by K A Bryant
"I'll see you at the gallows."
The elevator doors open.
"It's better if I know now, than later. Damage control and all that, you see. You need to be certain... or this will not end today."
The doors close behind me with Phil still inside. My regular phone is buzzing. I received a text. I pause just outside of my office doors, reply to the text and slip the phone back into my pocket. I give the wood carvings a gentle brush then open the door.
I feel particularly reminiscent today. Just think, this is the last time Agnes will ever rattle off an itinerary to me. I think she is the only secretary that still swishes when she walks.
The new 'no stocking' fad came in and nicked the office formality that makes women look professionally polished. Agnes feels like a dying breed. She's got stockings and loyalty.
"Do they have Fritags today?" I blurt to Agnes.
"Good morning to you, Mr. Wilkes."
"Agnes, it is Mr. Secretary until six o'clock p.m."
She will not call me Mr. Secretary. She is the only one who doesn't, and hasn't since our introduction. That is how I knew she was the right one for the job. Agnes has learned an art birthed by those who understood the beauty of serving. She knows when to serve the man and when to serve the suit, Secretary of Defence. Agnes gives the man a hot egg and cheese on a Keiser roll every morning, and briefs the Secretary after I take three bites.
I can rely on Agnes to not stroke my ego or pander. She gives it to me straight like a mother with nothing to lose. I believe I have fired her about six times. Neither time did she even leave her desk.
She organized the Secretary during 9-11, the attack on the World Trade Centers in Manhattan, New York but brought the man a blanket before she left the office while I slept in it for four days afterward working around the clock. I will never forget her but she doesn't believe in goodbyes, she says that they are too final and remind her of death.
"Fritags' Delicatessen opened an hour early to cater to you. Mr. Fritag wishes you well and says congratulations on not destroying the Country before you left. Mr. Wilkes, please remember, it was a courtesy that they came to you remember? They could have requested you go to them for the deposition."
"That saves their necks. Keeps it from looking like a trial. Yesterday, the food tasted like cardboard."
"Jason-"
"I know Agnes, Jason Jones is closing it out."
"He's going to be direct, Sir."
"Every dog has a leash, my dear Agnes."
Jason Jones
Has it only been a week? Already, I appreciate my office in Langley at the Central Intelligence Agency. It's a viable constant. If she's like other people, and she is, she thinks I'm not listening. Contrary, what a person doesn't say is typically far more important than what they do say. I first met her, Director Barbara White, two years ago, briefly. Still clearly undecided as to her posture. Drowning herself in masculine suits, not a trace of femininity in her office. No photographs of her children, that I know she has, her husband or personal affects.
The absorbent quantity of files on her desk, unnecessary but visually takes the place of what's missing. She's trying hard to 'fit in' in a typically male dominated position but her indecision reeks with perfume. It smacked me in the face the minute I opened the office door. She's still on her rant. Why? There is something here, I can smell it. She spent the last three and a half minutes nudging me into handling this with a level of sensitivity she knows I don't possess. Why? Is she afraid of an aftermath? Is she part of a conspiracy?
I need to throw her.
"You changed your face powder. It makes you look dead. The other one was better. "
She instinctively touches the base of her neck. That's her nervous tell.
"You said that out loud, you know."
I stand from the chair to increase the edgy feeling I've spurred. I'm not controllable and won't just comply remaining in the seat she pointed me to.
"Director White, with all due respect, this is far from being put to bed. But you know that or I wouldn't be here."
"We're going to be in their wheel house, Mr. Jones. This man is NOT on trial and this office won't be accused of treating him as if he is. He's taking early retirement for health issues which we will not exacerbate in the course of this invest... I mean, interview. Remember, your presence is already raising eyebrows."
"You mean, an Agent of the Central Intelligence Agency."
"Exactly."
"Director White, you said it, you couldn't help yourself. It feels like an investigation because you still have questions. I intend to get to the bottom of what happened in that desert that only Secretary Wilkes knows about. Why dance around it? This is the last chance we'll have unless-"
"-unless you find something."
"Yes. You called me. You called me off of vacation for this. You wouldn't have, if you didn't want me to dig. So take your hand off my shovel and let me do my job."
"It wasn't a vacation, Mr. Jones. Your wife left you. That's called recovery not vacation."
The view out of her window hands down, is the better.
"I'm sorry, Jason."
She touches her neck again. Why would she be sorry unless she empathizes? Why would she empathize? I turn around slowly and face her. Ah, the mark of an absent wedding ring and her finger is red as if she tried to rub it away.
"I went too far. I'm sorry, Jason."
I smile purposely. Portraying the emotion necessary for the moment is so engraved after fifteen years of service, it has become my norm. I think before I smile, or move or frown. My ex-wife is right, I'm two toenails from being a robot. It is habitual.
