by Don Mann
It is not easy to find happiness in ourselves, and it is not possible to find it elsewhere.
—Agnes Repplier
It was already 1013 and Crocker was running late, which he didn’t like. But the DC Beltway was jammed and the 395 not much better, and he was in a lousy mood despite the fact that “Tumbling Dice” by the Stones was pouring out of the stereo.
For the past several days he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about next week’s pretrial hearing on the breaking-and-entering and aggravated-assault charges that had been filed against him in Fairfax County, Virginia. Like the court was tossing the ivories with his fate.
Epic BS.
He assumed the meeting he was now rushing to concerned that. News of it had been texted to him last night by an aide at ST-6 headquarters. Simply: “Presence required. 1711 17th Street. 1030hrs.” Since returning from the Ukraine, he’d been feeling anxious, trying to settle into his new apartment and get his life together.
It didn’t help his current state of mind that his wife had left him after his previous very difficult deployment to Syria and Turkey.
The sky hung milky gray over the glass-and-steel towers along the K Street corridor—very un-April-like for DC. Crazy city had been built over a swamp—actually “wetland with trees,” according to a recent article in the Washington Post.
As he turned up 17th Street, he told himself that there was no way he would serve time in jail if convicted and he would appeal if he received something even as light as a three-month sentence. In his head he was already planning his escape to Patagonia or New Zealand—two raw, sparsely populated locales where he imagined an individual could still carve out his own destiny without interference from corrupt cops and narrow-minded public officials.
Not that he really wanted to. He loved the United States and what it stood for.
Crocker gripped the steering wheel so hard the muscles in his back and neck tensed. He was getting himself worked up, just like ST-6 psychiatrist Dr. Petrovian had warned him not to do. According to the doc, repeated trauma had produced symptoms of PTSD, including erosion of his faith in God, justice, and predictability. His psyche needed time to process and integrate some of the shocking shit he’d experienced. Some of it haunted him day and night—the human degradation and destruction in Syria, the surprise attack on his teammates, the Dear John letter from Holly when he returned home.
The only people he trusted these days were his Black Cell teammates, who had suffered through some of the same shit he had, minus the rejection from his spouse. But they weren’t here now and couldn’t help him with this—a personal, judicial matter. An unjust stupidity.
Pigeons looped in front of the windshield as he spotted the address on a brick office building on his left and turned his pickup into the entrance to the underground parking lot. Screeched to a stop at the barrier, maybe a little too abruptly, so that a second later an armed African American man emerged from the booth looking alarmed.
“ID, sir?” the guard barked.
Crocker lowered the stereo and understood why the big dude in the blue blazer might be concerned. Based on his appearance—the beat-up fifteen-year-old pickup, his head-to-toe casual black attire (jeans, tee, pullover, boots), and unshaved face—he could easily be mistaken for some angry wacko with a beef against the federal government. DC was full of them—anti–gay marriage protestors on Capitol Hill, antiabortion advocates across from the White House, free speech activists in front of the Supreme Court, angry veterans demanding better and more timely medical attention.
He showed the guy his Virginia license, and the guard frowned.
“Sir, this is a federal building. Do you have an appointment?” he asked, placing his right hand on the holstered pistol at his side.
“Yeah, but I don’t know who with. Maybe an attorney.”
“Which agency?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sir, this is a government facility. Entry requires a government ID or prior appointment. If you don’t have one of them, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Crocker reached into his wallet and produced the laminated card that identified him as a Tier One U.S. military operator with a TS (top secret) SCI (sensitive compartmented information) Rainbow 9 clearance.
The guard nodded. “That’s better, sir. Thank you.”
He felt unprepared as the guard scanned a list attached to a clipboard.
What the hell am I gonna say? That I didn’t know I was breaking the law when I broke into that lady’s window?
“Sir, proceed to Level B. Park anywhere you find an empty space, then take elevator one to the fourth floor.”
“Thanks.”
