“Indulge?”
“Well, what the hell do you―”
“Yes, I have indulged you,” I bark, interrupting Garrett before he really gets rolling. “You are an intelligence analyst, not a counterintelligence agent. You have no remit to conduct your own investigation, regardless of how strongly you feel about it. We have professionals to do that. We need you to focus on your job.”
“I personally looked for confirmation of your theory when you started here a year and a half ago,” Garrett argues. Somehow I doubt that he did any such thing. He argued at the time that hiring Hollinger was too much of a risk. There’s no way he lifted a finger to see if his allegations were true.
“Oh, you personally did?” Boston mocks, causing Garrett’s face to flush with anger.
“There is no evidence of a mole in the DIA, Eugene, but given recent circumstances, there are going to be a lot of people looking into that. Let them do their jobs, because I can’t afford having you get in the way.”
Boston gets out of his chair and walks to the door but stops before opening it. He glares at me, and then at Garrett. I didn’t think it was an unreasonable request, but his body language and expression say otherwise.
“We got sold out in Iraq and half my team died alongside some barren road. They targeted my Humvee because of the information I was carrying. I’m convinced the person who did it works in this building, and the closer I get to finding answers, the harder you make it for me. I wonder why that is?”
“Just what exactly are you accusing us of?” Garrett fires back, shooting out of his seat and pointing his finger in Boston’s face. He swipes it away and the two look like they are about to throw down old school style. As much as I should intervene, the thought of these two killing themselves in a brawl is too irresistible. Garrett can take care of himself, and if he can’t, oh well.
“For now, I’m accusing you of indifference. I’m going to find out who it was, I promise you that. I owe that to my friends who died that day and every American still fighting in that godforsaken desert.”
Did he just call me indifferent? That shot was uncalled for. I’m willing to take a lot of flak from him, but to imply that I don’t care about our troops dying over there has crossed a line. Now I feel like the headmaster having to agree with the school bully. I hate having to side with Garrett on anything.
“Sit your ass down, Boston. We’re not through here,” I demand as coldly as I can as he opens the door to leave.
“Unless you’re planning on getting off your ass and helping me find this traitor, we are.”
“We’re done when I tell you we’re done. Your insubordination is going to cost you your career, Boston. I could fire you right now, but you’d just go to central intelligence, or the NSA, or any of the other alphabet soup agencies and become someone else’s headache. So maybe I’ll just pull your security clearance instead.” That got his attention.
“On what grounds?” Boston demands.
“Does it matter?”
“If you do that, it means I wouldn’t be able to do the job you hired me to, Colby.”
“That’s true. Of course, you aren’t really doing that now, are you? Keep that in mind. There is plenty of paperwork to be pushed here. I don’t have to fire you to force you to toe the line.”
Anger flashes across Boston’s face, but he knows I’m serious. He also knows it’s the worst possible thing that could happen to him. The lack of some witty retort or bold challenge to my authority lets me know I got through to him, at least for now. Garrett leans into Boston who is still in the doorway, dumbstruck. I see the smirk Garrett gives him from here.
“How’s that for taking his hand off your ass and making his move? You may go now.”
.
~ chapter 5 ~
FBI agent zach bruhte
“Todd? Get me another,” I declare, sliding my empty glass eight feet down the desolate bar.
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Zach?” the balding, pudgy man replies, barely taking his eyes off the television news.
“You’re my bartender, not my mother. Get me another or I’ll find another place to spend my money.”
He regards me for a moment before reluctantly snatching my glass off the bar, adding some ice cubes and refilling it with a generous amount of Jack Daniel’s. He acts like I’m inconveniencing him. It’s not like he has anything else to do in an empty dive bar at two in the afternoon.
“Last one,” he admonishes.
“Like hell it is,” I snort, taking a long pull from the glass.
“Look, Zach, I like you, but I don’t need you staggering out of here. What’s going to happen if you get into your car and get pulled over, huh?”
“Well … I suppose I would just show them this,” I exclaim angrily, pulling my wallet out and slapping it down on the bar with my gold FBI badge facing up.
“Whatever, man,” he says, grabbing the remote for the television and cranking the volume to an unnecessary level.
“State Department and Pentagon officials are calling the massacre of the villagers ‘a tragic loss of life’ and ‘an affront to humanity,’” the anchor on one of the twenty-four-hour news networks reads from the teleprompter in the most sympathetic of voices. “There has been no indication from the Islamic State as to why the villagers were targeted, nor has there been any speculation from administration officials as to the reasons so many were murdered.”
If they only knew how wrong they were. There’s little doubt in my mind that the government knows exactly why the village was exterminated. Most likely, the CIA knows best. The real question is, if there were American moles providing us information on ISIS living in that village, how did the enemy figure it out?
“At least you’re keeping up on current events as you try to get yourself fired,” my colleague says, taking a seat at the bar next to me.
“Get my friend here a scotch and water,” I bellow to the irritation of my underworked bartender.
