The Eyes of Others Read online

  “There may actually be a mole in our department,” a voice across from me announces. I can’t make out who it is. He’s dark and fuzzy, like looking at a silhouette.

  “Don't you think I know that?” The words seem to come from me, but the sound of my own voice is unfamiliar.

  “If he's right and finds proof, it could mean your career.”

  “Our careers,” the voice corrects.

  “You run this division, not me. When the ax falls, who do you think will be standing under it?”I feel emotion. It’s … fear. And anger. I hear myself let out a deep sigh.

  “Bring him in.”

  When my eyes open, I’m back in my dark bedroom. I sit straight up in the bed, turning my head to notice the time mocking me. It’s only just after three a.m. My movements must have been just enough to rouse Gina. So much for needing a bomb to go off to wake her.

  “Honey? Are you okay?” she asks, reaching over and turning on the light on her nightstand. I’m breathing heavy, and that does nothing to ease her concern as she begins to rub my back. The warmth and caring radiates through her hand as she rubs my back.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer, blinking a couple of times and taking a deep breath or two.

  “You had one of those dreams again? What was this one about?” my love inquires.

  “I … I don’t know. I can’t make much of it out. I was in an office or something.” It’s only been thirty seconds, but the memory of the dream is already fading.

  “That’s a little benign considering what you normally tell me you dream about.”

  “I know. That’s the problem. It doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels … I don’t know. When I have them, they feel so … real.”

  “You know, sweetie, one of these nights, when I tell you to sleep well, I hope that you’ll actually listen.”

  “I wish I could. I think they’re getting worse.”

  Gina sits a little more upright in the bed, the blanket still protecting her from the chill in the air bestowed on us from our ever efficient air conditioner. The look of overt concern has disappeared from her beautiful face. In its place is genuine sympathy. She knows the toll this is taking on me.

  “I think you were right earlier tonight. Since the VA hasn’t helped you, it’s time to go a different route. You should call that dream therapist you looked up online. Maybe she can shed some light on what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  I felt weird bringing it up at dinner, but it got me out of trouble after the ill-advised comment about my unsanctioned investigation. I’ve talked to no less than five doctors and a psychiatrist about these dreams I am experiencing, and they‘ve all said the same thing—it’s a reaction to the stress and trauma caused by my experiences in Iraq. It’s the typical PTSD diagnosis the overstressed system doles out like candy. There is no doubt I suffer from symptoms of post-traumatic stress, just as most of my colleagues do, but this feels like something different. It’s something hard to understand and harder to explain.

  “I don’t know if I should be counting on some quack doctor being able to help,” I tell her, trying to steel myself against another disappointment.

  “I think you should go anyway,” Gina prods before nuzzling my neck.

  “That won’t do me much good for the rest of tonight.”

  “Well then,” she says, groping me under the covers. “If you can’t sleep without dreaming, then I guess I’ll just have to keep you awake all night.”

  We fall back into the bed and pull the covers over ourselves. Gina lets out a little giggle then a playful scream. If there is any advantage to never wanting to sleep, it’s that you have plenty of time for other nocturnal recreational activities.

  .

  ~ CHAPTER 3 ~

  eric “MARYLAND” williams

  I step out of my house and into the warm morning air. June is a pleasant month in the D.C. area, with the average high temperature being seventy-five and the low only sending the thermometer down to sixty-six. The street is quiet with most of my neighbors not needing to leave this early to get to work. That’s the joy of scoring on-base housing.

  Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling is a sprawling, nine-hundred-five-acre military installation located along the Potomac River in southeast Washington, D.C. It lies due south of the monuments on the National Mall and directly across the river from Reagan National Airport, and is the result of the consolidation of Naval Support Facility Anacostia and Bolling Air Force Base. The adjoining but separate military facilities were ordered by Congress to merge into a single joint base as a cost cutting measure. It is home to various air force and navy units, the White House Communications Agency, and my employer, the Defense Intelligence Agency.

  I climb into my gray Chevy Malibu and pull out of the driveway. As a federal employee, I qualified for base housing, and thank God for that. The cost of living in the D.C. area is about fifty-three percent above the national average, and rents in the city aren’t cheap. With on-base housing, a sensible car, and short commute, I’m able to put plenty of money away.

  One of the biggest perks about living on base and not fighting the horrific rush hour traffic around the D.C. metro area is the ease of my commute. I have plenty of time to wake, get ready for work, and head to the on-base Starbucks on Chappie James Boulevard. I have it timed perfectly to beat the rush of active duty military and government employees stopping in on the way to their offices. I’m surprised to see who is in front of me in line at this hour.

  “Grande chai tea, please,” I tell the girl behind the counter, catching the attention of the man paying his bill at the adjacent register. “I heard through the grapevine you’ve been snooping in places you shouldn’t be.”

  “Yeah,” Boston responds unenthusiastically. Okay, he’s in a real talkative mood. He looks like death warmed over, too.

  “Find anything of interest?”

  “No.”

