John Odet was certain that either his eyes were playing tricks or fate was. He shuffled the stack of photographs, wiped the magnifying glass off with a handkerchief, and started over again.
Same result.
John glanced around his diminutive office. Room enough for a nice, if small, faux wood desk, two modern club chairs, and a credenza with pictures of his family. At least his mother, father, and a couple of nieces and nephews. The director was big believer in family. Probably wouldn’t be a great idea to include pictures of John and Benny, though. Although the federal government prohibited discrimination on grounds of sexual orientation, it wasn’t smart to flaunt such things.
Pictures notwithstanding, John liked his office, a real step up from the cubicles he had occupied as he worked his way up the GS ladder. One of the nicest things was the new furniture he got every two years whether he needed it or not. Just before October first when the new fiscal year began for the federal government, there was a rush among all bureaus, agencies, and departments to make sure every last penny in the old year’s budget was spent. Otherwise, there was the risk of some hawkeyed congressperson cutting the budget of the offending bureaucracy by the amount of unspent funds. New furniture, new computers, new everything that would ensure the budget was completely gone.
New furniture, though, wasn’t what had John’s attention this morning.
It was those mystifying pictures.
John picked up the phone and punched in a four-digit number.
“Director’s office,” a female voice announced.
“Is he in, Penny?” John asked.
“Who may I say is calling?”
John suppressed a sigh. Penny had been hearing his voice daily for two years now. He wondered if the director’s straight callers got the same treatment.
“It’s me, John.”
“Oh!” A pretense of surprise. “Let me see if he’s available.”
If not, he had jumped out of a window. John had greeted the director this morning in the hall, and the only way to the elevators was past John’s office.
“Mr. Odet!” The director’s voice boomed with the false bonhomie he used with all subordinates. “What might I do for you?”
The question, John thought, was largely rhetorical. “I’d like a few minutes of your time, sir.”
“Now?”
John’s could imagine the man, checking his gold Rolex as he calculated whether or not the lunch plans John was sure he had might be jeopardized, plans with someone from one of the larger and better-known intelligence organizations. The director never missed a chance at upward mobility. “If possible, yes sir.”
“OK, but come on right now.”
The director’s office might have been mistaken for the bar of an exclusive men’s country club. But then, that was where the director had spent most of his time before an enormous campaign contribution had purchased his appointment. Dark paneling with trophy cases of loving cups, bowls, plates indirectly lit. John occasionally wondered if Penny’s duties included keeping them polished.
In his silk shirtsleeves, the director came around an aircraft carrier–sized desk to take John’s hand in both of his own. It was though the man were running for office.
He dropped John’s hand and pointed to a conference table that formed the base of a T with the desk. “Have a seat.”
When the men were seated across from each other, the director clasped his hands and, elbows on the table, leaned forward. “So, John, what do you have that is so urgent?”
John produced a manila folder and a magnifying glass. “Pictures. Take a look.”
The director gave John a questioning glance before he pulled the photographs to his side of the table.
His face wrinkled in what John would have described as disgust. “Are those bodies wrapped in sheets in the background?”
“Yes, sir. September 15, 2011, Gleison Colliery Mine, Wales. The mine flooded. British Coal Authority never found the true cause because the source of the leak was underwater, but they speculated simultaneous failure of the pumping system and backup. The odds of that happening were estimated at over a thousand to one.”
The director lifted his head from the pictures. “And just what does that have to do with us?”
John indicated the remaining stack of photos. “If you will indulge me, sir …”
With a frown, the director held up another photo. “And this is … ?”
“The Alaska Navigator in dry dock. January 2012. Note the crack in the tanker’s side? Far too even to be accidental, according to the Coast Guard. Lucky it was discovered before the ship took on several hundred thousand gallons of crude. Would have made the Exxon Valdez look like puppy poop on a rug in comparison to the damage done to the Alaskan environment.”
“Good for the Coast Guard. I’m sure. But I don’t see—”
John got up and walked around the table. Reaching an arm over the director’s shoulder, he pointed. “See that man there, just in front of the bodies recovered from the mine disaster? Looks like one of the rescue people. Kind of blurred, but you can see his face.”
John moved the photo aside, pointing to another. “Now look at this man in what looks like a Coast Guard uniform standing with the group looking up at the tanker. Same guy, right?”
The director squinted, “Maybe. But I still don’t see—”
John hurriedly pulled another black-and-white out of the folder and poised the magnifying glass above the lower-left corner. “Anglo-American Platinum mine, South Africa, one of the deepest mines in the world. A collapse. The Mining Qualification Authority’s findings were that somebody accidentally rammed a piece of motorized equipment against not one, not two, but three major support columns. Three columns? An accident? C’mon! And look here, right under the magnifying glass. Looks like our boy, right?”
Before the director could answer, John had whipped out a final picture. “US Gulf Coast. April 11, 2010, the day after the BP Deepwater Horizon blew up. This is a shot of some of the civilian craft assisting the Coast Guard in searching for survivors. Recognize the guy in the poncho?”
The director pursed his lips, momentarily swayed by his subordinate’s enthusiasm. Then, “Too blurred to be sure.”
John shook his head. “Take a closer look. Same broad forehead, same smashed nose.”
“A lot of people have noses that look like that. Particularly ex-fighters.” The director pushed his chair back from the table, fingers interlocked across his belly. “Exactly what are you saying here, that this guy is some sort of disaster tourist?”
Again, the head shake. “Not possible. Every one of those photographs was taken within hours of the accident except the one from the Gulf, and that was less than twenty-four hours later. No, our friend in the pictures had to know.”
The director was looking at John as though he had begun speaking in tongues. “Know? But how could he … ?”
“The only person or persons with that knowledge would be those who caused the disasters.”
The director consulted his watch, a viable alternative to talking with a madman. “Ah, yes.” He stood, apparently no longer willing to have his back to someone who, quite possibly, might become violent any moment. “By the way, how did you come by those photographs? Industrial accidents aren’t exactly in the scope of our mission statement.”
John returned to his side of the table. “Purely by accident. One of the news services complained that they thought someone, possibly outside the United States, had hacked their network. That is within our mission, is it not, protecting the communication system?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
“Well, turns out they have had the problem before. Like when they were covering industrial disasters.”
“Who would hack a news service? Be easier to buy a paper or turn on the TV.”
“Unless you wanted the physical photos.”
The director’s answer to that was “Look, John, you do good work. Don’t make me include in your next evaluation that you went off the reservation, wasting Agency time on matters that don’t concern us. Oil spills, mine collapses aren’t in our brief. Now, why don’t you go back to your office and continue the good work?”
The tone was that of a parent convincing a small child that there really wasn’t a monster under the bed.
John knew the director would rather color within the lines than paint a Mona Lisa. He thought inside the box because God only knew what might be lurking outside. As long as set procedures were scrupulously followed, failure would bring no censure. Besides, no bureaucrat ever won praise for solving another bureaucrat’s problem. Originality of thought was a troublesome trait in government.
John and his photographs had been dismissed.
Oh well, John thought. He had tried. The folder with the photographs went into the first trash receptacle he passed.