Danger Close

by S L Shelton

  “Do you think he’s an agent?” Braun asked.

  “No,” she replied. “An agent wouldn’t have given me unfettered access to his people, and he wasn’t armed. But he’s clearly had some sort of training.”

  The two dead Baynebridge operatives who were sent to abduct Wolfe, both had their necks broken. The only rounds recovered were fired from their own weapons. He shook his head. Why no weapon?

  Braun grunted his acknowledgment. He could no longer ignore the multiple failures in his attempt to gain access to Wolfe.

  “Any information you can give to the surveillance team will be useful. Could you detect a fighting style?” Braun asked, expanding on the thought in his head.

  “No,” she replied remorsefully. “Nothing obvious. His first kick disarmed me, and then a throw sent me to the ground. When he turned to pick up my weapon, I took the opportunity to leave.”

  “He disarmed you?” Braun confirmed.

  “I hadn’t been prepared for a confrontation,” she replied defensively. “I was there to speak with his team under the pretense of a clearance interview. I have no idea how the cover was blown. Wolfe kicked the door in only minutes after I had started my interrogation.”

  Worthless woman, Braun thought. “And you think that he and the girl would recognize you again?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “I’d like to use your expertise again, but I understand your desire to lay low for a while,” Braun said sympathetically. “As soon as you brief the surveillance team, we’ll see to your safe transit.”

  “It doesn’t make me happy to have—” she started, but there was a sudden loud noise in the background. Braun could hear a struggle commence before hearing the fake Mary Browning grunting alongside the muffled sound of suppressed gunfire.

  “No!” Braun heard her squeal, followed by a thud and two more clacks from a silenced weapon. A few seconds later, he heard a rattling on the other end of the phone.

  “Status,” Braun said into the phone mildly.

  “It’s done,” came a man’s voice. “She had skills. It took me a minute.”

  “Clean up the mess and sanitize the apartment,” Braun said. “I don’t want any sign that anyone has lived there.”

  “Understood,” the man replied.

  Braun hung up the phone and left his office. Brian fell in step behind him as they made their way back to the conference room. He reached for the door handle, but then paused and leaned over to speak into his guard’s ear.

  “Call Harbinger,” Braun whispered. “Tell him that discrete measures have failed, and it’s time to be more aggressive in setting up a meeting with young Mr. Wolfe. He’ll know what to do…and tell him to move quickly.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard replied before quickly turning and leaving.

  Braun reentered the conference room. “Alright,” he said in a bored tone. “Where were we?”

  September 1996—Spotsylvania, Virginia

  HANK WOLFE continued to challenge his son Scott inside the workshop.

  “So do you have any ideas on how to fix it?” Hank asked, smiling.

  “Well…” Scott said, screwing his face up in concentration. “I have a few…but they won’t behave.”

  “It’s okay,” Hank replied. “Don’t try to force it. Let them organize on their own. Make them present you with your options rather than trying to squeeze them out. They’ll come…like pictures and strong memories.”

  The boy softened his expression; an almost vacant stare washed over his face. A moment later, he smiled.

  “We could do one of two things,” he said finally. “One is a better fix, but it involves a modification, the other is simple, but will have to be repeated when it wears out.”

  “Which one will let me use the pump tomorrow?” Hank asked, smiling with pride.

  “Both,” Scott replied.

  “Which one can we accomplish with what we have here in the shop?” Hank asked, helping his son form a complete logic engine.

  The boy looked around the shop before hopping off his father’s lap and wandering around the tidy but well-stocked workshop. After a moment, he turned and looked at his father.

  “Are we still out of welding rods?” Scott asked.

  His father nodded. The boy put his hands on his hips and looked around a moment longer.

  “Well. The best way to fix it would be to cut the flaw out and fabricate a repair with the right shape,” Scott said, “But I can’t do that without welding it. So I guess I’ll have to grind a flat spot around the priming hole on the inside and screw a piece of screen over it.”

  “Okay, let’s do that then,” Hank said. “Do you need help with that?”

  Hank reached down to pick up the grinder, but Scott gently pushed his hand away from the tool.

  “No. I can do it,” Scott said.

