The Revisionists (38 page)

The two at his sides looked to be in their early forties, tall and athletic. Even though they kept their shades on, Leo was confident he’d never seen them before.

“We’d like to know how you came upon those fingerprints,” said a man riding shotgun, who faced forward. He had silvery-gray hair, and Leo could only occasionally catch bits of the man’s face in the mirror, a pale cheek here and a bushy gray eyebrow there.

“You work with Bale?” Leo asked.

“We move in similar circles.”

Leo had passed the mystery man’s prints on to Bale, telling his boss that they belonged to a man who’d been at a couple of the peacenik meetings lately, a possible agent provocateur sent by another entity. Later that day, Bale reported that the prints hadn’t turned up any matches. Had he been lying? Had he passed the prints on to these men, or had his search unknowingly tripped some silent alarm?

“Listen, Leo,” the man in shotgun continued. “Sometimes people who have been on the inside but no longer are, they tend to feel they’re still protected. They think they’re comfortably nestled under the government’s blanket. But it’s a cold world, and you’re alone, and there are werewolves everywhere.”

“I was always more afraid of vampires.” He was still catching his breath, panting loudly and drenched in sweat while the others sat motionless and silent in their suits. But he would not act intimidated. He’d had plenty of time to steep in the shame of his speedy disclosure to the mystery man, and he was determined to handle himself more professionally.

“Where did you meet the man you lifted those prints from? Your little story about him attending some antiwar powwow doesn’t add up.”

So, these men said they weren’t with Bale, but clearly they’d spoken to him—or spoken to someone who’d spoken to him or had listened in somehow. Too many possibilities.

“Who am I talking to?”

“Allow me to explain things to you more clearly. You’re a civilian who erroneously believes that he has the power and might of the U.S. government at his back. You have nothing at your back. That little breeze you feel there? That’s the wind from the cliff you’re standing at the edge of. Any trouble comes your way, you think someone like Bale will vouch for you? And you think anything in that little head of yours will be considered valuable enough for you to barter your way out of trouble? No and no. I hate conversations like this, because I’m talking to a destitute man who thinks he’s independently wealthy. You green-tags are all the same.”

“What trouble would come my way?”

“Use your imagination.”

Rock Creek Parkway curved and bent vertiginously, and Leo’s shoulders rocked against the two other men’s.

“I met this individual while I was performing research as part of an operation for my employer.”

That won him laughter.

“Leo,” the man to his left said. “We’re not asking you anything difficult. And your man Bale won’t care what you tell us, since he’ll never know anyway. So stop worrying about the integrity of your precious operation and tell us about your conversation with the guy. What he told you, what if anything he asked you, how he acted.”

“I already told my boss.”

They crossed the river and headed north on the GW Parkway. This was the way to Langley, but he still wasn’t sure if that’s where they were going.

“Tell us what you left out,” the back of the gray head in shotgun said. “Such as where it really was.”

“We know you hate the work you’re doing,” said the man on his left, who was actively campaigning for the role of Good Cop, if only these guys had been cops. “I would too. It’s beneath you. So you’re trying to make a little rain, prove your resourcefulness. Hoping to impress someone important, someone with connections.”

“And the good news”—the guy riding shotgun took the baton—“is that you are now in a car with precisely such individuals. The meter is running, Leo. If you want to impress us, start impressing us. Maybe you’ll never have to tail a hippie again.”

Leo thought for a moment.

“I was told those prints produced no matches.”

“Which is mostly true,” Shotgun said. “They did not match up with any identified person, any name, date of birth, et cetera. But they do match the prints of an as-yet-unidentified individual who’s been causing us some trouble.”

Maybe sharing a little would yield a little. “I’ve been surveilling the residence of a South Korean diplomat. It’s in its early stages. There isn’t much to tell.”

The SUV climbed the hill, and Leo caught glimpses of the Potomac below.

“And you approached this gentleman, or he approached you?”

