A Dark Place

by Keith Yocum

  “Analog follows?”

  “Physical surveillance with agents; you know, old-fashioned tails with a human being following another human being. Very quaint stuff. All goes into a database. Got it?”

  “Go on.”

  “Now this may be nothing—”

  “Just tell me, for chrissakes!”

  “All right, all right. So there were two proximity matches between Arnold and a Ukrainian named Pavlychko. MI5 has been following this guy Pavlychko for about three years. He’s suspected of being connected to a guy who is connected to the Russian FSB, their intelligence service.”

  “Maybe it’s the altitude or the single malt, or just you, but I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. It goes like this: Arnold was physically in the same location that Pavlychko was. Twice in the last six months. One was a Premier League soccer match, the other was a department store.”

  “Were they seen talking to each other?”

  “No, nothing like that. Just in the same location. Pavlychko is not a priority target, so sometimes there’s only a single tail, and sometimes guys like Pavlychko lose their tail. But Arnold and the Ukrainian were at the same soccer match at the same time. Second time was one week before Arnold disappeared. Harrods department store in London.”

  “That’s it? Two matches? No evidence they met each other, just two proximity matches?”

  “Yep. The probability of the two geocode matches in six months was extremely low. It’s a small flag, not a big red waving flag. Could be random. But I’ve been told by one of the analysts that it’s still a flag.”

  “I think you’re a big flaming flag,” Dennis said. “I’m going to try to sleep.”

  “Well, just thought I’d mention it.”

  “I have a headache. Stop talking to me.”

  “Roger that.”

  ✦

  “You really need to go see your father,” Judy said, cradling the work phone against her shoulder. “It’s been almost a year and you’ve never visited.”

  “Mum, he’s in prison! For working with drug dealers!”

  “Yes, I know that. But he sent me a letter saying he misses talking to his only child. He knows he’s done something wrong, but you haven’t written to him or visited him. He’s lonely. He’s lost his career, his family and his friends.”

  “You expect me to feel bloody sorry for him?”

  “Trevor, don’t talk like that. I’m just asking you to visit him. I can take you out of school and drive you. Or your grandfather can.”

  “No, I won’t go.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I was passing along a request. I would just like you to think of it. Your father and I don’t talk to each other, given the circumstances and the divorce. But he is your father.”

  “Can we please stop talking about it, Mum? I have to get to practice. Can’t be late.”

  “Ta,” she said.

  “Love you, Mum.”

  She hung up and leaned back in her office chair. Her arms flopped down at her sides and her neck bent back so far that she stared at the ceiling.

  Judy was not wild about pressing Trevor to see his father, but Cilla had told her that all sons need fathers, even incarcerated fathers.

  “What are you afraid of?” Cilla had asked Judy. “That Trevor will become a criminal? Don’t be daft. You said yourself that Trevor seems a little lost these days. Let him see his father and deal with that bit of tragedy, and then he’ll move on.”

  And Judy had relented, albeit not without reservations.

  Her mobile phone vibrated. The number was blocked, and she guessed who it was.

  “Hello, Yank.”

  “Judy, how are you?”

  “I’ve had better weeks. Lots going on. Copper stuff.”

  “I’m in London and was wondering if you could visit like I suggested? I can buy you a ticket. I know it’s a long way to go for you. I need to talk to you in person. No more phone chats.”

  She sat up. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Us. You and I.”

  “Is it really necessary for me to fly to London for us to have the conversation?” She could feel her tone growing sharp and aggressive. Arguing was never her strong suit.

  “Can you please come to London? I think we should talk face to face. These things are better in person.”

  ✦

  “I swear to God,” Fred said, leaning over and whispering, “if you dare act like an asshole to Chandler, I’m going to walk out. I’m already friggin’ nervous about sitting in with you.”

  “Stop it, Freddie,” Dennis said. “I told you this will be quick.”

  “Quick and friendly, not quick and insulting.”

  “Then stay here in the waiting room, you baby.”

  “Did I tell you that I hate you sometimes?”

  “Now look who’s pouting,” Dennis said.

  “Okay, officially for the record: I hate you. I know you’re going to do something stupid. I can feel it.”

  “Jeez, will you stop? I can see why you guys like sitting in front of computer screens instead of in front of people.”

  The door opened, and a surprisingly young man greeted them. “Please come in, gentlemen,” Phillip Chandler said.

  They entered a medium-sized office that had no windows and very little furniture.

  Dennis and Fred settled into uncomfortable wood chairs facing the London station chief’s spartan desk.

  “So I gather this is yet another go-around regarding the Arnold disappearance,” Chandler said, putting his hands together as if in prayer. “I guess I don’t blame the folks in D.C. for feeling unfulfilled. Strange case, even for us.”

