Color of Blood(45)

“Tragic in what sense?”

“Well, he suffered a nervous breakdown during his first tour of the front. What they called shell shock in those days, but we call PTSD now. Apparently, he was trapped in a forward position for several days with the dismembered body of another British officer. He spent months convalescing and writing his best poetry. He was finally deemed healthy to return to the front, and he did so with apparent relish. Interestingly, he was awarded the Military Cross for an action soon after going back into the line.

“Even though he thought the war was a huge mistake, and other poets like Siegfried Sassoon were making anti-war statements, he still wanted to return to his men at the front.”

“So what happened to him?”

“He was killed in one of the last major actions of the war, five days before the armistice was signed. It was said that his parents were listening to the ringing of the celebratory bells in his hometown marking the end of the war when the telegram arrived with news of his death.”

“Oh.”

“There’s no doubt Owen—and perhaps millions of soldiers since the beginning of time—died from a kind of survivor’s guilt,” the professor said. “Owen couldn’t resist going back to be with his suffering trench mates. But if you ask what was unique about his poetry, I’d say that it was his eloquent outrage against the stupidity of the powers that be.”

***

Dennis could not get a handle on this young agent, Geoffrey Garder. He had read his psych profile that had turned up the usual stuff. He tested high-average on his Wechsler, his Rorschach showed no abnormal traits, and he scored normal on the ARC, a personality test the Agency had developed and used exclusively to find—it seemed—healthy, impressionable, patriotic men and women from America’s heartland.

Garder was an only child and had the classic profile for the Agency. He came from a semirural, politically conservative environment, was athletic, competitive, and patriotic. He was a good student, majored in International Affairs and had won a coveted internship at the State Department, but he also collected fine watches and was fascinated by a long-dead World War I poet.

Dennis spent all day ruminating about what had really happened to Garder—and why. He walked around the giant Langley facility; he had lunch in the cafeteria with an old friend from Translations. At the end of the day, he drove home and pulled up in front of his cold and lonely house. It was nearly dark when he parked in his driveway.

He sat in his car for several minutes with the engine running, listening distractedly to the all-news radio station, and then he knew what he had to do, even if he didn’t have all the answers and would be in a lot of trouble.

***

Massey sat in his large, elaborate chair and swiveled it slightly from side to side. His sidekick was with him as usual. Dennis asked Massey not to tell Marty they were meeting on the Garder case because he was contravening direct orders not to discuss the case.

It was a nettlesome arrangement, but Dennis felt compelled to do something about what he now believed to be true. Marty would find out sooner or later, but Dennis guessed that Massey’s power and influence could inoculate him from his boss’s wrath.

Dennis was still uneasy.

“If you suddenly think, am I being reckless,” Dr. Forrester had told Dennis in one session, “then you are being reckless and self-destructive. That’s your sign to back off and think.”

Massey looked at Dennis and said, “You’re being a little tiresome about this Garder thing.” Massey made a bridge of sorts with the fingertips of both hands touching their opposite number while his wrists stayed anchored to the desktop.

“Yes, suppose I am, and I apologize,” Dennis said, “but I thought you’d want to know.”

“Know what?” Massey collapsed his finger bridge.

“Garder is alive and well, apparently. He’s not in the digestive tract of a great white shark. He staged his own death to look like he was eaten by a shark. It was very clever, actually.”

Massey swung his head to his right, made brief eye contact with his constant companion, and swiveled back to face Dennis.

“Go on.”

“Garder planned the whole thing and knew the shark thing was plausible enough, especially in Australia. He also knew that they wouldn’t need a body to prove his death. And they wouldn’t look long for him. And he did it without an accomplice to make it clean and completely airtight.”

Massey looked down at his desk and slowly opened a red file folder. He pulled a pair of tiny reading glasses out of his coat pocket and adjusted them on his bulbous nose. After several seconds of reading, he looked up.

“Says in the report that Garder’s car was found on a remote beach in Western Australia. How do you think he managed to get away without an accomplice? Do you think he swam to Singapore? Or caught a ride on a passing tramp steamer? Or a shrimp boat?”

“No, he had a motorcycle or motorbike in the back seat of his car. A test showed that a drop of motorcycle transmission fluid was found in the back of his car. He just drove away. By himself. Probably went north. My guess is that he purchased a fake passport from someone in Australia. There is quite a cottage industry for fake passports these days. No one would follow him because they thought he was dead. Must admit it was very clever.”

Massey took off his glasses and tossed them onto the desk.