you talk to anyone else here without my participation. That is, as long as you remain here. While the wheels at State work slowly, it should not be long before you’re recalled.”
Dennis looked up while distractedly turning pages of the magazine. He vacillated between rage toward St. Regis for interfering with his investigation, and fear that he was facing a professional and personal disaster. He had brazenly broken Marty’s rules. For just a second, he felt a pang of self-loathing, the kind of feeling he dreaded because it might start a very bad fall into a deep, dark hole.
Tossing the magazine onto the table with a flourish, Dennis said, “Why are you so hell-bent on interfering with the investigation?”
St. Regis’s nose flared; the wrinkles on his forehead disappeared as his face was pulled taut with anger. “You little bastard,” he said.
And with that, he turned and walked briskly into his office, slamming the door behind him.
Dennis left the building feeling a little woozy. This was a rubber-stamp project, a get-your-feet-back-under-you mission, and he had blown it. Dr. Forrester would tell him he was being self-destructive, but he knew that.
***
Dennis had set up at the hotel bar and was nursing a Macallan when his cell phone vibrated.
“Hello,” he said.
“Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“This is Marty.”
“Hey, Marty,” Dennis said after a brief pause. The older Agency-issued cell phones encrypted transmissions so that at the end of each sentence there was a brief half-second pause as the next speaker waited for voice data to be transmitted, unscrambled, and processed. It was a clunky concession to secrecy, and most agents found it a throwback to conversing on walkie-talkies, but it was the only technology the Agency felt comfortable with in 2007. One day soon they would be able to encrypt and decrypt in real time, but not today.
“Dennis,” Marty said, “did I tell you I’m going in for an MRI?”
Pause. “An MRI? Is something wrong, Marty?” Dennis said.
Pause. “Yeah, I’m afraid something is wrong. I think I have a brain tumor.”
Pause. “Oh, my God, Marty. Jeeze, when did you find out something was wrong?”
Pause. “I must have a tumor, Dennis, because I could have sworn that I told you not to fuck this little assignment up. And it looks like you fucked it royally. So I must have a brain tumor, right?”
Pause. “You shouldn’t joke like that, Marty. It’s not funny.”
Pause. “Don’t tell me what’s funny, Dennis, you stupid idiot. You blew this simple little assignment. Now I’ve got to deal with State on this thing. The IG got a personal call from an under secretary of state. Do you understand how much shit there is flying around now because of you? Jesus, Dennis, I was trying to inch you into work, you goddamn ingrate.”
Pause. “I’m sorry, Marty, I really am. Listen, the assignment is almost over. I promise there’ll be no more complaints. I promise—you can trust me on this.”
Pause. “I already trusted you. Do you have any idea how much shit I’ve taken for you over the years? It was OK because you delivered, Dennis. But you started screwing up big time, and it hasn’t been worth it in a while. I felt bad for you, with Martha and all. And now you turn around and kick me in the teeth. I can’t deal with you any longer, Dennis.”
Pause. “Marty, it’s OK. You’ve given me this opportunity, and I’m thankful. Really I am. I’m almost done here. I’ll be back stateside with the final report within a week. You won’t get another complaint about me. I promise. Really.”
Long pause. “Marty? Are you there?”
Long pause. “You’re this close to being cashiered out, Dennis. This one is going right into your file. You got that?”
Pause. “Got it. See you back in Langley in a week. No more problems from here. I promise.”
Pause. “Hang on. One more thing, Dennis. About your daughter.”
Pause. “My daughter?”
Pause. “Yes, your
Dennis looked up while distractedly turning pages of the magazine. He vacillated between rage toward St. Regis for interfering with his investigation, and fear that he was facing a professional and personal disaster. He had brazenly broken Marty’s rules. For just a second, he felt a pang of self-loathing, the kind of feeling he dreaded because it might start a very bad fall into a deep, dark hole.
Tossing the magazine onto the table with a flourish, Dennis said, “Why are you so hell-bent on interfering with the investigation?”
St. Regis’s nose flared; the wrinkles on his forehead disappeared as his face was pulled taut with anger. “You little bastard,” he said.
And with that, he turned and walked briskly into his office, slamming the door behind him.
Dennis left the building feeling a little woozy. This was a rubber-stamp project, a get-your-feet-back-under-you mission, and he had blown it. Dr. Forrester would tell him he was being self-destructive, but he knew that.
***
Dennis had set up at the hotel bar and was nursing a Macallan when his cell phone vibrated.
“Hello,” he said.
“Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“This is Marty.”
“Hey, Marty,” Dennis said after a brief pause. The older Agency-issued cell phones encrypted transmissions so that at the end of each sentence there was a brief half-second pause as the next speaker waited for voice data to be transmitted, unscrambled, and processed. It was a clunky concession to secrecy, and most agents found it a throwback to conversing on walkie-talkies, but it was the only technology the Agency felt comfortable with in 2007. One day soon they would be able to encrypt and decrypt in real time, but not today.
“Dennis,” Marty said, “did I tell you I’m going in for an MRI?”
Pause. “An MRI? Is something wrong, Marty?” Dennis said.
Pause. “Yeah, I’m afraid something is wrong. I think I have a brain tumor.”
Pause. “Oh, my God, Marty. Jeeze, when did you find out something was wrong?”
Pause. “I must have a tumor, Dennis, because I could have sworn that I told you not to fuck this little assignment up. And it looks like you fucked it royally. So I must have a brain tumor, right?”
Pause. “You shouldn’t joke like that, Marty. It’s not funny.”
Pause. “Don’t tell me what’s funny, Dennis, you stupid idiot. You blew this simple little assignment. Now I’ve got to deal with State on this thing. The IG got a personal call from an under secretary of state. Do you understand how much shit there is flying around now because of you? Jesus, Dennis, I was trying to inch you into work, you goddamn ingrate.”
Pause. “I’m sorry, Marty, I really am. Listen, the assignment is almost over. I promise there’ll be no more complaints. I promise—you can trust me on this.”
Pause. “I already trusted you. Do you have any idea how much shit I’ve taken for you over the years? It was OK because you delivered, Dennis. But you started screwing up big time, and it hasn’t been worth it in a while. I felt bad for you, with Martha and all. And now you turn around and kick me in the teeth. I can’t deal with you any longer, Dennis.”
Pause. “Marty, it’s OK. You’ve given me this opportunity, and I’m thankful. Really I am. I’m almost done here. I’ll be back stateside with the final report within a week. You won’t get another complaint about me. I promise. Really.”
Long pause. “Marty? Are you there?”
Long pause. “You’re this close to being cashiered out, Dennis. This one is going right into your file. You got that?”
Pause. “Got it. See you back in Langley in a week. No more problems from here. I promise.”
Pause. “Hang on. One more thing, Dennis. About your daughter.”
Pause. “My daughter?”
Pause. “Yes, your
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