bluish light and a door at the end. Harvey swiped his card through the scanner on the wall and entered the code. Once he was on the other side, the door closed behind him, separating one world from another.
The light created an eerie atmosphere, as if transporting the passersby to another dimension. Several doors ran along both sides, all closed. The one Harvey Littel wanted was the third on the right side. He passed his card through the scanner. It was surely one of the movements he performed most often during the day, facilitating access to places he wanted to go. The door opened as soon as he entered the code, and, taking a deep breath, he went in. There were seven people inside awaiting him.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he greeted them, his tone appropriate to his professional role.
Almost everyone got up from around the large rectangular table the participants barely filled. Only the old colonel, Stuart Garrison, didn’t. Not because of the born arrogance that made him insufferable but because of the wheelchair in which he sat. These were the wounds of war that remain for life, received, as he never tired of telling, in March of 2003, on the outskirts of Nasiriyah, during the second Gulf War, when the allied forces were marching at top speed through Iraqi territory on the way to Baghdad. A rocket launched by some Shiite fighter at the Humvee in which he was riding took away from him any capacity for movement from his waist down, affecting his sexual ability, as well, although nothing affected his strong character. That act of terrorism earned Colonel Stuart Garrison the Medal of Valor. In colorful terms the report said that Stuart Garrison, trapped in what remained of the frame of the twisted Humvee, was able to destroy the menacing fighter about to give the coup de grace with another rocket. A sure shot to the head of the insurgent saved the lives of the six occupants of the vehicle, although one didn’t survive his wounds and died on the way to the field hospital, after waiting five hours for a rescue team. What the report didn’t mention was that the shot killed a teenager less than fifteen years old whose action was revenge for the allies annihilating his innocent family. These were the atrocities of war, implacable for both sides. Once removed from the battlefield, Stuart Garrison was invited to join the agency because of his privileged contacts in the Middle East, making him the most imbecilic, arrogant, and deficient man in the CIA — words not spoken out loud by those who knew him.
Having explained the trivia of why some get promoted and others not, let’s move on to the rest of the group in hierarchical order. They were seated three on each side, leaving the head of the table for the assistant subdirector, Harvey Littel. If the subdirector or director had been here in person, they would have been at the head. On the right side, from the point of view of the assistant subdirector, we have Colonel Stuart Garrison, responsible for communications with the Middle East and Russia, followed by Wally Johnson, lieutenant colonel, liaison with the US army, intrepid and proud, some forty years old, although still in puberty in regard to military careers. Across from them, Sebastian Ford, diplomatic attache, politician by profession, one of those who seem to have excellent judgment, but, when you squeeze their words, seem to have no juice, nothing there. He was the demagogue who connected the department with the president, always prepared to sacrifice anyone for the good of his career… and, of course, national security. The others were not important enough to name, since they have little relevance for the unfolding of our story. But let’s not forget the woman who wasn’t seated at the table. She was next to the wall, behind Harvey Littel with a notebook ready to take her frenetic notes. She was Priscilla Thomason, Harvey’s secretary.
‘Have we managed to connect already?’ Littel asked no one in particular.
‘Yes,’ someone responded.
‘Good. Barnes?’ He spoke into the phone in front of him. There was no answer.
‘Barnes?’ he tried again.
The same response.
Littel raised the earpiece to his ear. He dropped it immediately.
‘We’ve been disconnected. Put it through again,’ he ordered.
He was surprised when no one moved.
‘Are you waiting for me to do it?’ He was irritated by such a lack of zeal and picked up the phone again.
‘Dr. Littel,’ Priscilla called from behind him, getting up. At least someone was attentive. ‘The connection has been made, but…’ She lowered her eyes.
‘But?’ Littel urged her.
‘He’s hung up.’ Stuart Garrison finished the sentence.
‘He’s hung up?’ His expression showed amazement. He thought for a few seconds. ‘And you’ve tried to reconnect?’
‘Several times,’ the assistant standing by his side told him. ‘He’s not answering.’
Now Littel understood the pensive mood when he entered. His mind seethed with theories and possibilities. Barnes had disconnected the direct, secure line that connected London and Langley. This was a serious breach of protocol, with the risk of disciplinary action and possible dismissal, if it couldn’t be justified. Barnes lost his temper easily, nothing was ever good with him, but from that to jeopardizing his service record through his own actions was a big step. He was active, highly esteemed, a true pack mule who took on an entire continent and the outskirts of another two. This couldn’t be. Something must have happened to make Barnes disconnect. Something serious. Unless…
‘Has anyone called the Center of Operations?’ He assumed the attitude of a leader. There was hope.
‘No,’ Stuart replied.
‘It didn’t cross our minds. Geoffrey Barnes’s conduct is very serious,’ Sebastian Ford added. ‘I’ll have to tell the president about this.’ He seemed to have difficulty opening his mouth to utter these words. His hair plastered with gel, a pen in hand, held vertically, his back stiff, he seemed conscious of each gesture, each word as well. Everything was calculated. The politician in true form.
‘He wouldn’t be able to answer if the building has fallen on top of him, for example,’ Littel argued. ‘Call the Center of Operations.’
The diplomatic attache’s threat irritated him. He’d sold out, a self-proclaimed patriot who didn’t even know the story of the founding fathers. If there was anyone Littel would put his hand in the fire for, it was Barnes. He’d have a plausible justification… there was no doubt.
Priscilla took the telephone and pressed four numbers. The beeps resounded in the office from the speaker, while everyone watched apprehensively. Finally they heard a static noise that preceded the connection and a nervous voice, probably because of where the call was coming from. They didn’t receive a call from the ‘cave’ every day.
‘Staughton.’ More like a question than an identification.
‘Good evening, Agent Staughton,’ Littel greeted him affably. ‘This is Harvey Littel. I’m sure you’ve heard of me…’
‘Yes… yes, sir,’ Staughton replied quickly. His discomfort was audible.
‘I’m going to get directly to the point, Agent Staughton. I need to speak, urgently, with your superior, Geoffrey Barnes.’ His manner was serious now.
‘Well, I’m not with him, but…’ he stumbled, excusing himself.
‘Do me a favor. Look for him.’
‘Of course,’ Staughton answered respectfully. ‘I’ll call you back in five minutes.’ Again more question than statement.
‘No, no, Agent Staughton. You don’t understand me. I want you to look for him now. Now. Understood?’
The silence proved that Staughton didn’t expect that order. If he had known the large audience listening to him, he would have buried his head in the sand. They all listened attentively to Staughton’s panting breath. If his eardrums weren’t ringing with the beating of his heart, he might have heard the sighs from thousands of miles away.
‘Agent Staughton, are you listening to me?’ Littel pressed on. Time was wasting.
The answer came ten seconds later, when Littel was about to repeat the question.
‘The chief’s in the office.’
Littel felt relief as if he were taking a cool shower. Wonderful.
‘Perfect, Agent Staughton. Please pass him the phone.’
‘Ah, that’s not going to be possible,’ Staughton refused.
‘Why not? Do what I tell you.’ Although he was being rude, Littel knew why Staughton couldn’t pass him the phone. Barnes had another priority.
‘What petulance,’ Colonel Garrison muttered.
