The Eyes of Others

by Mikael Carlson

  “Why do you think I’m walking so fast?” I tell Rusty, the chief of staff of a junior senator from the Midwest who managed to snag a seat on the intelligence committee. He’s a nice enough guy, but wet behind the ears when it comes to how the business of Congress is conducted.

  “It could be because it’s about to start pouring,” he observes, peering at the darkening skies with the same contempt I did while holding out his hand for effect.

  “That’s what umbrellas are for, Rusty. Water falling from the heavens is the easier of the two storms we’re about to deal with.”

  The U.S. Capitol lies less than a quarter mile across Constitution Avenue from the Russell Senate Office Building. It’s a short walk, designed that way, I’m sure, so senators don’t have heart attacks walking to and from the chamber from their offices. Of course, the ones who face that peril can always just use the underground passage between the buildings and take a golf cart. Something I now wish I had done to avoid getting wet and having to talk to Rusty.

  “We started getting calls from reporters. How did you hear?” he asks me, now straining to keep the pace despite me wearing high heels. Rusty is not exactly what anyone would call “fit.”

  “The same, followed up by my phone going crazy with alerts. How did the media find out so fast? And why the hell wasn’t my boss told immediately?” Both of those are questions I will be forced to answer for the senator in the next fifteen minutes.

  “You can’t keep a secret in this town, you know that, Gina,” Rusty muses, uttering one of the universal truths adopted as canon in the religion of politics. It’s not one I necessarily believe in. Everyone has their secrets here, and many are wildly successful in ensuring they are never exposed.

  “Sure you can. It’s just not an easy thing to do.”

  “If you say so,” he says with a laugh that sounds more like a wheeze. “The media has their hands in everything these days. They’ve got someone in their pocket who leaked it.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  The rules of the Senate prohibit cellular phone use while members are in the chamber or in committee. Regardless, almost every member keeps their phone on them in silenced or vibrate mode. There’s no doubt more than one of them got the breaking news alert and word is filtering its way through the men and women gathered in the chamber for the vote. When the boss is able to break free, he’s going to come running. He was already stressed out about the kidnappings of the Americans after the convoy was hit, and now this will only add to his angst.

  “Congress is going to go nuts trying to make political hay over this. The president is going to call everyone in the intelligence community to demand answers.”

  “I know. I wouldn’t want to be the Director of National Intelligence right now,” I conclude, certain that the president already summoned him to the White House.

  The DNI is the head of the country’s entire intelligence network and acts as the principal advisor to the president, the National Security Council, and the Homeland Security. He is one-part trusted advisor to the commander-in-chief and one-part whipping boy when things go wrong. He’s also the man who will be expected to fall on his sword if the president’s poll numbers begin to abate over the intelligence failures.

  “Me neither. I sure hope this was a random act and not a leak. The consequences of it being the result of someone selling our secrets will reverberate through this town like an earthquake. I mean, I knew that his oldest kid was in the State Department, but I didn’t know he was over there.”

  “Nobody knew he was over there, Rusty. It was classified at the highest levels.”

  “So you think it’s a leak?” he asks, grabbing my arm and stopping me as we reach the entrance on the Senate side of the building.

  “I know as much as you do, Rusty.”

  “I don’t believe you. Gina, you need to level with me. Is it a leak? Because there will be some serious political blowback if there is one.” Again with the politics.

  My thoughts wander back to Boston and my concern for him and our relationship. His time spent searching for a mole everyone will be hunting for now earned him a reprimand by his superiors. The irony of that is not lost on me. Now the stakes have gone up and he is going to wander into the middle of this firestorm if he isn’t careful.

  “I have no idea, but it looks that way to me, and there’s going to be hell to pay because of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means the son of the vice-president of the United States was just assassinated in a foreign country because a traitor within our own government tipped them off. Don’t think for a moment they won’t find someone to take the fall for it.”

  .

  ~ chapter 23 ~

  director COLBY washington

  “The information was classified at the highest level!” Vice-Admiral Troxsell shouts. “How did it get out?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can’t even say how anyone in my group had access to it. It was a State Department mission.”

  The admiral is smart enough to know that there were any number of ways people in my charge could have obtained the information about the vice-president’s son’s visit to Baghdad. State Department liaisons would have reached out to the military for security and name-dropped to ensure they have their full cooperation. If threats were coming in, the Pentagon could have reached out to members of my team for assessments, whereby they learned of the visit that way. The truth is any number of people, here or at any other agency, could have leaked the intelligence about the visit. In the end, all I have done is provide the director with plausible deniability of our knowledge, whatever good that will do.

  “Why was Eugene Hollinger suspended?” he changes the subject, the expression on his face one of dispassion.

  “Garrett was afraid he was a distraction for those involved in investigating the mole,” I answer honestly.

  “Garrett ordered it?” he asks. Uh, oh.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I was told you ordered it and he carried out the order,” he explains.

  “No, sir, that’s incorrect.”

