by Jeff Siebold
“Hello, Fran,” Zeke said. It was Friday, so he used a name that began with an “f”. The girl’s real name was Sally, and Zeke had known her for two years and six months. Sally was Zeke’s primary point of contact while on an assignment with Clive Greene’s Agency. She took care of the communications and the coordination of the larger organizational resources for Zeke, and for others, he assumed.
“I have one message,” she said with a smile in her voice. “One for you.”
“OK,” Zeke said. “Go. What’s up?”
“They’ve been looking around, and they’re pretty confident that your friend will show up at the party shortly,” said Sally. “Just wanted you to know. Anything to pass on?”
Sally was a slender girl, who looked a lot like Marilyn Monroe. She used a wispy Marilyn voice when Zeke called in, which was sometimes amusing. The few times Zeke had seen her, it was obvious that she worked hard to keep her body slim and looking like the actress. Her clothing choices and makeup were, appropriately, retro to the 1950s. Based on what Zeke had seen and heard, though, her IQ had to be near 160.
“Can you let Eric know that I’ll be working late tonight, and that I’ll try to stop by afterwards?” Eric was their code name for Clive Greene, Zeke’s longtime friend and employer.
“Sure, no problem,” she said. “Do you think you’ll be coming around tomorrow?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said, “Thanks, Fran.” Thanks, Sally, he thought.
“OK, bye now,” Sally said a second later as the phone went dead.
Zeke pushed the red button on the phone and dropped it in his pocket. He looked around and spotted the small man on the sidewalk behind him, maybe eighty feet back. As he passed a garbage can on the commons, Zeke dropped his empty backpack into it.
Chances are this guy wants the package more than he wants me, Zeke thought.
* * *
After Cruz had been interviewed by the Secret Service team about the counterfeit money, the printer plates and the cartel operation, the Justice Department sent a prosecutor to interview him again, and to discuss a deal with him. He was clearly shaken up.
His appeal to the Atlanta police tended to support his story, and the facts he’d revealed in the interviews about the cartel were consistent with prior knowledge that the Secret Service offices in Washington, DC had confirmed. The DC agents in the counterfeiting section were aware of the influx of U.S. currency from Jefe’s operation but had not been able to get anywhere close to the source.
“Mr. Cruz, I’m Julia Roberts,” said the Justice Department Prosecutor once they were all seated in the conference room. “No relation.”
Cruz looked at her blankly. “Eh?” he said.
There were eight people in the conference room and two sitting just outside, watching body language through the one glass wall and prepared to assist if needed. In the room were Roberts, another attorney from Justice, Fitch, Tracy and Ron, her partner, Cruz and two other local agents, sitting on the eight chairs that surrounded the oblong table. As Roberts explained Cruz’s options and legal responsibilities, the agents around the table sat back, some looking at their cell phones, some reading files. Clearly, they felt relieved of the responsibility of Cruz, now that the Justice Department was present. Now, they could relax.
“In exchange for your cooperation, Mr. Cruz,” Julia Roberts continued, “we will keep you hidden from Jefe, and we can convince the INS to allow you to stay in the country. After we arrest Jefe and his team, after the trial, we can arrange for you to join witness protection. You can start a new life from there.”
“Si,” said Cruz.
“And for now, you’ll want to abandon the house you’ve rented, and we’ll put you up in a hotel room for the rest of this week.” Roberts paused and looked at some papers for a minute. “Can we get the cameras rolling, now?” she asked Fitch. He nodded and signed to one of the agents sitting at the table.
Chapter 10
Zeke Traynor had disappeared into the Engineering Building after spotting the small man and disposing of the backpack on the campus green. Watching carefully, he walked near and seemingly with a small group of male students intent on getting someplace important. Maybe a study group, or a classroom for an evening class, he thought.