He descended into the dark garage, still not knowing what this meeting was about. Thinking ahead to the pretrial hearing, he decided he couldn’t trust his attorney—a sharply dressed recent grad from Georgetown Law School. Nice kid, but maybe a tad too sure of himself. He had tried to convince Crocker that the charges would be reduced to a misdemeanor and he would escape with a slap on the wrist.
What if he was wrong? Overconfidence didn’t sit too well with Crocker. Besides, the circumstances of the case were so absurd he shouldn’t have been charged in the first place. Sure, it had been wrong to break into a woman’s apartment, but how could the court ignore the fact that she had been ripping off his seventy-six-year-old father, and that Crocker had caught her smoking crystal meth with a Fairfax County cop—the same one who had filed the charges?
His blood pressure rising, he stood near the back wall of the elevator, staring at the perfectly pressed uniforms of the two officers—one female, one male and Hispanic—standing in front of him whispering to each other about the long-term value of investment property on the Eastern Shore. He had a vacation house there as well, which he had used so many times with Holly. It had been their refuge. She had been his safe place. His harbor in the storm.
People, even military officials with desk jobs like the two riding with him now, didn’t understand the perils the United States faced around the globe, and the stakes. He didn’t blame them: How could they be expected to if they hadn’t seen the horror, violence, and human misery he had? How could they appreciate the razor-thin line between civilization and chaos, good and evil, free society and forced obedience that men like him fought to protect?
Dr. Petrovian had warned him not to let his mind spin wildly like this. He tried to catch himself as he exited the elevator and stepped into the over-air-conditioned lobby. But how could you trust a justice system in which pampered superstars like O.J. Simpson got away with murder and poor people were shot for driving with a broken brake light—a story he’d just seen reported on CNN?
The male clerk behind the desk dressed in civvies examined his ID again, then asked him to sign a ledger and follow him down a gray hallway lined with photos of former secretaries of the Treasury.
Where the hell am I?
No signs on the walls or plaques beside the doors.
The clerk punched a code into a keypad at the end of the hall, pushed open a wooden door, and stepped aside. Crocker’s eyes darted, registering as much as he could see in the dark room in two or three seconds—a dozen men and women seated around a rectangular table, all relatively young, all in civilian clothes, facing the wall to Crocker’s right where something was projected onto a screen.
Another symptom of PTSD was hyperawareness. His mind raced as he blinked twice and tried to focus on the image—a blowup of something that resembled a president’s face. Benjamin Franklin.
I’m in the wrong place.
He was about to excuse himself and leave when a voice from the other side of the table interrupted him. “Crocker, glad you could make it. Have a seat.”
The woman had said it like she was singing, which stood out in this bland, cold place. As he pulled back a chair and sat, he traveled back into his memory bank, to a town in the Caribbean. Palm trees, colonial buildings golden in the sun.
Jeri Blackwell?
Seconds later, he located her wide dark face near the head of the table on the opposite side. One of the first African American women to join the Secret Service. She and Crocker had accompanied President and Mrs. Clinton on a trip to Ghana, Uganda, Rwanda, South Africa, Botswana, and Senegal in ’98, when elements of ST-6 provided backup and support. Previous to that they had met in Cartagena, Colombia, while President Clinton was attending a regional drug summit.
“Hi, Jeri,” he said. “Long time.”
“Sure has been, honey. Good to see you again. Pour yourself a cup of coffee. We’re looking at those bills you brought back from Russia.”
“Oh.” Suddenly the pieces snapped into place. The captured money, the fact that the Secret Service was the government agency that investigated financial crimes, including the counterfeiting of U.S. currency, and his presence.
“Something I can help you with?” Crocker asked. “They were part of a stash we found on a Russian official in the Ukraine.”
“I stand corrected. Watch.”
She gestured to the projected image on the screen to his right: a blowup of a hundred-dollar bill. A thin young guy in a tight gray suit and gelled hair directed a laser marker at the collar of Franklin’s jacket. In a slightly nasal voice he said, “The overall quality is exceptional in terms of paper, ink, watermark, et cetera. But if you look closely along the left lapel you might be able to make out a slight anomaly.”
