Exposure

by Alan Russell

  Blackwell decided that in his career he would make a point of knowing where the bodies were buried—whether figuratively or literally. And for that, there was one occupation that would suit him best. His classmates had assumed Blackwell would go into business; his career choice surprised them. Blackwell gained entrée into the secret society of intelligence.

  He didn’t bring some master plan with him, didn’t know that governmental secrets might eventually benefit him personally, but Blackwell was attracted to the hidden in much the same way a miser covets gold. He always had this desire to know things the world didn’t.

  After a time, many years of toil and bootlicking and a much too slow rise up the Agency’s ladder, Blackwell began to act, but he did so very carefully. He studied those who had fallen, and tried to learn from their mistakes. It was easy to see where the fallen angels had gone wrong. Blackwell had his pick of the henhouses, but he worked them very methodically, very cautiously. He knew not to merely sell information. That had done in CIA alums Aldrich Ames, Harold James Nicholson, and Douglas Fred Groat; FBI agents Robert Philip Hanssen, Richard W. Miller, and Earl Edwin Pitts; Colonel George Trofimoff of US Military Intelligence; Naval Intelligence communications specialist John Anthony Walker; NSA employee Robert Lipka; and Jonathan Pollard, a civilian working with American Naval Intelligence. Selling information was a double-edged sword. You sold yourself along with whatever intelligence you were brokering. Too often the end result was that when the winds changed, and they always did, you found yourself hanged out to dry—or just hanged.

  Ames, a counterintelligence officer of the CIA, was paid more than two million dollars over a ten-year period by the Russians. It was blood money. At least a dozen spies were executed because of the information Ames supplied. He sold the name of every Western agent he knew of, as well as a number of Soviet double agents. But Ames himself was sold down the road by the Russians and arrested in 1994.

  Nicholson, a CIA station chief and training instructor, didn’t profit as much. It was believed he only received one hundred and eighty thousand dollars from the Russians. He was just as willing to betray, though. Nicholson sold the names of US agents in Russia, including many he himself trained, before he was arrested in 1996.

  John Anthony Walker passed on more than a million secret documents. He even made it a family affair, recruiting his son, brother, and best friend. And Jonathan Pollard claimed he was spying out of love for Israel, though he was more than willing to pocket some cash in the process.

  Convictions continued in the new millennium when Robert Philip Hanssen, a twenty-seven-year FBI veteran who spent most of his career as a counterspy, was arrested for spying for the Russians. Hanssen was said to have collected 1.4 million dollars in cash and diamonds during his fifteen years of spying. Kendall Myers of the U.S. State Department, and scientist Stewart Nozette, were also put behind bars.

  Blackwell knew there was no shortage of reasons for individuals to betray their country. Greed, sex, ideology, anger, and self-interest drove them to act, and provided some a rationale for doing so. But the amazing thing, thought Blackwell, was how little money most of the double agents actually received. By doing what they did, they put their lives on the line, subjecting themselves to the worst possible vilification, or even death.

  On the whole, Blackwell thought them not only stupid, but lazy. Their risk/reward ratio was laughable. Assembling raw data was like picking fruit. Anybody could do it.

  Blackwell believed in using information in creative, profitable ways. But the money wasn’t his only reward. He reveled in the power of it all. And he never grew tired of not only knowing things that very few other people on the planet did, but using those secrets to his own advantage.

  It seemed that in the spy business cupidity bred stupidity. Ames and his ilk were so blatant in their actions they had all but attached “catch me” balloons to their person. Blackwell wondered if there were others like him out there. He assumed there must be some offshore bank accounts like his, money parlayed through the efforts of US intelligence.

  The problem in intelligence is that one hand often doesn’t know what the other is doing. Even within the same organization, agents usually work on a need to know basis. For Blackwell’s purposes, he had a need to know everything.

  When Blackwell had gone into business for himself, he had remembered Benjamin Franklin’s words: Three may keep a secret if two are dead. Blackwell kept up a firewall between himself and those he employed. That was the best way to operate a sub-rosa organization. Only Monroe and Jaeger, his moneyman and his muscle, knew of his existence. And Monroe and Jaeger in turn limited their own exposure. That’s how it continued down the line. Blackwell, of course, knew everything.

  He thought his position was much like a baseball manager’s. Instead of calling in a relief pitcher, he called in relief teams. He had the designated hit, instead of the designated hitter. And sometimes the game called for a sacrifice.

  Like now.

  It was ironic, really. Eventually the paparazzo’s time would have arrived, but his work had accelerated his demise. The synchronicity of his being on the scene for Lanie’s attempted suicide was rather remarkable—and rather regrettable, at least for him. The photographer had worked, albeit unwittingly, to help create Blackwell’s Hollywood web, but had himself got stuck on the strands.

  At least the paparazzo had served his purpose before dying.

  Blackwell looked at his watch and saw that it was six thirty eastern standard time. Any moment now he should be getting the confirmation that Pilgrim was dead.

