Overwatch

by Marc Guggenheim

  And this action was several orders of magnitude easier than Alex’s other requests, all of which had the same goal: stopping a war in the Middle East.

  But if the news reports that have been dribbling into Alex’s ears for the past forty-five minutes were any indication, his father hasn’t had much success.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  29 DINER

  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  2:01 A.M. EDT

  THE 29 Diner is a squat little establishment with a blue roof and a blue-and-white-striped awning. It’s fronted by a tall sign that lights up neon after dark boasting that the diner is open twenty-four hours and, below that, a bank of machines offering just about every newspaper printed in the state. It’s also a less-than-five-minute drive from the Fairfax County Judicial Center, where Alex’s release on bail was processed. No words were spoken between him and Grace in that interval. Alex would like to tell himself it’s because they’re both beyond exhausted, but he knows the truth. The strain has gotten to Grace, and something has broken under its weight. At the diner, she orders a tossed green salad and he asks for a cheeseburger, but neither is hungry. Alex manages a few bites of his cheeseburger while Grace just rearranges the leafy greens with her fork. Alex keeps quiet to avoid giving voice to the only things he can think of to say, which are all variations on Don’t worry, everything will be all right. He can’t bear the thought of lying to his fiancée on top of everything else.

  It’s Grace who breaks the silence. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all going to be okay,” Alex reassures her, completely misreading the situation.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean…” Her voice trails off. There are tears in her eyes. An uncomfortable feeling develops in the pit of Alex’s stomach. “I mean this.” She moves her hand back and forth in the space between them.

  “Everything is going to work out,” he says soothingly, determined to keep the conversation from spiraling to a place their relationship won’t be able to recover from. “Look, it’s a”—he searches for the right word—“it’s a heightened situation.” A half snort of a chuckle. “It’s a very heightened situation. We shouldn’t be making these kinds of decisions in the middle of it.” He hopes his tone remains calm as he fights back panic.

  But the look on Grace’s face confirms his instinct that it’s not going well. The tears flow freely now, cascading down her face and making her cheeks gleam. In what seems like torturous slow motion, she removes the Harry Winston engagement ring he’d bought her. “You’re right. This is a heightened situation,” she says. The acknowledgment carries with it a glimmer of hope. “But that’s when relationships are tested, aren’t they?” She wipes a tear from one eye. “I should want to be with you, to help you, to do whatever for you, but…but all I want to do is run away. You deserve better. You need it.”

  When Alex speaks, his voice comes out as a croak. “How about you let me decide what I need?” Is there as much edge in his tone as he feels? “Right now, I need you.”

  Grace shakes her head and places the ring in his limp hand. She closes his fist and holds it in her grip. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I’m doing this now.” Neither can Alex. “But I just feel—I need to do this. I need an honest moment between us.”

  The ring in Alex’s hand digs into his palm like a razor. He attempts to process what just happened, but every coherent thought he tries to formulate slips away like sand through his fingers. “Let’s just…talk about this after,” he says, desperate to say something.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, they make their way to Grace’s Volvo. Alex can feel the ring in his pocket. It seems to weigh five times the amount that it should. They walk in silence until Alex holds his hand out. She might be expected to give him her hand, but she senses what he’s asking for in that way only couples on the verge of marriage can, and she gives him the fob for the car instead.

  “So what happens next?” she asks, breaking the silence between them.

  Alex knows that she’s not asking about the two of them or his legal woes. “I drop you off at my father’s. You’ll be safe there.”

  Grace just nods. “I still can’t believe you called him.” Alex just manages a nod at this, but he’s thinking, Join the club. “What are you going to do? You said drop me off. It’s the middle of the night.”

  What do you care? Alex wants to snap. You don’t get to ask anymore. But he can’t bring himself to say that, so instead, he just replies, “I have to go back to the CIA.” Fortunately, Alex doesn’t have the burden of explaining how he plans to get on the grounds, because he never told her he got fired.

  “Why? Because of what’s going on with Iran?”

  “Because of everything.”

  “You mean with Leah?”

  “Everything” is Alex’s only reply.

  * * *

  Once in the car, Alex works to push aside any thoughts of the death of his relationship. He willfully ignores creeping thoughts of the future. He shuns notions of moving out, of looking for another place; he refuses to deal with any of the logical necessities breaking up with Grace engenders.

  He turns on the Volvo’s SiriusXM satellite radio, in part to fill the silence between Grace and himself but also to get the latest information on the situation in the Middle East. The television back at the diner was broadcasting Fox News, but there was little information to be had from that source. Before Grace dropped her bomb, Alex had been busy taking comfort in the fact that whatever was happening with Iran hadn’t yet boiled over into the type of twenty-four-hour coverage that has the cable news outlets filling the air with talking heads passing off speculation as news just to stay on the topic.

  The radio is a little more informative. According to the commentators, the Islamic Republic of Iran Air Force—the IRIAF—is flying what they’re calling “exercises” in a manner that’s making the Israelis very tense. The one thing all the commentators can agree on is that tense is not a good thing where the Middle East is concerned.

