by Mark Gilleo
A mile up the road from Bailey’s Crossroads was Seven Corners, a transportation nightmare evident by name alone. A handful of cities in the US sport intersections named “five corners,” and as insulting as they are to commuters’ sensibility, the intermingling of five roads was almost understandable. But when the discussion of Seven Corners crept into a department of transportation development meeting decades ago, a group of presumably hung-over men were rumored to have just nodded in agreement. Seven intersecting pieces of multi-lane asphalt at a single point wasn’t that many.
Dan’s eyes darted between the merging and unmerging lanes of traffic. Dozens of pedestrians, some with strollers, added to the skills challenge. Dan turned left on Patrick Henry Drive and then took the service road between a closed bank and a black-and-white office building designed in the seventies and now begging for an update. Signs for a travel agency and nail salon, long since shuttered, clung to the façade. A banner indicating twenty thousand square feet of available leasing space flapped from the top floor.
Behind the building, and adjacent to the backend of the Sear’s parking lot, Dan found the first clue indicating he was on the right path. A white van with a hand-done paint job spelled out a single word, emblazoned down the side of the vehicle in red and blue. An arrow pointing towards the back of the lot was the final piece of directional guidance.
Dan drove towards an old brown trailer and parked near a half-dozen other cars at the edge of the lot.
The roof of the trailer was covered in pine needles. Leaves were matted to the roof, the first stage of decomposition underway. Near the front door of the trailer stood an inoperable barber’s pole. An unplugged orange extension cord disappeared behind a piece of plywood on the skirt on the trailer.
Dan opened the door and the barber shop paused for one full beat before resuming its natural atmosphere. Six cushioned chairs with metal frames lined the wall. To the right, a silver-haired senior citizen read a fishing magazine. In the far corner another man napped, his head nodding slightly, a shallow, throaty breath escaping with each exhale. Dan grabbed a seat to the left of the door. Another man in a green sweatshirt stood and walked to the magazine rack, expertly pulling a Playboy from the back of the top shelf where it was hidden from view for those not in the know. A real barber shop, Dan thought.
The lone barber finished with the patron in the chair and slapped the open leather seat with his apron. “Who’s next?” The sleeping man in the corner sprung to life and filled the chair. The departing patron peeled off two twenty dollar bills and slipped them to the barber, whispering into the barber’s ear as the register opened and closed. As the patron left, the barber grabbed a pencil and put a single mark on a small notebook near the register.
Dan read through Car and Driver while he waited for the fishing enthusiast and boob aficionado to get their haircuts. When Playboy left, Dan stood.
Benny the barber greeted the newcomer to his establishment. “Haven’t seen you here before.”
“Haven’t been in here before.”
“That would explain it.”
“You know your pole isn’t working,” Dan added.
“Don’t tell anyone. My wife might find out.”
“I meant your barber pole.”
“There’s a short in the cord. The whole electrical system in this place needs to be updated. To fix the pole, I need someone young to crawl under the trailer and sort it out.”
“I hope you mean someone younger than I am.”
“Age is all a matter of perspective.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
Benny the barber, sixty-five years old with only a strip of hair running around his head horizontally, prepared Dan for his haircut. He organized his scissors, thinning shears, and collar guard. He quickly washed his hands in the sink. “How do you like it cut?”
“A little off the top and over the ears.”
Benny tightened the apron around Dan’s neck and tugged. He pulled out his scissors, ran his comb through a thicket of hair and lopped off a small chunk. “You know the history of the barber pole?”
“Didn’t know it had a history.”
“Everything has a history. The red stripe on the barber pole represents blood, or more specifically blood-letting. Back in the day, barbers used to do more than just cut hair. Used to do a little bit of surgery, a little bit of blood-letting. Kept leeches in a bowl. Over time, as medicine evolved, or was invented, we were excused from our extra duties and focused on cutting hair. But the white and red on the pole represents blood and bandages. Back in the day, the bandages drying outside were an advertisement of sorts. Of course, the representation of blood is better than hanging actual blood-soaked towels in front of the shop.”
“How long you been in the business?”
“Been a barber for forty years. There’s not much I haven’t heard about. Customers tell me things they wouldn’t tell their psychologist. Haven’t been surprised by a conversation, well, since can’t remember when.”
Hang on to that thought, Dan mused. “How’s business?”
“I should be retired, but I am working more than ever.”
“Recession-proof employment, I would think.”
“True and false. A man can only go so long between cuts. Eventually we all start to look shaggy. Unless you permanently solve that problem through natural hair follicle reduction, as I have done. The trouble with being a barber these days is different. Used to be that a bad back, a stooped posture, and sore feet were your main worries. Nowadays, old guys like me, we are being replaced by Asian women who charge half of what we charge. Six, eight, ten of these women will work in a barbershop. Hell, they’ll live together too. You get a haircut and a massage. Probably more if you ask for it.”
