Infiltrator

by Bob Blink

  "Wise move. I'll do the same when we finish," Jessie said. "How do we pursue this? I think we need to work together. I'm not sure the others really get it, and I wouldn't be surprised if some don't even follow through and post a contact here as we all agreed."

  "Johnson's warning?" Mark asked. He sensed some of them had been more strongly affected by that than others.

  "Uh-huh," she agreed. "I think we need to meet, and discuss our thoughts and coordinate plans," she added. "I'm taking tomorrow off, and plan to go to New York. I want to see what happens when Johnson doesn't show up at work."

  "I'm going to visit my family on Saturday," Mark replied, surprised he was sharing his thoughts so openly. "I'm not feeling real comfortable about what I perceive as my history." He recalled Jessie explaining that all of her immediate family had perished in an auto accident while she was in college. "How about we arrange to meet somewhere Sunday?"

  "I'll call," she promised. "Watch your back," she added unnecessarily, but Mark felt his hand going to the small automatic in the pocket of his robe in response to her words.

  Chapter 4

  Friday

  Buckling his belt and then reaching for his suit jacket, Mark considered the small pistol sitting on the nightstand where it had rested the entire night. When he'd crawled into bed the night before he'd fully intended to carry it with him today, despite the potential logistics problems having it might cause. Now he wondered if he wasn't over reacting to the situation. True, something very strange was going on, but it was not as if he were being threatened or was in any obvious immediate danger. The attack against Bud Johnson the night before hadn't been directed at the man personally, it had been a simple case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The delinquents who had shot and killed him couldn't have had any idea he was going to be on the street at that time, nor who he was. So whom was he arming himself against?

  Legally, he was fully authorized to carry a weapon concealed, not because his duties required him to be armed, but simply as a result of the two Agency actions he'd been involved in the previous year, which had resulted in him being issued the permits that allowed personal carry of a concealed weapon, his personal arms included. No one at work expected him to actually exercise the right and would probably disapprove if they knew, but technically he wouldn't be in violation of any laws. Events the year before his involvement had never progressed to the point he did any more than guard a couple of suspects with a shotgun. He'd never actually carried a concealed handgun during either of those actions.

  The problem would develop once he arrived at NSA headquarters. Generally NSA operatives weren't involved in typical CIA, spy-like activities, although there were agents that did conduct such actions. He wasn't one of them. While they were authorized to carry weapons inside the facility, he wasn't, and he had no misconceptions that he might be able to bring the weapon inside without being detected. That meant he'd have to leave the firearm in his vehicle during the day, something that he suspected might also violate some NSA rule. It probably made more sense to simply leave it here.

  His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the television announcer indicate the weather status was next, causing him to turn and hurry into the kitchen area where he could watch the report on the small television he had turned on when he'd made his coffee. He watched impatiently until the report turned to the report detailing road conditions. He'd come all the way home from the restaurant by taxi the previous night instead of going to a subway terminal and then riding home via the Metro to College Park where he lived. He hadn't wanted to walk the four blocks from the station in this weather, and after the events that had resulted in Johnson's death. Getting to work from the college town where he'd lived the past five years meant a forty-five minute drive to Fort Meade where NSA Headquarters were located, or taking the MARC Train, and then catching a taxi the rest of the way. His choice was totally dependent on the road conditions. He was happy to learn that the Parkway was clear and open, although traffic was reportedly moving slowly, so he could probably count on more than an hour to get to work. He'd be late getting in, but he knew he wouldn't be the only one.

