Favors and Lies

by Mark Gilleo

“What were your orders, exactly?”

  “I was told that contact with you had already been established and I would be meeting you under the auspice of an internship. It was my understanding you had interns in the past.”

  “How did you know about past internships?”

  “Standard operation. Your email account was compromised to identify access opportunities—a way to enter your life without raising undue suspicion. Your email history was dissected at the most granular level. We found references to past interns. We researched your friend, Professor Davis. The relationship between you and the professor was examined in detail. Once we felt comfortable about our chances, we created a student that fit our description. That student was me.”

  “My private emails are encrypted.”

  Sue cocked her head to the side. “Really?”

  “What if I had called the professor?”

  “Could have. But I think we’ve learned enough about phone manipulation to acknowledge there are ways to circumvent that possibility. If we didn’t want you to reach the professor via phone, we could have made that happen. But all that aside, it was an acceptable risk. No cover assignment is perfect. No assignment is risk free. And if you did catch me in the lie, so what? We would have looked for another access point.”

  “What was in the file you were given at the time of your assignment?”

  “Most of the things I learned about you I disclosed last week when I was trying to impress you with my research skills.”

  “I am no longer impressed. You had the CIA database at your disposal.”

  “Actually, a majority of the information I shared with you was supplied to me in hard copy. There is surprisingly little information available in the standard agency databases on you and your background. At least not at my level of security clearance.”

  “So you were reading from hard copies?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means someone was controlling all of the information you had. Everything you know about me could have been completely fictitious.”

  “It could have been, I guess. But it wasn’t. I could tell by your reaction.”

  “But you didn’t know that until after the fact.”

  “True. But I am not sure why it matters. All-in-all, nothing in the file given to me about your background would surprise you.”

  “The existence of the file surprises me. Why would I have one at all? The content is less intriguing.”

  “Never thought about it. I was just doing my job.”

  “Was there any information beyond what you have already told me?”

  “Several additional items were discussed at the assignment briefing. A few other tidbits of a more subjective nature. Likes and dislikes. Sexual orientation. Alcohol and drug use tendencies. On the whole, the file portrayed you as a bit of a loner. I am sure there is some additional information I do not have access to. Access at the Agency is limited by a variety of parameters. It is not unusual to have limited access or partial access.”

  “Hierarchical controls and compartmentalization.”

  “That’s how it works.”

  “What about your knowledge of forensics and death? You were pretty convincing in your conversation with Tobias on the great killers and afflictions of humankind.”

  “I studied both subjects in real life. Well, uh, in college. Real college. The college I went to.”

  “I get it.”

  “I was told one of the reasons I was selected for the assignment was based on my educational background. But it had been a while since I graduated. I had to re-study. I downloaded all the syllabi from all the classes I would have been required to take if I were a student at Marymount. Crammed for eighteen hours a day. I was even assigned a tutor. Took a few exams.”

  “And the story about your parents passing away? The pimp with the whiskey bottle in the neck. I checked the legal records for you and the information was verified. There was also a brief mention of it in an old issue of the Baltimore Sun. Or was that information all planted?”

  Sue looked Dan in the eyes. “Oh, that part was true.”

  “So your name is Sue Fine.”

  “I was told it was likely you would do a background check and that you had access to information normal people may not have. I also have a legal record, and was fingerprinted, so it was decided I would use my real name. It was more plausible to create a background for my real name, to augment what is already publicly available, than to create a fictitious person you would likely debunk. Of course, your background check would have no way of identifying me as a CIA employee.”

  Dan nodded as the car passed Reagan National. Minutes later, they approached the onramp to the Roosevelt Bridge, heading into the District.

  “Do you know our man, Reed Temple . . . Clyde Parkson?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You are aware you both receive paychecks from the same employer.”

  “I was not given any information on him. After you took pictures of Ebony and Ivory at the coffee shop stakeout, I submitted the photos for analysis and identification. I never received a reply.”

  “Convenient.”

  “Yes.”

  “So your task was to follow me?”

  “Yes. You can trust me.”

  “That is to be determined.”

  “If I wanted you dead, I would have put a bullet in you while you were in the cellar. I had a loaded handgun at your back. I could have easily shot both of you.”

  “Maybe you were aiming for me and you missed.”

  “From fifteen feet? I doubt it.”

  “Maybe you don’t want me dead. Maybe you want me captured.”

  Sue had no rebuttal. Under the same circumstances she would be equally suspicious.

  “What happened after you left the hospital? How were you acquired by our two dead guys?” Dan asked.

  “I took a cab from the hospital. You had my car, mind you. I needed to check in with my superiors. I returned to my apartment and was acquired before I could get inside.”

  “So they followed both of us from the hospital,” Dan said.

