Operator - 01 by David Vinjamuri

number,” Sammie replies. I give him Mel’s number, which I saw on the phone in her apartment.
    “Okay, Sergeant, just hang on here a second while I get into the right network.”
    I listen to the clicking of keys for a few moments.
    “Ah, here we go. I actually see three calls into 9-1-1 from that number in the last week. Two were today…”
    “Yeah, don’t worry about those.”
    “The other was last Wednesday at 6:11pm.”
    “Can I hear the recording of that call?”
    “Sure, but I’ll have to get that tomorrow. This gets into a grey area with Posse Comitatus . We have an understanding with the FBI counterintelligence folks that allow us to exchange little tidbits like this with no questions asked, but I’d need to contact them during working hours unless you want some alarm bells to start ringing.”
    “No, tomorrow is just fine. I really appreciate it.”
    “No problem, boss. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do you for.” These little requests are the currency in our profession and both of us know that as an intelligence analyst at State, I’m in a pretty good position to return the favor.
    I thank him and hang up. Then I dial Veronica, catching her in her car on the way back to Greenwich. It sounds as if she has some sort of hands free device, maybe a Bluetooth system in her car. I tell her that I’ve confirmed a 9-1-1 call was placed on the day of Mel’s death and I ask her if she knows the exact time that Mel purportedly killed herself. She does not. I tell her that I’ll be able to hear the recording tomorrow and that I’ll call her when I do. She’s silent for a moment then thanks me for believing her.
    I stand outside the GTO, pumping gas with my collar turned up against a stiff cold breeze blowing off the river. I know I can get on the Interstate, go to work tomorrow and put everything out of my mind until I get the call from Sammie. I know that odds are that the call will be perfectly legitimate and that it will give both Veronica and me some closure. The problem is, whatever the odds are, I don’t believe them anymore. I’m not ready to leave town. So I have one more call to make.
    “Pol-Mil, this is Susan,” the voice on the phone is professional but distracted. The most important calls to my workplace in the State Department do not come through the public phone lines.
    “Hey, Suz, this is Michael.”
    “Hey, Michael, how are you? I’m so sorry to hear about your ex,” Susan says. Her concern is genuine. It’s a small office.
    “I’m okay. It’s obviously a bad situation but it’s been nice seeing my family. Eileen is on with you this weekend, right?” I already know the answer. The twelve analysts in the Arms and Technology Transfer Division of the Office of Politico-Military Affairs in the Bureau of Intelligence and Research at the U.S. Department of State are responsible for covering the weekends a pair at a time between them. Susan works on the technology part of arms and tech transfer while Eileen, who holds a master’s degree from the Fletcher School of Law & Diplomacy at Tufts University, is one of my co-workers on the arms side. I glance at my watch. It is after six. I’m lucky to have reached the day shift.
    “She’s wrapping up in the Vault – do you want her to call you when she’s out?”
    The Vault is the secure office where all material classified “Top Secret” and compartmentalized by codeword is viewed. Each analyst at INR/PMA/AT has two desks. The first resides in a minimally secured location and it comes with a green phone that dials outside numbers and a grey phone that links to a closed system within the U.S. government. We also have a computer with access to the Internet and outside e-mail addresses from this desk. Our second workspace is in the Vault, which does not resemble a bank vault. It is actually a much more modern workspace, and a highly secured one. Only in the Vault can we review satellite photos from the National