Chapter Nine

 

 

Ottawa, Canada

December 1, 1:35 p.m.

 

McClain was silent on their way back to his Porsche. Justin asked no questions, for he was deep in his thoughts, contemplating the Moscow operation. What’s on the USB? Who is the CIA agent who will work with me? That’s if McClain authorizes this mission.

The snow was coming down hard in big, heavy flakes. They stuck to Justin’s hair and face and he had to blink rapidly and cock his head to the right, away from the blowing wind. About an inch of snow had blanketed the sidewalk. The faded streetlights fought with the gloomy haze that had cloaked everything.

They shook the snow off their coats and boots before getting into the Porsche. McClain paid the parking attendant and they inched their way into the heavy traffic. McClain’s long silence was a bit unsettling to Justin, but he knew better than to interrupt his boss’s train of thoughts.

“You know the FSB is not going to hand over their information easily,” McClain said when they stopped at a traffic light on Sussex Drive.

Justin looked to his left at the US Embassy. Its gray long building—which looked like a battleship from the air—had two long wings joined at the center and a series of concrete barriers in the front, to stop any suicide car bomb from breaking through the embassy’s wrought-iron fence.

“Are we going to at least make an attempt at an exchange?” Justin asked.

McClain adjusted the rearview mirror. “I’m still deciding. We have to analyze the contents of that flash drive. The question in my mind is whether improving our cooperation with the CIA is worth risking your life and the life of their agent in a retrieval operation in Moscow. The CIA will reap the benefits of a successful mission—the intelligence from the FSB, which will enable them to thwart the Chechen terrorist attack—but it’s your life and our Service’s reputation at stake if things go to hell.”

Justin nodded.

The van in front of them moved forward, and McClain stepped on the gas pedal. The Notre Dame Cathedral Basilica came up to the right.

“What are your thoughts?” asked McClain.

“I’m trying to come up with a convincing explanation for the FSB why our Service should mediate between them and the CIA. I’m sure they’ll ask us why this is any of our business. The threat of a major terrorist attack in the US is by extension a threat against our interests as well, since it will shake all North America, with a damaging effect on the economy of both our countries.”

“You’re right and you’re one step ahead, in presuming this operation is already taking place.” McClain gave Justin a sideways look. His arched eyebrows and cold tone of voice conveyed his soft objection to Justin’s plans.

Justin looked straight ahead, avoiding McClain’s gaze. “Just making mental preparations, sir, so when the order comes, if the order comes, I’ll be good to go.”

McClain nodded. “Uh-huh. Talking about mental preps, have you scheduled your psychological assessment?”

“Yes, I have, sir,” Justin said with a sigh.

“Make sure you get it done today. No delays. Legal is pressing me for a copy of the shrink’s report, which was due a month ago.”

Justin shrugged. “I had to reschedule because of the Bosnia operation.”

“That’s true. Get it done today and make sure you ace it. Can’t have an unstable agent in the field, can I?” A glint of mischief sparked in McClain’s eyes.

That’s a rhetorical question, sir.

 

Canadian Intelligence Service Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada

December 1, 3:00 p.m.

 

The office of Faith Thompson, one of the CIS clinical psychologists, was on the second floor. It was a large, spacious suite, with two white, overstuffed armchairs and a matching L-shaped sofa, a small mahogany desk, and a bookshelf. A large window drew in plenty of light when the sun shone brightly in the skies. Today, the haze hovered all over Ottawa, and Faith had pulled the blinds halfway down and had turned on white lighting fixtures mounted on the ceiling.

“Welcome, Justin,” Faith said.

She led him to one of the armchair, and sat in the one closest to the window, with a notepad in her hands. Her hair was parted to the left, styled in a bob and dyed black, with a couple of dark blonde streaks. It framed her oval face quite nicely. Her knee-length black skirt and teal turtleneck gave her a professional look.

“How’re you doing today, Ms. Thompson?” Justin said as he sat down in the other armchair across from her.

Faith smiled. “Ms. Thompson is my mother. You know you can call me Faith.”

Justin nodded. “I know, I guess I just forget. I’m used to addressing people in authority by their last names.”

“The only influence—not authority—I have over you, Justin, is what you allow me. And you know that as well.”

“I do. It’s just . . . today’s not a good day to talk.” It never is, he wanted to add, but decided he had said enough.

“Would you like a cup of coffee before or after you tell me what happened?” Faith put down her notepad next to a carafe and two cups on the glass table between their armchairs.

