“That boss being one Mr. Sparks?”
Stafford tried to keep the sinking feeling from showing in his face.
“He’s the local supervisor,” he said. “He’s not the one who sent me down here in the first place.”
The lieutenant colonel pulled a notebook from his pocket. The two MPs looked on with interest, admiring then-boss at work. “That would be Colonel Parsons, AUS, retired, am I right? Selected for one star, elected to take early retirement for the DCIS job? That Colonel Parsons?
“Troy Parsons?”
Stafford just looked at him. The message was pretty clear. Parsons may be DCIS now, but he was one of us long before he was one of you. The lieutenant colonel closed his book.
“Look, Agent Stafford,” he said. “Here’s how we think things shake out: You’re off your reservation. You were not assigned to stick your nose in here or anywhere other than into a fraud case at the DRMO in Atlanta.
Your local supervisor is apparently eager to have a little chat with you about that, by the way. We, on the other hand, are interested only in the national-security aspects of your attempted intrusion into the depot here and into a restricted Army exercise in Atlanta. The polygraph operator is a civilian from the Atlanta office of the FBI. You take the test, we’ll give you back your ID card, get you that car, and you’re free to go anywhere you want.”
“And if I don’t?”
“C’mon, Stafford, that was my line, remember? You don’t have that option and you know it. We’re not afraid of all your threats. Put it another way: Where chemical weapons are concerned, my generals can beat up your colonel. Or better yet, we can make a deal to keep a shit storm from happening, you being such a popular guy up there and all.” He put his notebook back in his pocket. “Hell, you’re a big agent now,” he said, clearly mocking him. “Haven’t you ever secretly wanted to see if you could spoof a flutter?”
Thirty minutes later, Stafford sat rigidly in a straight backed chair at a small table in yet another windowless room. The polygraph operator, who had introduced himself as a Mr. Smith from the FBI, looked like every Bureau technician Stafford had ever encountered: quietly competent. The operator was sitting behind him at a second table with his equipment.
“Remember,” he said. “Only yes or no answers. One word, each question.
Yes or no. Ready? Say yes or no.”
“I guess so,” Dave said deliberately.
Smith sighed. “Yes or no, Mr. Stafford. You can do it. I know you can.
Here we go. First question: Is your name David Stafford?”
“Yes.” Dave was very conscious of his breathing and his heart rate. Even so, he imagined that the instruments, wires, and cuffs attached to his skin were somehow hardwired to his lungs and heart. And his nerves.
“Are you an agent of the DCIS?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a GS-Fifteen grade in the civil service?”
“Yes.”
“Is your height five feet ten inches?”
“Yes.” The man was obviously reading data from his credentials. Stafford knew enough about polygraphs to recognize the calibration procedures.
“Are you of Chinese descent?”
“No.”
“Are you Caucasian?”
“Yes.”
“Are you presently located at the Army Anniston Weapons Depot?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what CS is?”
“No.” But I have an idea, he thought.
“Do you know what VX is?”
“No. Yes.” The bombs in the bunker. The tall man had told him VX was nerve gas. There was a scratching on the paper behind him.
“Do you know what VX is?” the operator repeated.
“Yes.”
“Do you know what cryptosporidium is?”
“No.”
“Do you know what anthrax is?” ‘
“Yes.” Cow disease. Cryptosporidium? Anthrax? These weren’t chemical weapons. Those sounded like biologics. “Do you know what Wet Eye is?”
“No.”
“Do you know what botulinum toxin is?”
“No.”
“Have you seen it?”
Dave felt his heart jump and mentally cursed. Seen what — the cylinder?
Damn it! That needle must be going s all over the place. But he had not seen it. She had.
“No.”
There was a pause, some more rustling of paper. Then the list of questions started all over again.
“Is your name David Stafford?”
“Yes.”
The man went through the same initial questions. This time, when he got to the one asking if he’d seen it, Stafford had himself under much better control. The man kept right on going this time, without the ominous pause of earlier.
“Do you know the kill density per cubic centimeter of substance G?”
“No.”
“Do you know the visible signs of a mustard gas attack?”
“No.”
“Do you know the chemical constituents of phosgene gas?”
“No.”
“Can you name the four agents known as ‘blood boilers?”
“No.”
“Do you have it?”
Another surprise. But he was almost ready for it. “No.” The operator then shifted gears and asked him fifteen more questions about chemical weapons, each one increasingly more graphically specific as to its effects on the human body. Stafford answered no to every one of them.
“Okay,” the man said. “From the top. Is your name David Stafford?”
They went through all the same questions again, including the two Stafford figured had to do with the missing weapon. Then the man did something that caused his trace machine to begin what sounded like a print session while he stood up and began to remove the sensors from Stafford’s body.
“That’s it, Mr. Stafford. I’ll go get the provost: I think you’re all done here.” The way he said the word done made Dave wonder if it was meant innocuously, but Smith’s face revealed absolutely nothing.
“Did I pass?” Stafford asked, struggling to get his right arm into his shirt. Smith had gathered up a long roll of trace paper and was at the door.
“Pass, Mr. Stafford?” The technician stopped in the doorway. “There’s no pass-fail in a polygraph test. Just questions and answers, truth tellers and liars. Simple, really. Like saying yes or no.”
Stafford did not reply as the man closed the door. Twenty minutes later, he was in the backseat of an Army staff car, speeding through the Alabama countryside, headed back to Atlanta. He was in the dark, literally and figuratively.
Carrothers sat in his chair in the executive cabin of the Learjet, listening to Smith debrief the polygraph session. The flight crew was making final checks for departure, and one engine was already running.
Major Mason stood beside him, taking notes. Carrothers pursed his lips when Smith had finished.
“So, in your opinion, he does know something about the item in question?” he asked.
“His answer indicated a lie, especially on the ‘Have you seen it?’ question. He was able to damp down the reactions on the repeat runs, but the anomalies were still there. Since I don’t know what ‘it’ is, I couldn’t branch down the questions.”
Carrothers nodded. “Yes, I understand. In this case, Mr. Smith, ignorance is truly bliss. We thank you very much for your help. We’ll be launching for Atlanta directly.”
The FBI technician nodded and withdrew to the middle cabin. Mason remained behind.
Carrothers rubbed his eyes and then fastened his seat belt. “I love working with the FBI,” he said. “Nobody knows when to shut his trap like an FBI man. Okay. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to reconstitute the Security Working Group, only this time it will consist of you, me, and Colonel Fuller. Second, we need to take this Stafford fella off the board. I’ll need General Waddell’s help with that. Third, I need to know that our fluttermeister in there is going to keep his mouth shut about this little excursion.”