Three Weeks in Washington, page 7
part #3 of Titus Ray Series
I thought of several bogus responses I could give to Carlton’s question, but before I started spinning an answer, I reconsidered.
It was one thing to lie to Nikki because I’d sworn not to divulge Agency secrets to anyone without the proper clearances, but it was an entirely different matter to lie to Carlton about my personal life.
I hadn’t always felt that way, but since making a commitment to follow the teachings of Christ, I’d felt increasingly guilty about my tendency to be less than truthful about personal matters.
“Nikki Saxon is a woman I met in Norman. She’s a detective in the Norman Police Department, and she’s been taking care of Stormy while I’ve been out of town.”
I tried to deliver this information as dispassionately as possible, hoping against hope Carlton wouldn’t pursue the matter any further.
“If she’s a local detective, why’s she coming to Quantico?”
Obviously, he was going to pursue the matter further.
“She was selected for the FBI’s Law Enforcement Training School. It begins next week, and since we’ll both be out of town, we were just discussing where I should board Stormy.”
Carlton sat down on one of the sofas and gestured for me to join him. I reluctantly walked over and sat down in a chair opposite him.
He said, “That’s quite an honor. You know the Bureau is very selective about who gets invited to that course.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“If she’s fortunate enough to graduate, she’ll be part of Homeland Security’s national defense team. It’s a tough course, though, and not everyone makes it.”
“Nikki mentioned that.”
Carlton looked off in the distance for a moment, and then, as if he’d suddenly remembered something, he pointed at me and said, “Wasn’t she the detective involved in the discovery of that Hezbollah sleeper cell in Norman? You remember? The one Danny Jarrar uncovered not long after you moved down there?”
Danny was a former CIA operative who’d gone to work for the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation (OSBI). I’d made contact with him shortly after arriving in Norman, and when Nikki and I had needed help on the murder investigation, I’d called on him for backup.
Later, when I’d stumbled across a nest of Islamic terrorists operating out of north Texas, Danny had used his OSBI credentials to prevent both the Agency and the FBI from learning I’d taken part in a domestic encounter—something the feds didn’t take lightly and the Agency didn’t tolerate. Instead, Danny had attributed the discovery of the sleeper cell to Nikki Saxon, one of Norman’s finest detectives.
Now, as I observed Carlton’s body language, I wasn’t so sure Danny had been successful in keeping my association with Nikki a secret from him.
“Of course I remember, and you’re right, Nikki worked with Danny to bring down that Jihadi network.”
Suddenly, he leaned forward and stared at me as if he wanted to drill a hole straight through to my brain. I immediately recognized Carlton’s interrogation stance, the posture he assumed when he was questioning the bad guys.
Seconds later, he hit me with a barrage of questions.
“Did Danny introduce you to Detective Saxon?”
“No, he wasn’t—”
“Is your legend good with her? Does she think you work for the Consortium?”
Like all covert operatives, the moment I’d joined the CIA, I’d been given a public cover, something the Agency referred to as a Career Legend.
According to my Career Legend, I was an employee of the Consortium for International Studies, a think tank based in College Park, Maryland. Among the staff listed in the CIS directory was Titus Alan Ray, a Senior Fellow in Middle Eastern Programs.
That would be me.
Everyone in my family, and the few friends I had outside of the Agency, thought I was a nerdy pundit who worked at a scholarly think-tank. I knew they must picture me laboring away at a desk all day writing papers and doing research.
A few months after I’d gone to work for the Agency, I’d driven by the Consortium’s building just to make sure it really did exist.
It did.
However, after years of being listed as one of their employees, I had yet to set foot inside their building.
I said, “Danny didn’t introduce us, but yes, when I met Nikki, I told her I was employed by CIS.”
“If Danny didn’t introduce you, how did you meet Detective Saxon?”
For whatever reason, the moment I’d spotted Carlton standing in the doorway, I knew he would eventually back me into this corner, even if it took him all night to do it.
Nikki once asked me what the Agency would do if they found out I’d violated their sacrosanct rules and disclosed my true identity to her. At the time, I’d assured her it wasn’t going to matter as long as I shared it with my handler before taking my next polygraph.
Now, I was about to find out if that were true or just wishful thinking on my part.
