“The prohibitive favorite is Sattar Namdar,” the director of national intelligence replies. “His election isn’t official yet, but we believe people in the government are keeping him in the loop.”
“What are his politics?”
“Jahandar was very reasonable in comparison, Mr. President.”
The president’s face darkens. He didn’t reach the position of chief executive of the most powerful country in history without knowing how to look deep into the chessboard. Jahandar’s death removes a moderate voice from the Iranian government, leaving a more dangerous successor in a position to agitate from a safe distance. Moreover, an assassination carried out against an Iranian head of state by Israel would provide ample justification for a counterattack. The United States would hardly be in a position to condemn Iran when it was constantly threatening military action against Syria in retaliation for chemical weapons attacks against its own citizens. “We can’t rely solely on diplomatic pressure,” the president observes. “What assets do we have in the region?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs is prepared for this question. “The John Stennis is currently in the Indian Ocean.”
“How soon can you move it into the Gulf?”
“Just waiting on your order, sir.”
“Go,” the president says. He can only hope that the presence of a carrier strike group in the Persian Gulf will be enough to make the Iranians think twice about doing something stupid.
TWENTY-ONE
3302 GALLOWS ROAD, FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA
9:07 A.M. EDT
THE NVMHI is an example of unremarkable 1960s bureaucratic architecture. The expansion and renovation that was done to the place in the mid-1990s did little to change the fact that the building looks like the uglier sibling of the Inova Fairfax Hospital, which sits directly across the street from it. Alex pulls the Nissan to a stop in front of a third building on the block, a Baptist church. If someone’s conducting surveillance on him, it’s better that he appears to be visiting the church and not the mental health institute. In fact, he takes the added precaution of going into the church, exiting out the back, and doubling around to enter the NVMHI.
He navigates up to the guard station in the building’s nondescript reception area. Having never been inside a mental institute before, Alex expects to find something akin to a hospital waiting room or the intake office of a rehabilitation clinic. But the environment is much more like the jails and prisons he frequented as a defense attorney. The fluorescent lighting is low and unforgivingly omnipresent. The floors are concrete, and the walls constructed of cinder blocks held together with cement and a quarter inch of paint. There’s a faint odor that he can’t quite identify but imagines is some type of industrial cleanser, the kind sold exclusively by the truckload.
The overall effect is unrelentingly grim and about as far away from an environment that encourages mental health as Alex can imagine.
The rent-a-cop at the guard station sports an appropriately gray uniform adorned with a gold badge that’s meant to suggest the man has some form of legal authority, which Alex knows he doesn’t actually possess. Still, the can of pepper spray and plastic zip cuffs on his belt are enough to exert authority when needed.
“Morning. How ya doing?” Alex asks as he flips his faux leather briefcase up on the desk. This was a purchase made en route to the NVMHI—inspiration struck as he passed an Office Depot. He pops open the briefcase’s flimsy locks and produces a sheaf of boilerplate legal documents. These too were purchased at Office Depot, Alex having found the one-size-fits-all legal papers—do-it-yourself wills and commercial leases—in aisle 8. He waves them in front of the guard, careful not to offer too close a look. He’s completed one of the forms with enough bogus information that it looks legitimate, but he doubts it will stand up to any kind of close scrutiny.
“I’m here to see a Katherine McCallum. She’s a patient here. My name’s Alex Garnett.”
With a practiced apathy normally shown only by employees at the DMV, the guard consults a clipboard for a few seconds and then shakes his head. “I don’t see your name here on the visitor log. Visitations have to be scheduled in advance.”
“This is kind of a last-minute thing.”
“We don’t do last-minute here. Not unless you’re a family member or one of the patient’s treating physicians. You’ve gotta arrange a visit through one of her doctors.” Then he adds, “Sorry,” in a tone that suggests he’s anything but.