Crocker’s mind drifted back to the house in Chincoteague—the view of the ocean, the long walks he and Holly had taken along the beach, making love in front of the living room fireplace, the sweet delicate scent of her body.
The young man continued, “Missing is the microprinting near the collar. It’s a small detail, but highly significant. All the new Treasury bills have it. These don’t. Here’s a genuine Franklin for comparison.”
The room went dark for an instant and a new slide appeared on the screen. The young man said, “If you look closely, you can make out the words ‘United States of America’ along the lapel.”
He missed her at least forty times a day, which Dr. Petrovian said was natural. In time she would fade from his memory. He wasn’t sure he wanted that to happen.
Jeri caught his eye and smiled at him. He glanced back at the screen and tried to focus. Benjamin Franklin stared at him from the hundred-dollar bill with a weary, slightly disapproving expression.
Outside in the hallway, she told him that she would be continuing the probe into the counterfeit hundreds in Las Vegas. “Okay if I ask your CO for permission for you to join me?” she asked.
“Okay. Sure,” Crocker answered. “What’s up?”
She put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Surveillance. You’ll be there to back me up in case you’re needed. Chances are nothing’s going to happen. You can sit by the pool for a couple days, sip margaritas, and relax.”
“Thanks, Jeri. I think I’d like that.”
“You look like you can use some personal time.”
Chapter Three
I wouldn’t know how to handle serenity if somebody handed it to me on a plate.
—Dusty Springfield
James Ryan Dawkins wasn’t as alert to danger or as physically fit as Crocker. At forty-seven, he had a soft belly and a round face, thinning hair, and owlish eyes. A naturally shy man, he had a yen for performance from his days as an amateur opera singer, which he satisfied by speaking in public—a skill he had perfected through many hours of practice. He now stood at a lectern in the ballroom of the Swissotel Metropole in Geneva, Switzerland, and began his address about the restoration of the ozone layer, which he kicked off with a humorous remark.
Holding up a can of aerosol Velveeta, he said, “I want to begin by taking a poll. How many of you think cheese in a spray can is more important than the continuance of life on earth?”
A half-dozen people in the audience of three hundred raised their hands. Many more chuckled and laughed.
Dawkins, showing his satisfaction with the response with a shy grin, signaled the technician to dim the lights and project the first slide—a shot from a NASA satellite of the earth’s ozone layer in 1979. It showed a small patch of dark blue over the South Pole.
Dawkins explained in a deep resonant voice that this was the first time scientists had noticed a significant hole in the ozone layer. In subsequent pictures taken at five-year intervals the dark blue grew dramatically larger, until 2006, when it practically covered the entire continent and extended to the tip of Tierra del Fuego.
That was the bad news, Dawkins explained. The thin shield of ozone helped deflect harmful UV rays—the cause of skin cancer, cataracts, and immune system deficiencies in humans. The good news was that the disruption of the ozone layer had slowed since 2006, due primarily to the worldwide ban on chlorofluorocarbons and bromofluorocarbons. But there was still a lot of work to do.
The speech he was about to deliver, he said, proposed a relatively easy and inexpensive way to restore the ozone layer by injecting oxygen under high pressure into the stratosphere.
Members of the International Society for Ecological Economics (ISEE) and their guests listened for the next thirty-five minutes as Dawkins, using slides showing chemical formulas and wavelength equations, explained the science behind his thesis. He ended with a quotation from former U.S. Secretary of Energy John S. Herrington: “There are no dreams too large, no innovation unimaginable and no frontiers beyond our reach.”
As the assemblage applauded, Dawkins exclaimed into the mike, “I really believe that! All of us should.”
It was the perfect coda to a succinct and thought-provoking presentation.
Afterward dozens of audience members came forward to thank him and ask questions. Standing at the back of the group was an older man with a beautiful head of white hair, wearing an immaculate gray suit, and an attractive blonde in dark blue and white. They waited patiently for well-wishers to disperse, then stepped forward.
