Color of Blood(115)

Chapter 41


Dennis got dressed earlier than normal and left the house while other families in the neighborhood were just waking up.

He used another new disposable cell phone to order a taxi, giving the address of a split-level colonial three blocks away. The dispatcher said the car would be there in twenty minutes.

As quietly as he could manage, he opened the back door through the kitchen and stood quietly on the enclosed back porch listening to the sounds of his Arlington neighborhood waking up. A dog barked sharply nearby, and he heard a car door slam. An engine ignited, and a car pulled way.

He walked out through the screen door on the porch, gently closing it behind him. He could see his neighbor to the left through their kitchen window; the army officer was fully dressed and was holding a cup of coffee while the flicker of a TV screen made the room jump haphazardly.

Dennis swung over the waist-high chain-link fence to his elderly neighbor’s property on his right. He moved swiftly across their backyard and jumped the small fence separating the property from the sidewalk and street.

The night before, he had been struck by a severe case of paranoia and decided—even though it might be overkill—to play it safe. A cable company van had been parked in the street for the past several days, and it was enough of a coincidence that he was forced to take evasive measures.

Dennis walked the three blocks to the address he had given the taxi company. To avoid drawing attention, he walked past the house and slowed, crossing the street and walking back. After ten minutes, the taxi pulled up to the house, and Dennis hustled over to it.

He kept looking at his watch, trying to ensure he’d be in place at the Starbucks when his target showed up for their morning coffee. If he picked the wrong Starbucks, or the wrong morning, he’d have to think of another venue away from Langley to reach this person.

The taxi dropped him off at the small strip mall on Route 123 in McLean by 7:00 a.m. Dennis went inside, ordered a tall coffee, purchased a Washington Post, and sat at a small table with a view of the front door. The place was already crowded with harried, desperate commuters in search of their morning fix.

The front page of the Post was consumed with stories about the mounting cost of the war in Iraq. Roadside bombs maimed and killed more American soldiers than ever before. No amount of preparation or technology seemed able to prevent US soldiers from being shredded by these homemade devices. The US military blamed terrorist bomb-making cells of Shiite jihadists from Iran and Pakistan for fostering the expertise to kill.

After nearly thirty minutes of waiting and watching, Dennis sagged. His hunting skills had misled him this time.

He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and was about to call the taxi service when he saw her walk through the door and stand in the lengthening line of coffee addicts.

He waited until she picked her latte off the counter and was walking out until he moved in front of her.

“Sally!” he said.

“Cunningham,” she said, startled. “You scared the crap out of me. Jeeze! Um, how are you?”

“Great,” he said. “How you doing?”

“Same old crap,” she said. “War, war, and more war; it’s a shitty little business, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Not my area of expertise.”

She smirked. “Yes, we know you OIG folks don’t dirty yourselves. Oh well, such is the lot we’ve chosen. See you around the water cooler.”

“Uh, actually, Sally, I wonder if you had just a few minutes—to talk. A few minutes.”

She stared at him sharply over the top of her latte, taking a small, calculated sip.

“So this wasn’t an accidental meeting on the way to work?”

“Not entirely,” he said.

“Cunningham, I have some vague recollection that you’re on the outs. Someone mentioned something to me the other day, but it was in passing. Any truth to that stuff?”

“You know me, Sally. I couldn’t give a shit about that kind of gossip. It’ll take just a few moments. Please?” he said, gesturing to the small table where the Post lay sprawled.

“Two minutes max,” she said curtly. “I have a con call in about forty-five minutes.”

They sat down, and Dennis was again painfully aware of how attractive she was; her medium-length dark hair looked luxuriant, and her hazel eyes beamed from a ring of understated mascara and eyeliner.

Only now the eyes had a steely cast to them: the look of an experienced intelligence analyst whose professional life was spent appraising data and its supplier for veracity, motive, and leverage.

In the OIG, Dennis and the other investigators referred to it as the “Shake and Bake.” It happened the moment an Agency employee comprehended that an innocuous conversation with an IG investigator had taken a dangerous turn. The “Shake” referred to the figurative or literal shake of the head by the employee the moment they recognized their exposure; the “Bake” referred to them baking or cooking up an entirely new attitude that was either defiant or profoundly restrained.

Sally had just pirouetted a perfect Shake and Bake.

“What’s up?” she said.

“You remember the last time we caught up with each other? It was in the cafeteria six or so weeks ago.”

“Nope.”

“OK, well, we were sitting in the cafeteria, and you were sort of warning me about having anything to do with Massey. Remember?”