I looked Carlton in the eye. “When I met Nikki, I was being detained as a possible suspect in a homicide investigation.”
Carlton pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling, and then leaned back against the sofa and said nothing for several seconds.
Finally, he nodded and said, “I believe that statement requires an explanation. I suggest you make it a good one.”
I gave him an explanation, but whether it was a good one or not wasn’t relevant. It was the truth.
* * * *
After describing the circumstances of how Nikki and I had met, I revealed why I’d made the decision to disclose my true identity to her.
At first, Carlton appeared skeptical of my choice, but when I mentioned that some of the early evidence in the murder investigation pointed to a connection between the victim and Ahmed Al-Amin, he seemed less doubtful. Then, by the time I was wrapping up my narrative, he was nodding his head.
When I finally finished, Carlton said, “Okay, now that you’ve told me exactly what happened, Danny’s account makes a lot more sense. His story was chocked full of holes.”
Hoping Carlton and I might share an inside joke about Danny, I laughed and said, “Danny’s stories usually are.”
There was no humor in Carlton’s reply.
“You’ll need to file a Disclosure of Personal Information form, and, in this case, it has to be the long version.”
If a CIA employee inadvertently revealed personal classified information, the filing of a DPI was always mandatory. However, when the disclosure was deliberate, not just an inadvertent slip, the long form was required.
In other words, filing a DPI-L meant an employee had intentionally blown his cover to an unauthorized person, which was pretty much what I’d done with Nikki.
Still, I decided to argue the point with him.
“Nikki is a member of law enforcement. I thought that might—”
“No, that doesn’t matter. You gave an unauthorized person classified information. In doing so, you revealed your standing with the Agency. That constitutes a criminal offense.”
“Technically that might be true, Douglas, but I only gave her the barest of details about my status with the Agency, and, of course, I never disclosed anything operational.”
Carlton nodded. “I’m sure of that, and I can understand why you made the decision to tell her you were with the Agency, but that doesn’t negate the law.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
After a few seconds of silence, Carlton looked over at me, and smiled. “You know, it’s fortunate Detective Saxon was chosen for the FBI’s specialized training. A few months from now, she’ll have a higher security classification than when you told her you were CIA.”
I mulled over Carlton’s statement for a moment.
Finally, the fog dissipated, and everything became perfectly clear.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “If I don’t file the DPI for a few months, my breach of security won’t really matter?”
“Quite possibly,” he said, nodding his head. “Quite possibly.”
“Then, if it’s all the same to you, Douglas, I’ll contact Legal after Nikki completes the FBI course.”
Carlton didn’t respond to my statement. Instead, he got up from the sofa, straightened his jacket, and said, “Meet me in my study in thirty minutes. We have more important things to discuss than Detective Saxon.”
Before leaving the room, he looked back and said, “Don’t forget, Titus. Your detective has to pass that course in order to get her security clearance.”
I assured him. “Nothing to worry about there.”
It was an FBI course.
How hard could it be?
* * * *
When Carlton left the room, I walked back over to the windows and gazed out at the tranquil garden scene once again.
For one brief moment, I tried to imagine myself living at The Meadows with a wife and a couple of kids. I tried to picture waking up every morning unaware of the threats facing America.
Unable to get my head around that scenario, I gave up after a few minutes and turned my thoughts to Carlton and the psychological game we had just played out in Gladys’ great room.
I wasn’t sure if Danny had deliberately told Carlton I’d revealed my identity to Nikki, or whether Danny had accidently let that information slip from his sometimes-loose lips.
But, however it happened, I felt certain Carlton knew about my relationship with Nikki before he ever walked in the room and overheard my conversation with her.
I thought back to the letter Nikki had shown me when I’d returned from Caracas, the one inviting her to attend the FBI classes. At the bottom of the letter, Danny Jarrar’s name had been listed as the person recommending her for the training. Now, I suspected Carlton had been responsible for getting Nikki’s name added to that training course roster.
Had Carlton done this in order to keep me out of trouble with the Agency’s Legal Division?
Probably.
Did he have some other motive for doing so?
Probably.
* * * *
The moment I decided to head off to the kitchen in search of a snack—perhaps a bag of potato chips—Katherine called me.