  He watched as Scott pulled the extension cord from its peg on the wall and unwound it. After plugging it in, Scott’s small hands placed the metal case into the vise and pulled on the handle as hard as he could to tighten it. Once he could tighten it no more, he pushed on the case to make sure it didn’t move. When it slipped to the side he looked at his father, sheepishly, embarrassed he wasn’t strong enough to tighten it sufficiently.

  “Do you want me to give it a little tug?” Hank asked.

  Scott looked around the shop and smiled after spotting what he needed.

  “Nope… I’ve got it.”

  Scott reached into a plastic pail filled with rods, angle iron, and iron pipe sections before extracting a piece of pipe and walking back to the bench. As he slipped the pipe over the end of the vise handle, his father smiled.

  Scott pushed on the iron tube, carefully, thoughtfully, ensuring he didn’t damage the metal casing with the added leverage he had created. Once he was satisfied with the grip, he plugged in the cord of the grinder and searched for a face mask.

  “You know, Scott,” Hank said, “I really hoped you would continue with your Karate classes.”

  Scott ignored the comment as he continued to search for a suitable face shield.

  “I know you get frustrated when someone won’t let you learn at your own pace, but there’s something to be said for patience and building trust,” Hank said gently, trying to appeal to his son’s sense of logic.

  “I already know enough to teach the beginner’s class,” Scott replied without looking at his father. “I suspect they are more interested in the money for the classes than how fast I learn.”

  Hank shook his head and smiled. It would be so much simpler to have a normal ten-year-old—as intelligent as Scott already was—but this was so much more satisfying, despite the accidental and artificial nature of the origins. Scott was handling the alteration far more effectively than Hank had. For that, anyway, he was grateful. He would not have wished the mental unbalance he had suffered on his worst enemy, much less his own son.

  If he had only stayed out of my study until I had it locked up, he thought to himself. If I had only locked up the second generation compound up as soon as Mike had delivered it.

  But he knew that the past was nothing but old stories for which the endings are still being written. Hank was determined to write a better ending for Scott.

  “If you don’t master patience in dealing with others, you will never be able to solve the puzzles they present,” Hank said, using another tactic, appealing to Scott’s fondness for challenging puzzles.

  Scott stopped and a vacant stare crossed his face. He paused over the face mask he had found for several long seconds before continuing.

  “I’ll think about it,” Scott said. “I just don’t want to be babied. I’m capable of determining my own path.”

  The statements that came from Scott often took Hank’s breath away. They always sounded so adult. He had difficulty remembering that Scott had the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old despite the tempering effect of his powerful brain.

  “That’s all I’m asking. Once you have a couple more
years under your belt—” Hank was interrupted by the shop door opening.

  “Hi, Hank,” the man said.

  An expression of surprise and discomfort rippled across Hank’s face just to be quickly concealed with a sincere smile of welcome.

  “Well, I’ll be… Roger Gallow!” Hank said as he positioned himself between the intruder and his son. “What brings you out to this neck of the woods?”

  four

  Tuesday, August 31st

  9:00 a.m.—CIA Headquarters, Langley Virginia

  I checked in at CIA headquarters promptly at 9:00 a.m. and waited for my escort. I sat, being nagged by the worrisome notion that my extra voice was starting to let me down, or worse, that it was getting violent. Mom mentioned that Dad had voices—she could even tell when they were talking to him.

  Maybe Mom and Dad together just created the perfect storm of crazy in me.

  I wondered if I should ask my sister whether she heard voices or not.

  To distract myself from my worry while I waited, I watched, practicing my observation skills on the people moving in and out through the lobby. I enjoyed playing a little game I called “Spy or not”.

  By the time my security escort arrived, I had identified forty-two techs, twenty-one analysts, eight military personnel in civilian clothing (though I was unable to determine their purpose for being in civilian clothing), and two maybe spies. In addition, I spotted a couple of high-level executives and a few greasy-looking used car salesmen types whom I assumed were lobbyists.

  I was escorted into a small conference room where I saw John and—using my skills of observation—two analysts.

  “Good morning,” I said as I entered.

  “Morning, Scott. This is Ruth and Thomas. They’re analysts working on the Gaines-linked incursions,” John said referring to Mark Gaines, the rogue CIA Agent whose sister and family were murdered last month.

  Analysts, I thought. Wolfe, for two points.

  John and I had tracked Gaines down to Burbank, California. After a prolonged game of cat and mouse, the chase ended with me beating him to a bloody pulp following some sort of bizarre, psycho-physical, out of body, gladiatorial, response—I still hadn’t figured that one out.

