by Jim Hougan
“Why not?”
“Because they aren’t ours. They’re the Agency’s.”
Dunphy was nonplussed. “A surgical air wing?”
Murray shrugged. “Yeah. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
“Then . . . what does the Agency need with something like that? I mean . . .” Dunphy couldn’t even formulate the question. “What is a surgical air wing?”
“I dunno,” Murray said. “If you want, I could ask around, or maybe I should just shoot myself in the head. Same result, either way, but it might be a little quicker with a gun. Still . . . whatever’s best for you. I mean, we go back a long way, right?”
***
The clock was ringing midnight when Dunphy got back to the house, letting the screen door to the kitchen slam behind him.
“You know,” Roscoe called, “this is actually pretty interesting.”
“What’s that,” Dunphy asked, looking in the refrigerator.
“Archaeus a—however you pronounce it.”
“Oh, yeah, right—the magazine.” He opened a Budweiser, and kicked the refrigerator shut. “I thought you might be interested.” Then he walked into the living room where Roscoe was sprawled in an overstuffed chair, a copy of the magazine in his lap. “You gettin’ any tips?”
“About what?”
“Wine.” Dunphy dropped to the couch and took a sip.
“No,” Roscoe said. “There isn’t anything in here about wine.”
Dunphy looked at him. “It says on the cover it’s about viticulture. Grapes. Vines. There’s a story about . . . what?”
“The Magdalene Cultivar.”
“Right!”
“Yeah, but that isn’t about vines,” Roscoe said. “It just sounds like it. It’s actually about . . .”
“What?”
“Genealogy.”
Dunphy’s second FOIA request, mailed on Tuesday in E. Piper’s name, was routed to his desk by Roscoe on Friday.
This is a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request (551 ASC, as amended) for any and all information you may have concerning the 143rd Surgical Air Wing. . . .
The Drone took the request to the files area, returning a few minutes later with a slim folder and the form reporting the fact that an “Andromeda-sensitive inquiry” had been made. As he had the other day, Dunphy answered the form’s few questions:
Subject: 143rd Surgical Air Wing
Requester: Edward Piper
IRO: Jack Dunphy
Date: March 1, 1999
COI Liaison: R. White
and returned it to the Drone.
The file contained a newspaper clipping and a five-by-seven index card. Dunphy looked at the card, and as he expected, it contained the same warning that he’d read in the Schidlof file:
This is an Andromeda-sensitive, Special Access Program (SAP) whose contents, in whole or part, have been transferred to the MK-IMAGE Registry at the Monarch Assurance Co. (15 Alpenstrasse, Zug, Switzerland). (See cross-references on reverse.) Report all inquiries concerning this file to the Security Research Staff (SRS) in the Office of the Director (Suite 404).
On the opposite side of the card, Dunphy found the following cross-references:
Optical Magick, Inc. Bovine Census (New Mexico) Bovine Census (Colorado) Allen Dulles Carl Jung
There was nothing new, really, except the references to a Bovine Census. Dunphy wondered about that. Why would the Agency count cows? He put the card down and turned to the clipping.
It was a wedding photo, the kind of picture that you find in local newspapers. This one came from the Roswell Daily Record, dated June 17, 1987, and it showed a happy couple. There was nothing unusual about the pair except, perhaps, for the string tie that the groom was wearing. Dunphy examined the clipping more closely. The groom looked familiar. He began reading:
Mr. and Mrs. Ulric Varange, of Los Alamos, have the pleasure of announcing the wedding of their daughter, Isolde, to Mr. Michael Rhinegold, of Knoxville, Tennessee.
Ms. Varange is a 1985 graduate of Arizona State University’s School of Nursing.
Mr. Rhinegold was graduated cum laude from Bob Jones University in 1984.
Both the bride and the groom are civilian employees of the 143rd Surgical Air Wing.
A honeymoon is planned in Switzerland.
Dunphy’s third FOIA request, seeking information about Optical Magick, Inc., generated the usual warning, along with a copy of the firm’s articles of incorporation. In an apparent mistake, a sheaf of newspaper clippings about UFO sightings in different parts of the country was also included. Dunphy glanced at the clips, some of which were quite old, but there wasn’t anything to be learned from them. They were mostly AP reports of incidents in New Mexico, Washington, Michigan, and Florida.