“Just hold the scotch,” Special Agent Matt Remsen tells him.
“Wuss.”
“You might not give a damn about your job anymore, but I sure as hell care about mine.”
Counterespionage is not a glamorous job. My department within the Federal Bureau of Investigation exists to be the guardian of the country’s secrets. We are tasked to monitor suspicious behavior of government employees, respond to reported security violations, and develop strategies that anticipate and subvert the intelligence operations of our enemies. It’s a critical job, and not one you want to mess up. I did, and it’s how I ended up here at this point in the afternoon.
“So what are you doing here, then?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d take a shot at talking some sense into one of my closest friends. A man I consider to be a brother.”
Remsen is laying it on thick. We came up through the academy together, spent our first assignment for the bureau together, and after parting ways for a short time, ended up both working for the Counterintelligence Division for the FBI here in D.C. Sometimes we have worked on the same assignments, and other times we haven’t. I sure wish he had been with me on the last one.
My job in the Counterintelligence Division is to help identify and neutralize national security threats. It’s been a rewarding job that I’ve been very good at, until recently, at least. Remsen specializes in preventing the penetration of government agencies and contractors, whereas I focused on conducting counterintelligence operations against people we believe posed significant threats to the interests of the United States.
“I think that ship has sailed, my friend. Just go.”
“I’m not finished with my drink,” Remsen argues, pointing at the useless glass of ice water in front of him. “Look, Zach, you got a bum deal. Anyone could have made the same mis―”
“Everyone didn’t make the mistake. I made it!” I shout, angry at the direction he’s taking this. What happened may not have been my fault, but I still bear some
responsibility for it.
“Okay, so you got a bum deal. You had some bad luck. So what? It happens to the best of us.”
“Oh, yeah? Has it happened to you?” The question is met with silence. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“So, this is your answer? Drinking yourself into oblivion when we have work to do?” he asks, pointing to the television above the bar tuned into the seemingly unending coverage of the massacre the cable news networks are using as this month’s cash cow.
“It’s not my problem anymore,” I object.
“It is as long as you have that badge,” he argues, nodding at the badge in my wallet still sitting on the bar.
I pick up the wallet and wing it across the empty bar, watching it land on the opposite side of the dilapidated pool table in the corner. I moan with regret at the action after only a couple of seconds. The wallet contains the cash I’ll need to pay the bill, so it means I will have to eventually walk over and retrieve it. Screw it.
“That better?”
“Yeah, it solves everything.”
“Good, are you done nagging me now?”
“Yeah, I’m done, Zach, for good. I’m through covering for you. Get your act together and come back to work, or drown yourself in that glass of booze. I don’t give a damn anymore. But let me tell you one thing,” Remsen threatens, grabbing my coat in his fist and drawing me closer. “Don’t ever come back to me and claim I didn’t try to help.”
I look down at his fist clenching the material of my coat, and then up to his face. My look is unmistakable, and he lets me go, throwing in a little shove for good measure. I’m in no condition to deal with this.
“Get out of here, Matt. Go back to your meaningless job working for a bunch of stuffed shirts that can’t get out of their own way, or anyone else’s.” I should have thrown in some sort of kick ass metaphor there, but the alcohol is finally making me hazy.
“Good luck to you, Zach,” he says, before climbing off his stool and walking out of the bar.
“Yeah, good luck,” I mumble, wishing I’d had some a couple of months ago.
.
~ chapter 6 ~
eugene “boston” hollinger
Nothing about this meeting is what I thought it would be. For starters, I expected it to be in some professional office building. Instead, I am in her living room which has only slightly been modified to accommodate seeing patients. And then there is the doctor herself.
Since dream therapy reminds me of a form of psychology, part of me expected some constipated-looking, rail-thin woman with glasses and long hair pulled back into a tight bun. However, since this is a little more new age than the mainstream applications in psychology, another part of me expected some hippy dressed in tie dye and reeking of marijuana. Both of my assumptions were way off base.
Doctor Tara Winters is dressed professionally in a blouse and skirt, with fashionable high heels highlighting a set of legs that would have made Louisiana drool. She doesn’t have Gina’s beauty, but her medium length blonde hair, bright blue eyes, petite frame, and girl next-door cuteness all guarantee no shortage of invitations and offers from suitors.
“And you said these dreams started about two years ago?” she asks, shifting her gaze from her yellow legal pad back to me.
“Yes. It was right after I left Germany and came back to the States.”
“Why were you in Germany?”
“I was transferred there from a military hospital in Iraq not long after an IED attack on the convoy I was travelling in.” I skip the part about being the target of that attack. I have enough people to try to convince already.
“You were in the military?”
“Yes, I was. I served as an analyst in military intelligence.”
I watch as Tara puts her pen and notepad down on the table next to her. She averts her eyes from me and brushes her hair out of her eyes, taking an extra moment to tuck a problematic group of strands behind her ear. She takes a deep breath as she sits more erect in her chair. I had a girlfriend act the same way back in high school once. It’s the same body language she gave me right before telling me we were through.
