Favors and Lies (20 page)

Dan poured a glass of vodka for Alex and motioned for him to drink first.

“You don't trust me?”

“I see lipstick on one of the glasses here, but not on the other two. There were two women here, one of them with thick red lipstick, so it is possible that someone hasn't been partying. I'm just being cautious.”

Alex downed the large shot of vodka with his free right hand. “You are not a professional.”

“I'm sorry?” Dan asked, pouring another shot for Alex and one for himself. He swapped glasses with Alex and gave the man one of the other two on the table.

“You have been trained, but you are not operations. Not officially sanctioned.”

Dan nudged the edge of the large shot glass with his finger. “How can you be sure?”

“Nothing is for certain in this life. Probably not in the next life either,” Alex replied, sliding his glass towards his side of the table. “You move as someone who has been trained. Yet you lack the air of a clandestine operative. You pay attention. Make the suspect drink first, then use the suspect's glass as your own in case the other glass has been compromised. The use of zip ties, which you applied to my dominate hand.”

“There was a faint tan line on the right wrist, and few people wear watches on their dominate hand.”

“A basic trick of the trade.”

Dan raised his glass and gave a traditional Russian toast.

Alex responded in kind and both men downed their glasses.

“The girls work for you?” Alex asked.

“No. They don't.”

“But they knew you were coming. The blonde left the door unlocked. Very sloppy on my part.”

“She knew I was coming. But I have never met her before.”

“I think I'm going to have to take this up with the girls' management.”

“The girls are sole proprietors now. Their employer is dead. Passed away earlier this week.”

“And she was a friend?”

“Yes.”

“And the reason you speak Russian?”

“No, I knew Russian before I met her.”

Alex nodded towards the vodka bottle on the table and Dan filled two more glasses.

“To your friend, and a fellow Russian,” Alex said, pouring the vodka into his mouth.

“You work for the Russian embassy?” Dan asked.

“And if I said yes . . . ?”

“Then perhaps you can still help.”

“Why would I help you? You just ruined my afternoon. My only true enjoyment all week. Afternoon vodka and female entertainment.”

“Perhaps we can help each other.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Information.”

“On what?”

“Let's say intelligence-related information.”

“Ha. You barge into my room, chase out my entertainment, and then think I'm going to turn over information on my country? Certainly you cannot expect me to hand over intelligence without some form of reciprocation?”

Dan filled both glasses with another round of vodka. “Who said anything about
your
country?”

Alex leaned back in his chair, as far as his restraints would let him. Then he began to laugh, his hairy chest bouncing up and down with each bellow.

“Now you are the one with his pants on the floor!” The laughing reached a crescendo and Dan almost thought it was an act. “I see. I see. It is all clear to me. Yes! You came here based on information that you would find an intelligence officer in a compromising situation. But you didn't know you would find a
Russian
intelligence officer.”

Alexander began laughing harder, which turned into deep-rooted gasps.

“That is correct,” Dan said, relenting.

Alexander downed another shot and motioned for a refill. “You know, many years ago, on my first tour of duty here in DC, before your country allowed us to build our Embassy on the highest spot in the entire city, I met another American with a request similar to yours.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She was a high school student.”

“I can hardly wait for the punch line.”

“There is no joke, so there is no punch line. We received a letter from a high school student who was doing a report on the CIA. This girl was trying to find information on the Agency, and well, before the Internet and FOIA requests, this information was hard to come by. It was quite a surprise, I must say, the request from this girl. We sent an agent out to follow her for a few days, to verify that she was indeed just a high school student doing a report. Her mother was a housewife and her father was an architect for Fairfax County Public Schools. I met with my supervisors at the time, we went over the letter and decided to help the girl out. To have a little fun with our adversaries.”

“About a month later, the girl sent us an article from her school paper. Prominently displayed on the front page of the school paper was her article on the CIA, complete with the stats we had provided. The general structure of the organization. The major subgroups. The estimated number of employees. The annual budget. Square foot of the headquarters. Associated buildings.

“We all had a laugh. It was good for business. I mean, there was no real harm being done. The CIA had to know that we knew this information, or at least that we could make an educated guess.”

“A good story.”

“Indeed.” Alexander caressed the shot glass with his free hand. “This is not about my country?”

“No. This is personal.”

“Personal with the CIA?”

“Yes.”