Justin smiled as he leaned back in his very comfortable armchair. He looked at the wall to his left, across from the window and to the side. Faith’s numerous degrees and accreditations hung there casually, among photographs of her family, relatives, and friends, away from being the main focus of attention, but still there for the curious, attentive eyes of Faith’s clients, the CIS personnel. She had obtained her first PhD degree from Stanford University in Cognitive Psychology, then had continued her studies at McGill University for her second PhD in Clinical Psychology. She had begun to work for the CIS six years ago and had been seeing Justin for over three years. He used to meet with her every six months, unless there was an emergency. Later their sessions were scheduled every year.

Faith reached for the carafe and one of the cups. She filled it and repeated the same procedure for the second cup. “You still take your coffee black, right?” she asked, pointing to the cup and nodding toward Justin.

“Yes, black. Do you remember it, or is it in your notes?” He did not move, but his eyes fell on the notebook.

Faith squinted and fixed him with a dubious look. “What do you think, Justin? I see fifty other agents and CIS personnel on a regular basis, besides emergencies and crises, in interviews and training. I should remember every detail, shouldn’t I?”

Justin raised his hands. “Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll have some coffee. And you remember it correctly.” He took his cup with his right hand. The warmth felt good against his skin.

Faith smiled. “You may not believe it, but I do remember most details. My notes are so I can reflect accurately our discussions and decisions in each session. That’s why we also record our meetings.” She took a voice recorder from a side table next to her armchair and placed it by her notepad.

“No need to justify it, Doctor. As I said, it’s not a good day to talk.”

Faith took a few sips from her coffee and looked out of the window. Justin brought the cup to his lips and took a deep swig. It was not very hot, but it was strong and bitter. The way he liked it.

Faith placed her cup on the side table, picked up her notepad, and pressed a button on the voice recorder. “What happened in Bosnia?” she asked. “I’ve read the report; tell me what’s not there.”

Justin frowned. Don’t you think there’s a reason why some things are not in the report? Faith was not interested in classified details or matters of national security. She wanted to know his feelings and his psychological reactions to the authorized killing in Bosnia.

“We went; we killed; we came back,” Justin replied with a grin.

Faith returned the smirk. “Oh, and how did that make you feel?”

“I feel fine. Really, just fine,” Justin replied with a shrug.

“Really? No guilt, second thoughts, doubts?”

“I can’t afford to have second thoughts, Doctor. I receive orders and I carry out those orders. Most times, I have a few seconds to make a decision, and once the decision is made, there is no time or opportunity to have doubts or guesses.”

Faith said, “No need to justify it, Justin. So these second thoughts, what are they?”

Justin shook his head. “I don’t have second thoughts, and I don’t have guilty feelings.”

Faith leaned forward. “But?”

“No buts.”

“All right. Let’s try something else. The report mentions there were a number of casualties in Bosnia.”

She waited for a reply, but Justin held her eyes and sipped his coffee. After a long pause, he said, “Yes, evil people who paid for their crimes.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Targets that needed to be eliminated according to my orders.”

Faith smiled. “There are no right and wrong answers to my questions, Justin. You are an emotional being, as any good agents must be. We don’t need robots out there, eliminating targets without any moral sense and responsibility.”

Justin blinked, then suppressed a grin. He could never determine what psychological school of thought Faith subscribed to at the moment of his sessions. One time it was the Freudian viewpoint, with the unconscious mind playing the major role in one’s actions and behavior. The next time it was the cognitive analysis, with internal mental processes guiding the outside display of emotions. Who knows what it is today? He shrugged and scratched his head.

“Tell me about the woman,” Faith asked.

Justin frowned. “Uh, what do you want to know?”

“What happened to her?”

“As mentioned in the report, she died during the shootout.”

“Was she the enemy?”

Justin hesitated. He shifted in his seat. “Yes. Well, no. She was the target’s wife and was caught in the middle of the shooting.”

Faith stopped writing and gestured toward Justin with her left hand. “Would you say her death was an accident?”

“It’s a bit difficult to say that. She was not an innocent bystander, since she was connected to and benefiting from the target’s illegal activities. An accessory to his crimes at the least and an active associate at best.”

Faith scribbled in her notes. “Do you think she deserved to die?”

Justin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not . . . I can’t pass judgment on who lives or dies,” he said softly, but in a tense voice. “Now we have the hindsight, the time, the cold mind to dissect and analyze each one of my moves during that operation. I only had a split second to make a decision, while I was taking fire. At that time, with the information I had, I think I made the right choice.”

Faith smiled. She checked something on her notepad and flipped the page. “How are you sleeping?”