  “It would seem so,” Sue responded.

  “I was checking for a tail.”

  “Not very well. Or maybe you were being tracked somehow. I had to travel by cab. There was very little I could do about surveillance.”

  “You could have driven the cab.”

  “I won’t justify that with a response. Where are we going?”

  “To my sister-in-law’s house.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that is the location of the car the Russian told me to follow.”

  “According to the DC police?”

  “According to a DC detective.”

  “The same one who threw you in jail?”

  “Great friendships start in unusual circumstances.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence and Sue knew further elaboration was not in the cards.

  “What’s the story with your nephew?”

  Dan grunted. “What intelligence did you have on him?”

  “None. I only know what you have told me. And what I have pieced together. My orders were very specific. My primary objective was to provide intelligence on your movements in order to keep you safe.”

  “Sounds like a couple of agents received conflicting primary objectives from the Agency.”

  “Yes it does.”

  “And you didn’t do a good job of keeping me safe.”

  “You are still alive. My objective has been met.”

  “How often did you check in with your superiors?”

  “Daily. Usually a brief write-up sent via an encrypted email system. I also had voice-drop alternatives.”

  “Voicemail?”

  “Essentially yes, but with a greater security element. Voice verification and some other security bells and whistles.”

  “Do you carry a weapon?”

>   “Not on this case, though I am fully trained. I have several thousand rounds through a variety of handguns and assault rifles. Keep in mind this is a domestic assignment. Highly unusual. Different rules.”

  “Rules for a game that shouldn’t even be played. It is illegal for the CIA to operate clandestine programs domestically.”

  Sue paused for another moment. “I know you don’t owe me anything. But it seems everyone involved with you is more informed than I am. Tell me about your nephew. Maybe I can help.”

  Dan stared straight ahead. The car was now heading north on Rock Creek Parkway. Lights from the back patios and decks of million-dollar properties on the cliffs overlooking the park flashed through the trees.

  “My nephew had a rare disease called CIPA,” Dan said, voice cracking almost imperceptibly.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’m not surprised. There have been fewer than two dozen cases reported worldwide since it was identified. Most patients don’t survive to school age. Only a handful of cases have lived past the age of eighteen.”

  “What is it?”

  “The official name is Congenital Insensitivity to Pain with Anhidrosis. The first part of the name is self-explanatory. Anhidrosis means the patient does not perspire.”

  “Insensitivity to pain and the inability to perspire?”

  “That’s right. My nephew could not feel pain in the conventional sense.”

  “Jesus. Sounds awful and great at the same time. At least you never had to worry about him getting hurt.”

  “On the contrary. We all had to worry about him being hurt and not knowing. When he was in elementary school he broke his wrist skateboarding. It wasn’t until he dropped a couple of glasses in the kitchen days later that my brother realized he was injured.”

  “I can see why the life expectancy is so short.”

  “The body is a well-designed machine. Multiple systems exist to perpetuate the body’s own survival. Think about it. Fevers are designed to kill off infection within the body. Sweat enables the body to cool down. Swelling helps to protect injuries. Eyes produce tears to keep them lubricated and protected. The list goes on and on. Pain is a major component of the body’s self-protection system. Pain informs you something is wrong. Take away all of those warning systems and it’s like driving a car with no dashboard. No check engine light. No gas level indicator. No door ajar warning. Like driving down the street with no seatbelt, the doors open, running on fumes with a malfunctioning engine, and being oblivious to the danger.”

  “When did they discover your nephew had the disease?”

  “Shortly after he began to teethe. As an infant he cried for emotional reasons. When he wanted attention. Wanted to be picked up. Those episodes of normal emotional display masked any serious physical ailments. I mean, the baby cried so the parents didn’t worry. What his parents didn’t recognize was the baby never cried because he had gas, or because he had a fever. Those instances were masked by my nephew’s unusual medical condition.”

  “So what changed when he had teeth?”

  “My brother found him one day in his bed, face covered in blood. As a toddler, he had chewed through his tongue, lips, and nibbled on his fingers. He had no sensation of pain. Nothing to tell him to stop. It scared the shit out of my brother. My sister-in-law was beside herself.”

  “But your nephew survived.”

  “He had a diligent family. Checked his temperature twice a day. Inspected his body constantly. Installed plastic windows in the house. Taught him how his body should react to certain things, extreme temperatures. Explained and showed him that hot objects would burn him. Showed him cold objects could also be dangerous. He was well-versed in anatomy. Basically, they tried to give him the tools to self-monitor.”

  “To give him his own dashboard.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did he have injuries growing up?”

  “Many.”

  “And . . .”