“You realize the CIA is not a person.”

“I am aware of this.”

“How does a person who is not in intelligence get involved with the CIA?”

“I lost someone very close to me. I have reason to believe the CIA is involved.”

“Tell me more.”

“I have told you enough already.”

“I will decide when you have told me enough,” Alex said, gaining confidence and growing more at ease. “You want information, you provide information.” Alex raised his chin and slightly flicked his middle finger against the side of his throat, indicating he wanted more vodka. Dan filled the glass.

“Now, tell me who did you lose?”

“My nephew.”

Alex looked at Dan, approximated his age, and did the math. “A teenager?”

“Yes.”

“How old was he, exactly?”

“A sophomore in college. Nineteen.”

“Where was he killed?”

“Here in DC. It was made to look like an accident.”

“Hmmmm. The Central Intelligence Agency involved in the killing of a nineteen-year-old US citizen on US soil . . .” Alex stared off into space and hummed to himself. A moment later his mind returned. “And what leads you to believe the CIA is involved?”

“A missing phone call.”

“Phone systems are imperfect. In Russia, outside the large cities, more often than not.”

Dan didn't reply.

Alex continued. “There is something else to your story. Something you don't want to tell me.”

Dan paused and slowly rotated the shot glass on the table in a circle. “My nephew was rare.”

Alex closed his eyes and hummed the opening of a traditional Russian song. He opened his eyes slowly at the end of the first verse. “Your nephew . . . this young man . . . I have two questions about him.”

“Shoot.”

“I am without my weapon.”

“Funny. Ask your questions.”

“My first question is this: How rare was he? How rare was this nephew of yours?”

“Exceptionally.”

“Unquantifiably rare?”

“Some have said.”

“And should he have already been dead?”

Dan froze. “Sorry?”

“Statistically speaking, had he exceeded his life expectancy?”

Dan swallowed. “That is my understanding. But there is no way you could have known that.”

“Ha! Americans! You think you have a monopoly on knowledge and good ideas.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.”

“Let me offer you some advice. Free advice. I want nothing in return. Perhaps you should focus on celebrating your nephew's life, not being consumed by his death. I doubt I will outlive my life expectancy. And given your mere presence here, and your inquiry, I highly doubt you will outlive yours.”

“I will celebrate my nephew's life when I am done with the task at hand.”

Alex stared intently at Dan, who returned the glare. Alex spoke first. “There is something enjoyable about watching your enemy writhe in agony, even if it is not at your own hand.”

“Then you will help?”

“It is not in my best interest to provide direct assistance.”

“What if your wife were to find out what transpired here in this hotel with your pay-by-the-hour friends?”

“My dear comrade. My wife passed away many, many years ago. Before you started to shave. My only wife now is a cover wife, and my only marriage is to my country. I can retire at any moment. There is nothing you can threaten me with here.”

“You said you cannot not directly help,” Dan said, changing tactics, carefully reading the agent and repeating his choice of words.

Alex stared at the light coming through the crack in the curtains. “I have spent most of my life recruiting Americans to spy on America. It is not hard. Particularly if you can identify an American without religion. Atheists are fertile soil. Agnostics even work in most cases. No fear of retribution. No fear of hell. Not scared by damnation. They are only concerned with this life. Money. Power. Thrills.”

“I am looking for revenge.”

“What else do you know about the people you pursue?”

“I know one of them is white. My height. Maybe a little taller. Well dressed. Perfect teeth, hair, shoes.”

“You have met him.”

“Yes.”

“Let me see the sketch.”

“How do you know I have a drawing?” Dan asked, his hand subconsciously moving slowly towards the envelope in his cargo pants pocket.

“Experience.”

Dan removed the envelope and pulled out the sketch. He placed it on the table and took another shot of vodka. Alex stared at the drawing intently, slowly digesting the possibilities of the face on the paper. He mentally removed the glasses and shaved the goatee. He altered the hair color and imagined smaller teeth. “Appearances can be changed.”

“Indeed. But he cannot alter everything. And regardless of what he looks like, he cannot discard his core. This guy likes order. He is anal. His dress, hygiene, demeanor.”

“You are describing half of the espionage world. Order keeps agents alive.”

“I will know him when I see him.”

“And all you need is to know who he is.”

“Or where he is.”