  Quickly finishing off the coffee, he hurried back into his bedroom to grab his overcoat and get started on his way. He headed first to the nightstand where he intended to put the pistol out of sight, but when he picked it up his intentions changed. Despite his earlier thoughts, he decided to bring it along. Opening the drawer to the nightstand, he pulled out the belt holster, slid the diminutive handgun into it, and clipped it onto his belt on the backside of his right hip. Then he reached in and grabbed the magazine holder that carried two spare loaded magazines, and clipped that over his belt on the left side. He was pleased that neither showed, at least to the untrained observer. He felt odd, like some kind of covert agent. Shrugging, he grabbed the heavy overcoat, and pulling it on as he walked, headed toward the door. A few minutes later he was in the underground carport, shivering slightly as he walked to the three year-old Ford Explorer. The green paint looked almost blue in the marginal light of the parking garage, and he was happy to be inside with the doors locked. Just being outside made him a bit uneasy.

  The drive was worse than the news reporter had suggested, and it was nearly an hour and a half before he reached the special exit for NSA employees only. He turned off the Parkway, the large darkened glass structure where he worked off to his left. The massive parking lot was a challenge after the snow, but he finally got the Explorer to his slot, and turned off the engine. Reluctantly he unclipped the holster and magazine carrier and locked them in the glove box. Not really secure he knew, but then who was going to go through the thousands of parked cars on the NSA lot looking for something to steal?

  Stepping out of the car, Mark hurried along the plowed parking lot toward the entrance, massive piles of snow piled up where the snow plows had done their work in the early hours of the morning. Inside the building, he went through the usual security checks. His attaché case was checked thoroughly, despite his knowing the security guard who passed him. He'd gone through it himself this morning, wondering now why he'd taken it to the meeting the day before, but finding nothing of any importance inside. An uncomfortable feeling in his gut made him wonder if there had been something when he'd gone to the meeting, and he couldn't help wondering what he might have taken out of the facility the last time he'd been here. High on his list of things to do was check and see if he could find any clues as to his actions that he might have forgotten the last couple of days.

  "You're clear," the security guard said, handing back the case, which Mark closed, smiled and then moved on toward the elevators.

  Moving down the central hallway toward his office, Mark nodded and greeted several of those he knew well. The activity was muted this morning, attesting to the fact that while late, others were even later and the majority of the work force wasn't here yet. No one made any reference to his absence the day before, but then only those closest would comment on an absence.

  "Hey Mark," a husky whisper greeted him from behind. Tammy Santos had come out of one the offices as he passed and had caught up with him. At five-foot-four, the svelte, dark-haired beauty was an unabashed flirt, and had somehow taken a strong liking to Mark when she'd joined the group over a year ago. With shoulder length jet-black hair, flawless tan skin accenting professional model perfect features, and enticing brown eyes, she was quite a package, and Mark knew he could have easily established a relationship with her had he tried. More than once he'd wondered why he had hadn't bothered. His project partner, Fred, had more than once indicated that Mark was missing a ready made opportunity.

  "Morning Tammy," Mark replied with obvious warmth. Even though he hadn't followed up on the frequent hints about getting together, he was attracted to the woman, and really enjoyed her company. "I think Fred and I might be needing your help next week if your schedule permits."

  Tammy wrinkled her nose upon hearing Fred's name. Mark knew she didn't particularl
y like the man, considering him a bit of a letch, always eyeing her rather spectacular chest.

  "Abe told me," she replied. "My schedule has already been adjusted. I'll be with you for a couple of weeks it seems." She smiled happily. "I didn't see you around yesterday," she noted. Tammy was one of those that weren’t above asking.

  "Yeah, I was off site all day," Mark replied, avoiding any explanation of his absence.

  Reaching out and touching his sleeve, Tammy smiled and asked, "Lunch?"

  "Sure," Mark agreed. "Although I think we're stuck with the cafeteria today."

  "That's fine," she agreed. "I gotta go," and waived a handful of papers to indicate she had something to pass along to someone.

  "Later," she added, then smiled and headed off, Mark watched her go, admittedly attracted to the appealing sight she presented.

  Shrugging his shoulders, the impulse fading almost as soon as it had surfaced, he turned and started back down the hallway toward the cluster of cubicles where he spent his days. The desk was as clean as when he'd left it. People didn't leave materials open and unattended in this place, and at best he might have expected a note from someone who wanted to speak with him.

