Favors and Lies

by Mark Gilleo

  “And the barber helped you identify those who were gambling.”

  “In some cases. He didn’t know many names, but he was very good with faces.”

  “And you provided photos to aid the cause. How did you get them?”

  “Leg work. Unglamorous, nose to the grindstone, diligence. There are tens of thousands of employees at the CIA. We have photographs of a majority of them.”

  “How?”

  “For many, many years there was only a primary, single entrance into the CIA. Now, there are two, plus an additional entrance for deliveries, but it is still a strategic bottleneck failure for your spy agency.”

  “You staked out the CIA?”

  “Didn’t have to. The CIA is on Route 123. A vast majority of cars entering the CIA come from either North 123 or South 123. There is no way around that.”

  “Don’t tell me that Russian spies drive up and down the road taking pictures of all the cars and drivers.”

  “No. There is a gas station just north of the CIA at the intersection of Kirby road. One of the mechanics was a Russian by birth. He worked there for twenty years. We set up cameras in his car bay at the service station. Took pictures every day for two decades. It was very helpful. Until he passed away.”

  “Incredible.”

  “On the south side of the CIA on Route 123 there is a 7-11. That establishment was owned by a Russian. Also now deceased.”

  “So you rigged up both places to take pictures.”

  “Yes. And then technology improved. Cameras became smaller. Easier to hide. Easier to control remotely. We don’t need to have the fixed location photography that we once did.”

  “So you take pictures and use them how?”

  “Imagine for yourself. Let’s say you think John Smith is a spy. You know he works at Langley. You follow him. Let’s say John Smith gets his hair cut every few weeks. Let’s say he doesn’t show up for six months. We can then assume he is an operative. Analysts do not disappear for months at a time. Analysts also do not typically arrive at work in the middle of the night. We directed additional scrutiny to any vehicle that arrived at HQ at unusual hours. The CIA does not allow remote access to most of its computer systems for security reasons. A system that is not online cannot be hacked remotely. That means if you are in the intelligence field and you need information, you physically have be on the premises. As it is with life, you prevent A, but open the door to B. We cannot hack their systems remotely, but we can identify those people who have to come in to use their secure systems. We assume people arriving at three in the morning are not going back to the office because they forgot their house key.”

  “That is a lot of work to identify someone.”

  “Yes, it is. But, technology has made many things easier. For example, CIA employees on the operations side have a very limited electronic footprint. They are not permitted to have Facebook accounts. Their use of private email is limited. So if there are questions as to the legitimacy of a foreign diplomat, check the Internet. If there is no information, you have found someone in the intelligence side of the house. Legitimate State Department employees do not have the same restrictions. In fact, they typically have a large electronic footprint given that friends and family are located in all corners of the globe.”

  “A lot of work.”

  “Every country uses the same tricks. Overseas, if you want to find the spy within an embassy, just look for the employees who work the longest hours. Most Foreign Service officers clock out at five. Those Foreign Service officers who are spies work much longer. They have to perform their cover jobs first, and then their spy jobs. Or vice versa. Either way, they have a heavier workload.”

  Dan nodded his head, thought back to his years overseas, and said, “clever.”

  “Basic info. The key is getting the info without being discovered. Transportation is another weak point for espionage operatives. Have you ever seen those shuttle buses that pick people up from the metro?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, a small number of those shuttle buses check IDs when people get on the bus. That is a red flag. If you follow one of those buses and they drop people off at a building with a lot of cameras and no name on the façade, you have a second red flag. With those two pieces of information alone, you can pinpoint a location where some form of intelligence gathering is taking place.”

  “Benny the barber said you showed him thousands of photos.”

  “I personally have categorized somewhere in the neighborhood of five thousand personnel that work at Langley HQ. Another thousand at foreign embassies.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Not really.”

  “So do you know who my guy is?”

  “When I sent you to Benny, I wasn’t leading you to a person. Not exactly. I told you that you would have to work for the answer.”

  “You were leading me to the plane.”

  “No. I was leading you to the answer.”

  “My patience is wearing thin.”

  “And my glass is empty.”

  Dan filled Alex’s glass. “Who am I looking for?”

  “Did you ask the barber about skydiving?”

  “Yes. The barber’s son wanted to go skydiving for the barber’s sixty-fifth birthday. Cinco de Mayo. I checked it out. I found the plane.”

  “Owned by a front company.”

  “Yes.”

  “The plane is not important. What else did the barber mention about his skydiving adventure?”

  “After they finished sky diving, he saw people from Langley getting off a jet. A twelve-seater. Twin engine. Beige stripe.”

  “And then what?”

  “He said he thought he was recognized.”

  Alex watched as Dan’s anticipation rose. He slowly poured himself another shot and took a sniff, his nose near the rim of the glass.

