Five Years in Yemen

by Luana Ehrlich

  Ollie responded immediately. “Oh, sure, we’ve used the mikes. It’s the only entertainment we have out here. In the last couple of weeks, we’ve found out who’s having a baby, who’s getting married, and who’s considered a slacker in the company.”

  He paused for a second and laughed. “And that’s just one employee in the company.”

  Weston grinned and added, “But Stephen Gault isn’t a smoker, so we haven’t picked up any conversations from him personally.”

  “Have you ever heard his employees mention Stephen in a conversation?”

  “Oh, yeah, plenty of times,” Ollie said, bobbing his head up and down. “Most of them seem to think he’s a nice guy. In fact, they think he’s too nice, and they wish he’d fire a couple of people who don’t get their projects in on time.”

  Weston asked, “Are you looking for something specific his employees might have said about him?”

  I nodded. “I’d like to know how they feel about him taking a leave of absence in order to participate in the survival show.”

  After Ollie described how surprised they were that Gault would leave the company in the assistant manager’s hands for six months, Weston said, “But the idea of Stephen being away from his computer for six months was what really surprised most of them.”

  “Did they say anything about Stephen being fit enough to participate in a wilderness survival program?”

  Weston shrugged. “That didn’t seem to faze them. Gault’s an athletic guy.”

  I asked them a few more questions, and by the time I was finished, I had the impression they had thoroughly enjoyed discussing their work with a real person instead of just sending their daily surveillance reports off to an impersonal analyst in the Ops Center.

  “Thanks a lot guys,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  As I started to walk away, Weston grabbed my arm.

  “You know, Titus, the last time I saw you was when we were running surveillance on that Pakistani diplomat. That was right before the doctors discovered I had a tumor on my brain.”

  “I hadn’t heard that, Abe.”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that was the reason I didn’t pick up on that bodyguard following you.”

  “Well, maybe, but—”

  “I heard the beating you took didn’t have any lasting effects, but still, I’m really sorry it happened. It was totally my fault, and I’m glad I’ve finally had the chance to apologize to you.”

  “No, Abe, don’t think anything about it. I should have been more observant myself. Are you doing okay now?”

  “After they removed the tumor, it took me almost six months to recover, but I’m fine now.”

  I walked back across the street and got inside the Suburban. As soon as I slid behind the wheel, Nikki asked, “Well, how’d that go? Did you learn anything new?”

  “Yeah, I definitely learned a few new things about Stephen Gault.”

  I decided not to mention I’d also learned a lesson in jumping to conclusions.

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday, November 25

  Nikki and I were staying at a Holiday Inn Express in Flint, located a few miles from Carla’s house. It was the same hotel we’d stayed in several months ago when we’d come to the city for my mother’s funeral.

  The hotel brought back memories for me—both good and bad. It was where I’d first admitted to myself that I might be falling in love with Nikki, but it was also where I’d had my first fight with her.

  When we’d arrived yesterday, we’d almost had our second argument at the hotel because she’d wanted to pay for her own room. However, after I’d reminded her she would soon be Mrs. Ray, she’d relented and allowed both of our rooms to be billed to my credit card.

  Now, the future Mrs. Ray and I were sitting at the hotel’s breakfast bar planning our day.

  “We’ll need to head over to Carla’s house after breakfast,” I said. “When I talked to her last night, she was disappointed we got in too late to have dinner with them, so I promised her we’d be over right after breakfast.”

  “I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

  “She warned me she might put us both to work in the kitchen. She said she was already cooking for the big dinner tomorrow.”

  After Nikki took a bite of her bagel she said, “I’m pretty sure she’d rather have you helping her in the kitchen than me. I don’t think my culinary skills come anywhere close to yours.”

  “I doubt if Carla wants me messing around in her kitchen. When we were growing up, our biggest fights always took place in the kitchen. She’d get mad at me when I wanted to experiment with a recipe, and I’d get mad at her for not keeping the countertops clean.”

  Nikki shook her head. “I’ve always heard siblings who care about each other also spend a lot of time fighting with each other.”

  “I haven’t been around long enough for us to have an argument since I left home. Now, about the only time she gets mad at me is when I don’t call her for months at a time.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and added, “I probably don’t need to remind you of this, but when I’m with my family, don’t forget, I’m a Senior Fellow at CIS in College Park, Maryland.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t forget. Has she ever questioned you about why you bought property in Norman?”

  I nodded. “I told her it was for investment purposes, and it gave me a chance to see you.”

  Nikki’s phone, which was resting on the table between us, suddenly lit up when a text appeared on the screen.

  “It’s from my captain,” she said, reading the text out loud. “’Stormy has made himself at home. He’s doing fine.’”

  Last spring, when Nikki and I had both been out of town, her captain had volunteered to let Stormy stay out at his farm south of Norman where he had two labs of his own.

  Nikki said when she’d asked him about keeping Stormy again, he’d jumped at the chance because he claimed his dogs were getting fat and needed Stormy around to make sure they got some exercise.

