by S L Shelton
Nick laughed. “Right. I keep forgetting you aren’t ‘in’ yet,” he said. “Director of the National Clandestine Service. This is being sold as a containment operation due to the secrets locked away in Gaines’s head. National Security and all that nonsense. Justice will be pissed, but unless they come up with a warrant from a FISA judge, Homeland Security is going to get him. This is damage control for us. One of them is already throwing around accusations of CIA complicity in hiding Mark…it's a short hop to accusing us of being co-conspirators.”
“What do they want?” I asked.
“His brain,” he replied solemnly.
I nodded my understanding. “What else do I need to know?”
“The guy that tried to hit you and John in the alley after you caught Gaines… John thought he looked familiar, but we are still having a hard time placing him,” he said. “He’s been looking through mug shots all morning.”
“So, no way to figure out who he’s working for now,” I added.
“Right. But we’re pretty sure he’s not a loner,” he said. “Even the State Department tried to jump into the mix over this.”
“State,” I muttered. I suspected I knew who at State was nosing around. “Robert Whitney?”
Nick shook his head. “He may be involved, but there were some serious ES pay grade types wandering the halls this morning from State—Bob Whitney doesn't pull that kind of weight. If he's involved, it's because the Secretary is pulling the strings.”
I knew that ES pay grade referred to “Executive Schedule” personnel—many hundreds of senior-level appointees, deputies, cabinet members, etc. People who seriously outranked Barb’s “Daddy”.
“Secretary? As in the Secretary of State?” I asked. I could feel my eyebrows disappear beneath my hairline. Maybe I should have heard Barb's dad out before booting him out the door yesterday.
Nick chuckled. “Yeah,” he replied. “Whatever you're mixed up in, it's got some big names looking at it.”
“Great,” I replied sarcastically. “And they're bringing me in to be debriefed? In front of them?”
“Don’t worry. Follow the old man’s lead. He’ll let you know what you can and can’t answer and in front of who,” he replied.
We didn’t speak for a few minutes, and then Nick broke the silence again.
“I gotta know. How did you do it?” he asked. “You surprised him, didn’t you.”
He wanted to know how I beat Gaines. I shook my head and shrugged.
“He slipped and fell, right?” he asked, mocking me.
I just chuckled.
“Fine,” he said. “Don’t tell me.”
I could tell he felt he needed to know.
“I’m not sure how or why, but the memory of Majmun putting that torch to me pulled me out of a blackout after he hit me,” I said. “I whipped around and got hold of him.”
Nick laughed. “Good for you. It’s about time someone gave that prick an ass whoopin’.” But I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“It took me a while to come down,” I confided. I’m not sure why I told him, but I felt like he would understand.
He didn’t reply immediately. I could see he was thinking about what I had said. When he finally spoke, his tone had changed to that of a confidante.
“John said you almost took him out as well,” he said.
“I was in some serious rage-induced fog,” I said quietly.
“Rage-induced? I heard you got whacked in the head with an extendo,” he said, looking over briefly with a knowing grin on his face. “I’m not your fucking shrink, but I can tell you from personal experience that fire or steel applied to human flesh will either cause rage or turn you into drooling mental patient. Sometimes both, but it’s never ever not one of them.”
“I guess,” I replied.
“Don’t guess. It’s a fact. And you don’t seem to be drooling, so I’d say you’re handling it pretty well,” he said smiling. “Now tighten up. You’ve got a meeting with carrion eaters, and we don’t need you getting all fucking weepy on us.”
Nick continued to brief me on what to expect, who to speak to and when—and most importantly, when to “keep my fucking mouth shut”.
**
Upon arrival at Langley, we passed through a special side of security, went up an elevator to the seventh floor, and walked through winding hallways to a large meeting room. Nick had me wait in the hall and continued a couple of doors further down.
I looked across the hall and saw a short door—maybe four feet tall. Too short to be an office—probably a custodial closet. But on the wall next to the door was an office placard like the ones next to each door in the building. I squinted to make sure I was reading it correctly:
Office of Shire Affairs
I chuckled. Who said spies don't have a sense of humor?
Nick was back in a matter of seconds and nodded me toward the conference room. There were several people already seated around the table when we arrived.
When Nick knocked at the door, all heads turned to us. A man in his late fifties or early sixties approached us, smiling.
“Scott Wolfe,” he said, extending his hand to shake mine. I’m Mathew Burgess, Director of NCS. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He had a firm handshake, and he seemed to be genuinely pleased to meet me. On the other hand, this was the head of the National Clandestine Service, so you could never know for sure.
“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” I said, smiling in return—after all, it’s not every day you get meet the head spy of the nation.
“Thanks Nick. Someone will give you a yell when it’s time to take him back,” Burgess said, dismissing Nick.
“Yes, sir,” Nick replied, acknowledging the order, then he looked at me. “Relax, kid. You’ve got this.” He retreated down the hall.
“Scott. This is Carrie Cantor with the Justice Department. She will be observing your debrief today,” he said.
I got the impression the emphasis on the word “observing” was code to me that the situation with Gaines transfer had changed. I reached out and shook her hand.