“He’d seen me observing the man’s house. He approached my car and implied that I was disrupting another operation.” He left out the gun, the threats, the weird existential questioning. And he didn’t mention Sari. No one seemed to be taking notes, so there must have been a recorder somewhere.

“So he was watching you while you were watching the diplomat,” Shotgun recapped. He’d said it like he already knew which diplomat Leo was talking about.

“Maybe. He was acting pretty randomly. I know people on long stakeouts can get a little unhinged, but it seemed more than that. And I don’t necessarily think that what I was doing had anything to do with—”

“You’re probably right,” Shotgun said, too quickly.

“So who was the guy?” Leo asked.

“Someone we’re trying very hard to find,” Shotgun said.

“He works for…?”

“That’s not yours to know, I’m afraid.”

“Look, I’ve given you—”

“Stop thinking like a case officer, because you aren’t one. Remember? This is not a meeting of equal minds. You, a green-tag, do not have clearance to know
anything
. You’re fortunate you aren’t having this conversation with a black bag over your head.”

Leo seethed. But they were right.

The car exited at one of the scenic overlooks. A station wagon with Minnesota plates had been idling there, but it pulled away when the SUV entered, as if sensing danger. Leo and his interrogators were alone with the view and the circling hawks and the falls far below.

“So,” Shotgun continued, “you, Mr. Hastings, are a former government operative playing amateur spy games with a South Korean diplomat. Last I checked, that country was a staunch ally of the United States. I’m sure any number of people would be happy to lock up a loose cannon who’s trying to jeopardize our sound diplomatic relations with the people of South Korea.”

The way they traded sticks for carrots and back again was disorienting. And he was sick of their belittling tone. “I haven’t done anything illegal or—”

Everyone laughed again. Leo sat there and tried not to let his face turn any redder than it already was. The SUV leaned as gusts blew along the ravine.

“Leo, allow me to explain a few things about how your world will exist from this moment forward. You, your employer, and your nonexistent client will cease and desist from whatever you’re doing and will henceforth pretend you’ve never heard of this diplomat. Never even heard of South Korea. You can’t find Asia on a map, understood? Failure to obey these instructions will affect you so unbelievably adversely that I’d like to pause here for a moment of silence while you imagine it.”

Leo didn’t grant the man his silence. “I’ve been threatened by old men in suits before.”

“And the last time it happened, if memory serves, they followed through on their threats and kicked your whistle-blowing self out of the Agency. Next time you give someone a reason to follow through on their—”

“I wasn’t a whistle-blower.”

“That’s not the word on the street. And you’re lucky that information wasn’t made public. You could have been
prosecuted,
Leo.”

“I
did not
leak that story.” His hands were fists in his lap. “I filed official reports through official channels voicing my concerns about what was happening. When my superiors ignored the reports, I went a rung higher. That might piss off bureaucrats like you, but everyone on the ground knows it’s how things get done. The black-sites story hit the press
two months later,
the Agency needed someone to blame, and they chose me. If they’d had any evidence I’d leaked anything, yes, I
would
have been prosecuted. But it
wasn’t me
.”

“I think you found his soft spot,” Good Cop said to Shotgun.

“They had the best people in counterintelligence investigating me. So either you believe it when I say it wasn’t me or you think I’m the most brilliant spy in the world for leaking a story like that without leaving a trace.”

They seemed to ponder that a bit. Or maybe they’d just wanted to get a rise out of him and were already through having their fun.

“All right,” Shotgun said. “Maybe I do believe you. And maybe I will tell you, out of the utmost professional courtesy—which a green-tag like you does not deserve, even if you weren’t a whistle-blower—that the Korean diplomat you have been tailing is an asset. And that your surveillance of him, which evidently isn’t all that good, will cause him to panic and stop the helpful stream of information he’s been providing to us. Which is why we are humbly requesting, in the nicest possible way this time, that you stay the hell away from him so you don’t jeopardize our valuable relationship.”

Leo thought this over. He could see his chagrined expression in the rearview but still couldn’t glimpse his interlocutor.

“You could have gotten around to saying that a lot faster.”