  “He also sent me a picture,” Nikki said, turning her cell phone around so I could see it.

  The photo showed Stormy grinning up at the camera, while the captain’s two dogs were both sound asleep on the floor beside him.

  His text read, “Stormy can’t get these two to wake up.”

  * * * *

  My sister lived in a subdivision called Chatham Hills. As Nikki and I were driving over there, I suddenly experienced a familiar sensation.

  I felt like I was being followed.

  I didn’t say anything to Nikki, because I told myself there was no reason for anyone to be following me, and, even though I had the distinct impression I was being shadowed, that didn’t necessarily make it so.

  There had been other times in my life when I’d experienced a similar sensation, and it had turned out to be nothing more than pure paranoia.

  Granted, both of those times had occurred in the middle of an operation when I was told I should expect to be under surveillance, but, even so, as I pulled into my sister’s neighborhood, I felt sure this was the same situation, and I was just imagining things.

  Nevertheless, I kept a close eye on my rearview mirror as I entered the cul-de-sac where my sister lived.

  “Are you okay?” Nikki asked.

  “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You haven’t had much to say on the drive over here.”

  “I’m reserving all of my charm for my family,” I said, parking the Suburban in front of Carla’s red-brick house. “That’s what introverts do, you know. We try to save our energy for situations where we’d be considered weird if we didn’t try to communicate with the people around us. That way, we can fool them into thinking we’re normal.”

  Nikki smiled. “I don’t believe you’re nearly as introverted as you claim to be.”

  “See? I’ve even fooled you.”

  * * * *

  As I followed Nikki up to the front door, I noticed there weren’t any
cars parked in the driveway. This surprised me because I was expecting to see a driveway full of vehicles at Carla’s house.

  I didn’t figure Eddie would have to work on the day before Thanksgiving, and I knew my nephew Brian, a senior at the University of Michigan, had probably come home for the long weekend, and then there was Uncle Harold and Aunt Dorothy, who Carla said were planning to drive over from Grand Rapids.

  When I pointed out the absence of any vehicles in the driveway, Nikki laughed and said, “Really, Titus? I know it won’t be easy, but if you could ignore your instincts and refrain from trying to decipher every situation as a possible threat, you might find this time with your family a much more enjoyable experience.”

  “You’re right,” I said, nodding my head. “I’ll try to tamp down those instincts while I’m here.”

  I wasn’t sure ignoring those instincts was the key to enjoying spending time with my relatives or not. And, truth be told, as soon as Nikki stepped in front of me to ring the doorbell, I used the opportunity to turn around and scan the neighborhood for a vehicle who might have entered the cul-de-sac behind us.

  Seeing none, I turned back around in time to greet Carla when she opened the door.

  Carla had taken after my mother’s side of the family and had fair skin and blond hair, whereas I had inherited my father’s dark complexion and black hair—an obvious asset while working for the CIA in the Middle East and Latin America.

  “You smell wonderful,” I said, as I gave her a hug, “exactly like pumpkin pie.”

  She chuckled. “I just finished taking two pumpkin pies out of the oven.”

  When Carla hugged Nikki, she said, “It’s wonderful to see you again. I was so happy when Titus told me you’d agreed to marry him.”

  Nikki glanced over at me and smiled. “It wasn’t as if he had to twist my arm.”

  “Come back to the kitchen with me,” Carla said. “I was in the middle of making a casserole for dinner tonight.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Nikki asked.

  “I might put both of you to work,” Carla said, as we followed her into the kitchen. “Kayla spent the night with some of her girlfriends and hasn’t made it home yet. Of course, she knew I’d be cooking all day so that might explain her absence.”

  When I was here the last time, Kayla had just turned sixteen, and I’d noticed she hadn’t shown any enthusiasm for cooking, much less helping her mother.

  “Where’s everybody else?” I asked.

  Carla shook her head and walked over to the stove. “About an hour ago, Uncle Harold called us from the hotel where he and Dorothy are staying. He said he’d locked his keys in his car. He sounded so confused, I sent Eddie over to get him straightened out.”

  “What about Brian?”

  “Brian should be here in the morning. He mentioned he might bring his girlfriend. He met her last summer when they were both interns in Senator Mitchell’s office.”

  Brian, who was a political science major, had called me last June and asked me if I knew anyone who worked on Capitol Hill who would be willing to recommend him for an internship.

  Since I knew Brian thought I was a geeky scholar who worked at some obscure policy institute in Maryland and had never even met a congressman, I’d foolishly promised him I’d help him get an internship.

  Things hadn’t exactly gone the way I’d hoped, but eventually, he’d gone to work for Senator Mitchell.

  However, he still didn’t have any idea I’d been the reason he’d gotten the internship in the first place.

  Since Brian was already far too curious about what I did for a living to begin with, I had no intention of trying to change his mind about the part I’d played in his summer job.

  I’d rather have him think of me as a someone who wrote policy papers on keeping America secure, instead of having him discover I worked for the agency that carried out that policy.