“And Ned Richards from Homeland Security. He has some questions for you as well,” he said.
I wanted to ask which Department in Homeland Security, but I followed Nick’s advice and “kept my fucking mouth shut”.
There were four others in the room who I hadn’t been introduced to. I guessed they didn’t rate it, but I felt it was a bit rude none-the-less. One of them was a recorder. The other three were suits; two stood against the wall, one sat next to Richards. The two against the wall looked badass—security, I guessed.
“Okay. Let’s get started shall we?” Director Burgess said.
“Mr. Wolfe. I’d like for you to describe the events of the past four days. From Thursday around noon until your arrival here today,” Richards blurted out.
Director Burgess raised his hand, indicating I should not answer.
“That’s not how we’re going to do things,” he said, looking at Richards with piercing, almost menacing eyes—very different from the friendly man who had shaken my hand a few moments earlier. “We will be dissecting only those areas pertinent to your inquiries and only those that are authorized for disclosure.”
“I don’t see why we can’t just hear the whole story and then decide what’s important and what’s not,” Richards protested.
“Well, then you’ve been out of the loop on security matters. NCS has broad discretion on certain operational matters, and unless you have a little piece of paper signed by a FISA judge, I get to decide what anyone outside the Agency hears.”
Richards smiled a smug smile. He had expected the resistance. He just wanted me to see that there was a power struggle and that I should be careful whose side I chose.
The director turned to me.
“I know you don’t know it, but this is highly irregular, Scott,” he said. “Normally a civilian debrief would not be exposed to this much high-level s
crutiny. Rest assured, your answers will not reflect on you.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied courteously, letting him know with my body language that I was his to guide through the meeting.
“Why don’t we start with how you were approached for assistance in this Op,” he continued.
“I got a call from Captain Temple on Thursday afternoon, asking if I was available to do some tech support for a field Op,” I replied.
“Captain Temple?” Ms. Cantor questioned.
“Yes ma’am. Sorry. My first encounter with ‘Agent’ Temple was in a different uh...format, and I was introduced to him by his honorary.”
“I don’t think we are aware of the circumstances under which you met Agent Temple,” Richards interrupted, looking through his info packet. “I’d like to know more about that as well.”
“That’s off the table,” the director asserted.
“Fine. Just answer the question, Mr. Wolfe,” Richards said curtly.
“Agent Temple asked if I was up to doing some tech support in a field capacity,” I said again.
“Didn’t you consider it a little unusual for Agency personnel to ask an untrained civilian for support on a field operation?” Richards asked.
I looked at the director for a signal that it was okay to continue and he nodded.
“I didn’t know what was unusual and what wasn’t. I have just been placed in charge of a technical operation that had been created by contract with the company I work for. We hadn’t even gotten our infrastructure built yet, so I had nothing to gauge the request by.”
“Still. You had to know that computer support personnel aren’t used for field Ops,” Richards said incredulously.
“I knew no such thing,” I replied straight-faced. “I was given the option to decline. I opted to help.”
Richards shifted in his chair. He wasn’t happy with my responses, but no one else seemed bothered by them. I dismissed it as a case of him being an asshole.
“How did you locate Gaines?” Richards asked.
Just then my phone went off. “Don’t want to be your Monkey Wrench”, sang out from my pocket, alerting me to a new email.
The director looked at me with a grin before turning back to Richards. “That question is too broad and in some areas involves operational practices,” he interrupted before I could reply to the question. “It needs to be narrowed.”
“This is a waste of time,” Richards said as if bored by the whole process. “Why don’t you just ask him the questions you want us to hear the answers to and be done with this farce?”
“You will watch your tone, sir,” the director rumbled, clearly impressing upon Richards the boundaries of this meeting.
“Yes, of course. I apologize,” Richards said, backing his attitude down a bit. “I’m here to get a clear picture of what happened and what happens next—it’s exceedingly difficult with these inter-agency rules.”
The director ignored the apology and turned to me. “Scott. We already know that you and Agent Temple flew to Colorado Springs and that you were given access to the investigation materials by the local police force. We are also aware that you obtained some raw data footage from satellite feeds for the region.”
“How did you obtain those feeds?” Ms. Cantor interrupted.
The director nodded, indicating I was to answer.
My phone went off again. “Don’t want to be your Monkey Wrench”, sang Dave Grohl into my pocket one more time.
“Do you need to get that?” Richards asked with a snarl.
“No,” I replied quickly as I extracted my phone from my pocket to place it on silent. My heart jumped when I saw there were two new emails from Kathrin on my personal email account. I set my phone to silent and stowed it again.
“I was handed a pocket drive containing the first three sets. There was a fourth set, but I didn’t need it,” I replied, suddenly distracted by my waiting messages. I mentally took a deep breath to refocus on the task at hand.
“Under what conditions did you receive this data?” she asked.
“In all three cases they were handed to me by Agent Temple,” I replied. Again, she wasn’t satisfied.
“And how did Agent Temple get the data he handed to you?” she asked.
