CONCLUSION:

ANALYSIS INCOMPLETE

HUMINT INSUFFICIENT

REC:

WITHOUT PROPER THERAPIST/SUBJECT COMMUNICATION, SANCTION MUST BE DEEMED INCONCLUSIVE. HOWEVER, ANALYSIS OF ANDREAS PERSONAL, MILITARY, AND INTELLIGENCE HISTORY SUGGESTS A UNIQUELY CAPABLE ASSET WHOSE REHABILITATION SHOULD BE A TOP AGENCY PRIORITY. ALTERNATIVELY, THE SAME SKILLS THAT MAKE HIM A PRIORITY AGENCY ASSET ALSO MAKE HIM, UNREHABILITATED, A UNIQUELY DANGEROUS POTENTIAL ADVERSARY.

CITATION:

DR. EDWARD HALLOWELL

TS #9773921A

SUBMISSION:

SUDBURY, MA

MARCH 1

The man’s focus was interrupted by his driver.

“You think Andreas will win?” the man in the front seat asked, nodding toward the runners as they ran up Main Street.

The man in the backseat glanced up, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror.

“No.”

*   *   *

By the time the pack of runners reached Bog Brook, marking the halfway point in the race, there were two people out in front, and the rest of the field was scattered about, far behind. Reagan was leading, and Dewey was just a few steps behind her. The two were both panting hard and drenched in perspiration.

Every time Reagan looked back at Dewey, he gave her a confident, relaxed smile, toying with her. He pounded the ground behind her as they ran down from the brook toward the road which, in a little over a mile, would conclude at the finish line.

At the outskirts of town, as the dirt path popped them out onto Battle Avenue, Dewey made his move, cutting to Reagan’s left. He knew that in order to beat her, he would have to pass her suddenly, and forcefully, at a pace that was dramatically quicker. To move on her in a gradual way would only spur her on.

By the time Dewey reached the small wooden sign marking the entrance to the Castine Golf Club, he was at least a hundred yards in front of Reagan.

His lungs burned. His legs ached as he pushed himself harder and harder. Dewey didn’t look back. The truth is, he didn’t want to see the look in Reagan’s eyes. Part of him felt guilty about beating her. As he turned onto Main Street for the final stretch, he could hear the crowd cheering in the distance. A smile came to his face as he pushed himself toward the finish line.

Dewey’s eyes suddenly shot left. It was a runner. Dewey hadn’t heard the approach, but it was why everyone was cheering, he now realized. He watched, helplessly, as the wiry, shirtless figure of his nephew Sam went whizzing past him, orange boot on his left foot, Bean boot on his right, his skinny arms pumping up and down as he almost seemed to take flight.

“Oh, shit,” muttered Dewey.

Dewey broke into a sprint, looking for the extra gear he realized he would need in order to catch up to his nephew. But it was futile. He could only watch as Sam coasted away from him. Sam seemed to pick up speed the closer he got to the finish line, as if he himself wasn’t fully aware of his own God-given swiftness.

The crowd was going nuts as Sam approached the yellow police tape marking the finish line. Dewey was at least twenty feet behind him. No one else was even in sight yet.

Just before the finish line, Sam stopped. He leaned over, in pain, catching his breath, as Dewey approached. Sam stood just in front of the line, waiting for Dewey.

“What are you doing?” Dewey panted.

Sam shook his head as he tried to catch his breath.

“I want you to win,” he said. “Next year’ll be my time.”

Dewey pushed him across the police tape. The crowd let out a wild chorus of cheers.

Dewey waited for Reagan to arrive at the finish line. He watched with a big smile on his face as she ran the last few feet and crossed. Finally, he stepped over the police tape, taking third.

Sam lumbered over to him.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked, panting. “I wouldn’ta run if I knew you was going to do that.”

“Were going to do that,” corrected Dewey. “You won, Sam. Deal with it.”

He put his hand on his nephew’s shoulder. As he did so, he again registered the foreboding sight of the black sedan, parked along Court Street, vapor rising from the tailpipe into the air.

“Wanna go get some pancakes?” asked Sam.

Dewey smiled.

“Sure. Give me a few minutes.”

*   *   *

Dewey walked slowly to Court Street. As he approached the sedan, the back door suddenly opened. A man in a suit climbed out. He was tall, a bit heavy, with thick black hair. The man, Hector Calibrisi, director of the Central Intelligence Agency, stared at Dewey for several seconds without saying anything. Finally, he spoke.

“Hi, Dewey.”

“Hector.”

“How you been?” asked Calibrisi.

“Good.”

“You win the race?”

“No.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation, then Calibrisi cleared his throat.

“I need to speak with you,” he said.

“I told you on the phone, I’m not interested in coming back.”

“Jessica died six months ago, Dewey.”

“Did you fly up here just to remind me of that?” Dewey glared at Calibrisi.

“I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

“Who were those people up here skulking around? Did you send them?”

Calibrisi shook his head.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

Calibrisi crossed his arms and leaned back against the car. He shot the driver a look, telling him to turn the car off.

“Some people are worried about you.”

“Who were they?” Dewey asked again.

“Shrinks hired by the Senate Intelligence Committee,” said Calibrisi. “Senator Furr.”

“If anyone tries to fuck with me, Hector—”

Calibrisi held up his hand.

“Stop,” he said, as he cast his eyes about, instinctively aware of the danger of their conversation being listened to through electronic surveillance.

“Stop what?”

“Just don’t say it.”

Dewey bent over, putting his hands on his knees, and stared at the ground. He was still breathing heavily from the race.

Calibrisi crouched so that he was close to Dewey.

“Why were they here?” whispered Dewey.

Calibrisi was quiet. He looked away, avoiding the question.

“What are you not telling me?”

“Someone is attempting to have you classified as a breach risk,” said Calibrisi.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Dewey said, his temper rising.

“You have knowledge,” said Calibrisi. “All NOCs do. If that knowledge fell into the wrong hands, it could be devastating.”

“That’s insane.”

“We lost two NOCs last year. One to China, one to Russia. That’s just a fact.”

Dewey stood.

“I never wanted the designation and you know it.”

“You agreed to it.”

“I’m not a security threat,” said Dewey. “Go tell them to fuck off.”

“That’s the last thing we want to do,” Calibrisi said. “We need to be calm here.”

Dewey nodded.

“What do they do with breach risks?”

Calibrisi took a deep breath.

“It could mean a few sessions with a white coat,” said Calibrisi. “A CIA psychologist. Lying on a couch. I told you you needed it.”

Dewey read Calibrisi’s face.

“Is that it? Doesn’t seem so bad. I could take a nap.”

“It could also mean a few weeks at a clinic somewhere,” added Calibrisi.

Dewey remained silent.

“Or it could be worse,” Calibrisi continued, “a lot worse. It’s called ‘institutional clinical management.’ It means incarceration at a CIA hospital somewhere where you’d be managed with pharmaceuticals and not allowed to leave for a few years. Depends on your probability level for failure.”