  It was a shame that the actress hadn’t succeeded in killing herself, thought Blackwell. That would have been one more bargaining chip. It could have even been doctored to have that much more of an impact.

  As others had observed, “Once you pull a man by his balls, his heart will follow.”

  But Lanie’s attempted suicide couldn’t be overlooked. He was surprised she had taken everything so—personally. But her action earmarked her as a potential liability. It was time to consider how they might best help her along to end her life.

  After all, she had set the precedent.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  From atop the road the two men watched the van crash down the hill. In the darkness they heard, more than saw, its descent. When the noises stopped there was no grand explosion, but flames began to fill the vehicle.

  Orville could see no sign of movement, but the brush was thick and his view limited. He wanted to continue watching but couldn’t chance lingering. The flames would draw attention. In minutes the whole canyon might be on fire, and that would bring all sorts of emergency vehicles.

  “Get in the car,” Orville said to his brother, snapping off his flashlight.

  “He has to be dead,” said Wilbur. His shirt was still smoldering, and his hands, chest, and part of his face were red and burned. The lower half of his right eyebrow was singed, giving him a surprised expression.

  Orville said nothing, but his silence spoke of worry. His brother’s lapse allowed for the possibility, albeit small, that the photographer was still alive. Before reporting in, they would need to confirm his death.

  The van was really starting to burn now, and the flames were spreading to the brush. His brother was right, though. The crashing vehicle had probably killed him. The vodka would certainly have immobilized him. And if that wasn’t enough, it was unlikely he could get out of the van, let alone outrun the spreading fire. But things hadn’t gone exactly as planned, and the German wouldn’t like that.

  As dawn broke, the brothers waited in a deserted parking lot. They had made one stop at an all-night convenience store for some Neosporin and aspirin. Wilbur’s face was the color of a pumpkin, but he didn’t have the jack-o’-lantern grin to go with it. His hands were blistered; the gloves he had been wearing for the job had burned into his skin. Slumped in the backseat,
out of sight of probing eyes, he did his best not to groan so he wouldn’t interfere with his brother’s listening to the police scanner.

  Americans were so accommodating, thought Orville. They even published a radio frequency book that listed all the broadcasting channels for federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies. They almost encouraged the kind of eavesdropping he was doing. By monitoring the emergency calls, he had tracked the fire and the personnel called in to combat it. From miles away, safe from scrutiny, he had followed all that was going on. The canyon fire hadn’t been easy to rein in, but now it was under control. There had been no word of survivors.

  Pilgrim had to be dead. All that was missing was the announcement and the body bag.

  “Shit!”

  Wilbur straightened at his brother’s curse. He hadn’t been listening very closely to the scanner. Its constant static and squelching had given him a headache. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t hurt.

  “What?”

  Orville had already started the engine. “They are taking someone out of the canyon. He’s burned, but he’s alive.

  “For the moment.”

  Rather than walk into a potential trap, Orville made a series of calls posing as a Los Angeles Times reporter. He contacted police, fire, emergency services, and hospital personnel.

  Most didn’t want to comment to a reporter, referring the calls to PR people, but Orville didn’t let them hang up on him that quickly. He gathered his bits and pieces of information, all “off the record.”

  The burns were described as “substantial.” No one had given him the name of the victim, but he learned that he was being rushed to Cedars-Sinai.

  Orville waited for several minutes, then made the call to the hospital and asked to be connected to the burn unit. Someone who identified herself as Sylvia answered the phone.

  “Yes, Sylvia,” he said, trying to do his best American accent. “My name is Jim Wells. The police just called and told me my brother Graham’s van was involved in an accident on Mulholland Drive. I understand he was brought over to your place.”

  There was a long pause on the other line. Orville wondered if they were trying to trace the call. If so, they wouldn’t have any luck. All of his calls were routed through a relay system that appeared to come out of England. But her delay wasn’t for technical reasons. She was confused.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Jim Wells.”

  “I think someone’s given you some erroneous information, Mr. Wells.”

  “How is that?”

  “Perhaps I should transfer you—”

  “The police identified my brother’s van by the license plate and VIN number. There’s no mistake about that.”

  “Your brother isn’t here, Mr. Wells.”

  “They told me a burn victim was taken from the fire.”

  “That’s true. A Mexican national was brought in.”

  With considerable effort, he stifled a curse.

  “The translator tells us that he was camping in the canyon when suddenly he awoke to flames all around him.”

  He knew that the German wasn’t going to like this, wasn’t going to like it at all.

  “Mr. Wells?”

  “Thank you.”

  He hung up the phone, then reached over and turned up the police scanner. The paparazzo had to be dead. They would find him among the burned brush. He had probably been thrown clear of the van when it crashed.

  He was dead. He had to be.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTEEN

  When the somersaulting van finally came to a stop, the words of the Abbot came unbidden into Graham’s head: “God apparently has a soft spot in his heart for fools, drunks, and Americans.”

