Operator - 01 by David Vinjamuri Page A

Photographic Interpretation Center, intercepted communications from the National Security Agency and human intelligence reports from the CIA. The phone system in the vault only reaches other secure locations within the intelligence community – the CIA, Defense Intelligence, the NSA as well as counterintelligence agencies like the FBI and Homeland Security. Cell phones don’t operate in the Vault and there is no access to the Internet.
    “Sure, have her give me a call,” I reply and leave my cell number with Susan before I disconnect.
    While I wait for a call back, I dial Ginny. She is surprised to hear from me, thinking that I’ve already left town, and offers to meet me for pizza. I turn the GTO around and drive back into Conestoga. I am halfway to Main Street when Eileen calls back.
    “How was the weekend?” I ask. Weekend duty is usually drudgery unless something unusual happens. On one of my first weekends on the job, while I was an intern still finishing my degree at Georgetown, Russian tanks rolled into Georgia. I was suddenly swamped with queries from the political desks in State about the capabilities of the Georgian military. Subsequent weekends have not been as interesting.
    “Quiet. How about you? How did it go with your family?” Eileen is my best friend at State, the only one who knows the whole story about my family issues. She is older than me, a tall, willowy blonde in her mid-thirties who walks fast, eats at her desk and can read and write six languages. She has mentored me almost from my first day as an intern. I like the fact that she has no higher career aspirations and no interest in politics.
    “Better than I expected. It’s been a long time,” I pause for a moment. “Listen, I’m still in Conestoga and I’m going to have dinner with my sister. I can drive back to D.C. late and be back in the office tomorrow, but I’d like to hang around here for another day or two. Can you talk to the Admiral for me?” I use our nickname for bureau chief Jim Larimore. He is a straight arrow, a former Coast Guard captain who completed his doctoral degree at the School of Advanced International Studies of Johns Hopkins University.
    “I told him when you left on Thursday evening there was a good chance you’d need to be gone a few more days, so you’re okay. I’ll e-mail him and make sure we get you officially signed out by extending your personal leave request form tomorrow morning. I’ll set it up for a full week and if you get back sooner you can just change the req, okay?”
    “Thanks, you’re a life saver,” I say, relieved.
    “That’s the job,” Eileen replies smartly before she disconnects.
    * * *
    I have the key in the door to my motel room when the intense beam of light hits me. I spotted the Sheriff’s cruiser from a block away as I walked back from DeLoria’s Pizza on Main Street. There are two deputies in the car, and I don’t recognize either of them. They seem tense, but the shotgun is still locked upright between the seats. In a town the size of Conestoga, the odds that they’re on a random stakeout of my motel are pretty low. I don’t believe in coincidences, anyway, especially not a couple of hours after I’ve been poking my nose into police business. So I continue on my way until the moment the light from the cruiser hits the back of my head and I hear the command voice they teach police rookies projected from a loudspeaker.
    “Put your hands up against the door,” the voice booms. After ten at night on a Sunday in Conestoga, a whisper would be sufficient to get my attention from ten feet away. I see curtains part from a nearby motel room as curious eyes peek out. I comply without hesitation. “Spread your legs.” I do.
    The two deputies move in. One pats me down professionally but indifferently, removing a small folding knife from my pocket. Then he clicks handcuffs on me and turns me around, keeping one hand on my shoulder and one on the back of my head. The second