"Did you? If I were shaken that easily, I'd still be on vacation."
She sits in her chair. Clearly trying to take her authoritative position behind that over-sized desk, however, it's a child running to mommas leg. A waft of her perfume fills my nostrils and she's uneasy about something. But what? In about fifteen minutes, I will have the answer to that question. I walk to the door and with my hand on the knob she gives the matter an exclamation mark.
"I need to know you're clear, Jason. This is not redemption."
"Redemption. Do you think I'm bitter because you pulled me from the Red Case last year?"
"Yes."
"Well, you're completely right."
There is a new document on the desk peeking out from beneath a hastily tossed file. I need to get a glimpse. I walk to her desk, place both palms on it and lean forward.
"I could have solved it-"
"You were distressed because of your marriage issues and your judgment was clouded."
I lower my head, purposely appearing to yield to her explanation but I can see that document clearly now. It is from the desk of Susan Letherby. She is one of the Presidents' advisers and it is dated with yesterday's date. That says enough. I turn around and return to the door and turn the knob.
"I am not done." Showing some firmness. Now I'm impressed. "It's not what you ask, it's how you ask it. I want you here to observe, listen. You've got a good eye. You had your teeth in this one and well, I just want to see what you find. You're right, this is our last chance. I think you deserve that much."
"Thanks for the advice."
"Jason, change your shirt."
I couldn't help but look down.
"What? You don't like the pizza grease?"
I close her door behind me stepping into the cold hallway. The stale smell of old coffee and wax seems such a rude awakening. My temporary office centers around me. Samantha… Sam, my assistant arranged a hotel for the duration of my stay in Washington D.C. but why bother getting entangled in the traffic on Monument Avenue when there is a perfectly lumpy sofa in this cave? She won’t be surprised that I never checked in. After all these years of working together, I don’t think there is much I can do that will surprise her. But I’ll never stop trying.
I open the door and exhale and I get a surprise. Agent Phillip Cummings, assistant and adviser to the Secretar
y of Defence, is standing in my office. Not an act of respect. I purposely leave a box in the seat opposite the desk. I don't like visitors. People don't stay long when they have to stand. No guest candy dishes, fresh coffee in the pot, all the office niceties. The leather sofa, conveniently draped with my clothing from the night and a blanket. None of which anyone wants to touch. I intended it.
"Mr. Phillip Cummings. I don't recall us having an appointment. In fact, some may mistake this as obstruction at the very least, in bad taste."
His hand is too soft for my taste. I don't like shaking hands with buttery lotion. Unless of course your name is Barbara. I leave the door opened, purposely. I have an idea. He always did over-plan in my opinion. Sometimes you need to just hit the ball and play it where it lands.
"I'd offer you a seat but-"
"-no, it's okay, I'm not staying. I just thought we might discuss the deposition."
"Sure, yes. What's on your mind, Phil?"
I need him to relax. He's already swabbing his forehead with his moist handkerchief and we haven't even begun speaking.
"First, how are you holding up? I heard about your... leave."
"You mean my divorce."
"Yes. It helps if you take down the pictures. Well, I heard it helps..." Phil adjusts her picture frame on the bookcase. "...you know, to separate yourself from the memories."
I think I will just keep clearing the desk and see how much pours out.
"Jason, I also wanted to make sure we were on one accord concerning this meeting. I know your method is to be aggressive but he's not just the Sec. Def., he and I go way back and I just think we need a strategy going forward. I think it's important for us to be, well, civil and united."
He's expecting a rebuttal. I can tell by how he straightened his stance. Phil's usual duck paddle stance is his home.
"I agree, Phil."
"You do?"
"I think we have things covered here."
Why is he floundering? Flipping about in the boat trying to decide if he should ask another question. I almost feel guilty sitting while he stands. Almost.
"Good... great. Look, we need to go fishing. Wilkes and I go once a year. I think you'd like it."
"Fishing huh. Does Bar- Director White know?"
"It's no secret."
He spins his wedding ring.
"But does she know?"
"Yes. She knows. Her husband was at the last one. There's no conflict of interest due to personal relationship if that's what you’re hinting."
He's squirming.
"I just thought it would be good for you, with your divorce and everything. Look, forget I asked."
He is genuinely trying to appear offended. I'll play along right as soon as his hand touches the door knob. I'll speak in layman’s terms and appeal to what he mentioned.
"Hey, I'm sorry, Phil. You're right. This divorce was tougher than I thought. It's got me on edge a bit. Thanks, and don't worry. The deposition is just a formality like White said. Hey, what's her husband's name again... Dave... Henry-something?"
"Oh, Kent. Kent Covington."
"That's it, Kent."
He's reaching for the door knob again but looks happier.
"Hey, did we get Fritags?"