“Look, Eugene―”
“Call me Boston. Please.”
“Okay … Boston, I’m not a specialist in post traumatic stress disorder. Perhaps you are better off―”
“I don't have PTSD, Doc.” The denial earns me a nasty look. “Okay, I do, but that’s not what’s causing the dreams.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have all the other symptoms characteristic of PTSD. I’m anxious on roads when I pass disabled vehicles, I jump at loud noises, and I’ve even mistaken the dresser in my bedroom as a militant and battered it until my fists bled,” I explain.
“We’re talking about the manifestation of the trauma in your dreams,” she admonishes, trying to feign patience.
I’m getting nervous just talking about this. My foot is tapping nonstop on the floor as I struggle to keep a grip on my emotions. This is really difficult to try to explain.
“I have those dreams. I see the faces of my fellow soldiers, my friends … I see the explosion. I hear the gunfire. I feel the panic.”
A shiver runs up my spine and I shudder. I don’t like recalling the things I see in those dreams. The demons haunt me, and I don’t like inviting them into my life while I’m awake. I feel Tara watching me intently, even though I’m staring at the floor in her living room-office.
“These dreams I’m telling you about … they’re not about what I saw in Afghanistan or what happened to me in Iraq. They’re not military related at all. They’re different.”
“Let’s assume these dreams are different, just as you say; it doesn’t mean it’s not PTSD,” Tara opines, tapping her pen on the notepad she must have picked up at some point when I wasn’t watching. “Trauma can manifest itself in one of a number of different ways. Have you been told you should get a cranial CT scan?”
“I got one. It was negative. The next four I got had similar results,” I relay to her with a grin. I’m not sure whether she believes me or not, but I have the medical records to prove it.
“Well, then, maybe they could―”
“Doc, the military ran a battery of tests on me. Once I was discharged, the VA hospital ran them all over again. Nothing was out of the ordinary, medically speaking.”
“Please, call me Tara. Look, I’d like to help you, but I’m not sure if there’s anything―”
“I know you don’t want to help me,” I interrupt, taking her shocked face as surprise that I recognized her apprehension. “I don’t know why, but I don’t really care. I’m running out of options. I need answers to what’s going on in my head, and I’m told you’re the best. Now, you can send me out the door or dismiss what I’m trying to tell you if you want, but Tara, please, I’m running out of options. I’m begging you for help.”
I’m pleading with my eyes too, I know it. I don’t like feeling helpless or desperate, but there’s no point in hiding it. I need answers, and I’m hoping her recognizing that trumps whatever reservations she has about it.
Tara stares at me for what seems like an eternity before looking back at her notepad. It doesn’t look like she’s reading, but more thinking about how to best let me down easy. That’s the response I’m expecting.
“Okay, you win. Let’s start from the beginning. You say these dreams started in Iraq after the attack?”
“The first one was in Germany, actually. We were medevaced from the airbase in Anbar and getting treatment out of theater in Landstuhl.”
“Tell me about it,” Tara demands softly.
“Okay, where do you want me to start?”
“Where all good stories start—the beginning.”
I begin my tale with the basics about my unit, the unclassified version of our mission there, and the very watered down version of why we were going to Baghdad that day. I get to the part where I meet the team in the motor pool when she stops me.
/> “Hold on a second. Maryland, Georgia? Are those names or something? I don’t understand.”
“When you’re on a military deployment, you get really tired of calling your friends or teammates by their ranks or last names. Once we got in country, we started calling each other by the cities or states we were from.”
“Boston?”
“Wicked glad to meet ya,” I say with a smile she returns with mild enthusiasm. “So myself, Louisiana, Maryland, Georgia, and Colombia rolled out with a sizable infantry escort that day.”
“What happened next?”
I tell her the story about that day just like I remember it happening. It’s not a story I share with impunity. Other than those of us who were there, only six other people have ever heard it out of my mouth. Gina is one of them, as are an officer from my unit and some shrinks from various army and VA hospitals. Tara is the seventh.
It hurts to tell her. The death of my team members … my subordinates … my friends … wears heavy on my heart. Simply remembering their faces causes tears to well up in my eyes. There’s no point in acting like the tough guy and putting on a stoic face for the doc. They deserve to be mourned the best way I know how, even if it is two years later. I fight to get it together.
“The IED killed Colombia instantly … Georgia died of her injuries two days later,” I almost whisper, finishing the story.
“Such a waste,” she whispers to herself, shaking her head in the process. “And the others? Maryland and …” She looks at her notes, searching for the name. “Louisiana?”
“We all got pretty torn up in the blast. Our wounds healed, but what it did to our heads, well … Maryland changed. Louisiana was always messed up. Anyway, the ambush that followed the explosion was really bad, and I really don’t know how we survived. Someone told me air support got there just in time to send the militants running. Unfortunately, I don’t remember any of that.”
“Do you dream about what happened during the ambush?”
The Eyes of Others Page 4