  Rolling his chair into place, he clicked his mouse to bring the monitor to life, and quickly entered the two-tiered series of passwords that would get him into his personal workspace. His secure internal mail folder indicated two messages waited, and the folder he shared with Fred reflected that two new items had been added since he'd last been logged on. He checked the emails first, one from his boss and the other from Fred indicating he'd sent him a couple of sections of code for review on the project they were jointly working. That explained the small number 'two' in the corner of the shared folder. He'd get to those later. First he had his own little mystery to solve, and he'd check in with Abe to see what he wanted to speak with him about. He wanted to get a sense of how people reacted to his day away.

  "I'm glad you're back," a scratchy voice announced over his left shoulder. "I was hoping you wouldn't be out longer."

  Fred, Mark realized. He'd been hoping to put off speaking with his project partner just a bit longer, but the man had already spotted him. Not surprising. Whatever else Fred might be, he was a conscientious worker, and was always in early. Mark should have guessed a little snow wouldn't have changed that, but odds would have favored his partner being in the labs closer to his servers where he preferred to work.

  "I haven't had a chance to look at your notes," Mark said as he turned around to face the man. "I just got in, and Abe left a note that I'm to see him right away."

  As he turned his chair around to face his coworker, Mark took in the familiar stained coffee cup without which Fred seemed unable to function. Mark sometimes wondered how the man's gut survived the amount of the caustic liquid it was exposed to. In his mid-fifties, Fred was skinny, gray haired, and looked very much the geek he was. With a prominent Adam’s apple, unkempt hair, and several days of beard, offset by mismatched sweats that he always wore, the man was immediately identified as a bit of an oddball. But he was also a genius, and Mark knew he was outclassed by the man's computer skills, even though Mark was the lead engineer on the project. He was also every bit the letch that Tammy considered him, and Mark was surprised that one of the women hadn't filed a formal protest against him by now.

  "Is there something important in your note?" Mark finally asked.

  Fred's head bobbed up and down on his skinny neck.

  "I think I have found a way to get the throughput we are seeking," he replied with a toothy grin. "It'll take some rewrite of the core modules, but in the end it will be worth it."

  Mark wanted to groan. Fred had a habit of tossing out their previous work, even large modules of code that had been completed and tested when he thought he had a better approach. They had just presented a status report to management last week that showed they were barely keeping up with their schedule, and this could set them back considerably. Of course, when tasked with the kind of monitoring they had to deal with, anything that could make their efforts more efficient could ultimately have a huge payoff.

  "Don't worry," Fred quickly jumped in to reassure him. "I've already blocked out the code, and will have most of it rewritten over the weekend. We can test it on Monday, and decide together if I'm right and it's worth the setback."

  Sighing openly, Mark nodded. "Okay, I'll have a look at what you are proposing after my meeting with Abe. How's that?"

  "That's good," Fred replied, pleased. "Maybe we can discuss it at lunch?"

  "Can't," Mark was quick to respond. "I'm having lunch with Tammy."

  Fred's eyes lit up at the woman's name.

  "Is that why you were out? You two were off somewhere yesterday? I didn't see her around anywhere yesterday either. I should have guessed. Is she as good in the sack as she looks like she'd be? It's about time you took the bait. She's been trolling for you for months."

  "I wasn't with Tammy," Mark replied a bit curtly, and turned back to his monitor to make sure it was securely logged out before he headed off to see his boss.

  "Oh," Fred said, clearly disappointed. Mark knew he'd been planning on pumping him for any sordid details he might extract on the suspected encounter.

  "Gotta go," Mark said rising, before Fred could question him further about his absence the day before.

  Mark slipped by his disappointed coworker, and headed toward the suite of large offices at the far end of the floor. Abe Weiner and Karen Tarrington, the two senior managers for the new software developments section were located there. Mark walked down the wide corridor, nodding to several people he knew along the way, then knocked softly at the open door of his boss's office, seeing the man sitting at the desk inside. Weiner looked up, closed the folder in front of him, and slipped it into a drawer as he motioned Mark to enter.