  “You know, there are counterintelligence and counterespionage teams in almost every spy agency this country has. Poking around in their business is only going to land you in the hot seat,” I offer as a warning.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “Okay, why are you so cranky this morning?”

  “Why? Seriously? Extra, extra, read all about it,” he says, slapping a copy of the Washington Post against my chest.

  I take the paper, opening the fold and taking in the unmistakable headline splashed across the top: Massacre in Iraq. Thousands Dead at the Hands of ISIS Militants. It was the predictable front page story about a story that has dominated the news since yesterday afternoon.

  “Yeah, I watch CNN. You have to be living under a rock not to have heard about it by now. It’s a tragedy, but it doesn't mean it was a leak.”

  “Yeah, right, because if it was, our crack counterespionage teams would have been all over it,” he snorts as the barista finally starts working on brewing the espresso for his latte.

  “What does Gina have to say?”

  “The same thing she always does when I bring it up,” he laments.

  Seeing them from the outside, they look like the perfect couple. You don’t have to scratch far beneath the surface to know there are issues there neither of them are dealing with. Boston’s quest to find this mole and avenge the death of our teammates in Iraq is driving a wedge between them. It’s too bad he doesn’t see the toll it’s taking on their relationship.

  “Boston, I’ve watched you chase ghosts from the moment you set foot in this building a year and a half ago. Maybe there’s a leak at the DIA, and maybe we were targeted because of it over there. But can’t you just leave it to the professionals to catch him? I mean, if you break all the rules to find―”

  “What happened to you, man?” Boston snaps, making no attempt to mask his attitude. Where the hell did that come from?

  “What do you mean?” I ask reflexively.

  “You used to be one mission-oriented son of a bitch in the army. We might not have ever been able to get you off the a
ir base when we were in Iraq, but you were great at your job and loved catching the bad guys. From the moment we joined the DIA you’ve acted like a candy-assed, tea drinking pansy who’s scared of his own shadow.”

  “You’re starting to sound a lot like Louisiana,” I deflect, realizing he’s under a lot of stress and pressure, and probably didn’t mean what he said. At least, I hope that’s the case.

  “You know what? Maybe he’s right.” Okay, he did mean it.

  “And maybe getting almost incinerated in an explosion can have that effect on someone,” I fire back. I used to spar with Louisiana all the time in the army, but that rarely ever extended to Boston since he outranked me and was in charge of the team. That dynamic hasn’t changed now that we’re colleagues, but if there’s a single point of contention between us, it’s his obsession over what happened in the desert that day.

  “I was there too, or don’t you remember?” Boston chides.

  “Yeah, you were. How’s your head these days?” His snide remark is starting to upset me. He acts like he was the only person who lost something that day. Boston clenches his teeth and looks around at the increasingly crowded coffee shop before leaning close to me.

  “We got served up on a silver platter two years ago. For all we know, the same guy is still working for the DIA and is still getting people killed. Now, that might not mean much to you, but it’s everything to me, and I’m going to find out who that bastard is if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “You don't know that, Boston,” I whisper through clenched teeth, causing him to dismiss me with a wave. “You only think it was a leak that got us ambushed. The past is the past, but you can’t let it go. I have. All I want now is to have a career and get on with my life. If you want to screw yours up, that’s on you.”

  “You have a short memory, Maryland,” he remarks, shaking his head in disgust as he snatches his drink from the counter. “Maybe it is the past for us, but it’s not for our brothers in arms dying over there, or their families. It’s not the past for these villagers that got massacred, either.”

  “Whatever, man,” is all I can manage as a response. There’s no talking to him when he’s like this.

  “What happens if I do find a mole, Maryland? Will you be there for me then?”

  He doesn’t wait for a response. Without another word, he heads out the door and towards his car, leaving me standing in the middle of this now busy Starbucks. I want to be there for him. I want to see him find peace with the world and his place in it. Instead, I’m left to wonder what’s happening to my friend and comrade, and whether the path he’s on will one day destroy him.

  .

  ~ chapter 4 ~

  director colby washington

  “Yes sir. I’ll be looking into the matter personally and will get back to you when we know something,” I relay to my tormentor, desperately trying to say anything that will get me off this call. After a few more parting shots, the phone disconnects on the other end and I slam the receiver in the cradle.

  I didn’t climb to my position as Director of Analysis for the Defense Intelligence Agency through some affirmative action program. It wasn’t an outreach program that brought me here from the squalor of Camden, New Jersey. I earned this position through hard work and savvy intellect.

  Tongue lashings from superiors have always come with the territory throughout my rise up the ranks. In this case, it’s coming from Vice-Admiral David Troxsell, the first naval officer to command the DIA following over a decade’s worth of army generals. Having been an employee of this agency for the better part of three decades, I’ve seen them all. This guy’s verbal beatings rank among the worst.

  “That sounded pleasant,” Garrett Turner sneers as he pompously struts into my office without invitation, closing the door behind him. Tall, in good shape with bright blue eyes and as pasty white as they come, Garrett is an unapologetic opportunist, a raging egomaniac, and as ambitious as any politician elected to serve in this town. He’s the consummate bureaucrat in a building full of them. All those traits have served him well in his own meteoric rise to become my deputy director at the tender age of forty-four.