“You don’t understand,” Alex pleads, trying to sound as pleasant as possible, “this is a special circumstance. I represent the estate of Arthur Bryson.” The guard tries to cut Alex off, but Alex plows through him. “Ms. McCallum stands to inherit three point two million dollars from Mr. Bryson’s irrevocable trust.” This gets the guard’s attention. “But only if she makes her election by”—Alex makes a show of checking his watch—“noon today. Otherwise, the election expires and the money goes to Bryson’s sister-in-law.” Alex then leans forward and adds with a conspiratorial note, “The sister-in-law is a stark raving bitch. I’d rather see a vanilla-frosted nutbar like McCallum get the cash than her.”
The guard considers Alex for a few seconds, measuring him with a look. Then he says, “We don’t throw around terms like nutbar here, okay?”
Alex nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“But the truth is, I don’t see how she can legally sign anything. She’s not, y’know, mentally competent.”
Alex removes another legal document from his briefcase. “That’s why I have this power of attorney,” he says, holding up what is actually a standard waiver-of-liability form. “Once she signs it, I can make the election for her.” The guard thinks on this for longer than Alex is comfortable with. “Look, I represent the estate, but the fact is, if McCallum or any friends or family learn that she had a claim to over three million dollars and didn’t get the chance to make the election because the Northern Virginia Mental Health Institute didn’t allow an attorney access to her…well, that would put you and the institute on the hook, legally speaking.”
Alex watches the guard make his calculations. On the one hand, there are the rules the guard is charged with enforcing but that he has no personal investment in. On the other hand, there are the guard’s own self-interests to consider. Enforcing the rules isn’t worth the headache that would result.
The guard has Alex place his briefcase, car keys, and wallet in a locker that Alex secures with a four-digit code. He asks Alex to remove all staples and paper clips from the legal forms he wants to bring in, but it didn’t occur to Alex to fasten the pages of his fake legal documents. The guard asks to review the papers, but Alex is able to wave him off by citing attorney-client privilege, and the guard concedes the point with a shrug.
He waves Alex through a metal detector and into a secure wing of the institute. The interior of the NVMHI is much more Kafkaesque than the comparatively cheerful reception area. Off the narrow corridors are a series of rooms that look like cells, with closed doors and small wire-reinforced windows. A low rattle from worn-out pipes and the churn of an overtaxed ventilation system echo off the cinder-block walls, making for an eerie sound track to accompany the unrelentingly stark environs. Then a chorus of whoops and hollers, punctuated by the occasional grunt or yelp, joins in. It is unnerving, but Alex tries not to react. Still, the guard must have noticed some response because he remarks by way of explanation, “Meds are wearing off.”
The guard stops at one of the doors and fishes out a large key ring. He selects a key with surprising ease and unlocks what sounds like a formidable dead bolt. “Can’t let you in with a pen or pencil,” he says. “When you’re ready to have her sign anything, knock on the door. I’ll come by with something she can write with.”
“Thanks.”
The guard opens the door. “Somebody here to see you,” he says in a way that sounds neither friendly nor cheerful. Just the facts, ma’am. Alex walks in and hears the door close behin
d him. He looks around the modest room, about half the size of a typical college dorm. The concrete floors of the corridor have given way to brown linoleum. There’s a low-standing cot in one corner and a small bookshelf in another. There’s a set of folding doors, behind which is a closet, Alex assumes, and a single, ordinary door that probably leads to a bathroom. There are photographs of European cities—Brussels, Florence, Paris, and a few others Alex doesn’t recognize—Scotch-taped to the wall above the cot. Some are traditional photo prints while others have clearly been torn from magazines. These are strange accents of décor in an otherwise unadorned room.
The space’s lone occupant rises from her cot and stands up to meet him. She wears a modest floral-print dress and looks relatively healthy, despite a complete lack of makeup and the suggestion that it’s been several weeks since her long brown hair has seen a brush. Still, there’s a distance in her eyes, a lack of affect, either a manifestation of mental illness or a side effect of the medication used to keep insanity at bay. It’s with these eyes that Katherine McCallum studies Alex. Her gaze is intense, as if she’s trying to fight her way past several layers of sedation to get a decent look at him.
