by Keith Yocum
Dennis shifted in his seat; Judy looked out the window onto a rooftop next door.
“I have to go back to Washington,” he said, standing up. “I’m going to leave right after I meet your family. There’s a couple of things I need clear up in Langley, then I’m resigning. I’ll fly back here and wait for you to get healthy, and we’ll fly back to Perth. If you change your mind about anything, I’ll support you. But I have no intention of leaving you.”
He stood up, leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips, and left.
When she heard his steps disappear down the hall, she allowed herself to cry in short, stabbing sobs that seemed to stay lodged in her throat.
✦
When Dennis entered her room the next day, every eye was red and watery. Emily, Judy’s mother, a short, sturdy woman in her sixties, rushed over and hugged him ferociously.
“Thank you, thank you!” she cried. “You saved our poor Judy!”
Her husband Stevey gently pried Emily away and shook his hand vigorously. “My God, man, what a hero you are. Newspapers in Australia are covering this thing like it was the landing at Normandy! Blazing guns, shooting down these despicable men! We need more heroes like you, mate!”
“Oh, it was my colleague who did most of the heavy lifting,” Dennis said quickly. “I was just a helper.”
But Stevey would have none of it, and Dennis decided not to argue the point. He shook hands with the handsome and exceedingly tall Trevor, who looked stunned, confused, happy and sad — all at the same time.
Dennis sat with Judy, holding her hand while her parents circled around the room like celestial objects, animated in their pleasure at having their daughter back. Judy sat in middle of it all, gently rubbing Dennis’s hand with her thumb and shrugging in mild embarrassment every now and then.
✦
His office had been cleaned by the custodial staff, but it still smelled stale. He sat at his desk and felt comforted by the familiar squeak of chair springs as he leaned back and forward.
The phone rang.
“Hey, Stan,” he said to a colleague. “Yeah, just got back into the office. Ha, well, news travels fast. Yes, quite a dustup over there. No, well, can’t talk about that stuff, as you can imagine. Still awaiting word on what the Council of Doom will decide.”
He chatted some more then hung up.
The phone rang again from the IG’s office.
“Cunningham here,” he said in a deeper, more officious tone. “In twenty minutes? Certainly.”
He was not surprised to see Louise already at the table in Richardson’s office. They nodded politely at each other. Two other people were at the table, a young man in his mid-thirties and an older, very thin, white-haired, severe looking woman in her fifties.
“We should just get down to business,” Richardson said in his normal, convivial tone. Dennis could imagine him using the same bouncy, enthusiastic tone to announce his entire family had been murdered.
“Your unsanctioned activities in London have been reviewed and adjudicated by a steering committee, as is the policy here. Before we get down to the decision, I do want to say that while there was an obvious breach of protocol and professional guidelines, the end result was undeniably a good one. Still, we do have rules.”
He turned to the older woman.
“The committee has taken all the factors into account in making our decision. It’s not easy when we have to balance our rules and procedures against an outcome that was so positive. Still, we cannot sanction in any way the abrogation of duty and honor in rogue operations by employees of the agency…” At these words, Dennis stopped listening and stole a glance at Louise, who stared at the woman with that steely glare of hers.
Poor Louise, he thought. She’s going to get slammed on this, and it was all because of me. Me? I could give a shit what they do. But Louise, well, she cares about her job, her country and the agency.
Which was why his self-absorption was jolted back to reality when he heard the older woman say, “While some of us were looking for more serious sanctions, the majority of the committee voted to take no action against either of you. At this time, that is. We could always choose to open the file later and press charges.”
Richardson smiled, thanked the woman and young man, and escorted them out of his office.
Dennis stole a glance at Louise, but she kept her eyes on Richardson as he returned to the table.
“Well, that was a close one, wouldn’t you say?” he said, sighing. “You know, I thought the two of you were going to be a good team, but boy was I mistaken. Louise, we’ve already had several discussions around this issue, and we don’t need to go there again. On the other hand, Cunningham, you are just back from the UK, and we haven’t spoken yet.”
Dennis had his fingers intertwined on the mahogany table as if in a church pew and stared at them in a sign of abject penance mixed with profound confusion. He had been sure they were going to fire him or even incarcerate him.
“As we discussed at the beginning, you have a very influential benefactor that pressed us to put you on a case. But so far we’ve managed to lose a highly valued member of the NSA’s OIG to a horrible poisoning, we had an Australian policewoman abducted, tortured and rescued by the two of you in a shootout worthy of a Bourne movie. And we’re no closer to finding out what happened to our deputy chief of station in London than before the two of you were given the case.”
The intercom on Richardson’ desk uttered a tone, and then his secretary said, “Director on line two, sir.”
“Oh, crap,” Richardson said, looking at his watch. He got up, went to his desk and grabbed the phone. Louise and Dennis exchanged glances; her face was blank, and Dennis knew enough about her already not to bother judging where she stood.
