Color of Blood(6)

As was Dennis’s custom at this stage, he said nothing. A little birdy—perhaps the tiniest bird known to mankind—tried desperately to get Dennis’s attention to remind him of his boss’s entreaty to play nice, but it was a very small bird fighting against a powerful headwind of old habits and a brooding anger.

“So, Mr. Cunningham, how may we help you?”

Dennis stared blankly at St. Regis.

“Mr. Cunningham?” St. Regis repeated.

“Are you the only one in the consulate who knew—his real name was Geoffrey Garder—worked for the CIA?” Dennis said.

“Yes,” St. Regis replied. “I believe so.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dennis asked.

“I mean that as far as I know, no one else was aware that Geoff’s employer was the CIA. No one ever raised the issue with me, nor did I have occasion to raise it with anyone else.”

“You were the only person in this office authorized to know Garder’s employment situation?” Dennis said.

“That is correct, but as I said, no one here questioned me about him so it was not an issue,” St. Regis said.

“Did you know what his assignment was? His Agency assignment, that is?”

“No, of course not,” St. Regis said. “You know I wasn’t authorized to know that. I’ve been in this business a long time, Mr. Cunningham. You grow accustomed to the secrecy. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“So what happened to Garder?” Dennis said.

“Frankly, I haven’t the faintest idea. You know he traveled a fair amount around the state. It was not unlike him to be absent from the office for two or three weeks at a time. I’m mystified. I met with two of your fellow CIA agents already and told them everything I know about the young fellow.”

“I’m not an agent,” Dennis said.

“You’re not? Well, what are you then?”

“I’m an investigator.”

“An investigator for whom?”

“For the inspector general of the Central Intelligence Agency. You talked to two agents in a different department at the Agency. I’m an investigator in the OIG.”

“Well, the distinction is all yours,” St. Regis sat back stiffly in his chair, “because I seem to be answering the same questions.”

“So, was he a drug addict?” Dennis distractedly panned the room.

“Excuse me?” St. Regis rocked forward, turning his left ear toward Dennis.

“Which one of your gracious consulate employees was supplying him with drugs?” Dennis said.

“Good lord, Mr. Cunningham.” St. Regis stiffened. “We don’t have ‘suppliers’ here at the consulate. Who told you that? That’s preposterous.”

“So?” Dennis said.

“So what?” St. Regis’s cheeks displayed flushed red circles the size of silver dollars.

“Who was selling him drugs?”

St. Regis put both elbows on the mahogany table and leaned even farther toward Dennis, his face pinching tightly at the edges.

“I know about you, Cunningham,” he sneered in a near whisper. “I checked up on you. At first I couldn’t get anything, and then a very old friend at Foggy Bottom helped me out. Told me all about your reputation. Even your nicknames. About how foul it was to deal with you.”

“My nicknames?” Dennis said. “Really?”

“Yes. ‘Dennis the Menace’ was one.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one before. That’s all? Just one?” Dennis said.

“I can’t repeat the other ones,” St. Regis said.

Dennis stood up. “I’m glad you checked up on me. You would have discovered that if I catch you hiding information from me, you’ll be in serious trouble. I apologize for my brashness, but I’m afraid over the years I’ve found that an inordinate amount of time in investigations is wasted on niceties and politeness. I think we understand each other well, and I hope to have my investigation completed as soon as possible.”





Chapter 4


The drive back to the hotel was more challenging than he expected, as some of the streets were one-way. Twice he accidentally turned on the windshield wipers to signal a turn.

He valeted the car, went inside, and asked the concierge to point him in the direction of a bar.

“Wine bar or steakhouse bar?”

“Steakhouse.” He found the dark-paneled restaurant downstairs and grabbed a seat. On assignment he typically remained in his hotel and ventured out only to do interviews. Once he spent four weeks in Hong Kong with two Agency forensic accountants and only left the hotel twice for brief trips, one of them to a McDonald’s. Dennis did not like visiting other countries, experiencing their culture and cuisine. He was there to hunt, not sightsee.

“What’ll it be, mate?” the young bartender asked.

“Macallan 12?”

“Water?” the bartender asked.

“No. Just a little ice.” Dennis liked bartenders and tipped them lavishly based upon their degree of attentiveness.

Hunched over his drink, swirling the cheap plastic swizzle stick, he bit the inside of his lip nervously. Why did he have to go after St. Regis like that? Jeeze, Cunningham, he berated himself, what is wrong with you? Didn’t Marty warn you about that stuff? Why do you let guys like that bother you?