Alex thought hard. “Very well. I know someone who can help your particular situation. But you are going to have to work for it. I am not going to just hand everything over to you on a silver platter. You want to play the espionage game, time to lose your training wheels. Everyone you are playing this game with has a head start.”

“So I am learning.”

“And another thing. This person you are going to meet, he will not come cheap. He will cost you. As he costs us.”

“How do I reach this person?”

“Pen and paper.”

Dan glanced around the room and retrieved a small motel pad and pen by the phone on the dresser.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“His name is Benny. He works at Langley. HQ. On weekends and some weeknights, he can be reached in the trailer in the rear parking lot next to the Sears in Seven Corners. He can point you in the right direction. Be sure to ask him about his skydiving adventure. It was most insightful.”

Dan scribbled.

Alex smiled ear to ear. “But before we go, one more drink. To your enemies' enemies!” Both men threw their drinks back.

Dan stood, the liquor robbing him of some sharpness. “I assume you will be able to get out of your constraints,” Dan said, moving towards the door without taking his eyes off Alex.

“I will be free before you reach your car,” Alex replied. “But I may sit here for a while. I have the room for another hour. Maybe there is a European hockey game on cable.”

“Goodbye, Alex.”

“Good luck.”

—

Dan drove through Bailey's Crossroads, once home to a circus as designated by a small historical sign in the parking lot between Old Navy and Office Depot. Bailey's Crossroads, a simple intersection in a former life, had long since been replaced with a concrete overpass and an octopus of on-ramps. The stables for the circus animals were now a string of funky strip-mall shops hosting a selection of ethnic restaurants unseen outside of Brooklyn. As Dan drove, hundreds of hopeful but illegal immigrants swallowed the land around the Culmore Post Office, the threshold to the neighboring sea of brick apartments unsafe for US citizens without employment opportunities to offer.

A mile up the road from Bailey's Crossroads was Seven Corners, a transportation nightmare evident by name alone. A handful of cities in the US sport intersections named “five corners,” and as insulting as they are to commuters' sensibility, the intermingling of five roads was
almost
understandable. But when the discussion of Seven Corners crept into a department of transportation development meeting decades ago, a group of presumably hung-over men were rumored to have just nodded in agreement. Seven intersecting pieces of multi-lane asphalt at a single point wasn't
that
many.

Dan's eyes darted between the merging and unmerging lanes of traffic. Dozens of pedestrians, some with strollers, added to the skills challenge. Dan turned left on Patrick Henry Drive and then took the service road between a closed bank and a black-and-white office building designed in the seventies and now begging for an update. Signs for a travel agency and nail salon, long since shuttered, clung to the façade. A banner indicating twenty thousand square feet of available leasing space flapped from the top floor.

Behind the building, and adjacent to the backend of the Sear's parking lot, Dan found the first clue indicating he was on the right path. A white van with a hand-done paint job spelled out a single word, emblazoned down the side of the vehicle in red and blue. An arrow pointing towards the back of the lot was the final piece of directional guidance.

Dan drove towards an old brown trailer and parked near a half-dozen other cars at the edge of the lot.

The roof of the trailer was covered in pine needles. Leaves were matted to the roof, the first stage of decomposition underway. Near the front door of the trailer stood an inoperable barber's pole. An unplugged orange extension cord disappeared behind a piece of plywood on the skirt on the trailer.

Dan opened the door and the barber shop paused for one full beat before resuming its natural atmosphere. Six cushioned chairs with metal frames lined the wall. To the right, a silver-haired senior citizen read a fishing magazine. In the far corner another man napped, his head nodding slightly, a shallow, throaty breath escaping with each exhale. Dan grabbed a seat to the left of the door. Another man in a green sweatshirt stood and walked to the magazine rack, expertly pulling a
Playboy
from the back of the top shelf where it was hidden from view for those not in the know.
A real barber shop
, Dan thought.

The lone barber finished with the patron in the chair and slapped the open leather seat with his apron. “Who's next?” The sleeping man in the corner sprung to life and filled the chair. The departing patron peeled off two twenty dollar bills and slipped them to the barber, whispering into the barber's ear as the register opened and closed. As the patron left, the barber grabbed a pencil and put a single mark on a small notebook near the register.

Dan read through
Car and Driver
while he waited for the fishing enthusiast and boob aficionado to get their haircuts. When
Playboy
left, Dan stood.