Richardson spoke on the phone for a few minutes then returned to the table and without sitting down, said, “So here’s where we are: I’ve been ordered to close the Arnold investigation in exactly fourteen days. I would close it now, but the director is a little nervous about your benefactor, Cunningham. Do whatever you want on the case for two weeks, or do nothing for two weeks, I could care less. But the case is going to close, and you’ll be on to other, more important tasks. Thank you.”
✦
Louise shut the door to her office behind Dennis and then sat down. He vaguely remembered the first time he’d sat in her office, deciding that she was a lightweight talent that had been dumped out of operations. Now, sitting there with his legs folded, he kept conjuring up an image of Louise with her red beret sauntering toward the doorman in London.
“Do you remember why I let you go back to London?” she said, skipping any hint of friendship or camaraderie.
“Um, yes. You told me that you’d let me go back to search for Judy if I’d continue to work on the Arnold case.”
“And did you work on the Arnold case?”
“A bit. Yes I did.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think you didn’t give a shit about the Arnold case when you went back.”
Dennis stirred in his chair. “Probably didn’t do a lot.”
“But you did get Judy out of her mess, correct?”
“I think you got Judy out of her mess. I was more or less a bystander.”
“Well, that’s where I’m going with this, Cunningham,” she said as she tilted her head minutely back and forth like a blonde metronome, her straight hair swinging. “You need to break the Arnold case. You have two weeks.”
He cleared his throat. “Louise, I’m resigning today. I’ve had it. Judy is very fragile right now and needs some stability. I’m moving to Australia, and I’ll give this relationship a try.”
While he thought he’d seen the many mysterious sides of Louise, he was unprepared for what emerged.
“You will not fucking resign, Dennis, until you tell me what happened
to Arnold! You think I was a little fierce with our good friends in that high-end London flophouse? Well, you have no fucking idea how fierce I can be with you. You understand?”
“Louise!” he said, startled.
“Don’t you fucking ‘Louise’ me,” she said, her blue eyes now mostly a shade of Arctic iceberg. “I knew how to get that woman Judy out of the building. I was trained to do that. I am good at it. I can’t figure this Arnold thing out. But you can. That’s something you’re good at. And I need this Arnold case badly to prove I can get back into operations. I’m not going to be so crass as to say you owe me one, but, well, you fucking owe me one.”
“Okay,” Dennis said quietly. “Okay. Got it.” He stood up, turned and put his hand on the doorknob but stopped.
Without turning to face her, he said, “Ambition is a wonderful thing, Louise, but it can change people. And for the record, I don’t think this organization deserves your profound loyalty.”
He left the door open, but when he got back to his own office, he closed his door and called Peter Harbaugh, his mentor, father figure and wise old man. Dennis needed some wisdom in this moment.
✦
Judy hated the group therapy sessions, and she knew why: they were all addicts that had chosen their path to addiction. Judy had been kidnapped and forcibly turned into an addict. She did not choose to shoot heroin or snort Vicodin; they did. Besides, she was a policewoman who arrested people like this.
Still, there was something they had in common. The young woman named Cynthia with soft brown eyes and short, curly hair sitting across from Judy best summed it up.
“I can’t get it out of my mind,” Cynthia said. “I mean, I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but I loved the feeling I got from that stuff. I know it was killing me, but the high was so good, so brilliant, really. And I miss it. I’m not ashamed to say it.”
“There is nothing wrong with admitting the power of these drugs, Cynthia,” the session leader Derrick said. “I think everyone here can relate to that feeling. But that blissful feeling is fleeting and destructive. You said yourself you stole heirloom jewelry from your mother to pay for the drugs. It’s important to acknowledge not just the bliss, but the pain it causes.”
Judy thought of Agata, who was at another treatment center, and hoped they would not deport the poor woman afterwards.
And she thought of Dennis and wondered if he could accept a damaged woman, a woman who deep down was ashamed at her love affair with the injection; the junk that gave her such an enormous high that no man could compete with. Or so she worried.
CHAPTER 25
So is it true?” Harbaugh asked.
“True in what sense?” Dennis said.
“Did you bust into that whorehouse in London and shoot it out?”
“Peter, how long have you been retired from the agency? Maybe eight years? How in the hell do you hear stuff like this?”
“You’re not answering. Is it true?”
They sat in a Starbucks on Wisconsin Avenue in northwest Washington, D.C. The sound of hissing cappuccino steamers melded with the hip music piped into the crowded seating area.
“Kind of true, I guess. Louise did all the heavy lifting. I was along for the ride.”
“God, that woman is something else. With a prosthetic foot, she goes on an unauthorized mission to save some poor women from human traffickers. Be surprised if she doesn’t end up running the Operations Directorate one day.”
“Louise is indeed a piece of work. I’m kind of confused about her, to be honest. She’s a complex person. And ambitious.”