“You mean I’m not getting a massage today?”
“No. And the competition also means I have to cut more heads to make the same income. Been working weekends and nights, off and on.”
Fifteen minutes later the conversation lulled as Benny the barber spun Dan in his chair and showed him the results. “Looks good. Looks like you’ve done it before.”
“I figure I’ve given between twenty and thirty thousand haircuts over the last forty years.”
“You are good with math.”
“I do all right.”
“Are the numbers being kind to you?”
Benny looked up into the mirror as he undid the apron around Dan’s neck. Dan smiled in the reflection.
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Well, two of the last three patrons handed you forty bucks. Being that a haircut is only fifteen, according to the sign over the register, it seems a little steep. Even with a tip.”
“They didn’t pay last time and were covering their tab.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But then again, maybe you are running numbers. College football. Pros. You take the bets, maybe hand them off, but you get a cut.”
“I think you misunderstood what occurred.”
“And I think you have misunderstood my intention. How much is a three-game parlay.”
“A three-game what?”
“A three-game parlay. NFL only. I have a hundred to spend.”
Benny the barber went to the door to the trailer and locked the knob. He turned around and Dan had moved from his chair, flanking the barber.
“Grab a seat,” Dan said. “Alex the Russian sent me. We are going to have a chat.”
Benny eyed his scissors next to the sink on the counter behind the chair.
“No chance,” Dan said flatly. “Have a seat.”
Benny moved slowly and flopped into his own chair.
“Tell me about Alex the Russian.”
“I think I saw a character by that name on TV. In a cartoon. He drives around town in a car that doesn’t work very well, eats a lot of caviar, and drinks vodka straigh
t from the bottle.”
“No, he is a Russian intelligence officer and he told me you could provide certain information for a fee. You want to hear the recording of the conversation?”
Benny’s pupils tightened slightly and that was all the confirmation Dan needed.
“You can talk to me, or I can turn your traitor ass in. Make myself a hero.”
“Hypothetically speaking, you could turn me in anyway. After you get what you want.”
“Possibly. That is a conversation I have every week with assholes like you. I’ll tell you what I tell them—it is a chance you’ll have to take.”
“Maybe. But, if you only wanted to turn me in, you already would have. So what else do you want?”
“Just a little off-the-record discussion on someone I’m looking for.”
“Go ahead. Ask whatever you have in mind. It doesn’t mean I will answer. For all I know, you could be a foreign agent.”
“I can tell you the score of every Super Bowl since 1978 and can tell you where I was when I watched it. No foreign agent would bother with that info.”
“Super Bowl sixteen. You have five seconds.”
“Played in 1981. 49ers vs. Miami. 49ers won 26-21. Joe Montana was the MVP of the game. The game was played in the Pontiac Silverdome, Pontiac, Michigan. I watched the game in Cape Town, South Africa. Kickoff was 1:20 a.m.”
“Proves nothing.”
“How long have you worked at the CIA?”
Benny didn’t reply.
“Let’s not make this difficult. Alex said you work at Langley. At HQ. A little confusing at first, I must admit. But I watched you in here while I sat over there reading my magazine. You are a barber. No question about it. It could be a cover, but I don’t think so. Maybe a cover for a day. But not for forty years. You have calluses on your fingers. You can’t stand up straight. Neck bends forward. You wield those professional-grade scissors on automatic pilot. You have put in the time behind the chair. Swept mountains of hair. So the way I figure it, you are a barber. But you also work at the CIA.”
“I am contractually bound to silence. I can’t discuss where I work.”
“How about being bound to a cell? No windows.”
“You know, as you get older, you will find the thought of prison is not as repulsive as it was when you were younger. Not a federal prison anyway. Free retirement. Room and board covered.”
“I’ll take freedom. And as much as it revolts me to say this, I’m willing to pay you for information. Certainly if you accept payment from a Russian, you would accept payment from an American for the same information.”
A low groan, resembling a deflating balloon, escaped Benny’s lips. His face slowly grimaced.
Dan pushed forward. “I can have the FBI here in a half an hour. You can try out your theory on the beauty of a federal penitentiary by the end of the year.”
“If I did sell information, it would be expensive. I would doubt you could afford it.”
“My expenses are soaring lately. And I need information today. What is the downside for you? Prison today or payment in, say, a week.”
Benny stared downward and for a moment Dan thought the barber was going to cry. “I did it for the money. I didn’t mean to betray my country.”
“Well, you did. And you are going to do it one more time for the money. If you need to feel better about yourself, know that I will use the information to bring some form of redemption to our nation’s clandestine services.”
Benny took a deep breath before spilling the beans. “I have been working there for twelve years. Before that I worked at the Department of Energy. Prior to that a few private shops here and there. Usually some dingy corner of space next to the shoe shine guy. Same thing at Langley. I work in the basement. I’m not sure what floor.”