“And if you were still a case officer, I would have. I just gave you much more than you’re entitled to. Now, hopefully, you’ll never see that strange individual again, and you’ll never even need to remember this conversation. But if you should see him, you will refrain from contacting him and will instead call us.” On cue, the silent man to Leo’s right handed him a business card. It had nothing but a phone number on it. “Understood?”

“Sure.”

The silent man got out of the car and motioned for Leo to follow him. Leo was almost out when Shotgun said, “You really didn’t leak that story, did you?”

“No. Not that anyone cares anymore.”

“How long did you work at the sites?”

“That’s classified.” It felt good to turn it around on him. “But long enough. Long enough to figure right from wrong.”

“That’s funny. In my experience, the more you do this work, the
less
you can figure those two terms out.”

“I guess you and I are different types of people.”

“Apparently. Good-bye, Leo.”

Leo exited, and the man who’d been sitting beside him on the right patted him on the shoulder, smiling somewhat tauntingly. “Sorry to interrupt your jog. You can resume it here.”

The guy got in the car, which pulled back onto the parkway. Leo memorized its Virginia plates, knowing it was probably worthless to do so, then tried to replay the conversation in his head. But he kept focusing on the whistle-blower taunts. Which, he realized sadly, was exactly what they’d wanted: He was so angry and had expended so much energy defending himself that he couldn’t remember everything they’d said earlier about the diplomat and the mystery man. If they’d accidentally given anything away, if there had been any subtle slips, he’d been too worked up to notice.

All he really knew was he was a long way from home.

He was not terribly surprised to find two voice mails from Bale when he finally made it to his apartment.
“Where are you that you aren’t answering your cell? Call me immediately.”

Leo’s shins and knees were throbbing; he felt light-headed and was famished—it had taken him nearly two hours to make it back home, jogging partway and walking when he couldn’t jog any farther. He hadn’t been dressed warmly enough for the drop in temperature at sundown, and he felt fevered, his skin cold but his insides overheated.

It was past nine o’clock. He chugged two glasses of water, then called his boss.

“Where have you been?” Bale asked.

“Running an impromptu marathon.”

“Well, I just got the translations back from the files on her laptop.”

“Great.” So the second flash drive from Sari was indeed from Sang Hee’s computer—she’d done a good job. But he was surprised Bale would call him with this rather than tell him in person.

“No, not great. Her correspondence turns up nothing, and the only documents she has in there is a fucking
novel
. Or a memoir, or whatever you call them. What’s the difference? It’s this tear-jerking bullshit story about a poor woman in North Korea who gets sent to a labor camp and loses her family, blah blah blah. Jesus. The guys who translated said Oprah would love it. What the fuck? Why did I let you con me into spending all this time and money to get some analysts to read an Oprah book?”

He’d never heard Bale like this. Disappointment would have been an appropriate response, but this was more.

“I never said I knew what would be on it,” Leo said. “You’re the one who said she was a person of interest, so—”

“Do not even think of pointing a finger at me, Leo. This was your initiative, and it’s failed.”

“Understood. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” He said that while expecting Bale to reel himself back in, say, No, no, it’s not over yet, but Bale didn’t.

“Me too. We wasted time and you put yourself out there to this maid, but it’s over now. I want you to stop all contact with her, immediately. You never met her, and you certainly never promised her anything.”

“Isn’t that being a little hasty?” He hadn’t yet decided if he was going to tell Bale that the diplomat was an Agency asset. “So the info on her laptop wasn’t interesting, but maybe there’s something else, something in hard copy or on her husband’s computer that—”

“No and no. I let you follow a hunch, and now I’m following mine: it’s over. Return your energies to the assignment you’re supposed to be focusing on.”

Bale hung up.

Leo collapsed into a chair, way too exhausted to even begin sorting this out. Those men had dumped him far from home not just to be cruel but to buy themselves time, so they could lean on Bale while Leo was gone, and so Leo would be too tired to make sense of this. His pride hurt a lot worse than his feet.