The Eyes of Others Page 10

  As dinner cools, I hear the audible text notification from my phone. Retrieving the device from the counter, I read the text.

  Going to be at the office late. Senator having meltdown. Be home when I can. Don’t wait up. Sleep well. Love you! xoxo

  “So I guess it will wait until tomorrow,” I say to nobody in particular.

  Content that the lasagna is cool enough to eat without having molten hot cheese give me second-degree burns in my mouth, I move to the living room, turn on the television, and crack open another beer. The local ten o’clock news is on, reciting its typical evening recap of murders, rapes, and arsons, all led by the prospect of two Americans getting their heads sawed off by a bunch of crazies. The thought of them handed on the same silver platter that we were two years ago makes my stomach turn.

  Having scarfed down my dinner, I change the channel to a first season rerun of The Big Bang Theory and settle deeper into my chair, allowing my thoughts to drift. Maybe I’m letting my desire to get to the bottom of the mystery about my strange dreams, or memories, get in the way of my real mission. People are about to die because I’m failing.

  This mole needs to be caught, and the FBI can’t be trusted to do it. But what am I going to do about it now? The call I received this afternoon informing me that my security clearance has been temporarily revoked and I’ve been placed on suspension will pretty much end my own inquiry. There’s only one person that would order that, and it’s Colby Washington. The question is, why? I let the thought linger in my mind as I listen to the quips being exchanged between Sheldon and the gang until I start to drift off.

  * * *

  The dream is dark, with the only illumination seemingly from streetlights. I see a hand carrying … a phone? It moves out of view. I hear ringing until the line connects.

  “We may have to accelerate the timeline for the next transfer,” I hear a voice whisper, but I can’t tell which side of the line it’s on.

  “Is there a problem?” a muffled voice responds with a slight accent.

  “Yes.”

  “Is it the FBI investigation?”

  ”No. It’s the man who was a part of the team we set up in Afghanistan years ago,” the voice whispers again.

  “I thought you said you had him under control.”

  “I do, but there may be a development. I’m looking into it.”

  “Can you handle it? We are relying on you to continue providing us information.”

  “I know. Allah is with us. He will provide me the guidance I need. I'll be in touch.”

  The call disconnects as a gloved hand turns the phone off and disappears again from view. A voice begins to echo in from a distance.

  “Honey? Honey? Wake up …”

  My eyes click open in the dark room, and I see a face hovering above me. I jump out of my chair, tripping myself on the corner of the coffee table and lurching into the middle of the room. What just happened?

  “Oh my God, honey?”

  “Shhhh! Quiet!”

  I close my eyes like Tara told me and try to visualize what I saw in my mind. The darkness. The voices. The words. I saw a phone. I play it all over in my mind again, trying to commit it to memory before I say anything.

  “I need a notepad!” I exclaim, running into the kitchen and over to the junk drawer. I find a small pad we write grocery lists on and a pen and begin writing furiously.

  “Boston, you’re really scaring me. You’re as white as a ghost! What’s wrong?” Gina pleads with me to answer.

  “I’m sorry. I’m okay,” I tell her once I’ve committed everything I can remember to paper.

  “I didn’t want to wake you, but it’s really late. I had to shake you really hard. You were in such a deep sleep.”

  “I wasn’t,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I was having another one of those dreams. I wanted to remember it and write it down.”

  “You mean the memory one? What was it about this time?”

  “Sweetie, you’re not going to believe this, but it was about the mole who sold me out in Afghanistan.”

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 20 ~

  eric “maryland” williams

  Unlike most people, I’m usually energized when I go to work on Mondays. I use my weekend to relax and reinvigorate, and I am ready to go when the alarm goes off to signal the start of another work week. This was not one of those Mondays.

  Between my conversation with Director Washington on Saturday and the discussion with Gina, Boston, and his doctor yesterday morning, all the drama this weekend has upset my routine. I was hoping to get it back on track by starting off right, but that notion was shattered when I saw who was sitting in the corner of the base’s Starbucks when I arrived.

  “We have to stop meeting here like this,” I tell them, walking over with my tea in hand. There was no way I could have just paid for my drink and left, no matter how much I may have wanted to.

  “You’re nothing if not a man with a routine,” Boston tells me, sitting with Tara at a corner table in the sparsely occupied Starbucks. They both have only made it a third of the way through their coffees, so they haven’t been here long.

  “A routine people went out of their way to ruin this past weekend. What are you doing here? You know you’ve been suspended, right?”

  “Got the call yesterday,” Boston says, using his foot to slide a chair out from underneath the table. “I don’t care right now. Have a seat.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “Nope.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised. He never cared about his career. I take him up on his offer, then notice who isn’t here. Last night must not have gone well, because she sure as hell did care.

  “Why isn’t Gina here?”

  “She had to work late last night and be in early this morning. Her boss is the chairman of the Intelligence Committee, so he’s in panic mode.”