  “So, let me get this straight, Colby. You didn’t act when a man you claim is an exceptional analyst warned you about a possible mole when he was hired a year and a half ago. Then you ordered him not to pursue it, and he ignored your directive and ran his own wildcat investigation anyway. Now he gets suspended from the agency the moment he may be proven right. Did I miss anything?”

  I don’t bother to respond. What can I say? That I also entered into a pact with the devil to have Hollinger placed under surveillance in violation of his constitutional rights and civil liberties? Divulging that information to my boss is not a career-enhancing move.

  “The CIA and FBI are pointing the finger at us about this whole mess,” Troxsell complains.

  “Sir, with all due respect, would you expect them not to?”

  “I wouldn’t expect to be in this position at all! If there’s the remote possibility of there being a mole in your department, you’d better find out who it is, and quick. I’ve been on the phone all morning with other agencies, members of Congress, and even the president himself. They’re demanding answers that I don’t have.”

  There’s nothing more unnerving than getting called into the boss’s office to stand on the carpet and get dressed down for not having answers to his questions. Admiral Troxsell is a good man, but he didn’t get to become the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency because of his prowess steering a destroyer in some ocean. He’s politically connected, has an astute mind, and can be as ruthless as a mobster when someone gets in his way. Right now, I’m standing in his crosshairs.

  “I’ll look into it―”

  “You’ll look into it? You don’t get it, Colby, do you? The son of the vice-president of the United States was just murdered by a suicide bomber in Baghdad. Are you seriously asking me to tell his father and the president that you’re looking into it?”

  “I didn’t ch
oose my words well,” I stammer. No kidding.

  “No, you didn’t. Pay attention to what’s happening in your directorate. It’s crawling with agents from the FBI searching for a mole that may have been responsible for his death. Who do you think will be held responsible if they find one?”

  “Sir, are you implying I’m to blame for this?”

  “The media are all over this. The death of the vice-president’s son is the story of the decade, and they are a whisper away from figuring out he was betrayed by one of his own countrymen. What do you think is going to happen in this town once they do?”

  He’s right. Nothing influences political power more than the media because the media influences everything and everyone. Washington, D.C., is more sensitive to perception than any other place in the world. If the media link the murder of the vice-president’s son to a leak in our intelligence community, they will demand someone be held accountable. It will either be the mole himself or a sacrificial lamb offered to them as tribute. I wonder if Troxsell hears bleating whenever I speak now.

  “I strongly suggest you make sure your house is in order. If there’s someone leaking secrets, work with the FBI and make sure you find him. You need to get in front of this or you’ll find yourself on the outside looking in. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  “Yes sir.” Yeah, I understand him perfectly. I’m now responsible if they find a mole and if they don’t … Wonderful.

  “Good, because the next time I have to have this conversation with you, you’ll be clearing your office out when we’re through.”

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 24 ~

  eugene “BOSTON” hollinger

  “How the hell do you guys drive in this damn city?” I hear the voice behind me. “Roads go this way, streets go that way, there are these circles everywhere you have to go around and in the end none of them leads to where you want to go.”

  The pub that Tara, Maryland, and I are all sitting in is not overly crowded, but every head in the place turns to look at the man with the obnoxious accent expressing his disdain for the city’s road network. One thing that has always been a trademark of Louisiana is his tendency to make grand entrances. Today is no different.

  “Good to see your sunny disposition hasn’t changed any,” I say with a smile, sharing a man hug with my longtime friend. Maryland doesn’t bother getting out of his chair at the high bar table along the wall we’re seated at. A picture of him hugging Louisiana would be considered a keepsake. To my knowledge, it’s never happened, including our time in the hospital together.

  “It’s been too long, bro,” Louisiana tells me.

  He hasn’t changed much since we left the military hospital. His short stature is still overcompensated by a big attitude. His hair is much longer and he’s put on a few pounds, but he’s still got the bluster and swagger that was the talk in every bar and club around Fort Gordon .

  “Yeah it has.”

  “It’s great to see you, Bos. Him, not so much,” he says, pointing at the still seated Maryland.

  “Screw you, Louisiana.”

  “Right back at ya, buddy.”

  Louisiana extends his hand, Maryland accepts it, and the two share an awkward shake. The strained relationship they had in Iraq hasn’t changed a bit over the years. I guess that puts a hole in the old adage that time heals all wounds.

  “And who might this be?” Louisiana posits, turning his attention to the attractive blonde at the table and giving her a less than subtle once-over with his eyes.

  “Doctor Tara Winters, it’s my pleasure to introduce Vaughn Lormand Cormier Lafourche Rilleux.”

  Tara looks a little dazed as she tentatively reaches her hand out, which Louisiana takes in his. He holds it longer than appropriate before bending at the waist and kissing it. Part of me is thankful that’s all he did to it.

  “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Doctor Winters,” he says, dialing up the charm and flashing a smile that women went crazy for when we were stationed together. I still don’t know how he manages it. Women either find him completely obnoxious or absolutely irresistible.

  “Nice to meet you too … uh … I’m sorry, I only got the Vaughn part of your name.”