  “I don’t believe this is happening,” Grace observes. “It feels like science fiction.” Alex just nods. “And this is happening because Jahandar is dead?”

  Alex can’t believe Grace wants to talk politics with him. He wants to scream, to rail at her, to tell her to shut up, that he loves her, that he can’t believe she’s doing this to him tonight of all nights. “I think it’s happening because a lot of people over there have always wanted it to happen, but Jahandar kept them in check,” he says. “Now that he’s gone, the dam has burst.”

  “They won’t really attack Israel. That would draw us into a war, wouldn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Alex allows. Shut up. I don’t want to talk to you right now. I can’t talk to you right now. Can’t you see I’m dying here? “But I don’t see how we don’t get involved somehow.” Nevertheless, Alex holds out hope that his father, with all his friends and enemies, the people who owe him favors and take his phone calls, will be able to at least throw a monkey wrench into the churning gears of war. But he’s not optimistic. Which means that any hope lies in Agamemnon.

  * * *

  Two years after the death of his wife, Simon Garnett finally felt comfortable telling people he’d decided it was time to move on from the now far too big midcentury modern home in Bethesda, Maryland. In truth, the huge mansion had lost its appeal immediately after the death of Alex’s mother. His son had left for college, and the house was too quiet and too burdensome to maintain by himself. He’d succumbed to outsourcing his wife’s domestic responsibilities to a local cleaning lady, but living alone in the home his wife had made for them, where his now-estranged son had taken his first steps and where the love of his life had waged and lost her battle against ovarian cancer, quickly became too painful for him. The penthouse apartment he moved into in the heart of Washington, DC—close enough to work and the thrum of the capital of the world’s most powerful city—suited him much better.


  Garnett opens the door for Alex and Grace and immediately has to hide his reaction to their haggard appearances. But maintaining a stoic poker face has never been something Simon Garnett has difficulty with. He offers them places to sit and something to drink. Grace takes him up on both—the living room’s leather couch and a glass of ice water—but Alex demurs. Instead, he follows his father into the kitchen.

  “Have you been able to reach out to anyone?” Alex asks. He sounds more motivated, appears more present and commanding than Simon Garnett has ever seen him.

  “I’ve reached out to several people. A friend in the current administration, someone at State, Neil Henrich at the DOD—you remember him, right?” Alex shakes his head but Simon presses on. “The news isn’t good. Everyone’s ‘checking into it’ and will get back to me. They might be shining me on”—Alex finds this doubtful—“or it could be the fact that I was calling them all at two in the morning.”

  Alex takes in the news, discouraged but not surprised. “Was anyone able to tell you what’s going on over there?”

  “The IRIAF is flying regular sorties over their southwestern border toward Iraq, which is, of course, in Israel’s direction. Iran is claiming they’re just flying exercises.” Garnett’s face confirms he doesn’t believe this explanation any more than the Israelis do. “Everyone’s waiting on the pass from the next EECS satellite to see what Iran’s long- and medium-range missiles might be doing.”

  “Have you ever heard of something called Agamemnon?” Alex asks.

  Alex’s father is thrown by the abrupt change of subject. He shakes his head. “What is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Alex checks his watch. It’s almost two thirty in the morning. Although he lacks specific information on a wide variety of topics, he can’t shake the strong feeling that time is running out. “I have to get over to the CIA,” he says. Alex hasn’t shared the news of his dismissal with his father either.

  “Are you sure that’s, well…the safest place for you?” Simon Garnett ventures. “Considering…everything you told me.”

  To his surprise, Alex wasn’t frightened when he was being shot at. He wasn’t afraid in the aftermath when he reached the inescapable conclusion that someone wanted him dead. Nor was he afraid when being placed under arrest for a murder he was obviously being framed for. But when Alex looks into his father’s eyes—eyes that have seen the way the world, with all its dark and terrible secrets, truly works—he finds nothing but concern and fear, and that’s when Alex feels the cold hand of terror on the back of his neck.

  He forces a smile with the hope that his father can’t see through it. He looks over his shoulder to where Grace has curled up on the couch with a drink. Feeling his eyes on her, she looks up, and they stare at each other for what feels like a year. But Alex has nothing to say to her. Perhaps sensing this, knowing this, Grace turns away, looking at anything other than Alex. Alex maintains his gaze long enough to engrave the image of Grace in his mind. Whether it’s owing to the state of their relationship or the dangers he’s about to face, he doesn’t know, but he can’t shake the marrow-deep feeling that this might be the last time he ever sees her.

  * * *

  Alex finds his father’s BMW 7 Series in its assigned space underneath the apartment building. Before leaving, Alex asked to borrow the keys and his father’s cell phone. Walking to the car, Alex scribbles down a few phone numbers from his phone onto his palm before placing the iPhone beneath the right rear tire of the BMW. The Series 7 weighs over two tons—with Alex contributing an additional one hundred and ninety pounds—so his iPhone is well and truly crushed when Alex pulls the German-made automobile out of the garage.