  “And did you ask the barber any further questions at this point?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t curious as to how these people got to the airport, or how they got home?”

  Dan’s thoughts came to a screeching halt. He shut his eyes and shook his head.

  Alex leaned forward in his chair. “Yes. The answer you seek was not about an airplane. It was about a car. For some reason, a CIA operative was driving a personal car to a private terminal at a public airport. Why? We may never know. Perhaps ego. Perhaps the person was late. Perhaps there was a mechanical malfunction of another vehicle. For whatever reason, a CIA employee drove their personal car, a very identifiable car as it turns out, and they just happened to be seen by a civilian employee.”

  “And that led you to discover something.”

  “That led us to a relatively big fish.”

  “And . . .”

  “It is the big fish you are looking for.”

  “What does the big fish have to do with my nephew?”

  “Everything.”

  “I want the person responsible.”

  “And I am providing a means for that. The first time we met, when I asked you those questions about your nephew, it was not random. I was trying to see if I could indeed help you. Do you remember what I asked you?”

  “You asked me if my nephew was rare?”

  “Yes, unquantifiably rare. Don’t you find this to be an interesting question? What could it mean? Mathematically speaking.”

  “That there are only a handful of similar people in the US.”

  “No. Not in the United States. In the world.” Alex started to raise his glass and stopped. “Out of this small handful of people, this tiny population, three of them are Russian. Russian Jews. Ashkenazi Jews from Saratov.”

  “The Americans tried to reach them,” Dan said, beating Alex to the conclusion.

  “Yes. Our spies followed them. They entered Russia. They went to th
e outskirts of the Saratov and they started asking questions at the synagogue. They were looking for other children similar to your nephew.”

  “Did they find them?”

  “They would have. But we interceded.”

  “Did you apprehend them?”

  “No, we followed them.”

  “And the first step in identifying and following these American spies was a car from the Manassas Regional Airport.”

  “Correct.”

  “So all I need is the car?”

  “All you need is to find a gray BMW M5. Model year 2010. Virginia tags.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now, I have another question for you.”

  “Sure.”

  “How did the call girl know I was someone who could help you?”

  “She said you talked in your sleep.”

  “Ahh. I should have imagined. My wife mentioned that once. I think it’s something that has gotten worse as I have aged. My own countrymen would have killed me in the 1980s had they known.”

  “They still might,” a heavy baritone voice interjected over Dan and Alex’s shoulder.

  Dan and Alex turned to see Detective Wallace pulling up a chair.

  “Oh, good. The police,” Dan said.

  “I think this is my excuse to return to work,” Alex replied, moving slowly to stand.

  Detective Wallace flashed his badge and ordered Alex back in his seat. The barrel-chested Russian bellowed a lung-racking laugh and slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled out his diplomatic passport and handed it to Detective Wallace. “I am an official representative of the Russian Federation. I have committed no crime, and if I had, you would be able to do nothing about it.”

  Detective Wallace flipped through the passport in the dim light of the club while an old song by Usher pulsed from the speakers. He took one last look at the photo and compared it to Alex, then handed the document back to its rightful owner. “Have a good day.”

  Alex nodded at Dan and walked towards the daylight squeezing through the frame of the front door.

  “Detective Wallace.”

  “Dan Lord. The man without fingerprints.”

  “You’ve been following me?”

  “Since you stopped by to take a look at the remains of the art gallery beneath your office. Quite a mess. I figured you would show up to see it for yourself, sooner or later. From there I followed you.”

  “A little out of your jurisdiction.”

  “I can stake out any location I wish.”

  “Including strip clubs?”

  “Seems like a good place to find you. You don’t seem to discriminate in the company you keep. Strippers. Call girls. District Attorneys. Russian diplomats.”

  “I’ve even been seen with an ornery old detective who threw me in a cell full of convicts.”

  “I think we are even. Sorry about the eye.”

  “We aren’t even. I didn’t try to kill you. Yet.”

  “No, but you did thwart my investigation. An investigation that is important to me and my colleagues. To a mother and a father. To a sister.”

  “Then you can help me.”

  “How?”

  “I need to find a gray BMW M5. Year 2010. Virginia tags.”

  Detective Wallace looked up at the gyrating entertainment and then over his shoulder at the club entrance. His eyes fell to the table and the bottle standing in the middle. “You drinking?”

  “You want to join me?”

  Detective Wallace glanced around at the barflies hidden in the shadows, the strippers shaking their assets. “Nothing more depressing than a strip club during daylight hours.”

  Dan shrugged his shoulders.

  “Make it a bourbon.”

  Dan raised his finger at the waitress who shuffled over. He whispered the order into her ear and she disappeared and returned a few minutes later, gently placing the glass on the table. “Drinks for law enforcement are on the house,” she winked, wiggling her bunny tail before vanishing again to the far side of the club.