This time, I kept my eye on the doorway as I answered the phone.
“Have they put you in handcuffs yet?” she asked. “Or have you escaped already?”
“Nothing happened. As always, Carlton worked his magic.”
“That magic is going to run out one of these days.”
“Let’s hope not.”
I tried coming up with some small talk to add, since Katherine always seemed to like that sort of thing, but nothing popped in my mind, so I said, “Tell me about the phone number.”
“Of course, right to the matter at hand. Well, I’m not sure what you were expecting, but the phone number is registered to a photography business.”
“Not an individual?”
“Not exactly. It’s WK Photography, but the WK stands for Walid Khouri.”
“And what do you know about Mr. Khouri?”
“He’s originally from Jordan. Arrived here about ten years ago with a pocketful of cash supposedly from a family inheritance, and he’s been in the photography business ever since. On the surface, he appears to be an upstanding businessman running a legitimate business.”
“But you suspect otherwise?”
“There are definitely a few red flags there, but unless I have some context, I’m not sure what data I should be investigating. Is Walid connected to the shooters at the Navy Yard this morning? Did someone call you from WK Photography? Context. I need context.”
“Try this for context. Did any of your red flags involve Khouri and illegal drugs? Perhaps some money laundering?”
Katherine was quiet for a moment, and I thought I heard her tapping away on her computer keyboard.
“No, and no. If that’s your context, Walid Khouri is not your man.”
Katherine’s information made no sense to me. Why would Reyes Valario have been communicating with a photographer before he embarked on his suicide mission at the Navy Yard? Did Felipe simply fail to write down the number correctly?
I asked, “What were the red flags on Walid?”
“No, Titus, I’m not going there. Once I get an official inquiry on this number, then I’ll do some more digging on Walid Khouri. Until that happens, it was nice talking to you.”
When Katherine hung up, I headed to the kitchen to get that snack.
Chapter 10
The kitchen at The Meadows had dark wooden floors and pale-yellow cabinets. The contrast in colors gave the room a warm, rustic feel, although the appliances were stainless steel and the countertops were made of granite.
Carlton still called it Gladys’ kitchen.
A multi-tiered pot rack hung from one of the exposed wooden beams in the ceiling. The pot rack was centered over a kitchen island made of white stone. It reminded me of a beautiful piece of artwork and served as the room’s focal point.
When I walked in, I found Millie sitting at the island studying a tattered, food-splattered cookbook.
She smiled and removed her reading glasses when she saw me. “So you decided to stop by and say hello before you left?”
Millie was at least a foot shorter than Arkady and about half as big. The two of them usually garnered a few smiles when they appeared together in the Agency cafeteria.
Millie’s feistiness more than made up for any height issues.
I said, “I couldn’t leave without consulting my favorite expert on Korean politics, could I?”
She gave me an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Yeah, right. I know you didn’t come in here to talk politics with me, Korean or otherwise.”
“Your perceptiveness is only exceeded by your culinary skills.”
“Statements like that make you sound like a nerd.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Millie hopped off the kitchen barstool and walked over to the refrigerator, removing a large pitcher of lemonade. “I used up all my lemons making this for you.”
“But surely you did it out of the goodness of your heart.”
She smiled. “Well, there’s that, of course. But mainly, it was because Douglas asked me to do it when he called and said you were coming out to The Meadows with a guest.”
I sat down on one of the barstools. “Does Douglas often entertain guests like the one I brought out here today?”
Millie frowned. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“Why? Because I shouldn’t be asking you the question or because you don’t want to answer the question?”
She shook her head. “I’m not giving you a fish, Titus.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before giving me an answer, she poured a glass of lemonade and set it in front of me. “There’s an old Korean proverb that says, ‘Don’t trust a cat with a fish.’”
“I was just curious, Millie. You know I’m not trying to dig up any dirt on Douglas. I wouldn’t do that.”
She sat down next to me and picked up her reading glasses. After putting them back on, she peered at me over the dark green frames. “Gladys once described you as one of the good bad guys, so that’s probably true. Still, I’m not answering your question.”
“Fair enough. Here’s another one. Did Arkady give you a bag of potato chips to hold for me?”