  He was alive—for the moment at least. By hitting the trifecta, he had somehow been spared. His seat belt had saved his life, but wearing it hadn’t stopped him from being thrown around violently. It hurt to move, but he had no choice. The fire was spreading throughout the van.

  Graham fought to free himself from his seat belt, won, then pushed on his door, but it wouldn’t budge. He used his hand to try to pat down the flames reaching for him, and then grabbed at the handle to the passenger door. It swung open. With the fire licking at him, he fell heavily out of the van.

  In this case, the race was to the slow, not the swift. Graham couldn’t take more than a handful of steps without falling. The ground was uneven and his equilibrium was shot. Try as he might, staying upright was impossible. With each fall the fire seemed that much closer, but luck was again with him. The wind fanned the fire away.

  Still, Graham knew that the wind could change. He walked mostly blind, fighting his way through the chaparral, making a path through the stands of sage, greasewood, and lemonade berry. With every fall, it was that much harder for him to get up. He passed out once, and had no idea how long the blackout lasted. He awakened to the sounds of sirens, and answered them like a punch-drunk fighter responding to the bell, fighting his way to his feet. His only plan was to move away from the fire and steer clear of the main road. The men who wanted him dead might still be there.

  He stopped to get his breath, and saw all the activity atop the hill. The firefighters were backlit by the lights and the fire. Graham was tempted to call to them, but instead he moved farther into the shadows. Drunk as he was, Graham instinctively didn’t fear the fire so much as the men who had caused it. He was aware enough to know that he wasn’t yet ready to answer the questions the firefighters would have for him. In a few hours he might be able to tell what happened without looking like a drunk with a wild story.

  Graham staggered along. Every step was agony. He felt as if a couple of heavyweights had used him as a punching bag. His ribs ached, his head ached, and his own arms and legs were fighting him as if they had a mind of their own. He fell hard, pushed his way up, then fell a second time and didn’t get up.

  He awakened to a ringing and realized the sounds weren’t only in his head. Reaching down to his pocket he found his cell phone. Graham looked at the phone for a long moment, trying to remember how it had gotten there. He had the vaguest memory of falling out of the van, grabbing for the phone as if it were some kind of lifeline, and stuffing it into his pocket. Graham turned off the ringer. He wasn’t ready to talk to a friend, let alone a stranger. Or worse, maybe his insurance agent.

  Not far away, Graham heard the sounds of cars driving along a road, a reminder that he wasn’t very far removed from rush hour Los Angeles. He sat up and immediately felt dizzy. Graham raised his hand to block out the morning sun. The rays were weak, but he still felt like one of the undead having to face up to daylight. With an effort he rose, took a step, then stumbled. This many hours later, Graham thought, and I still can’t walk a straight line.

  His head pounded with migraine proportions. It was the worst hangover Graham ever remembered having. He took another step, and then was overcome by nausea. Bending over, he threw up. His brain didn’t seem to clue in to his painfully emptied stomach. Helplessly he retched, then retched again, his stomach muscles convulsing with the effort.

  I’m not dead, he thought, but I wish I were.

  When Graham was able to straighten, he felt a little, but not a lot, better. He tried to think between the throbbing in his head. He was dehydrated, and not in any condition to walk very far. He considered calling the police, but something in him resisted. I need to shower first, he thought, and I need to make sense of what happened.

  Two men had tried to kill him, men who appeared to be associated with the government.

  He’d call a cab, Graham thought, but then reconsidered. If his assailants were still out there, they would be on the alert for a cab. And besides, where would he ask the cabbie to take him? His home was probably being watched. They might be waiting for him there.

  It was easy to be paranoid, espe
cially when it came to potential spies. They might be monitoring everything.

  Graham made for the sounds of passing cars. He cut over onto a dog-walking path, but didn’t continue onto the street, choosing to only go far enough to see the road’s name before retreating back into the brush.

  He had to make a call. No, the call, the one where your life has gone to shit and you need someone to pull you from the toilet. The call you’re supposed to reserve for an emergency, a desperate situation. Graham tried to think about whom to call. Normally he would have called his sometimes partner, Ran, but Graham knew he was out of town on assignment and wouldn’t be back until late that afternoon. There was no family member to turn to. He was an only child whose mother had committed suicide when he was ten, and whose father was overseas. Graham thought about, and then rejected, various friends. They were fair-weather sorts, and in this instance there were definite storm clouds around.

  One name, one face, kept surfacing. In some ways Graham was lucky the alcohol hadn’t burned off. Sober, he might not have been able to call her.

  Even after years away he hadn’t forgotten the number to her direct line. He punched it in, and Paige Harris answered on the second ring. She still didn’t have a secretary screening her calls. At least that hadn’t changed. Early in her career Paige had read about a Wall Street mover and shaker who made a point of answering his own phone. He said he didn’t want his position to buffer him from the world he was dependent upon. Paige adopted that philosophy as her own.

  “Can you talk?” Graham asked.

  The line was silent for several seconds. Graham thought she had hung up when she finally said, “Yes.”