  Detective Wallace picked up his drink and touched his glass to Dan’s. He slowly tilted his head back, tasting the drink, admiring the streaks on the inside of the glass as he lowered it back to the table.

  “A man who enjoys good bourbon,” Dan admired.

  “My father told me if you aren’t enjoying the taste, then you probably shouldn’t be drinking it.”

  “Not sure the Russians agree with that.”

  “What do you want with this car?”

  “It may lead me to the man responsible for killing your partner.”

  “The killer is driving around in a gray BMW M5?”

  “Someone is. And I need to find them.”

  Detective Wallace reached down for his glass, took another slow sip, and then reached in his pocket. He pulled a twenty out of his money clip and raised it between his fingers. The dancer on stage shifted her full attention to Wallace, bits and goodies gyrating as she closed in. Wallace shook his head and simply handed her the cash.

  “I like you, Detective. Help me out. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “Before I help you, tell me what you have on the gray BMW.”

  “Nothing. Hearsay.”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “I don’t have the time or the whiteboard diagram I need to explain it.”

  “You are aware I am still a police officer. For the information you want, I have to go to the station. I can run license plates from my car. But you don’t have a license plate number, so I have to run a query on the DMV database for all gray BMW 5 series. That, I have to do from the station. Especially for an out-of-state tag, of which Virginia is one. And, even that I can’t do legally without a case number.”

  “Detective Nguyen’s death must have a case number.”

  “It does, but I’m not working the case.”

  “You mean you are not allowed to be working the case.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes. If you’re not allowed to be working the case and you still are, then I like you even more.”

  “It’s called loyalty.”

  “That is what friends do. Loyal friends are hard to find.”

  Dan pulled another twenty from his wallet and removed a tattered business card. He held out the twenty for the dancer and then turned to the detective. “I assume you still have my number. But just in case,” Dan said, threadbare business card in hand.

  Detective Wallace patted his detective’s notebook in his chest pocket. “I have your information.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Did we just smoke a peace pipe?” Dan asked.

  “I think we did. But don’t confuse that with a post-coital cigarette. I’m still a detective. I’m still on the job.”

  —

  Detective Wallace walked up Wisconsin Avenue and danced his way across the four lanes of traffic to the large square building on the hill. He looked above at the cameras perched on the security wall, certain his every move was being watched. And his every move was getting harder with every passing year. I have to lose some weight, he thought, marching onward and upward, step by step up the natural incline to one of the highest points in the city. At the large metal gate, adorned with bars and bollards thick enough to stop a runaway rig, Detective Wallace turned the corner on the sidewalk. The large square building stared down at him as if daring him to pursue his line of questioning. A young, fit, uniformed man stepped from a large concrete block security booth onto the bricked pavement on the public side of the gate.

  “The embassy’s visitor’s entrance is to the rear. Off Tunlaw.”

  Detective Wallace pulled his badge and politely handed it to the security officer. “I know my badge has no jurisdiction on the other side of that wall.
I only ask that you make a phone call on my behalf. I would like to speak with Alexander Stoyovich. I met him down the street a few moments ago. We have a mutual friend.”

  The security guard examined the police badge, nodded, and stepped back into the security booth, leaving the door open. A second man sat on a stool in the booth, both hands on a large automatic weapon with the safety off. The young man with the police badge in his hand picked up the phone and proceeded to have a brief conversation in Russian. He hung up, made another call, and then stepped from the booth to hand the badge back to Detective Wallace.

  “Please wait here. The person you requested to see will be down momentarily.”

  Chapter 33

  —

  Gary Raven’s forearms melted into his oversized wrists. A real life Popeye with tattoos and scars. His hands and feet were mangled. Pieces of anatomy that no longer resembled any diagram in any medical book. For a living, he wielded a welding torch and cranked oversized wrenches. For his passion, he ran the dojo upstairs, directly over his car conversion shop. In a former life he had been a diplomatic security officer, a private body guard, and a home and office security specialist with a penchant for creating safe rooms and ultra-secure residences.

  Dan walked into the second-floor dojo and Gary Raven rose from the wooden chair behind the wooden desk near the door. A shelf of trophies and photos sat perched on the wall.

  “Dan Lord, it has been a while. You here to practice?” Gary Raven asked, eyeballing the cut above Dan’s eye.

  “Not today, Sensei.”

  “I think I surrendered that title the last time we fought.”

  Dan smiled. “I cheated.”

  “Let’s say you didn’t follow the rules.”

  “I was fighting. You were practicing.”

  “I heard about your business. Guess all that security you paid for worked out.”

  “You did a good job. It worked as designed. The bomb was small. Meant for me. Not meant for collateral damage.”

  “So they were close. And they were watching.”

  “Probably still watching,” Dan said.