“Katherine?” he asks tentatively.
“Kate,” she corrects him. “Who the hell are you?” Although clearly medicated—and, from what Alex can tell, heavily so—she doesn’t appear to be insane. Alex’s work with the public defenders’ office brought him into contact with one or two truly mentally ill clients, and while he’s a far cry from a psychologist, Alex is reasonably confident he can tell when someone is, to use the technical term, nuts.
“My name is Alex Garnett.” Alex speaks slowly, unsure of how much Katherine—Kate, he corrects himself—can process. “I work for the CIA.” McCallum is more surprised than intimidated. Nevertheless, Alex notices her take a step backward. She seems wary. Looking in her eyes, he senses a fear that talking about the CIA will require more mental acuity than the meds she’s on allow her. “I work for Arthur Bryson in the Office of General Counsel. Do you know Mr. Bryson?” Kate stares at him with incredulity but doesn’t answer, so he presses on. “Your name was in Mr. Bryson’s computer. In a directory called Solstice.” Almost immediately, he regrets taking this tack. Talk of computer files and directories probably isn’t going to get him where he needs to go with her. “Have you ever heard of anything related to the Agency named Solstice?”
McCallum doesn’t answer. The moment yawns. Just when Alex is about to give up, she blurts, “No.”
“What about Overwatch?”
At this, McCallum pales. She retreats and sits wearily on her cot. “No,” she says again. But Alex knows she’s lying.
“You look like that term is familiar to you,” he observes, trying to sound as nonconfrontational as possible.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I’m doing some research for Mr. Bryson,” Alex lies. “On Overwatch,” he adds, hoping to keep McCallum on point.
“I’m not insane” is her only answer. She makes the statement with certainty but without any indication of righteous indignation.
“I believe you,” Alex soothes.
“Then prove it. Tell me what you’re doing here.” She sounds weary, and Alex realizes that as much as he is struggling with her justifiable fears, he’s also in a fight against the tide of the medicinal cocktail flowing through her bloodstream.
“I think someone’s been killed. Assassinated,” he says, switching tactics. “A head of state. And I think it has something to do with either Solstice or Overwatch or both. And,” he ventures, treading carefully, “I think you know something that could help me.”
“I’ve never heard of Solstice,” she says. Confidence grows in her voice as she continues. “I was in Operations for three years. I never heard anything code-named Solstice. I’m sorry.”
“What about Overwatch?”
“Overwatch.” The seconds tick by slowly. “Overwatch,” she says again, more deliberately this time, “is the reason I’m here.”
Alex’s eyes shoot wide. “Can you elaborate on that for me?” he asks. The question is broad by design, intended to give his quarry as much latitude as possible.
Sitting on her cot, McCallum appears fixated on a single tile of linoleum. Her voice grows distant; her face tightens as she tries to access painful memories she’s long since buried. “HR calls me in for a meeting.” She sounds as mystified as she must have been back on the day. “They say that there are complaints about me, reports of erratic behavior.” She shakes her head, furrowing her brow, still perplexed after the expanse of years. She speaks in the present tense, as if this were all still happening to her. “They say the quality of my work has been slipping. My divorce is maybe a month old. I think maybe I am having problems. That’s the thing; they can make you believe what they’re saying to you. Because they start with the truth.” She shakes her head as if she’s still amazed that she had fallen victim to such transparent machinations. “They want me to sit down with Davis Fordes. That’s—”
“An Agency psychologist,” Alex supplies, recalling his own interview with Dr. Fordes.