She leaned over and opened a drawer on the island. Pushing aside a couple of potholders, she pulled out Felipe’s yellow bag of potato chips and laid it down on the counter between us.
She said, “Like you, I’m the curious type. But, unlike you, I won’t be asking questions about matters that don’t concern me.”
She pushed the bag of chips toward me and went back to studying her cookbook. “How do you feel about turtle soup for dinner?”
I grabbed the bag of chips and headed out the door, taking my lemonade with me. “I’m not staying for dinner, Millie. But, if I were, I think I’d prefer fish.”
* * * *
When I opened the door to Carlton’s study, I found him staring at his bookshelves. He didn’t turn around as I closed the door behind me.
“Someone moved a couple of my books,” he said.
“That alone could bring down civilization as we know it.”
I watched as he gave one of the books a light tap on its spine, bringing it into perfect alignment with the one standing next to it.
After making a few other adjustments—so the world would continue spinning in the right direction—he turned around and faced me.
I held the bag of potato chips out to him.
“No, thanks,” he said, sitting down at his desk. “Millie’s fixing dinner for me.”
I sat down on the other side of the desk and pushed the bag of chips toward him. “This was in Felipe’s backpack. The feds are gonna come looking for it sooner rather than later.”
He glared at me for a couple of seconds.
Finally, he picked up the yellow package and looked it over. He treated it gingerly, almost as if it were an ancient document and it might easily disintegrate in his hands.
“Let me guess. The phone number on the back of this bag is the reason the feds will be showing up here again.”
“Correct.”
He quickly jotted down the number on his legal pad, and then he picked up his cell phone and snapped several photos of it from different angles.
Once that was done, he laid his phone down, pressed his hands together to form a steeple, and pointed them in my direction.
“Talk,” he ordered.
I filled in the parts of Felipe’s story I’d left out before, ending with how insistent Felipe had been about the phone number.
“Felipe was convinced that number belonged to the guy interested in buying the heroin they were transporting.”
“And you’re not?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ll know more after you’ve had the analysts run the phone number through the system. But for now, here’s what I think. I believe the drugs were given to Reyes to serve as a diversionary tactic, to disguise the fact he was at the Navy Yard this morning to martyr himself.”
It was one thing to lie to Nikki because I’d sworn not to divulge Agency secrets to anyone without the proper clearances, but it was an entirely different matter to lie to Carlton about my personal life.
I hadn’t always felt that way, but since making a commitment to follow the teachings of Christ, I’d felt increasingly guilty about my tendency to be less than truthful about personal matters.
“Nikki Saxon is a woman I met in Norman. She’s a detective in the Norman Police Department, and she’s been taking care of Stormy while I’ve been out of town.”
I tried to deliver this information as dispassionately as possible, hoping against hope Carlton wouldn’t pursue the matter any further.
“If she’s a local detective, why’s she coming to Quantico?”
Obviously, he was going to pursue the matter further.
“She was selected for the FBI’s Law Enforcement Training School. It begins next week, and since we’ll both be out of town, we were just discussing where I should board Stormy.”
Carlton sat down on one of the sofas and gestured for me to join him. I reluctantly walked over and sat down in a chair opposite him.
He said, “That’s quite an honor. You know the Bureau is very selective about who gets invited to that course.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
“If she’s fortunate enough to graduate, she’ll be part of Homeland Security’s national defense team. It’s a tough course, though, and not everyone makes it.”
“Nikki mentioned that.”
Carlton looked off in the distance for a moment, and then, as if he’d suddenly remembered something, he pointed at me and said, “Wasn’t she the detective involved in the discovery of that Hezbollah sleeper cell in Norman? You remember? The one Danny Jarrar uncovered not long after you moved down there?”
Danny was a former CIA operative who’d gone to work for the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation (OSBI). I’d made contact with him shortly after arriving in Norman, and when Nikki and I had needed help on the murder investigation, I’d called on him for backup.
Later, when I’d stumbled across a nest of Islamic terrorists operating out of north Texas, Danny had used his OSBI credentials to prevent both the Agency and the FBI from learning I’d taken part in a domestic encounter—something the feds didn’t take lightly and the Agency didn’t tolerate. Instead, Danny had attributed the discovery of the sleeper cell to Nikki Saxon, one of Norman’s finest detectives.