  “You have nothing better to do than lurk outside my door and listen to my conversations?” I ask him rhetorically.

  “Apparently the director believes you have something more to do than sit behind that desk while someone in the ranks of the intelligence community is handing out secrets like free samples at a Sam’s Club.”

  “He’s getting squeezed by Congress to make sure the leak isn’t coming from this building, and now he’s squeezing me.”

  “So what, you’re going to squeeze me now? Is this a crap rolls downhill conversation?” I want to smile, but I’m not in the mood.

  If I assign Garrett to the task of investigating our ranks for any moles, he will do everything he can to make me look bad, whether he finds one or not. This ambitious little bastard would sacrifice me in a second if he thought it would earn him my chair. No, I have to keep responsibility for this at all costs. To do that, I need to find a way to keep him busy with something else, and fast.

  “No. You walked in here, remember? That conversation was one-sided, but nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Colby, the Islamic State wiped out an entire village to get to the five assets we had passing us intelligence. They didn’t figure that out on their own. It’s very plausible that it came from your directorate.”

  “You mean our directorate, Garrett. You work here too.”

  “I do mean that, of course. So why aren’t you letting me help you?” Garrett asks, now leaning forward in the padded chair facing my desk. I lean forward and steeple my own fingers in front of my mouth.

  “The pressure is getting ratcheted up. This is more than your typical interagency, bureaucratic wrangling. It’s becoming a political football for Congress, and we both know what happens when they get involved. People in the intelligence community are going to be forced to start digging.”

  “One person already is. I’ve been hearing rumors that Eugene Hollinger has been asking questions to current and former employees of the DIA.”

  “Damn it.”

  “I know you like him, but you don’t need a loose cannon on this deck right now,” Garrett concludes as a smile creeps across his conniving lips.

  I lean back in my chair, fighting the urge to massage my temples to ward off the oncoming headache. Eugene Hollinger. A good man and an asset to the directorate, but Garrett is one hundred percent correct. I specifically told him that he wasn’t permitted to conduct his own investigation when I hired him. I knew he probably ignored that directive, but he’s always kept the inquiry far enough below the radar that I never felt compelled to reprimand him. Unfortunately, this is a bad time for it to surface. I can’t afford to have him running around asking uncomfortable questions to people as this thing heats up politically. He needs to be muzzled.

  “I left word for him to meet us up here per our conversation last night. He should be here―” The short series of loud raps on my office door interrupts Garrett mid-sentence. “Speak of the devil.”

  “Come,” I bellow.

  The door swings open and Eugene Hollinger enters. Even more fit than Garrett is, I feel like I need to hit the gym every time I see him. With short brown hair, prominent features, and piercing bluish-green eyes, he looks like the kind of guy who could kick your ass and steal your date when he’s done.

  His physical traits aren’t the most impressive aspect of the man standing in front of me. Despite knowing he is being called on the carpet for activities that could get him fired, he still exhibits that military swagger and arrogance that comes with being good at his job. It’s the reason I hired him on the spot after our first interview.

  “What’s this all about, Director?” he asks, taking a moment to survey my office.

  “Close the door behind you and take a seat,” I order, getting immediate compliance. “Eugene, we've―”

  “Boston.
I go by Boston. You know that, sir.”

  “In light of the shit storm you landed yourself in, I don’t think you should be demanding we use your childish nickname, Eugene,” Garrett fires from the adjacent chair. If looks could kill, Garrett would be dead on my floor and Boston would be in cuffs heading to the D.C. Metro lockup.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Settle down, Boston. This is not an inquisition. We have concerns about your job performance and wanted to chat about specific remedies to increase your productivity and value to the organization.”

  “Director Washington―”

  “Call me Colby.”

  “Okay, Colby, we've done this diplomatic tango before. Just take your hand off my ass and make your move.”

  “You’re an arrogant bastard, aren’t you?” Garrett scoffs. “I’m not sure who the hell you think you are, but if you want blunt, we’ll give you blunt. We know you are engaged in some little side project looking for some mysterious mole you think got you all blown up over in Iraq. It’s not sanctioned and you need to cease and desist right now. Focus on the work you were hired to do here or you’re fired. Is that clear enough for you to understand, or do you need flashcards to spell it out for you?”

  Leave it to Garrett to take a simple conversation and turn it into something out of the Book of Revelations. I give him a disapproving look, not that it will do any good. Garrett is trying to get Boston fired up, and then he’s going to find a way to deflect the resulting anger onto me. If I’m not careful, it’ll work.

  “Boston, I hired you because you were at the top of your class at military intelligence school,” I tell him. “You came highly recommended by everyone you ever worked for. Despite knowing you had strong feelings about what happened to you in Iraq during the early days of the fight against ISIS, I took a chance on you. I have suspected you ignored my warning and have been investigating what happened to you, and have even allowed you to indulge this little―”