie to wait while he bought a Diet Coke from a street vendor. He sat on a bench under a bus stop awning and watched the tour buses and cars crawl by.

  Dennis liked being around tourists sometimes. They seemed so innocent, patriotic, and earnest. It was refreshing.

  The cabbie honked his horn at Dennis to show his irritation at having to wait.

  Dennis held up his forefinger suggesting just one more minute.

  Dr. Forrester had warned Dennis that his unwillingness to deal with his father’s murder-suicide, which had happened nearly forty years ago, had turned his life into “a stilted, venomous existence.” Martha’s passing made it more important for him, Dr. Forrester said, to start examining that dark corner of his family life. She even encouraged Dennis to tell his daughter about it as a way to start the cleansing process.

  And now, out of the blue, Massey had done what no other Agency official, including Marty, had done in all his years there—bring the subject up directly. Once or twice Marty had made small, glancing references to his childhood, but had never pressed the details or requested an answer.

  Who in their right mind would want to remember a murder-suicide by his father forty years ago? Dennis thought.

  In fact, he could only remember two things about that day: his mother lying sideways on the beige carpet, the clothes hamper on the couch full of freshly folded clothes. A huge pool of dark-red blood had collected near his mother’s mouth. The shape of the pool looked like the bubble you’d see next to a comic-book character with words drawn in it. The other thing he remembered was that his father’s face was twisted as he lay back in the kitchen chair after shooting himself. Because of the angle of the shot and strange muscular contortion, in death his father looked like he was sneering.