Color of Blood(117)

“This is unusual,” she said. “We had no notice you were coming.”

Dennis handed over his CIA identification badge.

“Feel free to call the IG’s office,” Dennis bluffed.

She pushed his badge back across the table. Dennis could tell she was irritated.

She picked up the phone and dialed a four-digit extension.

“Where is he?” she said and listened. “Right.”

She hung up.

“I can squeeze five minutes out of the congressman’s schedule to chat with you. That’s five minutes,” she said holding up the splayed fingers of her right hand. “Not seven or ten minutes—five. Please do not hold him up in any way. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Dennis said.

“Please wait outside in the front office. We’ll call you.”

Dennis returned and sat. After twenty minutes he began to fidget; after thirty minutes he began to fight the temptation to leave. After forty-five minutes he stood up, smiled at the receptionist, and left the office.

She raced after him and asked where he was going.

“Back to my office in Langley,” he said.

“The congressman is on his way over now. Please return, if you don’t mind.”

Dennis had barely sat down in an overstuffed leather chair when a young man appeared and invited Dennis to follow him.

Dennis walked into the congressman’s massive, ornate office, and was directed to a chair in front of Representative Barkley’s desk, as the congressman finished a phone call.

After hanging up, Barkley smiled brightly and said, “I’m sorry, but my staff is a little confused about why you’re here. How can I help the IG?”

“Excuse me, sir, but you requested his help about six months ago to look into the disappearance of the son of one of your constituents who is an employee of the Agency. His name was Geoffrey Garder.”

“Oh, uh, yes, I remember,” Barkley said. “The agent had disappeared, or something like that. But that was a pro forma request, and I certainly didn’t expect a personal briefing on the case. Please just give the report to Veronica,” he said, waving his hand and smiling politely. “She’ll be glad to take the debrief. And thank the IG for his help, would you?”

“Actually, the agent went AWOL, sir,” Dennis said. “He’s not dead. Or at least we don’t think so.”

Barkley looked confused.

“He went AWOL because he discovered an illegal and unauthorized operation that the Agency was conducting to funnel rare earth metals to Iran in exchange for that country’s help in pulling back on their support of Shiite jihadists in Iraq.”

Dennis had practiced his one-sentence elevator pitch for the powerful Chairman of the House Intelligence Committee while waiting, and he was pleased at how smoothly it was delivered.

“I’m sorry, but what is your name again?” Barkley said, leaning toward Dennis.

“Dennis Cunningham, senior investigator in the CIA Office of Inspector General.”

“Are you here at the behest of the IG?”

“No, sir,” Dennis said. “I’m here at the behest of me. I just thought you and the Intelligence Committee would like to know about this program before the only two people who are in a position to tell you about it disappear from the face of the earth, sir. As chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, I doubt you know about this program.”

Barkley sat up in his leather chair, its brass tacks shining brightly like rows of Christmas lights in the glare from the huge window.

“This is an awkward conversation, Mr. Cunningham,” Barkley said. “I don’t know who you really are, whether you’re wearing a recording device, or having mental health problems.”

“That’s a negative on both questions,” Dennis said.

They looked at each other. The congressman sat perfectly still in his chair, and Dennis noticed that it looked like he was hardly breathing.

“Mr. Cunningham, I’m going to note my conversation with you, and then I’m going to share it with the IG’s office. You, more than anyone, must understand how these things are handled. This is an out-of-channel conversation that I’m uncomfortable with. You understand that?”

“Of course,” Dennis said. “But I felt like someone outside of the Agency should know about this program.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Cunningham.” He reached for his phone and dialed an extension.

“Bill, could you please come in here and escort Mr. Cunningham out of the office?”

***

He walked slowly away from the Rayburn Building down First Street SW and toward the National Mall. It was a chilly spring day, and he felt a cool northerly breeze against his face and neck as he walked past street vendors selling American flags, plastic busts of presidents, as well as countless postcards and cast-metal, miniature Washington Monuments. After twenty minutes of walking, he slowed near the Natural History Museum and sat on one of the empty benches on the Mall.

His cell phone rang, and he reached in his pocket.

“Hey, Marty,” Dennis said.

“You need to get back here ASAP,” Marty said. “Massey has scheduled a meeting with you at one thirty this afternoon in his office. You have to be there, or they’ll send people out to get you. Do not, under any circumstance, do anything other than be in Massey’s office at one thirty. Whatever the f*ck you did, it’s very serious.”