  En route to the CIA, he tries one of the numbers he transcribed onto his hand from his now-pulverized iPhone. Gerald doesn’t answer, but Alex tells himself this is not indicative of anything dire. He starts to get concerned, however, when Gerald doesn’t answer the landline in his apartment either. Fighting a rising tide of concern, Alex tries a third number. He almost didn’t write this one down, since the odds of Gerald answering it at two thirty in the morning are slim to none. Which is why Alex is stunned when he hears Gerald answer his direct-dial number at the Agency.

  “Hello?” Gerald sounds like the call has stirred him from some particularly deep sleep.

  “Gerald.” Alex exhales, still surprised to find Gerald at headquarters. But then it occurs to him that Gerald could be taking the call surrounded by a phalanx of eavesdropping CIA security protective officers or Overwatch personnel. This would actually make more sense than the idea that Gerald had decided to stick around Langley despite their trespass into Arthur Bryson’s office.

  “Holy shit, Alex,” Gerald exclaims. He sounds as surprised to hear Alex’s voice as Alex is to hear his.

  “What’re you doing still at headquarters?” If Gerald isn’t alone, his reaction to this question will tell Alex as much, particularly since Gerald can’t lie worth a damn.

  “I was afraid to go anywhere else,” Gerald replies, sounding more than sincere and downplaying the fact it’s been almost twenty-four hours since the ill-fated incursion into Bryson’s office. “I figured the Agency’s just about the safest place for me to be right now. Though, I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve been questioning my assumption that Rykman or whoever wouldn’t try to waste me on Agency grounds. What the fuck happened to you? I thought you’d come down here or reach out or something.”

  “I’ve been a little busy,” Alex says. The magnitude of the understatement isn’t lost on him. “I’ll explain everything in a bit. I’m coming to you.”

  “Okay. What’s the plan?”

  Alex shakes his head. If only he had something remotely approaching a plan. “I need you to get me on the grounds first.”

  “What? Just use your badge.”

  “I can’t. It’s a very long story.”

  “Bryson canned your ass, didn’t he?”

  “Pretty much,” he admits.

  “Look, Alex,” Gerald says, sounding genuinely regretful, “I can hack you a drive-on, get you in through the visitors’, that’s easy. That’s a matter of just putting your name on a computerized list. But I can’t get you past the front door. Not at this hour, anyway. The first guard you run into is gonna ask to see your badge.”

  “I’ve got that covered,” Alex says honestly. “Just get me past the gate.”

  “You got it.”

  “I’ll see you in ten,” Alex says before ending the call. He follows the Chain Bridge Road as it flows into Dolly Madison Boulevard. Up ahead, the seventh floor of the Central Intelligence Agency peeks above the treetops. He drives his father’s car toward the security gate at the visitors’ entrance. Those few feet pass under the car’s wheels without incident, marking his first time on Agency grounds as a civilian.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  CIA, OLD HEADQUARTERS BUILDING

  3:35 A.M. EDT

  WHATEVER MAGIC Gerald worked on the computer at the visitors’ gate must have been successful, because all Alex needs to do to gain access is flash his driver’s license. Fortunately, the guard on duty doesn’t recognize him, most likely because Alex hasn’t entered through the visitors’ gate since his first day at the Agency. Entering as a visitor also pays the dividend of sending him to the visitor lot, which sits just outside the entrance to the Old Headquarters Building, thereby decreasing his chances of running into the guard who escorted him out of the New Headquarters Building less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Alex enters the OHB, steps over the sixteen-foot-wide granite emblem of the CIA, and heads for the security gateways—turnstile-like machines with arms that block entry to the building beyond. He selects the one farthest to the left, the one farthest away from the guard station kitty-cornered against the right wall. The green jacket on duty is another unfamiliar face, but Alex gives him a wave as if they’re old friends.

  “How’s it going?” he asks, sweeping a badge over the gateway’s RFID scanner. Alex breezes thro
ugh, heading directly toward the stairs ahead of him. He beelines for the bust of George H. W. Bush at the top of the stairs, almost home free.

  “Hang on a sec,” says a voice.

  Shit. Alex turns around to see the guard approaching him. “Everything okay? I just gotta run to my office to pick up a file.” He adds a gesture meant to suggest his office is just a few feet away, as if that matters.

  “Can I see your badge for a sec?” the guard asks. A sec is apparently his favorite unit of time.

  “Is there a problem? ’Cause I’m kind of in a hurry.” Alex is wearing his best C’mon, can’t you help a fellah out? expression.

  “System logged you in as Leah Doyle.”

  “Probably a glitch or something. You should call IT. I think Gerald Jankovick is still working, actually.” Alex’s mind churns a million miles an hour. His badge had been confiscated the previous night. If he turns over the one he’s holding now, the guard will instantly see that the photo on the laminated card belongs to Leah Doyle. Which makes all the sense in the world, given that it’s her badge. Alex had, to his shame, lifted it off Leah’s corpse during his emotional outburst as he embraced her lifeless body in the trunk of his rental car.