Archer Mayor - The Disposable Man

She removed her glasses and polished them against her shirtfront. “And did he share?”

“Oh, yeah-no problem. I could’ve spared myself the cloak-and-dagger. He said it was standard practice for the Bureau to ride shotgun when another federal agency needs to fish in home waters without a license.”

She stopped polishing and looked at me closely, suddenly caught by the excitement I’d been stifling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I laughed, still incredulous about my discovery. “Remember Philpot? The guy I told you about? Turns out he’s CIA, dispatched from Boston on orders from Langley.”

Early the following morning, Ron Klesczewski stepped into my office with a single sheet of paper, which he laid on my desk.

“Just came in-the Logan Airport branch of that rental car company. We faxed ’em the John Doe photo, which they definitely matched, and they kicked this back. Interesting reading-mostly for what it doesn’t say.”

I sat forward and peered at the document under the light from my desk lamp. It was a rental application filled out in the name of Boris Malik. “Address: Paris; driver’s license: international, original issue Lebanon; company address: Moscow.”

I stopped reading and sat back. “Let’s follow this up-push whatever buttons you need to gain access to all passenger lists on international flights arriving at Logan in the three hours before he rented that car.”

The intercom buzzed and the dispatcher’s voice floated into the room. “Joe, you have a call on three-the caller wouldn’t leave his name.”

I punched the speakerphone on. “Hello?”

“Lieutenant Gunther?” The man’s tone was soft, almost sleepy.

“Yes.”

“Would you mind taking this call off the loudspeaker?”

I looked at Ron and motioned to him to pick up the phone on the desk just outside my office. I already had a sneaking suspicion who this might be-or at least where he was calling from.

At a nod from me, Ron and I lifted our receivers simultaneously. “This better?” I asked.

“Much-thank you. I assume you either have someone listening in or a tape recorder running. That’s not a problem. I just thought it might be more discreet not to have this conversation broadcast all over the station.”

I put my feet up on the desk. “What’s on your mind?”

“My name is Gil Snowden. I’m calling from Virginia about a John Doe you recently discovered.”

“That reminds me of a guy I met once,” I said. “Years ago-very clean-cut, well spoken, an obvious Ivy Leaguer-who told me he’d gone to college in New Haven. Are you being coy that way, too?”

He allowed a theatrically embarrassed chuckle, and said, “Okay, I work for the CIA. I was wondering if you’d be interested in having a conversation. It might help you put this case to bed.”

He left it hanging there. Ron raised his eyebrows at me questioningly.

“You mean down there?” I asked.

“It would be friendlier face to face.”

I tried looking at the possible angles, but had no idea where to start. “I’ll have to get back to you,” I hedged. “I’m not my own boss here.”

“Not a problem,” Snowden answered smoothly and gave me a phone number. “Call me any time.”

Tony Brandt swiveled his chair around so he could stare out the window, two fingertips of his right hand just grazing his lower lip. It was at moments like this that I knew he missed his pipe the most.

“Frazier didn’t tell you anything?”

“Supposedly, Philpot-if that is his name-didn’t tell him anything. Frazier asked who the guy was, hoping for a little buddy-buddy breach of confidentiality. All he got was a one-liner about how the Agency had been looking for someone, but that our John Doe wasn’t him-that they had no idea who he was.”

Brandt’s eyes stayed fixed outside. “And you’re not swallowing that.”

“Not when Snowden tells me he can put the case to bed. They’re obviously reading from two different playbooks-one says to stiff us, and the other to scratch our ears till we roll over and go to sleep.”

“Then why go to Langley? Won’t they just shovel you more bullshit?”

I turned both my palms heavenward. “What else have we got? A virtually dry-cleaned body, a near-sterilized car, and not a single murmur from all the inquiries we sent out. Ron told me this morning we’re not even getting crank calls for the picture we put in the papers. That’s a first. I’m not saying Snowden’s going to spell everything out like he’s implying. But I am hoping he’ll let some thing slip.”

Brandt finally turned back to face me. “We can’t afford to fly you down.”

I don’t often travel beyond the three states surrounding Vermont, but when I do, I’m amazed at my small world’s insularity. There are just over half a million Vermonters-not quite as many, it seemed, as were crowding the Boston-New York-DC corridor the day I drove south. Like the sole contemplative member of some gigantic herd, I began to wonder if I was even remotely in control of my choice of destinations, or merely being influenced by some massive migratory urge. Trucks, cars, pickups, and upscale four-by-fours by the thousands, along with their apparently transfixed drivers, seemed as drawn by the same irresistible magnetism that was pulling me along.

And that was just the most immediate contrast. Beyond the traffic was the scenery, slowly changing from farmland to mall to suburb to something that eventually looked like a city without end, punctuated now and then by a sudden upthrust of taller buildings, appearing like some cataclysmic collision between tectonic plates.

Which may be, in fact, what makes the approach to downtown Washington as unique as it is, at least from the north. Where Hartford, Springfield, New York, Baltimore, and all the rest have recognizable city centers projecting a sense of purpose, DC is essentially flat, lacking the glass-and-steel towers most other urban clusters erect to justify their existence.

From the outskirts, there is only a gradual sense that the gritty, commercialized, outlying carpet has yielded to something more focused. Trees appear alongside avenues, traffic becomes leavened with buses, taxis, and the occasional limo, and the buildings-increasingly pompous by the mile, if no taller-cease being either residence or business, and become that third, more mysterious creature: the government office, where things indefinable, arcane, and even faintly menacing are allowed full leash.

I headed west of the city, to a cheap but survivable motel in suburban Arlington that Tony Brandt had recommended. It was within walking distance of a Metro station, and thus all of DC, allowing me to move without the hassle of looking for a parking place.

This convenience had nothing to do with my trip’s stated goal, of course. CIA headquarters are in Langley, Virginia, northwest of Washington, and far from any subway system. My desire to reach downtown was purely sentimental, for the city, whatever its faults, does one thing remarkably well: it honors the dead, sometimes with admirable emotional flair. From soldiers to politicians to leaders of various causes, all seem to be remembered on a sliding scale of tastefulness. My appointment with Snowden wasn’t until the next morning, and by leaving home well before sunrise, I’d purposely given myself enough time to visit two of Washington’s less-touted memorials.

The air was hot and muggy, even late in the afternoon, so it was with some relief that I dropped off my bag at the motel and immediately sought refuge in the Metro’s air-conditioned depths, bound for Judiciary Square station.

On my way to pay homage to a few specific dead, I pondered once more the man whose death had stimulated this trip.