“Mr. Dawkins, Darius Milani of Raytheon,” the man said with a slight foreign accent, extending a hand. “This is a colleague of mine, Dr. Naomi Nikasa, professor of physics at St. Andrews University.”
“An inspiring speech, Mr. Dawkins,” she said, extending her hand. She seemed young to be a professor, with high cheekbones, smooth amber skin, and a sweet dimpled smile.
“Thank you,” he responded, feeling a bit overwhelmed.
Mr. Milani spoke quickly, his words skimming off the surface of Dawkins’s consciousness like stones across a lake. He said that he represented an exclusive group of scientists and wealthy men and women named AVAN, derived from the ancient Greek word for “solution.” He and Dr. Nikasa were members of the acquisitions committee, and were interested in funding practical solutions to global problems exactly like the one Dawkins had outlined in his speech.
Dawkins had never heard of AVAN, but his attention was pulled away from the smooth arc of Dr. Nikasa’s neck, the gentle indentation where her collarbones met at the top of her chest. He had immediately made an association with Puccini’s Madame Butterfly and the beautiful love aria “Un bel dì, vedremo.”
Milani said, “I know this is somewhat off the cuff, but if you’re free, Dr. Nikasa and I would like to invite you to dinner and introduce you to some of our colleagues.”
Dawkins was remembering the time he’d heard that aria sung by Renata Scotto at Wolf Trap, where he sat on a blanket with his then girlfriend, Nan. The memory of the ripe, heartbreaking humanity of it under the stars, and how it had touched him then, brought a tear to his eye.
“Dinner? Uh…the three of us?” He inhaled heavily and glanced at his watch. It was 6:34 local time. Nan, now his wife, was expecting him to call at around seven, which corresponded to 1 p.m. in DC, where she worked at the National Archives as a curator of historical documents. He was going to tell her about his presentation and remind her that his SwissAir Flight tomorrow was scheduled to arrive at Dulles at 5:45 p.m. Since it would be Friday and Na
n was Catholic, she’d likely be preparing fish for dinner. Afterward, after he put their adopted eight-year-old daughter to bed, he imagined they’d watch the new season of House of Cards on Netflix. Then she’d undress in the bathroom, slip into her side of the bed, and read. Dawkins thought he might suggest his interest in physical intimacy with a mild remark like, “You want us to hold each other?” Usually he wasn’t confident enough or sexually compelled to take action on his own, but this time he thought he would.
It emboldened him that Dr. Nikasa smiled at him and let her arm brush his elbow. There were no accidents. Even if the gesture wasn’t premeditated, it hadn’t happened by chance. Not in Dawkins’s mind.
Inhaling the floral aroma of Dr. Nikasa’s French perfume, he stammered, “Uh… Well… I—I don’t have time for dinner, but maybe a drink.”
“Delighted. Of course,” Milani offered, “we’ll keep it brief, so as not to waste your time.”
Dawkins smiled at that, thinking to himself, If they only knew how pedestrian my life is.
Clutching his briefcase, he took long strides to the elevator with Dr. Nikasa by his side asking about his scientific background. Milani punched the button to the penthouse.
“Actually, I’m not formally trained in atmospheric chemistry, physics, or even climatology,” he explained to her. “My field is aerospace engineering, specifically as an inertial navigation engineer for UTC Aerospace Systems. Do you know it?”
“No.”
“Why would you? Stupid question,” he muttered under his breath, his head cast down.
“That makes you a true scientist,” Dr. Nikasa remarked. “Someone who crosses disciplines in search of practical solutions.”
Said so generously and gracefully, he thought. He imagined he saw a sparkle in her eyes. “I like to think so, yes.”
Milani led them down a beige, teal-green, and sepia-patterned hallway. The thick carpet hugged the soles of Dawkins’s Florsheims. For a moment he felt underdressed and ill-groomed, things he normally didn’t care about. But the occasion seemed auspicious. AVAN sounded important.