Now, as I observed Carlton’s body language, I wasn’t so sure Danny had been successful in keeping my association with Nikki a secret from him.
“Of course I remember, and you’re right, Nikki worked with Danny to bring down that Jihadi network.”
Suddenly, he leaned forward and stared at me as if he wanted to drill a hole straight through to my brain. I immediately recognized Carlton’s interrogation stance, the posture he assumed when he was questioning the bad guys.
Seconds later, he hit me with a barrage of questions.
“Did Danny introduce you to Detective Saxon?”
“No, he wasn’t—”
“Is your legend good with her? Does she think you work for the Consortium?”
Like all covert operatives, the moment I’d joined the CIA, I’d been given a public cover, something the Agency referred to as a Career Legend.
According to my Career Legend, I was an employee of the Consortium for International Studies, a think tank based in College Park, Maryland. Among the staff listed in the CIS directory was Titus Alan Ray, a Senior Fellow in Middle Eastern Programs.
That would be me.
Everyone in my family, and the few friends I had outside of the Agency, thought I was a nerdy pundit who worked at a scholarly think-tank. I knew they must picture me laboring away at a desk all day writing papers and doing research.
A few months after I’d gone to work for the Agency, I’d driven by the Consortium’s building just to make sure it really did exist.
It did.
However, after years of being listed as one of their employees, I had yet to set foot inside their building.
I said, “Danny didn’t introduce us, but yes, when I met Nikki, I told her I was employed by CIS.”
“If Danny didn’t introduce you, how did you meet Detective Saxon?”
For whatever reason, the moment I’d spotted Carlton standing in the doorway, I knew he would eventually back me into this corner, even if it took him all night to do it.
Nikki once asked me what the Agency would do if they found out I’d violated their sacrosanct rules and disclosed my true identity to her. At the time, I’d assured her it wasn’t going to matter as long as I shared it with my handler before taking my next polygraph.
Now, I was about to find out if that were true or just wishful thinking on my part.
I looked Carlton in the eye. “When I met Nikki, I was being detained as a possible suspect in a homicide investigation.”
Carlton pursed his lips, glanced up at the ceiling, and then leaned back against the sofa and said nothing for several seconds.
Finally, he nodded and said, “I believe that statement requires an explanation. I suggest you make it a good one.”
I gave him an explanation, but whether it was a good one or not wasn’t relevant. It was the truth.
* * * *
After describing the circumstances of how Nikki and I had met, I revealed why I’d made the decision to disclose my true identity to her.
At first, Carlton appeared skeptical of my choice, but when I mentioned that some of the early evidence in the murder investigation pointed to a connection between the victim and Ahmed Al-Amin, he seemed less doubtful. Then, by the time I was wrapping up my narrative, he was nodding his head.
When I finally finished, Carlton said, “Okay, now that you’ve told me exactly what happened, Danny’s account makes a lot more sense. His story was chocked full of holes.”
Hoping Carlton and I might share an inside joke about Danny, I laughed and said, “Danny’s stories usually are.”
There was no humor in Carlton’s reply.
“You’ll need to file a Disclosure of Personal Information form, and, in this case, it has to be the long version.”
If a CIA employee inadvertently revealed personal classified information, the filing of a DPI was always mandatory. However, when the disclosure was deliberate, not just an inadvertent slip, the long form was required.
In other words, filing a DPI-L meant an employee had intentionally blown his cover to an unauthorized person, which was pretty much what I’d done with Nikki.
Still, I decided to argue the point with him.
“Nikki is a member of law enforcement. I thought that might—”
“No, that doesn’t matter. You gave an unauthorized person classified information. In doing so, you revealed your standing with the Agency. That constitutes a criminal offense.”
“Technically that might be true, Douglas, but I only gave her the barest of details about my status with the Agency, and, of course, I never disclosed anything operational.”
Carlton nodded. “I’m sure of that, and I can understand why you made the decision to tell her you were with the Agency, but that doesn’t negate the law.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
After a few seconds of silence, Carlton looked over at me, and smiled. “You know, it’s fortunate Detective Saxon was chosen for the FBI’s specialized training. A few months from now, she’ll have a higher security classification than when you told her you were CIA.”