  Dennis and Fred had reviewed all of the prior interviews with Chandler and his staff; the results were redundant and useless. No one noticed anything unusual about Arnold’s behavior prior to his disappearance; he was a veteran agent with a stellar reputation and a proclivity for signals intelligence and was the agency’s designated NSA contact at the London station. Arnold’s clearance level was Top Secret, with a separate clearance for TCI, or Top Level Compartmented Information because of his access to sigint from the NSA facility at Menwith Hill. In the parlance of the intelligence community, Arnold was cleared to have access to nearly every bit of secret information and in some cases had access to information not even available to Chandler.

  Dennis and Fred, by contrast, did not have TCI clearance, and so, like the earlier investigators, they were blind to the details of some of Arnold’s assignments, though a summary of his activities was available.

  “We’ve thoroughly reviewed the prior investigations,” Dennis said. “There are so few leads to follow, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “Yes, lamentably, that is true,” Chandler said, looking down and reading from an open folder. “On June 14th he fails to show up to work, doesn’t answer his phone. By 11:00 a.m. protocol called for a standard alert, and two agents were dispatched to his apartment. We have keys, of course, and they entered his apartment. He was not there, but his phone was still in its charger, his car keys were there, his clothes and personal belongings were left behind. No sign of struggle. We put out an instant alert, MI5 and MI6 were told and Arnold’s picture was widely disseminated. All available closed-circuit TV in the area was requisitioned and analyzed. The night before he disappeared — and I know you’ve already seen this — it rained particularly hard in London and video results were poor and indistinct. In short there is one, slightly opaque possible match of Arnold walking down St. Thomas Street at 8:43 p.m. That’s it, a single unconfirmed sighting.”

  Chandler looked up at the two investigators. “That’s an outline of his last evening. I know that in this day and age, it may seem unlikely that a high-ranking agency employee can disappear like this, but there you have it. Gone. Pfft.
Many of us have spent more time reconstructing Arnold’s days and weeks prior to his disappearance than we have fighting our enemies here. Very frustrating. If we catch the bastards that grabbed him, I’d like nothing better than to be there to do some freelance waterboarding. I have a lot of frustration to vent. Emotionally, that is.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Dennis said. Chandler looked exhausted, he thought, with a mild redness to the whites of his eyes. His dark hair showed premature gray hints above his ears, and the corners of his eyes were creased into a permanent squint.

  Chandler was cut from the same mold of all station chiefs, Dennis thought; taciturn, highly intelligent, obedient men and women who were often introverted and reserved. Even when pressed, they were rarely flustered, and the London station was at the epicenter of the intelligence vortex, with a resurgent Russian intelligence operation, a surprisingly clever Chinese presence and the myriad teams of agents from Eastern Europe and the Middle East.

  “Just one question, really,” Dennis said. “And by the way, we appreciate your time. I’m sure this has been difficult for the entire team here.”

  Fred swung his head to look at Dennis, suddenly confused about his companion’s gracious pandering.

  “Six days prior to disappearing, Arnold visited Menwith Hill. To the best of our knowledge — and this has been widely noted, of course — Arnold had no appointment at the Yorkshire facility that day. His usual contact there, Nathan Sorenstam, did not know he was coming, nor did he even see him. Arnold’s visit to Menwith Hill was captured on video in its entirety, and he apparently did nothing but go to the bathroom, visit the reading room to see the most recent analysis of sigint between an Iraqi immigrant in the UK and a Syrian expat in Paris. Arnold spent ten minutes scanning the report, left the reading room and was tracked on video getting a bottle of water from the cafeteria, and then leaving the facility.”

  “Yes, that’s pretty much what we have been told,” Chandler said.

  “So here’s my question,” Dennis said. “You’re on record saying that you had no idea Arnold was going to visit Menwith Hill that day. He did not record it in his electronic calendar and did not tell you he was going there. Yet all of his other visits were recorded, and you knew about them in advance.”

  “What is the question?” Chandler said, sitting back in his chair. “I hear a statement, not a question.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t know he was going to Menwith Hill that day? I was a little confused about your log book the morning of Arnold’s visit. There was a fourteen-minute meeting vaguely catalogued in your log about a ‘standard briefing.’ Your log typically showed something titled a ‘standard briefing’ every morning at 8:30 a.m. local time. On this particular day you had a standard briefing at 8:30 a.m., then another one at 10:05 a.m. I looked at several months’ worth of your log book, and you never had two mentions of a standard briefing on the same day. Ever.”

  Fred readjusted himself in the chair, the fabric of his slacks brushing the polished wood surface of the chair made the only sound in the room.

  “Your point?” Chandler said.

  “That you lied.”

  Fred cleared his throat.

  “I lied?”

  “Yeah, you lied. You knew he was going to Yorkshire that day. He told you when he met with you at five minutes past ten o’clock that morning.”

  “Mmm,” Chandler said, focusing his dark brown eyes on Dennis.

  Absolutely nothing happened for thirty seconds; Chandler stared at Dennis, Dennis stared back at Chandler. Fred stared at Dennis, then back at Chandler, then back at Dennis.

  Finally, Fred said, “Do you have any water? I’m thirsty and would love a glass of water.” To add to his discomfort, Chandler said nothing and continued to stare down Dennis.