Benny the barber greeted the newcomer to his establishment. “Haven't seen you here before.”

“Haven't been in here before.”

“That would explain it.”

“You know your pole isn't working,” Dan added.

“Don't tell anyone. My wife might find out.”

“I meant your barber pole.”

“There's a short in the cord. The whole electrical system in this place needs to be updated. To fix the pole, I need someone young to crawl under the trailer and sort it out.”

“I hope you mean someone younger than I am.”

“Age is all a matter of perspective.”

“Forget I mentioned it.”

Benny the barber, sixty-five years old with only a strip of hair running around his head horizontally, prepared Dan for his haircut. He organized his scissors, thinning shears, and collar guard. He quickly washed his hands in the sink. “How do you like it cut?”

“A little off the top and over the ears.”

Benny tightened the apron around Dan's neck and tugged. He pulled out his scissors, ran his comb through a thicket of hair and lopped off a small chunk. “You know the history of the barber pole?”

“Didn't know it had a history.”

“Everything has a history. The red stripe on the barber pole represents blood, or more specifically blood-letting. Back in the day, barbers used to do more than just cut hair. Used to do a little bit of surgery, a little bit of blood-letting. Kept leeches in a bowl. Over time, as medicine evolved, or was invented, we were excused from our extra duties and focused on cutting hair. But the white and red on the pole represents blood and bandages. Back in the day, the bandages drying outside were an advertisement of sorts. Of course, the representation of blood is better than hanging actual blood-soaked towels in front of the shop.”

“How long you been in the business?”

“Been a barber for forty years. There's not much I haven't heard about. Customers tell me things they wouldn't tell their psychologist. Haven't been surprised by a conversation, well, since can't remember when.”

Hang on to that thought
, Dan mused. “How's business?”

“I should be retired, but I am working more than ever.”

“Recession-proof employment, I would think.”

“True and false. A man can only go so long between cuts. Eventually we all start to look shaggy. Unless you permanently solve that problem through natural hair follicle reduction, as I have done. The trouble with being a barber these days is different. Used to be that a bad back, a stooped posture, and sore feet were your main worries. Nowadays, old guys like me, we are being replaced by Asian women who charge half of what we charge. Six, eight, ten of these women will work in a barbershop. Hell, they'll live together too. You get a haircut and a massage. Probably more if you ask for it.”

“You mean I'm not getting a massage today?”

“No. And the competition also means I have to cut more heads to make the same income. Been working weekends and nights, off and on.”

Fifteen minutes later the conversation lulled as Benny the barber spun Dan in his chair and showed him the results. “Looks good. Looks like you've done it before.”

“I figure I've given between twenty and thirty thousand haircuts over the last forty years.”

“You are good with math.”

“I do all right.”

“Are the numbers being kind to you?”

Benny looked up into the mirror as he undid the apron around Dan's neck. Dan smiled in the reflection.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Well, two of the last three patrons handed you forty bucks. Being that a haircut is only fifteen, according to the sign over the register, it seems a little steep. Even with a tip.”

“They didn't pay last time and were covering their tab.”

“Maybe. Maybe. But then again, maybe you are running numbers. College football. Pros. You take the bets, maybe hand them off, but you get a cut.”

“I think you misunderstood what occurred.”

“And I think you have misunderstood my intention. How much is a three-game parlay.”

“A three-game what?”

“A three-game parlay. NFL only. I have a hundred to spend.”

Benny the barber went to the door to the trailer and locked the knob. He turned around and Dan had moved from his chair, flanking the barber.

“Grab a seat,” Dan said. “Alex the Russian sent me. We are going to have a chat.”

Benny eyed his scissors next to the sink on the counter behind the chair.

“No chance,” Dan said flatly. “Have a seat.”

Benny moved slowly and flopped into his own chair.

“Tell me about Alex the Russian.”

“I think I saw a character by that name on TV. In a cartoon. He drives around town in a car that doesn't work very well, eats a lot of caviar, and drinks vodka straight from the bottle.”

“No, he is a Russian intelligence officer and he told me you could provide certain information for a fee. You want to hear the recording of the conversation?”

Benny's pupils tightened slightly and that was all the confirmation Dan needed.

“You can talk to me, or I can turn your traitor ass in. Make myself a hero.”

“Hypothetically speaking, you could turn me in anyway. After you get what you want.”

