You Can Run
Page 11
“Why’s that?”
“The COVCOM system Falcon has—it’s pretty useless at this point. We’ve got a better system now. That’s what we’re deploying in the most aggressive countries. And only for the most trusted sources. There’s only so much damage one could do with that legacy system.”
“Any sign that Falcon’s been angling to upgrade systems?” It feels strange to be asking such specific questions, but we’re already having a conversation that shouldn’t take place outside Agency walls, aren’t we? He swept the room. And he doesn’t seem to have the same qualms I do; I’ve always found that field-based operatives are far looser when it comes to talking shop outside secure spaces.
“Nope. On the contrary, actually. He wants to avoid face-to-face meetings as much as we do.”
“When was the last face-to-face?”
“When A.J. handed off the COVCOM.”
“I mean with his new handler.”
“No one else has met with him.”
I stare at him, speechless. “How’s that possible?” It’s been four years.
“We didn’t want to spook him. Besides, there was no need, once he was on COVCOM. We were intentionally trying to limit face-to-face contact. The Syrians were trying too hard to root out spies.”
It’s got to be about COVCOM. A.J. died the day after giving the source COVCOM, and no one else has met with him. Some fake source has access to our COVCOM—
“Getting access to the system—could that have been the goal, four years ago?”
“Could have been.” He cocks his head to the side. “But I don’t know. Falcon provided reporting that checked out. Things about the Syrian regime that the regime wouldn’t have planted. Wouldn’t have wanted us to know.”
“Maybe he wasn’t run by Syria. Maybe he was run by another country.”
“It’s possible,” he says. Then his brow furrows deeply. He goes quiet, looks deep in thought, troubled.
“What is it?” I ask, because it’s obviously something.
He hesitates, then speaks. “Falcon’s reporting changed, right before I left. His access improved significantly. There was more detail to his reporting. Much more detail. It began to attract a lot of attention.”
“Someone took over the COVCOM?”
He shakes his head firmly. “No. Same person from beginning to end. I’m sure of it. Phrasing, expressions, tone—all of that was entirely consistent.”
“What was the new reporting?”
“That Syria had developed a super strain of anthrax. One so lethal it would kill ninety percent of those exposed. And—even more disturbingly—that the government was making preparations to deploy it.”
I process the information. That’s incredibly explosive reporting.
“When I left,” he says quietly, “we were considering military action to put an end to it.”
Maybe it’s not about using COVCOM to try to infiltrate our networks. Maybe it’s about planting false information.
“Does someone want us to go to war with Syria?” I ask.
“Sure. Every country that wants us weak.”
“So someone else could be behind this. Planting this info. China or Russia or—”
“Maybe.” He holds up a palm in a stopping motion. “If it’s a fake source. I’m still not convinced. A.J. was my best case officer. And there’s a whole approval process—”
“You were the next person in the chain.”
I can tell from his expression he dropped the ball, and he knows it. “And you were after me.”
He thinks I dropped the ball, too.
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” he says. “You know something—”
“I don’t know anything.” I’m going to stick to the story I told Alex, the one I’ve been telling myself for years. “But I don’t know if I was careful enough. I don’t know if I sent the cable through too quickly.”
“Someone would have caught it.”
“Who? COPS? The Director of Operations?”
His face falls, like he’s realizing that no one would have caught it if we didn’t. “COPS was a lazy piece of shit. And the DO didn’t care about anything after he got those Russian operatives locked away, except talking tough in the press, gunning for the director’s job. Ambitious prick, that guy.” He shakes his head. “You think A.J. was in on it?”
“I don’t know.”
His brow has furrowed even deeper. “A.J. was a good guy. One of the best case officers I ever had.”
“I know,” I say quietly. That was his reputation, at least. And until Falcon came along, I never would have questioned it.
“He didn’t have a price, Jill. No amount of money, no blackmail, nothing would have made him turn on his country.”
I believed the same thing about myself, once. No amount of money would have made me do what I did. No one could have talked me into it, under any circumstances.
The Agency spends so much time digging into employees’ finances, and their foreign contacts, looking for vulnerabilities. But with me, there was one thing the Agency security team missed. The one thing that was truly a vulnerability. My family. That was how they got to me.
“Everyone has their price,” I say.
* * *
—
I drive back home completely unsettled. I was so sure, heading out here, that Vaughn Craig was somehow involved. That they got to him, just like they got to me.
But they didn’t. He didn’t know anything. He had taken A.J. at his word, approved Falcon, and then the cable went on to me. He wasn’t part of this.
And what he shared with me, the reporting that’s been coming from Falcon—
It gives me chills, just thinking about it.
I drive in silence, the stereo off, the only sound the hum of the engine. Cars pass me on either side, nothing more than blurs.
