The Mile Marker Murders

CHAPTER 3

The others exchanged glances.

Bannister sighed. “Look. Cal didn’t display any of the classic signs. He’s never been power hungry. He hasn’t been passed over for a promotion. He doesn’t have any debt or a high-maintenance girlfriend. And he just plain doesn’t have any hot buttons someone could press.”

Gordon leaned back and folded his hands. His tone became conciliatory. “I’m not implying he’s a defector. It’s just one possibility we have to consider. Do you remember the Waldo Dussenberry case?”

“Wasn’t he a former CIA guy who sold secrets to the Libyans?”

“Right. No one could believe he was a spy. He was an archaeologist and Middle East expert at Langley who was indicted for espionage. Turns out he was leading a double life. He had two luxury apartments in Washington, DC—one for his seventy-year-old wife, and the other for his thirty-two-year-old mistress. Before his trial he disappeared. I found him. He was sitting in a chair in his apartment. He’d put a shotgun in his mouth and blown off the top of his head.”

There was a momentary silence in the room.

“Last month, Williamson took a trip to DC to close on his house. He also had a briefing at Langley.” Gordon looked carefully at Bannister. “Did you know about that?”

“Yes. He told me he was flying up on a Thursday night and staying at a hotel near his attorney’s office. He said he needed to check in at CIA Headquarters, but didn’t say why.”

“The officer he was replacing briefed him on the CIA’s Russian recruitments and defectors. Those sources placed their lives in the Agency’s hands. We all know what happened after the treachery of Aldrich Ames and Robert Hanssen. At least eleven top US agents were executed. Langley is holding its breath on Williamson’s disappearance. We can tell you that one source, who was still being handled by Williamson, was extricated from his country last week. That source is now with the Agency’s defector resettlement people.”

“Have any of Cal’s sources been recalled or dropped off the scope?” Bannister asked.

“No. To our knowledge, none of the sources he was briefed on have been compromised. This supports the position that Williamson is not a spy and that something else has happened to him. That’s why we’re asking you to help us fill in the blanks.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you already know?”

Holmquist spoke. “Cal Williamson has been an operations officer with the Agency for eighteen years. He has an outstanding record with no black marks. He was hand-picked by the DDO to revitalize Russian operations. He was the Agency’s Chief of Station in Atlanta for three years. He was all set to start his new job as the group chief of what is still referred to as the Russian Desk.

“We’ve determined that Williamson was at the closing on his new home three weeks ago. He was represented at the closing by a law firm in Reston, Virginia. We also know earlier that same morning Williamson was at Langley for a two-hour meeting with the officer he was replacing. That officer gave him an extremely sensitive background brief. He was supposed to be at Langley last Monday for more briefings. He never showed. The Deputy Director of Operations said Williamson failed to check in for his 9:00 a.m. meeting. Calls were made around headquarters, and I was notified an hour later.”

Witt was about to say something, but Holmquist continued. “There was no response when we called Williamson’s cell phone and global pager. I called his new unpublished home phone. Again, no answer. We checked Williamson’s ‘J-file’ for possible leads. I’d already reviewed his personnel file.”

Holmquist noticed a quizzical look Witt gave Gordon.

“The Bureau would compare a J-file to a quasi-internal affairs record,” Holmquist explained. “It’s not an official file. It’s a jacket where we put unsubstantiated complaints, evidence of indiscretions and identifications of questionable associates. Williamson’s J-file had no entries. I then contacted the 24-hour command center and asked for a communications read-out.

“Williamson’s secretary had e-mailed his itinerary on Thursday, his last day in Atlanta. Williamson indicated he would drive directly to Arlington via I-85 and I-95 with no planned stops. He called in at 06:00 Saturday, nine days ago, letting them know he was traveling to Arlington in his personally owned vehicle. That’s the last anyone in official quarters had contact with him.”

Gordon, motioning to Holmquist, said, “Go ahead and tell Gary what steps you’ve taken, and why you asked for the Bureau’s help.”

“Sure. I scanned our files and all database information on Williamson. He’s fluent in French, and he’s a level-two Russian speaker.”