  “Oh, okay. So what are you doing here?” I accept his answer, knowing full well he’s masking what I’m sure was an epic argument with a convenient truth.

  “Suspending my clearance doesn’t revoke my access to the base, and I needed to talk to you.”

  “You’ve got about five minutes because I’m not letting you make me late. So talk,” I command, looking at my watch for effect and prompting Boston to spend the next three minutes recapping this dream he had last night.

  “You had a dream about who sold us out in Afghanistan? That’s the big news?”

  “Yes, only we’ve established they’re not dreams,” Tara points out in Boston’s defense. How cute.

  “How do you know? He wasn’t hooked up to any equipment last night,” I argue.

  “She doesn’t know for sure, but I do. These things I see and feel are not like other dreams I have. This was one of those,” Boston decrees.

  They have to be kidding me with all this. I look back and forth between the two of them, but there’s no punch line coming. If I’m ever going to get out of here, I might as well move the conversation along.

  “Assuming you saw what you saw and it was real, who’s the mole?”

  “I don't know. I never saw a face, but I think it’s someone I know. Someone we both know.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Doc?” Boston cues.

  “It’s only a working theory, but it seems that excessive stress could somehow be the trigger. To recognize that stress at a near unconscious level, there needs to be a personal connection between Boston and the person whose memories he’s seeing.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. It almost makes sense. If anything about this situation could possibly make sense. Of course, being a sound theory doesn’t make it true, and this is a little too out there for me to believe.

  “You’re as crazy as he is.”

  “That’s not the first time I’ve heard that,” Tara agrees.

  “Boston, as a friend, let me give you a dollar’s worth of free advice. You’ve been suspended. You’ve lost your top secret securit
y clearance, and now you’re heading right for a psych evaluation.”

  “I know how this sounds, and I know the risks. But this is it, Maryland. This is the key to getting all the answers to what happened to us two years ago, and who is selling out the country now.”

  “You just can’t leave it alone, can you?”

  “Put yourself in my shoes for once. You guys were all my responsibility. You walked away. Louisiana walked away, and I walked away. Georgia and Colombia didn’t. The explosion that killed them may end up being the one thing that helps us determine why they died. If this was happening to you and not me, would you be willing to ignore it?”

  Director Washington’s warnings from Saturday echo in my head. But Boston’s also right. I can’t say for sure I wouldn’t try to use this tool. Moreover, if he’s exploring this option, he isn’t calling every counterintelligence operation in the country. That’s ultimately what the director wanted to ensure he didn’t do. I might as well go along with this.

  “No, I wouldn’t. So where do we go from here?”

  “Glad you asked,” Boston says with a smile. “Tara’s going to do some more research to figure out how this is happening. If we can understand it, maybe we can manipulate it. I’m going to be discussing some techniques with her later this afternoon.”

  “Techniques?” I ask Tara.

  “He’s already learning how to do dream recollection. Now I need to help him with lucid dreaming. He’s living a memory, so he won’t be able to control what’s happening like lucid dreamers do.”

  “Then what’s the point?” I question, eager to point out the flaw in her thinking.

  “His experiences of these memories aren’t clear enough to put into any useful context,” Tara explains, leaning across the table. “He may be able to get a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

  “Right now, everything is hazy and the voices are muffled. Maybe with these techniques I can figure out if the person talking in my dreams is a man or woman, has an accent … things like that,” Boston elaborates. His enthusiasm causes me to roll my eyes.

  “Whatever, guys, do what you want. What do you need me for?”

  “It’s not a matter of what we need you for, it’s a warning for what we are going to do.”

  “What’s that?” I ask apprehensively.

  “Call Louisiana.”

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 21 ~

  FBI agent zack bruhte

  “Are you out of your mind? Why would you call him?” the guy they call Maryland exclaims.

  “He needs to know what’s going on here,” Hollinger retorts.

  Sitting in the middle of this Starbucks with my face buried in a copy of the Washington Post, I smirk at the thought that none of them have any idea I’m here to eavesdrop on their conversation. I followed them from the doctor’s house in Adams Morgan to the gates of Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. You need government identification to even get on the installation, and despite surrendering my badge after being suspended, I managed to remember my spare credentials and flashed them to gain entry through the gate. I walked into the coffee shop five minutes after they did and found a seat only a couple of tables away.

  “He needs to know what? About these crazy dreams you’re having that somehow might be memories? Or how suddenly you’re having them about a mole?”

  “All of that,” Boston responds.

  “Have you stopped to think that maybe you’re dreaming this whole thing up? Face it, Boston, it’s more than a little convenient that you’re having these dreams about a mole now after two years.”

  “I don’t have a good answer for that, Maryland,” Boston concedes after a long pause. “I have no idea why I’m seeing them now, but I am. And since I am, Louisiana is the best person to help―”

  “Help with what? He’s a damn criminal now!”

  Oh, now that’s interesting. Boston wants to bring another player into the game, and apparently one who isn’t a model citizen. What is he planning?