Turning to the articles of incorporation, he saw that Optical Magick was a Delaware corporation, formed in the spring of 1947. Jean DeMenil, of Bellingham, Washington, was listed as the company’s president and registered agent. Everything else was boilerplate.
In the weeks that followed, “Edw. Piper” made FOIA requests on Carl Jung and the Bovine Censuses in New Mexico and Colorado. These requests were mixed in with legitimate inquiries from others: spouses seeking information about missing husbands (whom they suspected had been CIA agents); Kennedy-assassination researchers looking for a cultural Rosetta stone amid the events of Dealey Plaza; geologists wanting satellite photos of obscure regions; historians looking for evidence of treachery in high places; and a disturbing number of people who claimed to be victims of “mind control.” Dunphy gave all of his requests to the Drone, who didn’t seem to notice the statistically improbable number of Andromeda-sensitive inquiries, and made whatever copies Dunphy needed.
All in all, his little operation was working like a charm, but even so, the yield was slim. There was nothing in the Jung file except newspaper clippings and a five-by-seven warning—along with a handful of cross-references that Dunphy had already identified. The Bovine Census files were equally dismal. Each contained catalogs from a surgical supply house in Chicago—another filing error, Dunphy thought—a five-by-seven notice, and nothing else. It was frustrating.
Dunphy’s frustration turned to apprehension, however, when he returned to his office in the B corridor and found a note on his desk.
To: J. Dunphy, IRO From: Security Research Staff
Message: Report to Suite 404.
Dunphy handed the note to a black-uniformed security guard who sat at a small table just inside the glass doors to suite 404. The guard entered Dunphy’s name in a logbook, dropped the note in a burn basket on the floor, and gestured to a heavy wooden door at the far end of the antechamber. “Mr. Matta is waiting for you.”
As Dunphy approached it, the door sprung open with a metallic click, and he saw with surprise that what appeared to be oak was in fact steel, and nearly three inches thick. He stepped inside, and the door swung shut behind him.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light, and when they had, it seemed as if he’d walked into a Ralph Lauren catalog. The fluorescent lights that were everywhere at headquarters had been replaced by standing lamps with parchment shades and incandescent bulbs. The walls of the room were paneled in white pine and lined with books in leather bindings. Nearby, a fire guttered in the grate below a dentiled wooden mantel while, above, a darkened oil painting hung from the wall: two shepherds at a tomb, looking lost. At the far end of the room, a Remington manual typewriter, itself an antique, rested on a heavily carved oak desk. Persian and Azeri rugs were layered on the parquet floor, and the air was fragrant with wood smoke.
“Mr. Dunphy.”
The voice made him jump. For the first time, he noticed a man standing at the window with his back toward him, looking out at the Virginia countryside. “Have a seat,” the man said, and turning, crossed the room to his desk.
Dunphy settled into a leather wing chair and crossed his legs. The man in front of him was elderly, gray, and morose. Impec
cable in what Dunphy guessed was a thousand-dollar suit and handmade shoes, he radiated courtesy, authority, and old money. For the first time, Dunphy noticed that the room was uncomfortably warm.
The man smiled wanly. “We have a really serious problem, Jack.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Matta.”
“Call me Harold.”
“Okay . . . Harold.”
“As you’ve probably guessed, I’m in charge of the Security Research Staff.”
Dunphy nodded.
“I was hoping we could have a chat about Mister Piper. Edward Piper. Ring a bell?”
Dunphy pursed his lips, wrinkled his brow, and finally shook his head. “Not really,” he replied.
“Well, let me jog your memory. He’s made a number of FOIA requests.”
Dunphy nodded and tried to look blank—no easy feat, since his heart was tap-dancing on his ribs. “Right. I mean, if you say so.”
“I do.”
Dunphy wrinkled his brow and grunted. “I see. And, uhh . . . I guess I must have handled some of them.”
“You did.”