Justin covered a yawn. “As you can see, not very well. I get maybe four hours a night, when I have the time to sleep an entire night.”

Faith nodded. “Nightmares?”

“Sometimes.”

“Any recurring ones?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to give me the details?”

Oh, I hope she’s not going to tell me my nightmares explain my unfulfilled desires.

“No, not really.”

Faith gave him a stern look. “Let’s give it a try.”

Justin clenched his teeth. He shook his head, then said in an annoyed tone, “Fine. I dream that I’m dying.”

“Uh-huh. Where does this happen?”

“I’m in my bed, sleeping. The door opens and someone walks in with a syringe or another sharp object in their hand. They stab me with it in my neck and I die.”

“What other recurring nightmares do you have?”

“Isn’t one enough?”

“No, not to get a good picture of your subconscious mind.”

Justin sighed. “My other nightmare is that other people around me die.”

“Who?”

“Carrie. Anna. My mother.”

“What happens?”

Justin dug his fingers into the chair’s armrests. He dropped his eyes to the hardwood floor and spoke in a low, soft voice. “They die, they just die. I watch them die. I stay there as they disappear, unable to help them. And it’s raining. It’s always raining.”

He lifted his eyes nervously and met Faith’s worried look. “It’s okay,” she said. “This is a safe place. You can talk here with no fear. You can be honest with me.”

She closed her notebook and put it away. Then she reached over to the table and turned off the voice recorder.

Justin stood up and walked to the window. The view was blurry, as the thick haze had engulfed the buildings. He stared at his own reflection, sad and confused.

“Am I . . . am I cracking under pressure?” he asked without turning his head.

“You’re having difficulties coping with some situations. You’re blaming yourself for circumstances beyond your control, and your mind is creating unlikely, yet horrific scenarios.”

Justin turned around. “Unlikely? They are very much real, Doctor,” he said, his hands spread out in front of him.

“Yes, death is a part of life. But Justin, you can’t and you shouldn’t protect everyone at all times. It’s simply impossible. Something could happen, will happen, where you will not be in control of a situation. It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself for that.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I’m saying you need to start letting go of your fears. Learn to realize that some things you simply cannot control, but don’t be scared of the ones you control. It’s good to be a bit paranoid, just don’t let it turn into an obsession. Some people say the line between the two is very thin; others insist there is no clear line.”

Justin nodded.

“Come have a seat and some coffee. Let’s take a break and just chat, like acquaintances. This is not a doctor-patient session. The recorder is off.”

Justin hesitated.

Faith gestured with her hand. “Come on, Justin. This is a situation you can control. You can tell me as much or as little as you want. Or be completely silent. It’s your choice.”

Faith took her cup and sipped the last of her coffee. “I’m getting some more. How about you?”

Justin walked to his seat. “I’m fine,” he said, “I’ll finish this first. Maybe in a few minutes.”

 

* * *

 

They spent the next hour discussing Justin’s last few weeks, his operations, his behavior and feelings before, during, and after each operation, and their results, beginning with Justin’s former boss’s death in Spain, to which he had been a witness. Faith did not jump to conclusions or overburden Justin with the psychology lingo. Those were two things Justin liked about her. She just asked questions and kept her advice simple and to a minimum.

The third thing Justin liked about Faith was that her sessions had no specific ending time. She was available for as long as the patient needed her, since she scheduled her sessions in half-day blocks. Justin usually did not use all his allotted time, but once or twice they had run marathon sessions of over five hours.

Around five o’clock, their meeting drew to a natural end. Justin felt restored, a feeling he rarely experienced after a psychological session. He came out of Faith’s office with her positive preliminary finding that he was fit for work and could return to full duty, but also with a list of homework.

Faith had told him that because of his subconscious priming—big words which meant his previous experiences were influencing his present and future decisions and actions—a lot of his perceptions were constantly blurred by an anticipation of negative results, pain, and death. Along with the self-fulfilling prophecy, where people falsely interpreted a situation, Justin was seeing things that were not there, but his actions were making those things come true. Faith quoted W. I. Thomas, an American sociologist, that “if men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.” Justin would have to work hard on those two issues, to think and to work toward better, positive results. They would meet again before the Christmas break to assess Justin’s progress.

The supper with Anna was a delightful experience. They were both tired, but happy to be in each other’s company. Anna’s presentation had been a complete success and she was in very good spirits. Justin began practicing some of the things he had learned from his session, focusing on the positives, as they both made plans to visit Anna’s family for the holidays. He pushed away the worries about their future and about his upcoming mission to Moscow. They would have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he was enjoying a wonderful evening with his fiancée.