Someone’s fabricating intelligence that could lead to military action. People could get killed because of this intelligence.
Someone already did get killed.
These people got to A.J. They kidnapped Owen. And they’ll be back as soon as Alex publishes her story.
What now?
What am I supposed to do?
A police car approaching on the opposite side of the road draws my attention. I listen to the wail of the sirens, keep my eyes on the flashing lights until it passes.
I could go to the police.
It might be time to consider it.
Going to the authorities means jail time. Jail would be worth it if it would protect the kids. But would it?
They would still be out there. And if I talk, they’ll come after Owen. They vowed they would.
Until I know who they are, until I’m sure the authorities can keep them away from my kids, how can I risk coming clean?
There’s a red light up ahead. I slow to a stop and sit in the silence, staring at the light.
Abruptly I reach for my phone. Scroll through the contacts until I find the name I’m looking for. Jeremy. I place the call.
The light turns green and I press down on the gas.
One ring. Then two—
“Jill!” comes Jeremy’s voice. So familiar, like a blast from the past. “My God, it’s been years.”
“I know. How have you been?”
We’re still friends on Facebook. I’ve been able to keep up with his life, and he has with mine, though neither of us posts much. We haven’t talked in person since I left the Agency.
“Really good.” His dog barks in the background, a deep booming bark.
“Still working in reports?”
“Still.”
“Same portfolio?”
“Same one.”
Perfect. He has access to information on Falcon.
“How are you, Jill?”
> “Oh, fine. Hey, I have a question for you.”
There’s the briefest hesitation, the realization that I’m not calling to chat. “Shoot.”
“I know this is unusual. And it’s not a discussion we should be having on the phone. But I need help. It’s important.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. “We’re friends. Of course I’ll try to help.”
“Falcon.” I say it softly, even though it doesn’t matter, even though if someone’s listening in, they’ll hear me say it either way. “If he were a double, who would be running him?”
“Yikes. Jill, what in the world?”
“I know, it’s out of left field. It’s just…” What am I supposed to say? “If you could just give me your opinion.”
“Is he a double? Because that—”
“I’m just saying if.”
He says nothing. I can hear Max chewing on a squeaky toy in the background.
“Please, Jeremy?”
“I don’t know, Jill. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about. I’d have to look back through his reporting—”
“Could you do that?”
Another long pause. Then he speaks. “I’ll see what I can do.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alex
Tuesday morning, and I’m back in my own car. Away from that ridiculously oppressive Florida heat. Back to the mildly oppressive mid-Atlantic kind.
Chasing a lead.
I had left Jill’s house on Sunday night completely unsettled. Couldn’t sleep at all, tossed and turned all night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her eyes. That haunted look when I asked if it was them, the people she’s running from. The fear when I suggested she might be next.
She didn’t know A.J. was dead. That much was clear. And even before she learned the truth, she was planning to run. I saw that box. The passports. The pictures. She wants to disappear. Again.
I kept working from my hotel room and tried to focus. Tried to work on other stories. But it was useless. This is the only story that matters.
I checked ClandestineTips religiously. Nothing from my source. I wrote my own message: Thanks for the tip on Jill Bailey. Is there anything else you can share?
Nothing. No response.
I dug more into A. J. Graham. Found his obituary. It was short, to the point. He left behind his mother, and a fiancée, Blaire Delaney.
More digging. I found a Blaire Delaney who worked for an NGO in Damascus at the same time A.J. was there. Bingo.
She’s still working part-time for the same NGO, remotely. Her profile said she lives in Bethesda, just outside DC. In her headshot she looks young. Younger than I’d have thought. Blond and tan and pretty.
Property records next. I found a Blaire Delaney listed as an owner of a home in Bethesda. I wrote down the address.
Then I booked a flight back to Washington. I had a lead.
* * *
—
I’m driving through Bethesda now, getting close to Blaire’s address. The streets in her neighborhood are winding. Mature trees everywhere. Sprawling houses with big front lawns.
I’m not sure exactly what I hope to get out of this. Confirmation he was killed, maybe. That an overdose would have been completely out of character. But mostly, I’m here because she’s a lead. I don’t have enough to publish right now. I might be bluffing and telling Jill I do, but I don’t. I need more. I need to get to the bottom of this story.
I knock on the front door. It’s one of those ornate ones flanked by long opaque windows. I can see a figure approaching from deeper in the house. A moment later the door opens.
It’s Blaire Delaney. She looks just like her picture. Blond and perfect—and taller than I’d have thought. She’s dressed in white linen pants and a soft pink top. Her left hand is resting on the edge of the door. There’s a gigantic diamond on her ring finger. She looks at me expectantly.
“Hi, Blaire. I’m Alex Charles, from The Washington Post. I’m wondering if we could chat.”