“Refresh my memory,” Witt said. “What’s a level-two?”

“It means conversational ability,” Steve Quattrone said, primarily to let the others know he was also in the office. As if to emphasize his words, there was a loud thwack as Quattrone’s wingtip shoe caught the bottom of the coffee table as he crossed his legs. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly.

Ignoring the interruption, Holmquist continued. “He’s correct about the Russian. I think Williamson’s ability is probably higher than his last test score indicates. At least that’s what we assume, based on comments he made to his Atlanta replacement. Apparently, he’s improved his ability due to regular sessions with Agent Bannister. That’s a point we need to clarify.”

“I don’t understand,” Witt said, cracking his knuckles.

“I’ll cover that,” Gordon said, jotting a note on his pad.

“Anyway,” Holmquist said, “I reviewed all our internal information. Williamson has been an exceptional case officer with a lot of success. He’s only had one disciplinary action, when he overstepped his budgetary authority for a case in Vienna last year. He got an official reprimand. No big deal. Two months later the reprimand was negated when Williamson received a commendation for the operation’s success. He was personally responsible for recruiting two of the Agency’s best European sources. Those sources are still active.”

“Does he have any personal issues?” Witt asked.

“Not that we’re aware of. He’s always been able to burn the candle at both ends with no problems. He’s never shown signs of depression, he’s not on any medication and doesn’t have a drinking problem. In fact, despite the long days he puts in, he’s extremely healthy. Last year he ran both the London and Bermuda marathons.”

Holmquist continued, “We reviewed all his travel and nothing is out of the ordinary. We filed ‘look out’ notices with Homeland Security in case he tried to use his passport. Financially, everything appears in order. He has life insurance of three hundred thousand dollars. The beneficiary is his daughter. He bought his current townhouse and financed it privately, putting eight hundred thousand down. His loan for half a million checked out. No problem there.”

“Whew,” Witt said. “Eight hundred thousand, cash? Why is he working for the government?”

“With the Agency,” Holmquist said, arching his eyebrows, “that’s not unusual. During his overseas postings, Williamson invested in northern Virginia real estate. His market timing couldn’t have been better.”

“What about his ex-wife?” Witt asked.

“I’ll get to her in a minute. I called in one of our ‘Samurai Teams’ from the Directorate of Science and Technology, the same ones we use when we have a defector who is ‘temporarily out-of-pocket,’ or for other sensitive matters. I met the team at an off-site and briefed them on what we knew. While two team members worked the databases, the others contacted state police agencies in Georgia, the Carolinas, and Virginia. Queries for ‘John Doe’ accidents and reported car-jackings were all checked out. Nothing to report. The tag on Williamson’s Infiniti was run through all agencies to see if any citations were issued. The results were negative. Checks with parking security at airports, metro stops, and major shopping centers turned up nothing. Hospitals in the metropolitan DC area were also checked, with no hits.

“The finance team checked all his credit cards for activity. His Visa card was used once at a gas station outside Greensboro, North Carolina at 11:50 a.m. Saturday. It shows a purchase of seventeen gallons of premium gas. That’s it.”

Carefully crossing his legs, Quattrone asked, “What about his household goods?”

“He moved his belongings to Virginia a couple of weeks ago. When he left the Atlanta station ten days ago, he only took a small box of personal desk items. He didn’t sign out a laptop. He did have a personal passport, in true name, and a clandestine passport package. Normally, that package would go by courier, but Williamson was authorized to carry it personally. In it was an official US Government passport with Williamson’s photograph but with the name of Courtland Wilson. Everything else in the package supported the Wilson identity. This included credit cards, which had not been activated, a Virginia driver’s license, and assorted wallet stuffers.”

“We don’t know a lot about his personal life in Atlanta. Maybe Bannister can help us out there. Williamson divorced his wife, Gina, three years ago while posted in Vienna.”

“Does the ex-wife know he’s missing?” Witt asked.

“Yes. She seemed shocked and upset. She kept saying ‘CIA officers don’t go missing. What aren’t you telling me?’ She eventually calmed down but wasn’t able to give us anything of value. She let us put a recorder on her home phone and agreed to our instruction not to notify anyone about his disappearance.”

