Lawrence rubbed at his chin. “I don’t know about them, but I’m sure I can find out. All right, time for your question.”
“Where did you work at the Agency?”
Another slight smile. “Nothing too glamorous. An economics desk. Not really where you’d expect James Bond to be sitting, am I right?”
I kept quiet for a moment, but only a moment. “You and your former co-workers… you guys were concerned about what was happening at Falconer.”
“Good point.”
“Nuclear energy supplies about twenty percent of the electricity in this country.”
“Another good point.”
“If current or future nuclear plants are closed or delayed, that means replacement power has to come from someplace else. Domestic or foreign. So if you were some sort of… collective that wanted to increase your market share, you might do something like fund and support a militant group that would disrupt one of your competitors.”
Lawrence put his hands up, gave me a slow clap-clap-clap. “Nicely done, Mister Cole. Too bad you’re not still at the DoD, or with my Agency.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Why? Still bitter about what happened to you in Nevada?”
“No, I can’t stand the hours.”
That brought a slight smile. “True… and number-crunching at the CIA can be dull indeed.”
“So why are you involved? And not the FBI?”
“Because economic terrorism isn’t as sexy as cyberterrorism, or actual terrorism. That’s what the FBI is concerned about, and rightfully so. But a functioning, healthy economy… without it, this planet will go very dark in a very, very short time. And it wouldn’t take much. A short-term oil embargo. A real nasty computer virus. Some refineries off-line. A few low-yield nukes with the right EMP effect. My God, and are we prepared? Not in the least. Hell, libraries are burning books now because everything’s stored electronically. But what happens when the electronics fail? Collapse. Utter and final collapse.”
I didn’t have anything to add at the moment, and he put his chin in his hand and brooded. “So we bend the rules against the use of CIA assets in-country. We go around asking for favors, asking for friends… even asking for relatives, God help us, to give us information and data. Anything and everything, so we can get a handle on what’s going on out there and who’s paying for it.”
He used both hands to wipe at his eyes. A couple more mournful minutes passed, and his voice strengthened. “Are you a student of history?”
“Most history,” I said. “Not very good when it comes to Far East or African history. I know my limitations.”
“Good for you. So many don’t. Do you think if you were able to go back in time and talk to a random Roman citizen in the second or third century, that they would realize they were a citizen of an empire in decline?”
“No, they wouldn’t. They were too close to it.”
“Yes, they were, weren’t they. Oh, they’d mutter about the barbarians, the corruption, the high taxes, but they would still be convinced that they belonged to the most powerful empire on earth. They would still be thinking that, right up to the time Rome was sacked, the aqueducts dried up, and the harbors were destroyed. You know, the Romans were able to make these wonderful artificial harbors; but centuries later, their descendants would see nothing about them but harbors that would trap and sink ships. From one port to the next, fatal harbors, never to be repaired or used again.”
For the last few sentences he stared across at the garden again, and he said, “Anything more you can offer?”
“Yes,” I said. “There are other interests out there. I’ve encountered them a few times.”
“Really? That’s fascinating. Do let me know.”
“I found out that Chesak was backed by a professor of history at Boston University. I went to interview him, he had nothing to tell me, and when I left his office some men posing as federal agents attempted to detain a… friend of mine.”
“What kind of friend?”
“Security consultant.”
“Ah, a wise idea. Were they successful in detaining your friend?”
“No. Shots were fired. I saw the two men fall. Their vehicle was shot up. There were dozens of witnesses. The next day, the Boston Globe reported that the whole incident was a student-run film project gone awry. Later that same day, the BU professor disappeared and his house burned down. My own house is under surveillance.”
He rubbed at his chin. “Fascinating.”
“Seemed mostly terrifying at the time.”
“Yes, yes, of course. So what does that tell you, former analyst Cole?”
“You tell me. Any chance they were your guys?”
“Hah! I wish… but still, who knows. Do I have to remind you that our previous work was trying to find truth in a wilderness of mirrors?”
“No reminding necessary.”
“So maybe it was another section in the Agency. Or any one of a number of agencies covered under the government. Or contractors… when you have slippery work that needs to be done, without wanting to leave a clear trail behind, you use contractors. Or foreign interests… or foreign interests using domestic contractors. So many possibilities.”
Another jet flew overhead, once again seeking a safe landing. “So, where do we go from here?”
Lawrence turned to me, eyes red-rimmed. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“You might not like it.”
“Try me.”
“When it comes to who’s involved, I don’t care.”
“What do you mean?”
“Let me make it clear. As to who’s involved, who’s behind it, who’s paying, I don’t give a crap. I want Curt Chesak. I get the feeling you want him too. So that’s my only focus.”
Lawrence slowly nodded. “You said he hurt a friend of yours. Do tell me more.”
“When the protesters in favor of violence finally breached the fence the last demonstration day, Chesak led the way. He and some others ambushed a couple of cops. One of them was my best friend.”
“Name?”
“Detective Sergeant Diane Woods.”
A tilt of his head. “Girlfriend? Fiancée?”
“No. Just the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“How is she doing?”
“She received serious head injuries. She’s in a coma. She may die.”
Lawrence seemed to consider that. “When you say you want Curt Chesak, what do you mean, exactly?”
“I want to find him, talk to him, and then kill him. That’s what I mean. Exactly.”
A smile creased his old face. “Would you care to stay for dinner, Mister Cole?”
Despite the fact that I was in a mourning household, dinner was fine indeed, and Lawrence took care of the bulk of it. His wife Frances was a thin blond woman with an engaging smile who had on gray slacks and a light blue sweater, with gold jewelry on her tanned wrists and neck. One had only to look at her eyes when she was quiet to see the sadness that was now living there. Our meal was grilled steaks, brown rice, and a mixed salad, with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Lawrence introduced me as someone who had retired from government service on a medical leave, and our conversation revolved around the weather, the upcoming election, and what kind of winters Virginia had versus New Hampshire.
With coffee and cake and a bit more conversation, Frances led me upstairs to the spare bedroom. “This used to be John’s, before he… before he left for school.” She opened the door and the room was plain, with a bed and a colorful quilt on top of it, a writing desk, a bookshelf, and a closet door. There were no photos or certificates or trophies or anything else that announced that this room belonged to an only son.