“And . . . what? Did I make a big release, or—”
“No. Not at all! Just some newspaper clippings. A magazine article or two. Nothing that wasn’t in the public record.”
Dunphy scratched his head and grinned. “Then . . . I don’t see the problem.”
“Well, the problem is—or, I should say, the problem begins with the fact that Mr. Piper probably doesn’t exist.”
“Oh.” Dunphy began to hyperventilate as the silence grew between them. “So you think? . . .”
“He’s a fiction.”
“I see,” Dunphy said. “Though, actually—I understand what you’re saying, but I really don’t see the problem. I mean, I guess what you’re saying is that I’ve released next to nothing to . . . well, next to no one.”
Matta watched Dunphy in silence as he filled a pipe with tobacco, tamping it down with his thumb. “Mr. Piper’s address is a P.O. box—a Parcel Plus outlet in Great Falls.”
“Hunh!” Dunphy said.
“But what’s really interesting,” Matta added, “and one of the things that really bothers us, is that he never picks up his mail.”
Dunphy gulped. “No kidding.”
“No kidding! It’s as if he isn’t interested in it. Which seems strange. I mean, after writing all those FOIA requests, you’d think—what do you think, Jack?”
“About what?” Dunphy asked.
“Mr. Piper’s disinterest.”
“I don’t know,” Dunphy said, waiting for an inspiration. “Maybe he’s dead! And somebody’s using his name!”
Matta puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Finally, he said, “That’s a really stupid hypothesis, Jack. It wouldn’t explain anything. The question is, why would anyone make all these FOIA requests if they were uninterested in the information we release?”
“I don’t know,” Dunphy replied. “It’s a conundrum.” He was beginning to panic.
“At least! It is at least a conundrum. In fact, it’s even more curious than that!”
“Oh?!” Dunphy asked, his voice a little too high, and a little too loud.
“Yes. Though you don’t seem to recall, the fact is that Mr. Piper has made six requests to date, each of which might have been delegated to any of eleven IRO officers at headquarters. But—incredibly a—every one of those requests has gone to you! Now, do you have any idea what the odds are on something like that?”
“No,” Dunphy said.
“Neither do I,” Matta replied, puffing. “But I should think they’d be quite high, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess, but . . .”
“Astronomical, really,” Matta said.
“I’m sure you’re right, but . . . I don’t know what to say. I don’t have anything to say about the requests I get. They’re handed down from—I don’t know where they’re from. They come from on high. a”
“Well, actually—not so high. They’re ‘handed down’ by Mr. White.”
“Okay. By Mr. White, then.”
“With whom, as I understand it, in yet another remarkable coincidence, you’re sharing a house.”
For the first time, Dunphy noticed a clock ticking at the other end of the room. It was a very loud clock. Or so it seemed as the silence swelled, filling the room with the expectation of sound. Finally, Dunphy said, “Wait a second. You mean—Roscoe?!”
“Yes.”
“So that’s what he does!” Dunphy gave a strangled little laugh.
“Mmmm . . . that’s what he does. I take it you’ve never discussed Mr. Piper with Mr. White?”
“No. Of course not. We don’t talk about our work.”
Matta grunted and leaned forward. “That’s commendable, Jack. But you know what? I don’t believe you.”
Dunphy set his jaw. He didn’t like to be called a liar, especially when he was being one. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
Matta reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a manila file. Wordlessly, he pushed it across the desk.
Dunphy took the folder and opened it. A handful of eight-by-ten glossies slid into his lap. He looked at them. Each of the pictures was stamped MK-IMAGE. Each was numbered, and they appeared to be the same: close-ups of a man’s eyes with a small, vertical ruler superimposed upon the pupils. The ruler was demarcated in millimeters. Dunphy wrinkled his brows. “I don’t get it.”
“You passed your polygraph,” Matta said.
“Good.”
“Well . . . so did Aldrich Ames.”
Dunphy grunted at the allusion. Ames was doing life without parole for spying on the CIA. Finally, he tapped the photos and asked, “So what are these?”
“You flunked your eye exam, Jack.”
“What eye exam?” Dunphy looked more closely at the pictures. Slowly, it dawned on him that the eyes were his own, and the realization sent a chill down his spine.