  “You understand now why we stick with calling him Louisiana?”

  “Yeah, I get it now,” Tara informs me with a smile.

  “You may call me Louisiana, and you may call me anytime.” Now he’s moved to the cheesy pickup lines. I need to intervene before this really gets out of hand.

  “She’s way out of your league, my friend,” I warn him.

  “There’s no such thing, bro. Why didn’t you tell me your doc was smokin' hot!” There’s the real Louisiana I know.

  “It must have slipped my mind.”

  “You know, guys, I’m sitting right here and can hear you,” Tara informs us, her face red with embarrassment.

  “Oh yes, my love, I’m fully aware,” Louisiana says, pulling up a chair uncomfortably close to her and taking a seat.

  “How was your drive?” Maryland asks, either out of boredom or eagerness to change the subject away from Louisiana’s flirtatious advances.

  “It sucked, bro,” Louisiana admits, looking around the pub. “Does it always take this long to get a drink in this town?”

  Paddy’s Irish Pub is one of my favorite haunts. Located in a not-so-nice section of southeast Washington, D.C., it is still a favorite for locals who don’t like the tourist traps or the political scene. No self-respecting politician or staffer would ever be caught dead in this place.

  Noticing Louisiana is about to make a scene, a young waiter dressed in a black T-shirt with the bar’s name emblazoned on it walks up to us. “Can I get you all another round?”

  “Yes,” I respond for Tara.

  “And you, sir?” he asks Maryland.

  “I’m good with the soda for now,” Maryland responds, causing Louisiana to scoff. My Cajun friend has never trusted anyone who doesn’t drink.

  “And you, sir? What can I get for you?”

  “First, I ain’t no dang sir. Second,” Louisiana says, taking a moment to survey what we are drinking before pointing to my half finished beer, “I’ll have two of those.”

  “Sir, you can’t order two beers at once. I’m afraid it’s the policy in this pub that you enjoy our drinks one at a time.”

  “You ‘sir’ me again and you’ll find out that my size ten will fit up your ass with the proper amount of force. Now, I just got done with a thirteen-hour drive from the Louisiana woods to be here. I’m horny, cranky, and not in the mood to have some little punk, who barely looks like he hit puberty, tell me how many beers I can order because of some pub policy that he probably doesn’t believe in himself. Now, go ahead, tell me again how and why you can’t fill my order.”

  The dumbstruck waiter looks at Louisiana for a moment, and then over at me, unsure what to do. I close my eyes and shake my head. If this kid has any brains at all, he’ll overlook that rule just this once. If not, my favorite pub will become my ex-favorite pub when we’re banned from ever coming back. Louisiana is daring him to say something by the time the kid looks back in his direction. Here’s the moment of truth.

  “I'll get your beers.”

  “Good man!” Louisiana tells the waiter before he moves off. “Now, someone wanna fill me in as to why the hell I just drove here?”

  The story takes a while. I tell him about the dreams and the realization that they’re actually the memories of other people. Tara interjects with the medical reasoning of how it all works, including her theory that I have to know someone to tap into their memories. I conclude by explaining what is happening at work, the FBI investigation into the leak, and how the dreams may help me catch the person who almost got us killed in Afghanistan. He’s on his fourth beer by the time we finish.

  “That’s a helluva story, Bos. So, let me get this straight. I just travelled halfway across the country to meet you here because you had a dream that wa
sn’t actually a dream, about a mole you think exists but that you didn’t actually see?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, hell, that’s just plain stupid, bro.”

  “I’ve been telling him that,” Maryland quips, after remaining quiet while we recounted the whole saga.

  “Well, he ain’t gonna listen to you, dude. He’s what many people might call ‘chicken,’” Louisiana informs Tara.

  “I’m not scared of anything.”

  “Bro, you’re scared of a litter of puppies.”

  “Enough, both of you!” I bark in an attempt to stop their bickering before it starts. It doesn’t work. They continue trading shots at each other for almost another full minute.

  “Have they always been like this?” Tara whispers to me.

  “Since the day they met.”

  “So, you have any idea who this mole might be?” Louisiana asks after he tires of sniping at Maryland.

  “It’s somebody I know, so yeah, I have a couple of prime suspects.”

  “I still don’t understand why you think you have to know them. I mean, I’ve never heard anything like that ever before.”

  “Sure you have,” Tara corrects Maryland. “Do you watch science fiction movies?”

  “Sometimes. Why?”

  “Telepathy is a favorite theme in many of them. Aliens are often portrayed as communicating with each other without words.”

  “Like in Independence Day?”

  “Exactly. Everything in the human body is run by electrical impulses. Think of your brain as a computer. It has a hard drive for memory, a processor, and a cooling system. It has input devices and output devices. It also has a way to communicate.”

  Maryland rolls his eyes, unimpressed with the analogy. Louisiana is captivated by what Tara is saying, although I’m not sure if it’s because of her explanation, her attractiveness, or a combination of the two. He won’t listen to my previous warning about her being out of his league. This guy likes to punch above his weight class when it comes to women.