I mulled over Carlton’s statement for a moment.
Finally, the fog dissipated, and everything became perfectly clear.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “If I don’t file the DPI for a few months, my breach of security won’t really matter?”
“Quite possibly,” he said, nodding his head. “Quite possibly.”
“Then, if it’s all the same to you, Douglas, I’ll contact Legal after Nikki completes the FBI course.”
Carlton didn’t respond to my statement. Instead, he got up from the sofa, straightened his jacket, and said, “Meet me in my study in thirty minutes. We have more important things to discuss than Detective Saxon.”
Before leaving the room, he looked back and said, “Don’t forget, Titus. Your detective has to pass that course in order to get her security clearance.”
I assured him. “Nothing to worry about there.”
It was an FBI course.
How hard could it be?
* * * *
When Carlton left the room, I walked back over to the windows and gazed out at the tranquil garden scene once again.
For one brief moment, I tried to imagine myself living at The Meadows with a wife and a couple of kids. I tried to picture waking up every morning unaware of the threats facing America.
Unable to get my head around that scenario, I gave up after a few minutes and turned my thoughts to Carlton and the psychological game we had just played out in Gladys’ great room.
I wasn’t sure if Danny had deliberately told Carlton I’d revealed my identity to Nikki, or whether Danny had accidently let that information slip from his sometimes-loose lips.
But, however it happened, I felt certain Carlton knew about my relationship with Nikki before he ever walked in the room and overheard my conversation with her.
I thought back to the letter Nikki had shown me when I’d returned from Caracas, the one inviting her to attend the FBI classes. At the bottom of the letter, Danny Jarrar’s name had been listed as the person recommending her for the training. Now, I suspected Carlton had been responsible for getting Nikki’s name added to that training course roster.
Had Carlton done this in order to keep me out of trouble with the Agency’s Legal Division?
Probably.
Did he have some other motive for doing so?
Probably.
* * * *
The moment I decided to head off to the kitchen in search of a snack—perhaps a bag of potato chips—Katherine called me.
This time, I kept my eye on the doorway as I answered the phone.
“Have they put you in handcuffs yet?” she asked. “Or have you escaped already?”
“Nothing happened. As always, Carlton worked his magic.”
“That magic is going to run out one of these days.”
“Let’s hope not.”
I tried coming up with some small talk to add, since Katherine always seemed to like that sort of thing, but nothing popped in my mind, so I said, “Tell me about the phone number.”
“Of course, right to the matter at hand. Well, I’m not sure what you were expecting, but the phone number is registered to a photography business.”
“Not an individual?”
“Not exactly. It’s WK Photography, but the WK stands for Walid Khouri.”
“And what do you know about Mr. Khouri?”
“He’s originally from Jordan. Arrived here about ten years ago with a pocketful of cash supposedly from a family inheritance, and he’s been in the photography business ever since. On the surface, he appears to be an upstanding businessman running a legitimate business.”
“But you suspect otherwise?”
“There are definitely a few red flags there, but unless I have some context, I’m not sure what data I should be investigating. Is Walid connected to the shooters at the Navy Yard this morning? Did someone call you from WK Photography? Context. I need context.”
“Try this for context. Did any of your red flags involve Khouri and illegal drugs? Perhaps some money laundering?”
Katherine was quiet for a moment, and I thought I heard her tapping away on her computer keyboard.
“No, and no. If that’s your context, Walid Khouri is not your man.”
Katherine’s information made no sense to me. Why would Reyes Valario have been communicating with a photographer before he embarked on his suicide mission at the Navy Yard? Did Felipe simply fail to write down the number correctly?
I asked, “What were the red flags on Walid?”
“No, Titus, I’m not going there. Once I get an official inquiry on this number, then I’ll do some more digging on Walid Khouri. Until that happens, it was nice talking to you.”
When Katherine hung up, I headed to the kitchen to get that snack.
Chapter 10
The kitchen at The Meadows had dark wooden floors and pale-yellow cabinets. The contrast in colors gave the room a warm, rustic feel, although the appliances were stainless steel and the countertops were made of granite.
Carlton still called it Gladys’ kitchen.