As he mirrored their pace and direction, Zeke was able to hear their conversation taking place about six feet away. “I think the cosmological constant has to be included, since space creates energy as it expands,” said someone with very thick glasses and a cowlick in his short, greasy brown hair. “It just makes sense, if we’re ever going to be able to measure the acceleration of the universe’s expansion.”
“Yeah,” replied another awkward looking boy, “but you’ve got to accept that space is not ‘nothing’ for that to be true.”
Physics, thought Zeke, sounds like astrophysics. Einstein’s Gravity Theory. A discarded theory, one that Einstein himself refuted later on. But it’s being revisited, thought Zeke. Let’s see, he thought, Einstein said, ‘Gravity is not a force. It’s a curve in space-time.’ Ah, there’s still hope. He may not have to give back his Nobel Prize after all. Zeke smiled to himself.
The central hallway in the engineering building was wide, with a very high ceiling, which created a lot of volume and a sense of separation, even though he stayed close to the group of students. The discussion turned more mundane, about homework assignments and study times as Zeke veered off from the group and entered what appeared to be an area of administrative offices. Through the glass wall he had seen two women behind their desks still working, and he noticed that posted hours ended at 7PM weekdays. Most likely, that was to give professors an opportunity to take care of administrative items after classes were over.
“Hello, ladies,” Zeke said as he entered their office and moved away from the front wall and door. “Can you help me? I’d like to leave a message for Dr. Gordon.” He’d noticed the name tattooed on a door he had passed on his walk through the building, as well as on the small plastic card showing the face of a clock set for 9:30, hanging from the door. 9:30 AM, he thought.
“Sure can,” said the larger of the two women, without looking up. “There’s note paper on the counter, there, and a pen. Write what you want, and we’ll make sure he gets it.”
Zeke grabbed a piece of message paper and a pen, and then turned so he could see the bodies passing through the engineering building’s first floor corridor. He slid into a small, empty desk to write the note, a move that made him much less visible to the passersby. A few minutes later, he handed the folded note to the nearest woman. It said, “Dr. Gordon” on the outside. Inside he had scribbled an innocuous question, deliberately vague with the note unsigned. Zeke left the office area. There had been enough time during that intermission to determine that he wasn’t being followed. At least not by anyone he recognized. Foot traffic continued to flow, and Zeke didn’t see anyone loitering in the hall.
There are some advantages to an eidetic memory. Zeke had always been able to remember faces, things, events and facts with little difficulty. And although his original aptitude appeared to have been more left brained and analytical, he had worked hard to create a balance by studying and researching some very right-brained things. Art, history, music and languages were among them. One reason that Zeke was originally recruited for the Army’s Military Intelligence Civilian Excepted Career Program was his mastery of Spanish and Arabic as a second and third language.
Zeke had chosen his language studies pragmatically. Spanish is the primary language in 21 countries, and Arabic is the primary language in 26 countries. Combined with English, these languages gave him fluency in the primary language of 101 countries, 101 of the 195 countries of the world. Well, 196 countries of the world, if you counted Taiwan.
Along with that, these languages were common denominators spoken in a number of the remaining countries of the world. All of which made being fluent in the three of them a measurable advantage in his former line of work, his work with M
ICECP.
The Military Intelligence Civilian Excepted Career Program, called “MIC” by those involved in the program, is run out of Fort Meade in Maryland, exactly twenty-three miles from the White House front door. The name of the program is confusing, but the intent is clear. The civilians employed in this program are actively recruited, trained, and assigned to conduct highly specialized operational intelligence functions within the Army. They work worldwide and with a huge emphasis on counterintelligence. And, because of their civilian status, they can do what Army personnel can’t. Zeke had been recruited at the inception of the program in 2008, and he spent 5 years as an operative for MIC before he retired to private life.
With no one following him, and being in no visible danger, Zeke turned right from the office and continued through the building and then out onto the campus. He circled around off campus and took a circumfluous route that led back to the Enclave. As he approached the apartment complex, he circled it twice from a distance of about 75 yards, saw no one that looked like his library shadow, and then carefully let himself in through a locked side door.