“You’re not sure?”
“No windows, much like prison. Inside the building, I take a service elevator that has no numbers on the buttons. I press the third button from the bottom, on the right hand side. The elevator moves at variable speeds. The variable speed of the elevator makes it difficult to figure how many floors up or down you have moved.”
“I assume the elevator eventually opens.”
“Yes. There is a camera in the elevator. Once I step out of the elevator, I am contained. I have a two-seat shop on a floor with plain white walls and a light blue tile floor. There is a bathroom at the end of the hall and an emergency staircase, which I have never used. There is another camera and guard on the floor.”
“So you are a civilian employee.”
“Correct. I am not employed by the CIA. I merely work in the building, providing a service for their employees.”
“And you run numbers.”
“Let’s assume I did.”
“Do you get polygraphed?”
“Every year.”
“How do you pass? Gambling is a red flag.”
“I had a retired FBI agent as a customer for years. He was a polygraph operator. Over the years, we talked about how to beat the machine.”
“Rumor has it lots of people have beat the machine. Aldrich Ames. Karl Koecher. Ana Belen Montes. Leandro Aragoncillo.”
“Yes, they have. Rule number one for passing a polygraph is to build rapport with the examiner. It calms you down. The second rule is to remember that the exam is only eighty percent accurate. That’s why it’s not admissible in court. People who are really nervous fail the test every time. Most people confess to things they shouldn’t confess to. That, by the way, is the true magic of the polygraph. Belief that it will catch you and acting as if it will.”
“So how did you meet Alex?”
“He walked through that door, just like you.”
“And?”
“He asked some questions about one of my clients who had just left. I assume he had been following him.”
“Did you know the customer?”
“I knew him from Langley. His face anyway. People at work don’t tell me their names. They don’t tell each other their names. These employees, they have multiple cover identities. They have their real name, their main work name, another name if they are using government credit cards, another name if they are working overseas. Another name if they are signing contracts. They have so many fucking names they don’t know who they are working for. Add compartmentalization to that, and you get the idea. You could work with someone for a decade and never know you are working with them. Hell, I imagine there are cases of people reporting to themselves.”
“So Alex came in and asked you about a customer of yours.”
“I told him I couldn’t help him.”
“And then came the money?”
“He showed up a week later. Started spewing what he knew about me. He knew where I worked. Wanted to establish a business relationship, as he put it. Handed me a brown bag full of unmarked hundreds and fifties. I figured, what the hell, I don’t know anything. I’m not in intelligence. Figured I would get paid for telling him nothing.”
“And . . .”
“Once a month he would come to this shop around closing. He usually had a bunch of photos with him. He would ask me questions like ‘Do you recognize this person?’ ‘Have you ever cut this guy’s hair?’ ‘When was the last time you saw this person.’ ‘Has this person ever placed a bet with you?’ Sometimes he would have multiple photos. He would ask if I ever saw certain people together.”
“Anything else?”
“Most of the photos were from people in their cars. Face shots.”
“Did he tell you what he was doing?”
“No, but it was pretty obvious. He was trying to figure out who was who. Data collection for identification purposes.”
“And he wanted the gamblers because those were the people susceptible to blackmail.”
“Not just the gamblers, though he
did find particular interest in them.”
“How many people did he ask about?”
“Thousands.”
“Jesus.”
“He was quite proficient.”
“So it seems. Did you get paid the same amount every month?”
“Usually. On rare occasions he would bring extra. Tell me some of the information was particularly helpful.”
“Can you help me find someone at the CIA?”
“Depends. Who are you looking for?”
Dan pulled out the sketch of Clyde Parkson. “Do you recognize him?”
“Not off hand.”
“Look again. Imagine him without the glasses. Without the goatee. With crooked teeth. With no teeth.”
Benny looked harder at the photo. “Not really. I don’t know everyone. I mean, there are tens of thousands of people who work at Langley. Just count the parking spaces.”
Dan looked at Benny and tried to assess whether or not the barber was lying. His human attempt at polygraph was no better than the electronic version being used at Langley. Benny the barber was stoic. His face unchanged. Dan noted perspiration beginning to soak the fabric near the barber’s armpits.
“You have to consider that maybe Alex knows something I don’t. Russians love to play games.”
“Alex also used the word ‘game.’”
“It’s all a game. It’s very real, don’t get me wrong, but to the people playing, it is a game.”
“Alex told me to ask you about your skydiving adventure.”
“I see.”
“Says you went with your son.”
“I did.”
“Where?”
“Manassas Regional Airport. It was one of those day courses. Spend a few hours in the classroom then they fly you up to thirteen thousand feet and you jump out of the plane in tandem with an instructor.”