Looking at Bannister, Gordon asked, “Assuming a worst-case scenario, who would benefit from Cal’s death?”

“Probably his daughter, Dawn. Cal set up a trust with her as the beneficiary. She’s also the beneficiary of his insurance policies, except for some money he’s leaving to Tufts University.”

“How’s his relationship with his daughter?”

“Good. They stay in touch.”

“Does the daughter have a significant other?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“How would you characterize his relationship with his former wife?” Gordon asked.

“Fine. I know it’s unusual to hear about divorced couples being friends, but in their case, that’s the situation.”

“He had a two-bedroom condominium here in Atlanta. Why did he upgrade to such a large place in Arlington?”

“He planned on retiring in the DC area and taking a job as a security consultant. He said he was looking for a permanent home. It had to be large enough to entertain and be in a convenient, desirable location. He wasn’t into lawns or gardens. He hated traffic jams and promised his commute was going to be against the flow of traffic. As I remember, he said his townhouse was a mile from the Pentagon, four miles from the White House, and fifteen minutes from Langley.”

“Gentlemen,” said Holmquist, “let me go over some recent history. Both of our organizations suffered unbelievable damage from traitors. We had Aldrich Ames and Harold Nicholson. You had Special Agents Earl Pitts and Robert Hanssen. Numerous recommendations for change were not only made through congressional oversight, but also by both of our agencies. One change the CIA implemented after your Special Agent Hanssen was convicted was the ‘Consent to Search’ form. All our employees have signed an authorization permitting a search of their solely owned property if they are missing, and if there is a reasonable presumption their disappearance is not due to normal circumstances. Of course, our legal department is called immediately before any search is conducted, or if there is any evidence of a crime.

“About 4:00 p.m. Monday, I sent our Samurai Team to Williamson’s Arlington townhouse. There was no response to the doorbell. The team bypassed his alarm system, which was turned on. They had to cut a key for the special Medeco lock on the front door. The team entered and took photos and video of all rooms prior to searching.

“The team confirmed that someone, presumably Williamson, was recently in the home. The refrigerator and pantry were stocked. A grocery receipt from a supermarket was on the counter indicating purchases made on Sunday. Two bath towels indicated recent usage. A check of the washing machine revealed laundered running gear, which was still damp. All of Williamson’s official property was missing. We didn’t locate his briefcase, passports, wallet, or keys. His car wasn’t in the garage.

“At my request, a liaison officer contacted the Bureau, who sent out a Computer Assisted Recovery Team to do a search and mirror image of Williamson’s hard drive. Next to the telephone in the kitchen was a Post-It pad. The top sheet had two notations. One line read, ‘Flowers-Gina.’ The second line said, ‘Monday-Ty.’ We made some assumptions. Gina Williamson’s birthday was this weekend. She said she didn’t receive any flowers.” Looking at Bannister, Holmquist continued, “We’re hoping you can shed some light on the ‘Monday-Ty’ message.” Before he could answer, Witt said, “I’m sure Bannister will help you in any way he can.”

“I have no reason to doubt that,” Gordon said.

He put his notebook on the coffee table and pulled out a beige folder. For a few seconds he stared at the recent photograph of Bannister who was listed as 6’4” and one hundred and ninety-five pounds. With his slightly tousled sandy-brown hair and green eyes, Bannister projected a rugged image, like a younger Robert Redford. Gordon looked up from the folder and glanced at Bannister. “I’ve looked through his file,” he said.

Bannister’s Atlanta file didn’t have much in it except annual performance reviews, results of medical exams, firearms scores, and commendation letters. But it did reveal that Bannister was not a typical Bureau Agent.

Tyler Stetson Bannister had been named after his great-grandfather, the one of cowboy hat fame. Bannister was forty-seven and had been an FBI Agent eighteen years. He went to the Webb School, the most prestigious private academy on the west coast. Bannister had been born with a silver spoon, and attending that particular school was a condition of his trust fund. He went to college at Dartmouth, where he majored in International Relations and played on the lacrosse team. While at Dartmouth, he signed up with the US Marine Corps and was commissioned a Second Lieutenant upon graduation in 1982. He did well at the officers’ course and was selected for the Reconnaissance Marines. Having a black belt in karate hadn’t hurt.