No one in the stairwell, no one in the hallway, four steps to the door and he pulled up fast, his hand almost grabbing the exterior door handle before pulling back. The “tell” that Zeke left on his outside door was missing, indicating that someone had opened the door at least one time.
They’re either in there waiting, or in there searching, or they’ve already come and gone, he thought. I’ve been gone thirty-eight minutes, which lends probability to the likelihood that they’re still inside.
He braced himself and turned the door handle slowly. It was unlocked.
Chapter 11
Zeke quickly looked around the apartment’s exterior hallway. He was alone. He released the door handle and moved quickly and quietly to the maintenance closet, the one he had unlocked that morning. In addition to electrical boxes, fire sprinkler pipes and cable risers, Zeke found the toolbox sitting in the corner. He hefted a two-pound hammer and slipped a medium sized Phillips head screwdriver into his pants pocket.
At the apartment door again, Zeke used his left hand to turn the handle, while holding the unlocked door closed. The hammer was in his right hand, to be used either as a projectile, a distraction or a close-combat weapon. Zeke threw the door open suddenly, and slid into the apartment, low and quick but without losing his footing. He looked left and right as he passed the kitchen and then the open bedroom door. He saw no one.
He scanned the furniture and the far walls of the open floor plan living area. The blinds were drawn; and the two rented canvas paintings still adorned the walls. The bookshelf and recliner were on the right side of the room, near the window. The leather couch was to the left, with a glass coffee table in front of it. Sitting on the left end of the leather couch, watching quietly, was Alberto Cruz. Zeke relaxed.
Alberto smiled at him. “Mister Zeke,” he said, sounding a little bit like ‘Meester’. “Good to see you again. Bienvenido a casa.”
Zeke walked to the other end of the leather sofa and set the hammer on the coffee table, carefully to avoid scratching it. He pulled the screwdriver from his pocket and set it next to the first tool, both out of Cruz’s reach. Then he walked to the straight-backed chair opposite the sofa and propped himself on the front edge of it, leaning in a bit, looking at Cruz.
“Mister Cruz, hello,” said Zeke. “That was unexpected. You disappearing like that was odd, particularly since you’d hired us to protect you. What happened?”
“I think you call it intuition,” said Cruz. “I was preparing for the exchange earlier this afternoon and I suddenly felt as if someone had…how do you say…stepped on my grave. Have you had that feeling? It unnerved me. I had to get away from the situation.”
“Who was the accident victim?” Zeke asked.
“I saw that on the television. An unfortunate man,” said Cruz. “That was Roberto Estido. He is my neighbor down the street, about my size. Earlier today I offered him $100 to dress in the beige pants and black shoes, and to take the backpack to the coffee shop and give it to the man who was to meet me there. I had no idea that he would be run over!”
“He left the money and the printer plates,” said Zeke, “The Secret Service can’t be happy with the way things turned out. Who spooked you, Alberto?” he asked.
“The small man, George, the Accountant, I thought I saw him. I went to the campus early, maybe two o’clock, and went to the coffee shop. I walked the area and sat and drank an espresso. And then, as I was leaving the campus, I saw him, I felt him. I’ve seen him before with Jefe, and I want nothing to do with him.” Cruz added, “El es el diablo.”
* * *
“Money would be no use to a dead man,” Cruz said. He squirmed and fidgeted in his seat, looking up and to the right, and pausing in thought as he responded to Zeke Traynor’s questions.
Zeke had said, “Why did you disappear?”
“I was reminded of a greater risk,” he said.
Zeke didn’t like Alberto Cruz. He remained formally polite and they conversed, but he felt no trust or connection with the man. Cruz was clearly thinking only of his own interests, and as such, he was unpredictable and unreliable. The information Cruz traded in seemed a bit off balance, a bit incomplete.