  * * * *

  Carla wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted Nikki and me to help her in the kitchen, but, after I’d cut up a bunch of carrots, she asked me if I would mind making a run to the grocery store to pick up a few things she’d forgotten.

  I could tell she was just trying to get rid of me because she wanted to have some time alone with Nikki, but I took her grocery list and headed out the front door without making a big deal out of it.

  When I pulled out of the Chatham Hills subdivision, I drove east for a few seconds before I realized Carla had told me the grocery store was west on Fenton Road and not east. After making a quick U-turn, I headed back west on Fenton Road.

  If I hadn’t made that mistake, I might not have noticed the dark blue van two cars behind me who made the exact same U-turn that I did. Seconds later, I watched in my rearview mirror as the van slowed down and allowed another vehicle to move in front of it.

  I changed lanes and increased my speed.

  The blue van did the same.

  At the next intersection, I took a right turn.

  The blue van took a right turn.

  I made two more right turns and got back on Fenton Road, and, at that point, I could no longer see the blue van.

  Two miles down the road, I pulled into a Kroger’s parking lot and waited. Less than a minute later, the blue van drove in.

  He parked three rows away from my Suburban between a white sedan and a green SUV. Since I’d already exited my vehicle and was standing beside a dumpster at the far end of the parking lot, I quickly walked over to the blue van and opened the passenger side door.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” the driver asked, as I slid in the seat beside him.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said, pointing over at my Suburban. “Why have you been following me?”

  “You’re crazy, man. I haven’t been following you.”

  I studied the guy for a few seconds.

  He was a nice-looking guy, probably in his early thirties, with curly blond hair and brown eyes.

  It was the curly blond hair that gave him away.

  “Where’s your partner?” I asked. “You know, the tall skinny guy who drives the gray van. Is he still parked outside the medical center in Rouge Park?”

  He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and laughed. “Ah, man, I can’t believe you made us. We had no idea.”

  I wasn’t about to admit it was actually my fiancée who’d spotted the surveillance team parked on the other side of Gault’s building.

  “Who’s we?” I asked. “Who do you work for? And don’t tell me it’s the FBI; anyone who works for them is a lot better at shadowing someone than you are.”

  He nodded. “The Bureau guys are pretty good; I’ll grant you that.”

  He paused and stared out the front window. I figured he was weighing his options, trying to decide whether to be honest with me or not.

  I decided to give him a little incentive.

  “If you don’t want to say anything, that’s fine with me. I can make some phone calls. Eventually, I might even get connected to your boss.”

  “You Agency people are all alike. You’re always threatening people.”

  “What makes you think I’m with the CIA?”

  “Because I know you’re Titus Ray, one of Douglas Carlton’s franchise players.”

  * * * *

  Once I got over the initial shock of hearing him identify me, I insisted he should at least do me the courtesy of telling me his own name and who employed him—although by this time, I had a pretty good idea who it was.

  He pulled out his wallet and showed me his I.D. card. “Troy Sandusky. I’m with the DIA.”

  I suspected as much, and when I asked him why the DIA was doing surveillance on Advanced Computer Solutions, he said, “We don’t care about the computer company. It’s Stephen Gault we’re interested in.”

  “Is the Defense Department updating Gault’s security clearance?”

  The corners of his mouth turned into a you’re-kidding-me grin. “You k
now that’s not why we’re keeping an eye on him.”

  “What makes you think I know why you’re babysitting him?”

  “I can’t say anymore until I’ve checked with my partner. He’s the officer in charge.”

  He pointed at his cell phone mounted on the dashboard. “Mind if I call him?”

  “Oh, I insist. Put him on speaker while you’re at it. What’s his name?”

  “Jeremy,” he said, as he connected the call. “His name is Jeremy Taylor.”

  “Taylor here,” he said, when he answered his phone. “You still following that spook around?”

  “Ah, no . . . not exactly,” Sandusky said.

  “This spook didn’t like being followed around, Jeremy,” I said.

  Taylor cleared his throat. “Is that . . .”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sandusky said. “He kinda got the drop on me, and now he’s asking me lots of questions.”

  “Is that right? Well, since I have lots of questions for him, maybe we should meet somewhere. It could be beneficial for both of us.”

  “I’m good with that,” I said. “Name a time and a place.”

  “What about tomorrow? Say around three o’clock at your hotel.”

  “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  I figured Carla would probably serve Thanksgiving dinner around one o’clock, so I said, “No, no problem. I’ll see you at three. I guess you know where I’m staying.”

  “Of course I do.”

  Of course he did.

  * * * *

  After Sandusky got off the phone with Taylor, he refused to answer my questions, although he did agree to stop tailing me.

  To make sure he was playing straight with me, I stood on the curb and watched him drive off before I headed inside the grocery store.

  The store was crowded with last-minute shoppers, and I had to wait in a long line before I was finally able to get checked out. While I waited, I used the time to run through some scenarios of why the DIA might have Gault under surveillance.