  “Wait, what? A criminal?” Tara asks. It doesn’t sound like she knows who this Louisiana is, nor does she approve.

  “He’s more of a consultant than a criminal.”

  “Yeah, a consultant who blows stuff up and does other dirty work for every criminal enterprise in New Orleans,” Maryland corrects his friend.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Tara asks.

  “He’s the perfect guy to have around when things start to go down. You know I’m right.” I assume he was talking to Maryland. This would be easier if I could watch as intently as I’m listening.

  “You’re nuts. I have a good career and a high security clearance that lets me do a job I’m perfectly happy doing. I don’t want that psycho anywhere near me.”

  “Maryland, it’s crunch time now. Are you with me or against me? I need to know.”

  There’s an awkward silence between them. Maryland must be taking time to think about it. It doesn’t sound to me like the cabal Garrett thinks it is. Boston is into something, and he’s convincing his friends to help. It seems to center around these dreams he’s having. None of this sounds like he’s involved in any kind of espionage.

  “Fine. Call him if you want, but I won’t be around if he goes off the reservation,” Maryland decrees, getting up. I hear the chair slide back under the table and catch him walking out the door from the corner of my eye.

  “Okay, Boston, what’s going on?” the doctor implores after Maryland leaves. “Are you going to tell me what this was all about?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car. We have work to do.”

  With that, I peel my face from the newspaper and watch them leave. Careful to observe without staring, I watch the two of them load into his car and pull out of the parking lot. I decide to wait another five minutes for good measure, finishing my coffee in the process. I’m used to the swill I get at headquarters or whatever happens to be available whenever I’m on assignment. Being able to sit and enjoy a good cup of coffee at Starbucks is a treat.

  Figuring my departure will no longer arouse any suspicion with any patrons of the coffeehouse, I fold my paper, tuck it under my arm, and fish the cell phone out of my windbreaker. I wait until I climb in the car to hit redial.

  “Yeah,” Garrett mumbles on the other end of the line.

  “It’s me. I have an update for you.”

  I give Garrett the report on whom Boston met with and the brief version of what they were talking about. I also tell him about Louisiana, whoever that is. Maybe Garrett can make himself useful and figure that out for me. He was more interested in the dreams, though.

  “That’s the most outlandish thing I have ever heard. Are you sure you got that right?” I want to choke him, but suppress my rising anger. I hate being questioned like that.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. It doesn’t sound like he’s your guy, Garrett. In fact, it sounds like he’s trying to help.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Not everything is as it seems.” I don’t buy that, but arguing the point isn’t going to get me any closer to answers, so I say nothing.

  “Where are they heading now?” Garrett prods after a short moment.

  “They just got onto I-695, so they’re heading back into the city,” I say, looking at the app I installed on my smartphone. The business I conduct with Garrett is done over a cheap, disposable burner phone, leaving me free to use the map on my own personal device to track their movements.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have a tracker on his car,” I say with a satisfying grin.

  “Where did you get a tracking device?” Is this guy my mother or something?

  “Don’t worry about that, Garrett. It’s none of your concern.”

  There are dozens of online sites that specialize in selling these type of small tracking devices to suspicious spouses or overprotective parents. With the advent of GPS, it’s not hard to track anything these days. Had I not been suspended, I would have just had the NSA tap into the GPS on his cell phone and done
it that way.

  Absent of my usual resources, I went to my backup plan. I have several models of these devices, ranging in size from a brick to a pack of playing cards. I chose one of the better ones for this mission and affixed it on his vehicle when I was watching him the other night.

  “Stay on them. I will figure out who this Louisiana character is.”

  “Okay, I’ll be in touch,” I say, killing the call.

  I consult the tracking application one more time to ensure they haven’t deviated from their route. They haven’t. I pull out of the parking lot and steer the car back towards my apartment. I need a change of clothes, some supplies, and a couple of hours of shut-eye. Garrett isn’t paying me enough for twenty-four-hour operations, and Boston and his doctor aren’t going anywhere.

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 22 ~

  GINA attison

  The forecast over the next week calls for “unsettled weather,” as the dorky meteorologist on the local news characterized it. In typical Washington fashion, he couldn’t make a decisive prediction. Why not say it’s going to rain on and off?

  I step out the doors of the Russell Building and look up with concern. I should have taken the tunnel. The clouds gathering toward the southeast are looking more and more ominous. In the best case, it’s foreshadowing what is about to happen in this town. At worst, it’s an omen of the result.

  Work on Capitol Hill is always stressful, but it’s made worse by my personal life. I am afraid for my relationship with Boston, and no matter how I hard I try to focus on that, something gets in the way. His dreams and ill-advised investigation have been a source of contention between us for some time. Now, my own job is conspiring against us. How long before something gives under the pressure?

  “Happy Monday, Gina. Did you get the word?” one of my colleagues asks, snapping me from my thoughts as he rushes up alongside me and matches my hurried gait as I stride towards the Capitol Building.