  "Everything go okay yesterday?" Abe asked, smiling as Mark closed the door behind him and took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the large oak desk. The question didn't give him any direction on how to reply. It was a question that could very easily support his original belief that he'd been offsite on a formal work assignment, something he no longer believed was true.

  "Well enough," Mark lied, hoping Abe might reveal something that would guide him. He had no intention of mentioning either the shooting and death of one of the others who had been there with him, or their strange dinner conversation the night before.

  Weiner nodded, his eyes watching Mark's face all the time. The inspection made Mark uneasy, as he wondered just how much Abe might know. Perhaps they were aware that Bud Johnson had been killed and that the others had all shared their stories.

  "So, are you going to need surgery, and is that going to affect your project?" Abe asked directly, catching Mark completely by surprise. "Your knee," he added. "Are you going to need to have something done?"

  Trying to catch up, Mark's brain worked furiously. His knees? He was an avid racquetball payer, and had crashed into the sidewall a few months back causing some serious damage. He'd seen a specialist, and it was likely that he was going to have to have some arthroscopic work done, not a complete knee replacement, before too much longer if he wanted to continue playing, but it wasn't something he'd been thinking about for some time. He'd shelved the matter until his current busy workload would slack off once they finished the current project. Apparently, however, his boss thought his day off was related to his injury and not at all work related.

  "Not immediately," Mark managed to get out as his brain started working again. "Probably next summer sometime. Even then, it would be a couple of days, then a week or two with crutches."

  Weiner leaned back and smiled.

  "That's good to hear. I was afraid you might be planning on telling me you needed a couple of weeks off soon. I got word yesterday while you were visiting your surgeon, that the project need date has been moved up a couple of months. The President has directed all of us to move everything forward."

&
nbsp; Mark groaned. This wasn't good news on top of what Fred had just dumped on him.

  "I understand," Abe said, slipping into manager mode, his previous concern slipping away as if it had never existed. "This will probably mean a lot of weekend work and some long days, but I'm counting on you to finish up. Your report last week suggested you were moving along well enough. I've already approved Tammy Santos to join your team indefinitely, and can get you a couple of other top programmers if that will help."

  "What's the new deadline?" Mark asked, fearful of how his life was going to be impacted, just when he had this new mystery to try to solve.

  Weiner pulled out a couple of PowerPoint slides and showed him the modified planning.

  "I'll need to think about this?" Mark said, pulling the two sheets over to himself. "I'll talk to Fred, and maybe this afternoon I can tell you what we will need to have any chance of meeting this deadline."

  "Good," Abe said, happy that Mark hadn't gone completely ballistic on him. Several of the other Project managers hadn't taken the news so well. "You're certain your knee is okay?" he asked again. Mark wasn't certain he really cared, or it was his way of attempting to change the subject and show concern, whether feigned or real, Mark couldn't be certain.

  "I've had some cortisone shots," he replied. "They seem to be doing the job for now."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Weiner said, as he reached into his desk for the folder he'd been reading when Mark came in. Clearly he was being dismissed. "Get back to me on that before you leave today, okay?"

  Mark nodded and mumbled his compliance. He stepped out of the office, leaving the door open as he'd found it, and headed back to his office. He'd have a look at Fred's modification plans and how they would affect the new schedule, and look through his recent computer logs and see if he could trace through what he had been doing the past month and whether he could find anything that might shed light on the now even more mysterious meeting he'd had the day before. His boss didn't know what he'd been doing, he'd carried his attaché case filled with innocuous papers that couldn't have had any purpose in that meeting, and was no closer to understanding why he'd been there than before. He doubted he would find much. He was very careful about such things and, had he been doing something contrary to his employers interests, Mark was certain he would have covered his trail very well.