But Cruz had spent a week with the Secret Service agents, a week inside their building in interviews and planning sessions and generally just staying close to them. It was a form of self-imposed protective custody that Cruz had designed to keep Jefe’s people away from him. And while he was with the Secret Service agents, he’d watched and learned.
He’d observed their interactions, their hierarchy, their pecking order. He watched their chain of command, and listened to their phone calls. He watched and memorized, as the agents, keeping him close for protection, became more relaxed and informal within their own environment, within their open offices. The office was set up as a bullpen, with cubical type arrangements and low walls, and cabinets and shelving around the outside walls. One wall housed the offices of senior team members, with glass windows from the waist up, and faux wood blinds and closing doors.
During that week, he had heard their phone calls, witnessed their schedules and heard their personal cell phone calls to and from their family and friends. They didn’t necessarily trust him, and they didn’t necessarily not trust him. They viewed their responsibility as one of protection and of coordination of the efforts to find and arrest the threat to Cruz, Jefe’s man.
Cruz had played dumb, and he’d done it well. He had acted fairly simple and ignorant- peasant-like- and had spoken in somewhat broken English while around the agents. Often in their hours of interviewing, Cruz feigned ignorance of the English language, and ignorance of the answers to the questions they asked him. He found it easier to corrupt the interviews using a slight language barrier as a buffer and a tool. It gave him a couple of seconds extra to think. He used pauses and clarifications, questions, definitions and supposed misunderstanding to obfuscate the interviews and create an unbalanced flow. The agents seemed excited to have Cruz in hand, and they seemed ready to believe his story.
The information about Tracy was given to Zeke when Cruz first hired The Agency for his own protection. In planning for the exchange with the Secret Service, Cruz also quietly arranged for Clive’s operation to provide private protection, in case the federal agents weren’t enough. Cruz had mentioned to Zeke that Tracy was Secret Service, that she was allergic to dog and cat hair (Cruz had overheard her talking to a friend), and that she carried a 9mm Glock 26 in her purse (he’d seen the gun).
In the end, Cruz knew as much about the Atlanta Secret Service agents and their families and their habits as they knew about him. Possibly he knew more.
“Our next step will need to be to re-establish contact and then set up another exchange,” said Zeke.
Alberto Cruz leaned forward and set his coffee cup on the table in front of him. Then he leaned back again and turned a bit toward
Zeke. Cruz was a clever man.
“You were hoping that the Secret Service would arrest the small man,” said Zeke. “That you could avoid the situation altogether, right?”
Alberto smiled.
“So,” said Zeke with a smile, “Alberto, are you an honest man?”
Deception research was a study that MICECP had engineered. Although body language and facial expressions have long been thought of as a key to identifying honesty, they don’t provide reliable or necessarily consistent results across a number of different people. Knowing a person well can increase the odds of its effectiveness, but different people react differently as they participate in deceit.
Recent research indicated that there’s a better way to identify lies. With unconventional questions and acute listening. Zeke was well trained in this technique.
“Si, yes,” said Cruz helpfully. “I am honest.”
“Tell me about your journey to Atlanta,” said Zeke. “But tell it in reverse.”
Cruz looked confused. “Reverse? You mean backwards?” he asked.
“Sure, start with your arrival here today, and tell me what happened, in reverse.”
“But why?” asked Cruz.
“Humor me,” said Zeke.
“What?”
“OK, so you’re here now, and you hired us to protect you. What happened before you contacted The Agency?” asked Zeke. “What prompted you to contact us?”
“I had rented a house, and I was very careful. No one was supposed to know where I was, not even my cousins. But in spite of that, I was contacted by the small man, the Accountant,” said Cruz.
“You were supposed to go to a meeting at the coffeeshop?” Zeke prompted.
“Yes, the Secret Service agents moved me to a hotel room so I would be safe, and they set up to watch me at the meeting, the exchange. They gave me back the printing plates to return to the small man, and they were planning to arrest him.”