Sarah shivered, “Awful,”
“More than awful,” said Steve.
“Morning guys,” a tall black man wearing a dark suit joined Steve and Sarah at the graveside. He kissed Sarah on the cheek then shook Steve’s hand. Another very unlikely CIA officer, thought Steve; at six-foot-four Charlie Doyle once dreamed of playing basketball for the NBA, but wound up joining the agency instead.
“Can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered to Steve as the pastor read a short prayer.
Steve stared over the heads of the other mourners into the gray willows as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Then he looked across the grave to where Joanne was sobbing quietly, with her arms around the two boys. How many times Brian had talked to Steve about his family and his guilt about not spending more time with them or his fear that President Stokes’s crazed politics could endanger their very future?
“It’s all so terribly ironic,” Steve whispered to Charlie. “A freak biking accident ends Brian’s life at precisely the time his professional career is also headed down the tubes.”
“Yeah, thinking the same thing myself,” said Charlie.
“You believe it might have been suicide?” asked Sarah.
“No way.” Steve shook his head vigorously. “Brian wasn’t that kind of guy. He had a great family, friends.”
“But professionally he was dead meat,” said Charlie.
“Hell, if you want to look at it that way,” said Steve, “my career is also washed up. Brian was the top analyst on the hacking report but I was the lead author. That puts the bulls-eye right on me. I can forget about any career as long as Stokes and his people are running the country. Brian and I helped brief the joint congressional committee prior to the election. I can’t believe we actually exchanged high-fives after that session.”
“We all thought the report would be a bombshell,” said Charlie. “I still can’t get over the Republicans refusing to act. Hell, even the White House wussed out.”
“But not Brian,” said Steve.
He remembered how they’d last come together a couple of days before Brian’s death. It was early evening in O’Shaughnessy’s Pub on King Street in Falls Church. Brian was already there. The young officer raised his Guinness before relaying the latest news.
“Guess what,” said Brian, “Stokes not only claims our investigation was bullshit, he’s also threatening to veto any plans to punish the Russians. What a crock!”
Though seething within, Steve kept his resentment bridled. Passion and outrage was not his thing. After twenty-eight years with the agency, his cynicism was baked in. “Of, course, there’s another way of looking at all this,” he said. “From year one at the agency we’ve been doing exactly what we’re now accusing Russia and Kozlov of doing.”
“What do you mean?” asked Sarah.
“I mean meddling in the most sensitive affairs of other countries. We did it in Italy, in Guatemala, in Iran, in Chile. We did it all over. Admit it!”
“I was up to some pretty wild stuff in the Congo and Venezuela,” said Charlie.
“No! This is different,” said Brian. “When we did it to other countries we were fighting Communism or radical Islam or whatever.”
“Not much of an excuse if you’re from the Congo or Venezuela,” Steve persisted.
“Goddamn it,” said Brian. “You’d be willing to give the Russians a pass for anything. This is our own country! It’s in our face. We’re supposed to be the most powerful nation in the world and we’re sitting here like a bunch of assholes. We handed Kozlov a victory he could never have won by force!”
Steve’s mind returned to the present as he was handed a shovel by the gravesite. Brian was right, Steve thought, tossing a clod of earth onto the casket. Now he’s gone, and Stokes and his slimy, bootlicking crew are there, in the White House, all triumphant. We’ve been played for fools.
Afterwards, they went to the nearby home of the dead agent’s brother in the Aurora Highlands. Brian’s brother had obviously done well. It was a large two-story Cape Cod-style house with a lush lawn and meticulously trimmed hedges. A Mercedes and BMW were parked in the open garage. More than a hundred people were already there, filling the large living room, spilling over into the library, hallways, and kitchen. There were several pictures of Brian: with Joanne on their honeymoon in Hawaii, coaching the Lincoln High School baseball team, skiing in Aspen with the family, and in biking gear next to Steve, each one astride his mountain bike.
Joanne was seated on a sofa, wearing a black dress, drinking coffee, and surrounded by friends. Steve bent to take her hand. “I’m going to miss him,” he said. “He was like a brother to me.” He was startled when Joanne looked at him blankly then turned her back to speak to the woman beside her. What’s all that about, he thought. Brian’s two sons, each with a black ribbon pinned to his white shirt, passed out desserts. Steve accepted a brownie and patted each on the head.
Many of the mourners were in couples. As often happened in such situations, Steve felt very much alone. No wife. No children – at least none alive. No parents – they’d taken off when he was just a young kid. And woman friends – not much in that department either. The few affairs he’d begun had ended quickly. The woman usually accused him of being self-centered, selfish, and closed-off. It was hard for him to deny the charge. There was just Maya and she was thousands of miles away, and that was the past.
He poured himself a scotch and moved into the den where Charlie and Sarah were standing.
Gesticulating with a bottle of beer, Charlie was skewering the latest presidential executive decrees. “That asshole has just declared the U.S. will continue using black sites in other countries to interrogate suspected terrorists. And, last but not least, Gitmo will remain open and ready for business.
“For show. It’s all for show,” said Sarah. “For the crazies in Wisconsin and Michigan.”
“Dead wrong,” said Charlie. “Stokes really believes in the stuff he’s doing. He’s nuts.”
Steve’s mind, however, was elsewhere, still probing the details of Brian’s death. He poured himself another scotch. “It’s all too pat,” he muttered. “Too fucking pat,” he said louder. The others turned to stare.
“What’s too fucking pat?” asked Charlie.
“Just too goddamned much coincidence,” said Steve.
“Coincidence?” asked Sarah.
“Look,” said Steve. “Brian bitches about Stokes killing our hacking report. He keeps insisting we have to do something about it. Gets louder and louder. Practically calls for an insurrection in the agency and then conveniently dies in a biking accident.” He took another sip of his drink. “Death by drowning? No way.”
Charlie looked at Sarah, her eyebrows skeptically raised. Steve was notorious for his dogged investigations. But he also had the reputation of inventing conspiracies. And they knew how close he was to Brian – like an older brother, he was always saying.
“Steve, this is the real world. Stuff happens,” said Sarah, placing a hand on his arm.
“But when it happens like this,” said Steve, “you can’t just shrug and walk away. I’m not imagining it. There’s something there.”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Charlie, still with that mocking gaze.
Steve looked at him squarely. “I’m going to find out what happened.”
“I thought we knew,” said Charlie.
“No bloody way,” said Steve.
CHAPTER THREE:
Fountainhead Regional Park
Steve got little sleep that night. Questions about Brian’s death continued to roil his mind. He wandered about his apartment in Falls Church, tried to read a book, peed a couple of times, downloaded the latest episode of Homeland, paused it after the first five minutes, turned off the TV, and stared out the living room window at a few distant street lamps. The silence in his apartment was total. What would it be like, he wondered, to no longer be alone?