  “Water?” Fred said. “The drinking kind?”

  “Well, thanks again for meeting with us today,” Dennis said. He stood up, and Fred sprang from his chair as if catapulted.

  Chandler neither said a word nor moved a muscle as the two men left his office. They took the elevator down to the first floor, signed out in the lobby then showed their IDs to two men near the front entrance of the building in Margate.

  “I hate you,” Fred said. “I really do.” But Dennis was not listening, busy mulling over their visit.

  ✦

  The drive north was dreary and depressing, and Dennis guessed it was the famous English winter weather. The moment they hit the M1, it started to rain, smearing the view of the countryside and making Dennis feel claustrophobic. The fact that they were driving on the left side of the road unnerved him further.

  Fred had stopped talking early in the trip.

  “I think you’re being passive-aggressive,” Dennis said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Fred said.

  “My therapist says that particular behavior is called passive-aggressive.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I guess I don’t blame you,” Dennis said, looking at his watch. “How long is this drive going to take?”

  “I already told you, about four and a half hours. You said you didn’t want to fly, so here we are.”

  “Do you know why people are passive-aggressive?” Dennis said.

  “Yes, because they hate the person they’re sitting next to.”

  “No, it’s because they are uncomfortable expressing their true feelings of anger. It’s easier to let the silence express those feelings. You get it? That’s what my therapist said. Or my soon-to-be former therapist said.”

  “Oh, is he fed up with you too?”

  “Actually, it’s a she. Yeah, she might be fed up with me, now that you mention it. But the official reason is that I’m better and don’t need to go in for regular tune-ups.”

  “I’d be tempted to file a complaint with the licensing board that she’s not competent to provide mental health services if she thinks you’re better. Just sayin’.”

  Dennis laughed and idly looked at his phone. “I’ll have to tell Dr. Forrester that. She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  They drove on in silence. until Dennis’s phone rang.

  “Hey, Judy. How are you?”

  Fred took a sideways glance at his companion.

  “When? Perfect. Yes, yes. At the St. George. Room 1201. No, this is not going to interfere with my work here. No, not at all.” He shot Fred a glance. “Yes, we do need to see each other face to face.” Dennis chatted on for another five minutes and then hung up.

  Fred said, “So what’s up with Judy?”

  “Ah, she’s the girlfriend. Lives in Australia. We met on an investigation. She’s Australian Federated Police, sort of their FBI.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Your voice sounded nervous, and excited at first, and then kind of let down or something at the end.”

  “Remind me not to have phone conversations with you in earshot. I think you’re interpreting things that aren’t there. It was just a conversation.”

  “Now look who’s being evasive. I thought your therapist wants you to be more open with your feelings.”

  Dennis frowned. “I thought you didn’t want to talk.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “I’m not sure I want to talk about her.”

  “Well, if you remember, Casanova, I don’t have girlfriends. Last time I had a real girlfriend was in my senior year of college. Let’s just say I’m basically jealous, and if nothing else, I’m curious about relationships. I don’t get to have them; you do.”

  “Stop calling me Casanova.”

  “I will if you tell me what’s going on with this Judy. You sounded happy, then sad. All in the same conversation.”

  Dennis sighed. He looked out the left side of the car as more dark-green fields blurred by in the soft rain. “Okay, it’s like
this. We met on an assignment in Australia. She hated me at first.”

  “Gee, that’s surprising.”

  Dennis turned sharply.

  “Totally uncool thing to say. Sorry. Go on.”

  “Like I said, she hated me at first, but then we both went through a lot of crazy stuff in our personal and work lives. And we kind of found each other. Not entirely sure how it all came together, but it did. And we helped each other when we needed it most. To be honest, she saved my life.”

  “How the hell did she do that?”

  “It’s a long story, and I can’t talk about it. I had to sign one of those special nondisclosure forms the agency has. But let’s say she was at the right place at the right time. And knew how to handle a Glock.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah. For real. Saved my sorry ass. I took a round right here,” Dennis said, pointing to his right temple. “Grazed me and put me out of action for a while.”

  “No one told me that,” Fred said. “Not in any reports I’ve seen. So what’s the problem then with this Judy?”

  “Well, she can’t leave Australia right now because her son is in school there, and her ex-husband is in prison — don’t ask. And she sort of thought I was going to move there to be with her, but I was, well, recuperating. Then when I got back to work, I got thrown into this case.”

  “What’s that got to do with Judy?”

  “Good question. Doesn’t have anything to do with Judy, except that I’ve been stalling about moving to Australia. She can tell it. And if I’m not moving to Australia, and she’s not moving to the States, then I don’t think we have a valid relationship, if that’s the right term.”

  Fred turned the wipers up to high speed as a large truck passed them in a hurricane of wind and water.

  “Gee, I’m not exactly the expert on these things,” Fred said. “Maybe you should just let it go and be honest with her.”

  “You sound like my therapist.”

  “Is that what she says?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So is Judy coming to London?”

  “Yeah, next week. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything, unless somebody asks. Won’t interfere with this project.”