“I’m not sure how he got the first or the last pocket drive. The second drive was left in a lunch bag at the airport in Albuquerque, and the third in a padded envelope he picked up off the ground after bumping into a man in a bad suit,” I said, resisting an urge to smile.
“You don’t know where the data came from before that?”
“No ma’am. I was given data to parse, so I parsed it,” I replied.
“Why didn’t you need the fourth set of data?” the director asked, clearly already knowing the answer.
“Because I saw Gaines. He rolled into the lot where we were parked and then entered a building. While he was inside, I wrapped my iPhone in one of my t-shirts and stuffed it into his spare tire.”
Richards’s eyes narrowed to a slit. “An iPhone? Wrapped in a t-shirt?”
“Yes sir. A Melvin’s t-shirt,” I said stiffly, doing my best to restrain a smirk.
“A Melvin’s t—” he replied curtly. “Why didn’t you or Agent Temple subdue him at that time?”
“Agent Temple was inside another building with no way for me to contact him,” I replied crisply. “And as you have pointed out, I am untrained tech support—not an Agent. It didn’t even occur to me to try and subdue a trained CIA Agent.”
“We know what a crock that is,” he said under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Ned. If you already know what happened, then we don’t require Mr. Wolfe’s presence any longer,” the director inserted.
“Mr. Wolf’s actions in Burbank and his history indicate he's considerably more than ‘untrained tech support.’ I just want some straight answers,” Richards said impatiently.
The director looked at me and smiled in a friendly gesture. “Scott. I have to admit, I’ve been curious about that myself. Could you elaborate?”
“I assume you are asking about the physical confrontations I’ve been involved in?” I asked, trying to clarify.
“That, and your ability to find that which does not wish to be found,” he replied.
“Finding stuff is what I do. All day long, every day. I look for a missing comma in a hundred thousand lines of code. I look for inconsistencies in video feeds, clicks in audio feeds, digital fingerprints on viruses and Trojans,” I replied. “I’ve always been good at seeing things that others don’t see. It’s my job.”
“Understood,” said the director. “And the combat?”
“I took karate when I was in elementary school,” I offered, shrugging, knowing full well it wouldn't satisfy the question.
Richards rolled his eyes.
“I’m also a climber,” I continued. “I’ve been climbing at least three times a week since I was ten. It creates very dense muscle and an exceptionally strong grip.”
“Strong enough to break bone?” Ms. Cantor asked, unbelieving.
Richards scoffed. “I’d like to see that. Do you mind if we have a little demonstration of this incredible ‘grip?’” he asked, mocking my comment.
He turned to one of the guys standing against the wall—a big guy. “Glenn, would mind shaking hands with Mr. Wolfe?”
The big guy puffed up his chest, smiled, and walked over to me, extending his hand. I remained seated but turned in my chair to face him.
Just as I gripped his hand, the director leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“No permanent damage, Scott,” he said.
I waited for the big guy to squeeze. I’d learned a long time ago that big man-tits don’t necessarily equate to great strength. I’d seen enough jocks peel off of rock, time and time again, because they thought their muscle was a match for a slab of granite.
I gripped, not with my full strength, but enough to send him down to his knee with a grimace
of pain. I released when he yowled.
All eyes in the room opened wide except for the director, who I assume was briefed on the strength of my hands.
“I think that clears up the mystery a bit,” the director said as the muscle man slunk back to his wall position, rubbing his hand.
“Strong hands don’t explain how you subdued a combat-trained CIA Agent,” Richards replied, clipped. He looked at his notes. “In fact, Agent Temple called him, and I quote, ‘One of the most skilled hand-to-hand combatants this Agency has ever produced.’”
How could I possibly explain what I didn’t myself understand?
“He had me confined. When I escaped, he showed up and tried to subdue me. I got hold of his wrist and broke it, and then I head butted him—repeatedly—effectively rendering him combat incapable,” I explained.
“How did he sustain the rest of his injuries?” Ms. Cantor asked.
“As has been pointed out, I am untrained. When I was attacked, I sustained a blow to the back of my head. It left me dazed and very angry. Once he was on the ground, I didn’t immediately stop striking him. It was several minutes before I regained my wits.”
“Ms. Cantor. It is not uncommon for head trauma to cause violent episodes in anyone, especially those faced with situational stress,” the director chimed in. “There is an Agency psychiatrist's report on the incident in your folder. Scott was evaluated by her after the incident and she concluded he acted in an almost-unconscious, instinctive manner. She said it would be expected under the circumstances.”
She seemed to accept the explanation.
“Did Gaines reveal any plans to you or tell you why he was in LA?” Richards asked. “Did you witness any details or see any documentation that might explain his actions?”
I thought very carefully about answering that question. I wanted to do it honestly if I could.
“I saw nothing nor heard anything that would have suggested he was about to blow up eight high-profile targets,” I replied honestly. “The closest I came was thinking that the LAW training rounds were for Buck Grimwall. But the configuration was wrong for that, and we ended up in possession of all of them.”
“And what about in retrospect,” Richards asked. “Looking back now, did he say or do anything or did you see or read anything that might, in retrospect, have been an indication of his targets?”