  “They were managed. Treated normally. But what wasn’t normal was the attention his condition attracted. A broken arm was not a simple broken arm when the patient was one in a billion and couldn’t feel pain. There was a lot of medical interest.”

  “Must have been hard to grow up like that. To keep the implications of that in check.”

  “It was a mental challenge, to be sure. I taught him martial arts, hoping more than anything that he would realize he didn’t have to fight. To teach him to take the high road. Boys are boys and I wanted to remove the curiosity associated with any potential physical altercation. I hoped if he knew he could fight well, he wouldn’t be curious to show others he could fight well. I hoped to filter out some of the natural adolescent bullshit.”

  “I can see where teaching him to fight would have some danger to it.”

  “For both of us. I learned it’s not easy to fight someone with no pain reception. Pain submission holds were worthless. He wouldn’t tap out. And he also knew I wouldn’t hurt him. He used all of those to his advantage.”

  “He beat you.”

  Dan smiled. “On occasion.”

  “So what has Reed Temple been doing with him?”

  “That is the million dollar question.”

  Chapter 42

  —

  Dan pulled the burgundy sedan to the curb behind Detective Wallace’s unmarked police car. He walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and cut the zip tie on Sue’s wrist.

  “Thanks. I think I’ve had enough restraints for the evening.”

  “That’s what happens when you lie. No one trusts you. Out of the car.”

  Seconds later, Dan opened the passenger side of Detective Wallace’s unmarked car and Sue sat down. Dan shut the door and Wallace rolled down the passenger window. The detective flicked on the interior light and surveyed Sue’s face. The bruise and swelling had worsened. A broken blood vessel colored the corner of her eye a deep red. “Did he hit you?”

  “No.”

  Dan squatted on the strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb and rested his forearms on the frame of the passenger window.

  “The guy responsible for the shiner on her face was involved in Detective Nguyen’s death.”

  Wallace turned serious. “Enough games, Dan. I am going to need a name.”

  “I can do better than that.” Dan reached into his pocket and pulled out Major’s driver’s license with his real name and address on it. He flipped the ID onto the detective’s lap. “But there is still one loose end to snip. The man giving the orders to kill is still on the street.”

  “You’re going to force me into behavior that could make me lose my job.”

  “No offense, but you have to be close to retirement age. Now, what do we have on the BMW?”

  Wallace pointed in the direction of Dan’s sister-in-law’s house. “It pulled in the driveway ten minutes ago. I didn’t want to blow my cover, so I watched from down the block and then moved to this spot. There are good lines of sight from here. The BMW is in full view. We can observe several lights on in the residence. We have a straight shot into half of the living room. You can almost read the books on the built-ins on the far wall.”

  “Did you see who exited the car?”

  “Not really. I caught a glimpse of the door as it shut.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No one arrived by car or entered through the front.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I am going inside.”

  “That’s the plan?”

  “I’m winging it.”

  “What should I do with the girl?”

  “Keep an eye on her, but if she wants to leave, let her go. If she tries to come in the house, arrest her. She does not have permission to enter the residence and I am the executor of the estate.”

  Dan stoo
d and then added, “Don’t believe her innocence for a second. I may try to keep you from losing your job, but the people she works for won’t.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I also need you to call the Alexandria police. Tell them two individuals were held captive in the basement of the Stonewall Jackson House in Old Town and that lethal force was used in order to escape. Tell them the two victims are now with you.”

  Chapter 43

  —

  Dan walked up the driveway and stepped onto the front porch. He reached behind a decorative street-number sign on the wall next to the porch light and brandished a key used for emergencies. A moment later, he opened the front door and stepped through the foyer, gun drawn.

  A standing pedestal light illuminated the corner of the living room near the window, on the far side of a wingback chair. Dan edged towards the living room, garnering a glimpse of a reflection of a person seated in the chair. The face was distorted by the window panes, the details concealed in the shadow cast by the edge of the chair. Dan registered a metal object to his right as he entered the room and his eyes momentarily averted from his target. A walking cane rested against the skirt of the person in the chair, a small leg brace wrapped around the ankle.

  Dan stepped forward, gun at eye level, and pivoted towards his target. The person in the corner chair didn’t flinch as Dan acquired a direct line of sight. He lowered his aim, the sights on his weapon falling to a point directly between the eyes of the woman who had brought him into the world.

  “I had a feeling it was you.”

  Dan’s mother—ten years deceased—tried to smile and failed. “I had a feeling you would have that feeling.”

  Dan shook his head, tears involuntarily forming in his eyes. His mother’s hair was up, tied neatly behind her head. The salt-and-pepper color he remembered was now fully gray. Wrinkles rippled across her forehead and dripped from the corners of her eyes.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t start. I’m in no fucking mood.”

  “I was hoping you hadn’t lost your manners.”