A multi-tiered pot rack hung from one of the exposed wooden beams in the ceiling. The pot rack was centered over a kitchen island made of white stone. It reminded me of a beautiful piece of artwork and served as the room’s focal point.
When I walked in, I found Millie sitting at the island studying a tattered, food-splattered cookbook.
She smiled and removed her reading glasses when she saw me. “So you decided to stop by and say hello before you left?”
Millie was at least a foot shorter than Arkady and about half as big. The two of them usually garnered a few smiles when they appeared together in the Agency cafeteria.
Millie’s feistiness more than made up for any height issues.
I said, “I couldn’t leave without consulting my favorite expert on Korean politics, could I?”
She gave me an exaggerated look of disbelief. “Yeah, right. I know you didn’t come in here to talk politics with me, Korean or otherwise.”
“Your perceptiveness is only exceeded by your culinary skills.”
“Statements like that make you sound like a nerd.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Millie hopped off the kitchen barstool and walked over to the refrigerator, removing a large pitcher of lemonade. “I used up all my lemons making this for you.”
“But surely you did it out of the goodness of your heart.”
She smiled. “Well, there’s that, of course. But mainly, it was because Douglas asked me to do it when he called and said you were coming out to The Meadows with a guest.”
I sat down on one of the barstools. “Does Douglas often entertain guests like the one I brought out here today?”
Millie frowned. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that.”
“Why? Because I shouldn’t be asking you the question or because you don’t want to answer the question?”
She shook her head. “I’m not giving you a fish, Titus.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Before giving me an answer, she poured a glass of lemonade and set it in front of me. “There’s an old Korean proverb that says, ‘Don’t trust a cat with a fish.’”
“I was just curious, Millie. You know I’m not trying to dig up any dirt on Douglas. I wouldn’t do that.”
She sat down next to me and picked up her reading glasses. After putting them back on, she peered at me over the dark green frames. “Gladys once described you as one of the good bad guys, so that’s probably true. Still, I’m not answering your question.”
“Fair enough. Here’s another one. Did Arkady give you a bag of potato chips to hold for me?”
She leaned over and opened a drawer on the island. Pushing aside a couple of potholders, she pulled out Felipe’s yellow bag of potato chips and laid it down on the counter between us.
She said, “Like you, I’m the curious type. But, unlike you, I won’t be asking questions about matters that don’t concern me.”
She pushed the bag of chips toward me and went back to studying her cookbook. “How do you feel about turtle soup for dinner?”
I grabbed the bag of chips and headed out the door, taking my lemonade with me. “I’m not staying for dinner, Millie. But, if I were, I think I’d prefer fish.”
* * * *
When I opened the door to Carlton’s study, I found him staring at his bookshelves. He didn’t turn around as I closed the door behind me.
“Someone moved a couple of my books,” he said.
“That alone could bring down civilization as we know it.”
I watched as he gave one of the books a light tap on its spine, bringing it into perfect alignment with the one standing next to it.
After making a few other adjustments—so the world would continue spinning in the right direction—he turned around and faced me.
I held the bag of potato chips out to him.
“No, thanks,” he said, sitting down at his desk. “Millie’s fixing dinner for me.”
I sat down on the other side of the desk and pushed the bag of chips toward him. “This was in Felipe’s backpack. The feds are gonna come looking for it sooner rather than later.”
He glared at me for a couple of seconds.
Finally, he picked up the yellow package and looked it over. He treated it gingerly, almost as if it were an ancient document and it might easily disintegrate in his hands.
“Let me guess. The phone number on the back of this bag is the reason the feds will be showing up here again.”
“Correct.”
He quickly jotted down the number on his legal pad, and then he picked up his cell phone and snapped several photos of it from different angles.
Once that was done, he laid his phone down, pressed his hands together to form a steeple, and pointed them in my direction.
“Talk,” he ordered.
I filled in the parts of Felipe’s story I’d left out before, ending with how insistent Felipe had been about the phone number.
“Felipe was convinced that number belonged to the guy interested in buying the heroin they were transporting.”
“And you’re not?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ll know more after you’ve had the analysts run the phone number through the system. But for now, here’s what I think. I believe the drugs were given to Reyes to serve as a diversionary tactic, to disguise the fact he was at the Navy Yard this morning to martyr himself.”