“We don’t rely on the polygraph that much. Not anymore. We’ve been burned too often. Retinal measurements are a lot harder to beat. A lot more reliable.”
Dunphy was genuinely perplexed, and he looked like it. He shook his head and shrugged.
“You want to see a lie, Jack?”
Dunphy nodded. Ever so slightly.
“Look at number thirteen.”
Dunphy did as he was told. The photo looked like the others. Except, he saw, that the eyes were bigger: the pupils were larger. Dilated.
“Turn it over,” Matta said.
Dunphy did.
Subject’s Statement: “I’m sorry, I don’t know where Davis is.”
(To) Rhinegold, Esterhazy
Fuck. The word went off in his head like a gong, and for a moment, Dunphy feared that Matta must have heard it. But, no: the old man was sitting in his chair with his cheek pulled back in a kind of geriatric smirk, or rictus. Dunphy turned the photo over in his hand and looked into his own eyes. Where had the camera been? Instantly, the answer came to him: the turquoise bolo in Esterhazy’s tie. “This is bullshit,” Dunphy said. “I didn’t lie to anyone.”
Matta puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, then leaned forward with a confidential air. “I think a few days off would be a good idea, don’t you, Jack? Give us some time to sort things out.” As Dunphy started to protest, Matta shook him off. “Not to worry—it won’t take long. I’ll put my best people on it. And that’s a promise.”
Chapter 13
Dunphy picked up the mail at the top of the driveway, parked, and went into the house. It was a stale joke, but he couldn’t stop himself from calling out, “I’m home, honey!”
Roscoe was at the dining room table, reading Archaeus. He acknowledged the jest with a halfhearted smile and said, “They put me on administrative leave.”
“Jesus,” Dunphy said. “So that’s what they’re calling it? Me, too.”
“You wanta know the truth?” Roscoe asked. “Matta scared the wits out of me. I’m thinking about taking early retiremen
t.”
“But, Roscoe—we hardly knew ye.”
Roscoe chuckled.
“Look, man, I’m really sorry,” Dunphy said. “I got you into this.” There was a long pause. “I don’t know what else to say. My bad, I guess.”
Roscoe shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. If you wanta know the truth, I’m not all that bullish on spying.”
Dunphy shook his head.
“I’m serious! Redistributing FOIA requests to Agency fuckups—” Roscoe winced at Dunphy’s look, caught his breath, and forged on. “Present company excepted—obviously! But this isn’t what I signed on for. I mean, it’s depressing. The Cold War’s over. The enemy went away. We oughta be celebrating, but we aren’t. And why not? Because the Russians’ surrender was the ultimate betrayal. Now that we don’t have an enemy—make that a ‘symmetrical enemy’—one that’s as strong as we are, or who can be packaged that way—how’re we supposed to justify our budgets? Drugs? Terrorism? The medfly? Gimme a break. I’ll be glad to be out.” Roscoe paused, and nodded at the mail in Dunphy’s hand. “Anything for me?”
Dunphy looked. There was a big envelope with Ed McMahon’s picture on it and a huge headline—WE’RE PROUD TO ANNOUNCE THAT ROSCOE WHITE IS A $10,000,000.00 WINNER! a—followed by the words, in small type, “if he fills out the enclosed entry form and holds the winning ticket.” Dunphy tossed the letter to Roscoe. “Congratulations,” he said, dropping into an armchair and glancing at the rest of the mail. Most of it was bills, but there was one envelope that, lacking a stamp, had been hand-delivered. It was addressed to Dunphy, and he opened it.
“Jack,” it read, “You didn’t get this from me, but . . .
I ran a computer check, and the long and the short of it is, Pentagon files show a single, open reference to the 143rd. The reference is to a disability pension for a Dodge City, Kansas, resident named Gene Brading, who contracted something called Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease (?) while on assignment with the 143rd You-know-what. If you’re still interested in the subject, you might want to contact him. I checked, and he’s in the book.
The note, which was obviously from Murray, was signed Omar the Tentmaker.
“Jesus,” Dunphy whispered.