Catherine did not pursue this; she wanted to keep Carmichael talking, not obfuscating. “So he killed Ohlhauser, Babbitt, the two dealers on Brandywine Street, and the three police today. Do you suspect him of anything else, so far?”
Carmichael hesitated a long time. Catherine was trying to draw him out, to see if he would mention the shooting the previous evening at the Easy Market. That shooting didn’t fit the MO of the other events at all, and it didn’t fit the profile of a paranoid psychotic terrorist, either. She told herself that if Carmichael did not mention it, it probably meant Carmichael was trying to control her story to portray the gunman in a way that benefited his narrative.
Denny Carmichael finally replied, “Nothing else. Not that we know of, anyway. Certainly nothing conclusive.”
Catherine stored this information, as well. She then asked, “Is there anyone else at CIA specifically he might target next that you know of?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Catherine’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know why he might target you?”
“No, but he’s made threats.”
“How does he know who you are?”
“Are you familiar with USCrypto.org?”
“Of course.”
“Then you have your answer. It’s a free country. Freedom to jeopardize my safety and the safety of my family rubs me the wrong way, but I serve America, so there are dangers I must endure.”
Catherine got the impression that the big, tough, and dangerous Denny Carmichael was now looking for some sympathy, at least in this article she was working on.
More manipulation.
Catherine asked a few more questions. Carmichael answered them carefully, or deflected them fully. The Washington Post investigative reporter had conducted some tough interviews with some amazing spin doctors in her time, but getting information out of Carmichael felt like buying snacks from a vending machine. A big, silent source, with a very limited number of specific items available, pre-stocked by the supplier, and she had to push just the right buttons to get anything out.
Finally, when she felt like she’d emptied the machine of its limited contents she said, “Why Babbitt and Ohlhauser? What’s the relationship between them?”
“Targets of opportunity, I guess.”
Catherine, for the first time in the meeting, let Denny know she wasn’t buying what he was selling. “No. There is something more. I can name two dozen ex-CIA people with higher profiles than Max Ohlhauser, and next to no one outside of the intelligence services knew about Babbitt’s close relationship with the Agency.”
Carmichael shrugged. “There is much we still don’t know. I didn’t bring you here to provide you with all the answers. Your article will just need to differentiate knowns from unknowns.”
She chuckled. “It’s all unknown, even after this interview.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Catherine decided to lay her cards on the table. “What do I mean? I don’t think everything you just told me was a lie, but I suspect the majority of it was. The death of Max Ohlhauser has scared you, not because you think you are in real danger, but because you worry that something is going to come out to the public about what’s really happening on the streets of D.C.”
Carmichael drummed his fingers on the conference table. Clearly frustrated.
Catherine continued, “My problem, Director Carmichael, is that I suspect my editor will want me to run with what you’ve told me, even though I don’t believe it. A background interview with”—she made quotes in the air with her fingers—“‘senior CIA officials’ is too good to pass up in light of yesterday’s events.
“So, you will get what you need out of this meeting. I will publish a piece that will tell the world what you want them to know . . . not what is really going on.”
“Why don’t you tell me, Catherine. What is going on?”
“I don’t have a clue. But I intend to find out. In my job sometimes I reach into dark closets, not really expecting to take hold of anything. Now and then my hand wraps around something. I think I have something here, Director Carmichael. No way I’m letting go.”
Carmichael said, “Sometimes in the dark the thing you’re reaching for grabs you and pulls you deeper into the darkness.”
That hung in the air for fifteen seconds. Finally Catherine sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I’ve been threatened by AK-waving Haqqani operatives. You don’t frighten me.”
Carmichael flashed a sly, charmless smile. “Give me the names of the Haqqani operatives who threatened you, and if they aren’t dead already, just watch how fast I make them dead. You might construe that as a threat—please don’t.” His smile widened, but it was just as charmless. “I mean it as a government service.”
Denny Carmichael is a weird man, King thought to herself.
Catherine stood, and Carmichael followed suit. She said, “I do appreciate your time. If you want to do another interview, one that isn’t so obviously stage-managed, then I am always available.”