“And what’s wrong with a little ambition? You’ve always been charmingly unambitious, Dennis. But people like Louise are needed in this business. Remember, it’s a business, like Starbucks or Walmart. And businesses need leaders.”
“Mmm. Not sure I’m quite there, Peter, and might never be. This is a mission for me to get things right and keep the agency within the limits of the law. You’d be surprised how this business, as you call it, operates more like the mafia than a police force.”
“Ah, there’s the cynic coming out,” Peter laughed.
“Well, speaking of the cynic, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Last time we met, you warned me about the Arnold case in London. Why did you do that? I’ve been given two more weeks on the case, and then they’re closing it down. I keep getting the feeling that everyone except me knows what’s going on, but no one is talking.”
Harbaugh took a sip of his coffee and frowned briefly as he considered the question.
“I know nothing specific about the Arnold case, especially since I’ve been out of the agency for many years, as you pointed out.”
“But you had a strong opinion about it earlier.”
“Yes, I did, and I still do.”
“Can’t you be a tiny bit more specific?”
Harbaugh leaned back in his chair as a young mother pushed an expensive stroller the size of the Taj Mahal past them.
“It’s simply instinct; there’s no data points or intel that I have. I’m sure you understand that. Just a feeling. Deputy chiefs of station don’t just go missing, and in London of all places. Just doesn’t happen. And not a peep, a body or a hint. Something strange is going on. We’ll probably never know.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m afraid so, Dennis. And do you remember what I told you the last time we met? I think I drew a silly diagram for you. I said there was the professional organization that actually runs the intelligence business, and there was the public group of elected officials that think they run the intelligence business. But of course they don’t. And I said that you, being in the IG’s office, well, you were in this netherworld between the two entities.”
“I remember the drawing well,” Dennis said. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Well, the thing to remember about this netherworld is that anyone in there can easily be squashed. There’s no one to protect you, because you don’t have a constituency. You’re a problem for at least one of the entities at any given time, and maybe both, like you might be now. Just not a great place to be.”
“And Arnold? You think he’s never going to be found?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m saying that someone knows exactly where he is, but there’s a reason they’re not telling you or anyone else. Think about it. Didn’t you lose someone already from the NSA?”
“Yes. Freddie, a good man. Terrible death.”
“Have they found Freddie’s killer yet?”
“No.”
“And they never will.”
“Your point?”
“My point, dear Dennis, is that one of the entities that I drew on the napkin knows exactly where the killer is, and they’re not going to do anything about it, or else you would have heard about it by now.”
“God, Peter, talking to you sometimes gives me a headache.”
“I’m fond of you, Dennis, and want you to succeed. But I worry about you as well.”
Dennis looked at Peter closely.
“Is that a warning? Do you think this case is that sensitive?”
Harbaugh shrugged. “Just a guess. From an old man.”
✦
The Heathrow Express was not crowded, and Dennis watched the gray buildings blur past through the tinted glass of the train car. He was nervous about seeing Judy; the last time he saw her she had not been well.
How could things have changed so quickly? he thought. One moment I’m talking about moving to Australia to live with this incredible woman, and the next moment she’s been kidnapped, turned into an addict and been forced into the sex trade. Is there anything left of the original Judy? Is there anything left of us?
He reached for his phone as it vibrated in his jacket.
“Hel
lo, Ian.”
“Dennis, my good fellow. Are you back in the States?”
“No, in London. Heading to Paddington. What’s up?”
“Well, do you remember those ghastly bodies the police found outside of London?”
“Yes. Did you catch anyone yet?”
“No, not yet. But the police did get the tiniest of leads, though, and I thought I’d mention it to you.”
“What lead?”
“Ah, well, there was a more recent body.”
“Yes, I remember that detail particularly well.”
“Well, the fellow — the police presume it was a man who did this — made an error and did not notice a rather distinctive mole on the inside of the woman’s thigh. They appear to have removed something from her back, which they think was probably a tattoo.”
“Maybe it’s the jet lag, Ian, but I’m not getting why you’re calling me on this case. We have nothing to do with these murders, or interest in them.”
“Ah, but that’s why I’m calling. You see, there was a missing person’s report made out by a Serbian couple that emigrated here about ten years ago. Their twenty-year-old daughter went missing, and in the report they’re asked to list any identifying features, and they listed a long, vertical mole on this inside of their daughter Andjela’s left thigh.”
“And?”
“And, well, the police think this body is indeed Andjela, and they’re just waiting on a DNA match. But here’s the part that I thought you’d be interested in. This woman Andjela, who was quite attractive, was a waitress at a restaurant in Mayfair that was owned by your Ukrainian fellow Pavlychko. Isn’t he the one you were looking for?”
“Shit. Yes. Ian, can you do me a big favor?”
“I’ll try.”
“Ask the police to test this woman’s body for radiation.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Radiation. Can they test her body for traces of radiation? It’s very important.”
“I’ll try, if you think it’s that important.”