Laughing, snugly convinced he has accomplished his mission.
"Of course. It's a smorgasbord."
"I love their liverwurst."
"Who eats that anymore? You're telling your age."
The door clicks closed behind Phil. Finally, I'm alone. I wasn't sure before. Now, I'm certain. I was hoping I wouldn't have to make this call. At least not now. I pull a small burner cell phone out of a secret compartment of my duffel bag and hand dial the number. It rings. There's no answer. There isn't supposed to be. I just leave the message.
"It's time."
I hang up the phone, remove the back and pull out the tiny SIM card. It cracks easily in my rough fingers and it feels good to smash something even if it is only a phone.
I push the black frame of my glasses up using my right middle finger, above my nose and rock back in the leather chair letting my head rest.
Wilkes
On the surface, it looks like a conference room with amenities, however, I know better. The windows are tinted and I can hear the snow beating against the glass and the whistling wind getting stronger.
I've been privy to a fair share of questionings. Tying up loose ends as some say. This room is a fancy interrogation room. At its core, it is just that. Unlike the ones in the seedy police stations with no windows, cinder block walls to give you that imprisoned feeling, dim light and a two-way mirror with a team of eyes behind it staring at your every move.
Instead of being handcuffed to a cold steel table, I get to drift over to the full tea and coffee service bar that will be steaming hot and freshly brewed having my choice of any herbal tea I can think of. Being the Secretary Of Defence of the United States has privileges even when being suspected of a crime. That is what this is all about. But, they have nothing. If they did, this wouldn't be in this conference room, it would be in a court room. Nevertheless, that coffee pot has eyes.
The carpet ensures sound quality for their recordings but isn't deep enough for me to catch my cane on. They took Agnes's memo seriously, the buffet table is laid with Fritags Artesian Deli sandwiches, potato salad and seasoned olive and pimiento mix.
It's a science I practiced in the field. Give a man what he wants to make him talk. You fill the belly and loosen the tongue. If you give a man what he needs, you will have gained his loyalty. My hip is bothering me. The weather is horrendous and as much as I don't want to show any form of weakness, I can feel my weight shifting heavily onto the cane. I need to leave quickly but clean. No follow-ups or subpoenas. There's only one way I can do that. Tell the truth. Deep breath.
"Mr. Secretary. Good to see you."
Benjamin is a square head. He is balanced. A good neutral ear. He holds no bias to party and looks with a clear eye. Every-time. Not many men have that after being in politics as long as he has been. I don't think they mean to but they get tainted over time. It's almost inevitable. You make a friend, their friends become your friends and instantly, you have taken sides. Benjamin eats alone. Talks to his wife mostly and is free. A title most of us in the political game don't hold. It is easy to extended my hand to him. He gives me a neutral handshake with no dominant undertones.
"Ben, how's your wife?"
"Still shopping. Are you alright?"
He is observant. His question is coming from genuine concern. He must have noticed my limp deepen. Unlike the cavalry standing in front of their seats on the other side of the table. Phillip Cummings, an empty seat belonging to Benjamin and Jason Jones beside him. The cavalry rises. Except one.
"Mr. Secretary."
Phil reaches over the table extending his hand.
"Phil. Good to see you."
"The privilege is mine."
Jason nods at me. "Mr. Wilkes," he says.
Jason has already stripped me of my title. He had no intention of standing. There is a stack of files beside him, only him. All of the files had the tabs turned toward me. The entire room is staring at me now awkwardly trying to make small talk. I smile and ignore it. He is in character. I shall take the lead.
"Mr.-?"
"Jason, Special Agent Jason Jones, Internal Affairs."
"Any field-time?"
I already know the answer to the question. He headed his class as a strategist and an expert in analysis.
"Desk jockey."
I couldn't resist glancing over at the mirror. A silent dig at the Director who is standing behind that glass clearly the question of 'how does he qualify to question me on field matters' is in my eyes.
"Mr. Secretary."
Phil gestures to his chair, upright with all the metal. Loaded with sensors, they tried to make it decorative. I pause and stare at the chair with unease.
"Gentlemen, could I impose upon you, this old wound.
.. I had them bring in my chair. I know we will be some time. If I may?"
'Let him have it.' That's what Director White probably said from behind that mirror and her puppets open their mouths with:
"Of course."
Phil couldn't have moved any quicker. I adjust myself, lean my cane against the table take out a pill from my small silver pill box and send it down with the frosty glass goblet of water at my seat.
Time moved quickly. At least it felt like it. Benjamin was good. He laid the tinder wood. The small brush of twigs that the large logs sit upon. It catches fire and burns long enough to get the wood engulfed in flames. Benjamin asked the small questions whose answers I would later be challenged on. My answers picked apart for contradictions and thus we have the flame of an indictment lit.