McCallum nods. “He recommends medication. And then a leave of absence. And then…” Her voice cracks; her eyes starting to glisten with tears. “Then he gets Peter—he convinces Peter to—” She stops herself. “No, I shouldn’t say that. I don’t know for sure if he has been in contact with Peter. But that’s how it feels. That’s how it feels.”
“Peter is your ex-husband?” Alex asks, making the leap.
McCallum nods again. Alex feels her growing slightly more lucid. “Peter had me committed. But the Agency had people—affidavits and incident reports—to back him up. That’s why I say that Fordes was involved. Our divorce was finalized. Things weren’t so bad between us that he would…do something like this.”
While Alex doesn’t have any professional experience with involuntary commitments, his instinct is that when those commitments are obtained, they’re not easy to maintain. Surely the NVMHI has an army of doctors capable of telling when a patient is truly mentally ill.
Seeing the incredulity on Alex’s face, Kate explains, “The meds make me loopy. I don’t…advocate particularly well for myself. And the more you say you’re not insane, the more people think you are. It’s like quicksand: the harder you struggle, the faster you sink. It took me a year in here to realize that sane people don’t go around telling anyone who will listen how sane they are.”
Alex nods, having to acknowledge the truth of that. It’s a jail with no door, being diagnosed with a mental illness. If there’s no x-ray or blood test to clear you, how is anyone to know if you’re cured?
“I’ll get out of here eventually,” she says. It’s obvious to Alex that this has been her mantra for years, a promise she made to herself in the name of hope. “Eventually, the hospital will think I’m cured, or the Agency won’t see me as a threat and—” She stops herself and nods like she’s coaching herself through the moment. “That sounded paranoid. I misspoke. The CIA doesn’t determine whether I get out tomorrow or stay here forever.” She nods again as if that will cement the thought into truth.
“What can you tell me about Overwatch?” Alex asks her, trying to steer her back on track. “I’ll be honest with you, Kate. I’ve never heard of it before. I don’t even know if ‘it’ is an ‘it.’”
Kate lifts her head up, away from the linoleum, and fixes Alex with a deep stare. He does his best to meet her gaze; it feels as if this is a test of his trustworthiness or his capacity to understand.
After a full minute, Kate finally speaks. “There’s another agency. A shadow agency.” She’s adopted the tone of an oracle, distant and omniscient but full of conviction. “A rogue intelligence agency that operates independent of the CIA. It’s called the Overwatch.”
To his surprise, Alex finds himself smiling at her. Too late, he realizes he’s doing this to keep from looking as if he thinks she’s insane.
“I know it sounds impossible,” she allows. “I’m not going to try to convince you that I’m telling the truth. Once people think you’re crazy, well, you get used to people thinking you’re crazy. You become…accepting of it.”
Alex takes a seat next to her on the cot. There’s nowhere else to sit down. They sit there, together, looking like two high-schoolers about to make out for the first time. “It’s a lot to take in, Kate,” he says. “That’s all.”
“Well, if you can’t accept this, then you’re going to have a hard time with the next part.”
“What do you mean, next part?” he asks.
“The CIA isn’t just an intelligence-gathering organization. Like any intelligence service, it also works to influence world events. It doesn’t do it as much as it used to, say, during the Cold War, but the CIA will still try to influence the outcome of elections, orchestrate coups, et cetera.” Alex nods. Having worked in the OGC to help define when those activities cross over into illegality, he’s familiar with this aspect of the CIA’s purview. “But the CIA is limited in terms of what it can do. There’s congressional oversight. There are executive orders. There’s even your office, the OGC, telling field agents what they can and can’t do.”
“But the Overwatch has no oversight.”
“Of course not. How can anyone have oversight over an organization no one knows exists? Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
“Excuse me?” Alex grows concerned. McCallum is now spouting gibberish.
“It’s Latin. A quote from Juvenal’s Satires. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Literally translated, it means ‘Who will guard the guards themselves?’ The Overwatch has no one watching over it. It has no rules governing it. So it can—and does—do anything it wants.”
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