Bannister was serving as a platoon commander when the brief war in Grenada broke out. He was with the initial invasion force of a thousand troops. For his actions on the second day in Grenada, he was awarded the Navy Cross for heroism. His citation indicated he personally saved a squad of Marines, was shot twice, and received the Purple Heart for his wounds. He was honorably discharged in 1987 and went to work for Mobil Oil in their international department, and he was still there when the FBI recruited him.

“You had four years of Russian at prep school and two more at Dartmouth,” Gordon commented.

“That’s right,” Bannister said.

“Fluency in Russian has always been a vital need for the Bureau, and successfully recruiting a guy with your skills was a nice break, wouldn’t you say?”

Bannister was silent.

“You were brought to Atlanta because the office needed a Russian-speaking agent experienced in counterintelligence.”

“We had a sensitive espionage subject here,” Witt interjected. “A source of the Agency fingered a subject who was living in Atlanta and working as a consultant for the CIA and Pentagon. The subject was cleared and that investigation fizzled. The real subject was never identified. In any event, Bannister stayed here. For the past three years, he’s worked both intelligence and counterterrorist cases. He’s on our task force and has been our liaison officer to the CIA.”

Gordon said to Bannister, “I understand you were helping Williamson with his Russian.”

“I was. Both of us thought it was a shame to know a language and not use it.”

“We’re exploring all connections,” Gordon said. “Williamson’s emergency contact form listed two people. One is the lawyer, who is the executor of a trust for his daughter. The other is you, Bannister. What we want to know is, why was Williamson interested in improving his Russian? And you were tutoring him in that language. How did that come about?”

“About two years ago during one of our runs, Cal mentioned he was still handling a sensitive source whose native language was Russian. When Cal returned from running the London and Bermuda marathons last year, he enjoyed telling me all about the races. Each time, however, he also winked and mentioned he had a good workout with his Russian.”

“What did you think he meant by that?”

“I assumed he’d met with sources. Cal told me he hoped his next job would be the Russian desk, and being conversant would be advantageous.”

“So, where did you do this tutoring?”

“Once a month we met for a ninety-minute lunch at a nice restaurant. The game rules were that other than ordering our food, the entire conversation would be in Russian. Absolutely no English.”

“What did the FBI think about that?” Gordon asked.

“The Bureau didn’t know.” Bannister felt Witt staring at him but didn’t bother to turn around. “There was no requirement to document it. As far as I was concerned, this was just a continuation of my liaison responsibilities.”

There was silence for a few seconds while Gordon looked at something in his notebook. He resumed his questioning. “Williamson, at least we think it was Williamson, had some notes written on a Post-it pad near his phone. Do you know what the ‘Monday-Ty’ note meant?”

“No. When I last saw Cal, I suggested he give me a call after the dust settled and give me his spin of what it was like to be back in Washington. He said he’d call and give me his direct office number, official e-mail, and the like. He never phoned.”

“Did you try to reach him?”

“No. I think we all know whenever you change assignments, things are pretty hectic for a while. I figured he’d get around to it sooner or later.”

“One last thing. Did you know Williamson listed you as a person to be contacted in case of an emergency?”

“Yes. He trusted me and figured if anything ever happened to him, I’d be able to make some solid decisions in his best interests.”

Gordon thanked Bannister and asked him to call if he thought of anything that’d be useful.

“Is that it?” Bannister asked.

Gordon nodded, and Bannister got up to leave. Gordon said, “Give me a minute,” excused himself from the group, and followed Bannister outside the office. He closed the door, and as the two of them were standing in the hallway, he put his arm around Bannister’s shoulder.

“Look, I tried to put myself in your situation. This has got to be tough. The just-not-knowing. As soon as I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll give you a call,” Gordon said.

Bannister sensed that he meant it, and that he wasn’t an investigator with a hidden agenda. “I wish there was some lead I could give you to help find him. I feel pretty helpless right now, Doug. If I were back there, I’d focus on finding his car. I think that’s the key.”