Her face registers surprise. And interest. I always find it telling how someone responds to an intro like that. Fear, if they’re guilty of something. Curiosity, otherwise. “About?”
“A. J. Graham.”
A shadow crosses her face. “What about him?” She makes no move to open the door wider, to invite me in.
“I’m hoping you can answer some questions.”
Still she doesn’t move. Eyes me suspiciously. It’s almost a hostile look. “About?”
“The night he died.”
Surely there was a more tactful approach. Oh well.
“Blaire, honey?” calls a male voice from deeper inside the house.
“I’ve got it,” she calls back.
I look behind her into the house. Everything’s stylish and perfect and white—so much white. Reminds me of all those damn neutrals Miles insisted we have.
She turns back toward me. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s asked me about A.J.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, because I feel like I need to say something. The words sound emotionless. But really. How sorry should I be for her? Clearly she’s moved on.
“Thank you.” She looks just as discomfited by the statement as I feel.
I don’t know why the hell I’m begrudging the fact that she moved on. It’s been four years, and her fiancé died. It’s not like she’s still married to him.
“The night A.J. died,” I say. “Can you tell me about it?”
“What do you want to know?”
“I read that it was an overdose. Fentanyl.”
She nods.
“Is there any more to the story?”
Hurt flashes across her features, just for a moment. “Meaning what?”
I consider what to say. “Was he a frequent drug user?” I almost cringe at how that sounded.
“No,” she says tightly.
“There’s more to the story, isn’t there, Blaire?”
Her eyes search mine. The hurt’s still there, but something else, too. Anger. “Why are you dredging up the past?”
“To find the truth.”
“Does it matter? Whether it was an accident or it was intentional…so what? He’s dead.”
Intentional? She’s talking like she thinks it was suicide. Was it suicide? “Can we just talk?”
“I’ve talked. To the authorities, years ago. I told them everything I know. They have the message. I have nothing else to add. Especially not to a journalist.”
The message? A suicide message? “Please, Blaire—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I have nothing else to say.”
A man approaches from behind her. Blond and tanned and built like a quarterback. Barbie and Ken—
And there’s a toddler trailing behind him. In a white onesie, unsteady on his feet. Blond, naturally.
I can’t help but stare at the kid.
Four years since A.J. died, and she has a completely new life.
Miles will, too.
“Is there something we can help you with?” Ken asks, putting his arm protectively around Blaire.
“She’s just leaving,” Blaire says, her eyes on me.
“Blaire, I—”
“Listen, that chapter of my life is over.” She says it so definitively there’s no doubt in my mind she means it. That she decided it ages ago.
She reaches down and picks up the toddler, rests him on her hip. He gives me the same even stare as his parents.
“Okay,” I say. I might not be a people person, but I can tell when a door has closed. And this door is most definitely shut. “Thanks for your time.”
I walk back to my car, strangely energized. She might have turned the page on that chapter. Done her best to forget about A.J. Moved on.
* * *
—
I hit dead end number two when I call CIA Public Affairs and ask about A.J. No surprise there. State Department is strike three. Luckily, this isn’t baseball.
Next I track down A.J.’s mother. She lives in Rockville, Maryland. Just outside the Beltway. That’s where I’m headed now.
She lives in an older neighborhood. Hilly and treed. Hers is a split-level halfway down a cul-de-sac. Overgrown landscaping, a missing shutter. A house that’s seen better days.
I knock on the door—the doorbell’s missing—and a few moments later, it opens. A stooped older woman stands there. She has tight gray curls and a deeply lined face. One that looks set in a permanent frown.
“Hi. Mrs. Graham?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Alex Charles. I’m a reporter with The Washington Post.”
Her face doesn’t change. “And?”
“I’m wondering if I can ask you some questions. About your son. A.J.”
She stares at me without blinking. “A.J.” She repeats it back, almost like an exhale. And then she just stands there.
“Do you have a few minutes to chat?” Strike four’s coming any second. Wonder what lead to go after next—
“Yes.”
I sure as hell didn’t expect to hear that.
She opens the door wider. “Come in.”
I step into a narrow foyer, follow her up a short flight of stairs. Then into a living room. Furnishings look old, like she’s lived here for decades. Probably has.
She sits down in a flowered recliner. I perch on the edge of a slip-covered sofa.
“You’re here about A.J.,” she says. I catch a hint of wonder in her tone.
“I’m looking into his final days. The overdose…”
She clasps her hands in her lap. Goes very still.
“Was it accidental, Mrs. Graham?”
“Ruth.” She corrects me quietly. And then, “You mean was it suicide?”
I nod. Was it suicide?
Or was it murder?
“Why are you asking? I don’t want his name besmirched.”