“Possibly. That is a conversation I have every week with assholes like you. I'll tell you what I tell them—it is a chance you'll have to take.”

“Maybe. But, if you
only
wanted to turn me in, you already would have. So what else do you want?”

“Just a little off-the-record discussion on someone I'm looking for.”

“Go ahead. Ask whatever you have in mind. It doesn't mean I will answer. For all I know,
you
could be a foreign agent.”

“I can tell you the score of every Super Bowl since 1978 and can tell you where I was when I watched it. No foreign agent would bother with that info.”

“Super Bowl sixteen. You have five seconds.”

“Played in 1981. 49ers vs. Miami. 49ers won 26-21. Joe Montana was the MVP of the game. The game was played in the Pontiac Silverdome, Pontiac, Michigan. I watched the game in Cape Town, South Africa. Kickoff was 1:20 a.m.”

“Proves nothing.”

“How long have you worked at the CIA?”

Benny didn't reply.

“Let's not make this difficult. Alex said you work at Langley. At HQ. A little confusing at first, I must admit. But I watched you in here while I sat over there reading my magazine. You are a barber. No question about it. It could be a cover, but I don't think so. Maybe a cover for a day. But not for forty years. You have calluses on your fingers. You can't stand up straight. Neck bends forward. You wield those professional-grade scissors on automatic pilot. You have put in the time behind the chair. Swept mountains of hair. So the way I figure it, you are a barber. But you also work at the CIA.”

“I am contractually bound to silence. I can't discuss where I work.”

“How about being bound to a cell? No windows.”

“You know, as you get older, you will find the thought of prison is not as repulsive as it was when you were younger. Not a federal prison anyway. Free retirement. Room and board covered.”

“I'll take freedom. And as much as it revolts me to say this, I'm willing to pay you for information. Certainly if you accept payment from a Russian, you would accept payment from an American for the same information.”

A low groan, resembling a deflating balloon, escaped Benny's lips. His face slowly grimaced.

Dan pushed forward. “I can have the FBI here in a half an hour. You can try out your theory on the beauty of a federal penitentiary by the end of the year.”

“If I did sell information, it would be expensive. I would doubt you could afford it.”

“My expenses
are
soaring lately. And I need information today. What is the downside for you? Prison today or payment in, say, a week.”

Benny stared downward and for a moment Dan thought the barber was going to cry. “I did it for the money. I didn't mean to betray my country.”

“Well, you did. And you are going to do it one more time for the money. If you need to feel better about yourself, know that I will use the information to bring some form of redemption to our nation's clandestine services.”

Benny took a deep breath before spilling the beans. “I have been working there for twelve years. Before that I worked at the Department of Energy. Prior to that a few private shops here and there. Usually some dingy corner of space next to the shoe shine guy. Same thing at Langley. I work in the basement. I'm not sure what floor.”

“You're not sure?”

“No windows, much like prison. Inside the building, I take a service elevator that has no numbers on the buttons. I press the third button from the bottom, on the right hand side. The elevator moves at variable speeds. The variable speed of the elevator makes it difficult to figure how many floors up or down you have moved.”

“I assume the elevator eventually opens.”

“Yes. There is a camera in the elevator. Once I step out of the elevator, I am contained. I have a two-seat shop on a floor with plain white walls and a light blue tile floor. There is a bathroom at the end of the hall and an emergency staircase, which I have never used. There is another camera and guard on the floor.”

“So you are a civilian employee.”

“Correct. I am not employed by the CIA. I merely work in the building, providing a service for their employees.”

“And you run numbers.”

“Let's assume I did.”

“Do you get polygraphed?”

“Every year.”

“How do you pass? Gambling is a red flag.”

“I had a retired FBI agent as a customer for years. He was a polygraph operator. Over the years, we talked about how to beat the machine.”

“Rumor has it lots of people have beat the machine. Aldrich Ames. Karl Koecher. Ana Belen Montes. Leandro Aragoncillo.”

“Yes, they have. Rule number one for passing a polygraph is to build rapport with the examiner. It calms you down. The second rule is to remember that the exam is only eighty percent accurate. That's why it's not admissible in court. People who are really nervous fail the test every time. Most people confess to things they shouldn't confess to. That, by the way, is the true magic of the polygraph. Belief that it will catch you and acting as if it will.”