  “Good morning,” I said, nodding to each of them.

  Both of them nodded, smiling as they looked up briefly from their laptops.

  Ruth looked like a stereotypical nerd with her heavy-rimmed glasses and her no-nonsense attire. But beneath the nerdy exterior, I saw an attractive woman who either didn’t know she was attractive or didn't care to play it up…just like Dr. Hebron.

  Thomas reminded me a bit of Storc in appearance. He was a little shorter and his hair was lighter, but the similarity was enough that I had a hard time not prejudging him as likable.

  “So what’s the scoop on my midnight visitors and the fake Mary Browning?” I asked no one in particular.

  “Both of the men you killed at your house last month are—or were rather—former military. They worked for Baynebridge security until two weeks before the attack and then resigned with no notice…according to Baynebridge,” Ruth said, though her tone indicated her disbelief. “We’re still waiting for Baynebridge to send over copies of their personnel files, but we have their military records already.”

  Baynebridge, I thought. Again!

  “We do know they were under a Homeland Security contract up until they resigned,” Thomas added. “But only because their names were on an authorized access list for certain facilities.”

  “Tom, is it?” I asked.

  “Thomas,” he corrected.

  “Thomas. Do you know who they were working for? I mean the command they answered to at Homeland, before they ‘resigned?’” I asked.

  He looked at John for clearance, and John nodded.

  “Security and Operations,” Thomas said.

  I looked at John questioningly.

  “Ned Richards’ department,” he confirmed.

  I let that information sink into my flowchart, prompting new lines of logic to fill my brain. Ned Richards was the DHS mid-level manager who had stormed into CIA headquarters last month with a court order, wanting to disappear Gaines into some dark hole. The Justice Department had thwarted that effort with a little covert help from the CIA.

  “I’m assuming we are expecting official documentation showing the date of their resignation,” I said. “And I’m assuming all the paperwork will be in order.”

  “The paperwork will certainly show what Baynebridge claims,” Ruth replied. “But I suspect that if we did some digging into their personnel files, we’d find a more recent indication of employment. I’d like to get the access logs at Homeland scanned for alterations as well.”

  “Stow that shit,” John warned Ruth. “Until we can prove otherwise, Homeland’s word is gold.”

  “It’s a government agency. Why can’t we just access the systems?” I asked. “Can’t you get clearance for that from the Justice Department or something?”

  Ruth and Thomas laughed.

  “Homeland Security is like a country all to itself,” Ruth replied, grinning. “Not to mention that if anyone in the Department is involved, we’d tip our hand by showing up with an order.”

  “Justice is on it, but they’re playing it cool as well,” John added. “The last thing we want to do is create a reason for barriers to be put up. No one likes it when you piss in their sandbox.”

  “Doesn’t anyone at Justice think it’s strange that Homeland Security had a court-ordered transfer for Gaines on grounds of domestic terrorism signed before the explosions went off?” I asked incredulously. “If this was a kid smoking pot in a dorm room the DEA would have already broken down his door.”

  “Arresting kids for smoking pot doesn’t usually carry political risk for cabinet members and appointed directors,” John replied, schooling me once again on the rules of the political machine.

  “It should,” I muttered.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Nothing. So what you need is a sneak and peek,” I said, referring to a covert warrant for search.

  John shook his head. “Homeland is secondary at this point,” he said. “First we need to establish the validity of the resignation claims from Baynebridge. Then we can think about Homeland’s involvement.”

  I nodded my understanding but it irked me that one agency couldn’t just knock on the door of another agency and say, Hey! Let’s see what you’ve got in your files.

  “And there’s no way we’re gonna get a sneak and peek for Baynebridge,” Ruth said. “They’re too well-connected.”

  I smiled.

  John looked at me and grimaced. “No,” he said.

  “No, what?” I asked.

  “I’ve seen that look,” he said. “You do not have permission to hack Baynebridge.”

  Ruth and Thomas snapped their heads around toward me.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied innocently.

  He stared at me suspiciously for a long moment before turning to Ruth and Thomas. “Is there anything else you can tell Scott that won’t violate national security?”

  “Only if he needs to know what they had on them,” Ruth said.

  “What did they have on them?” I asked.

  “Etorphine,” John said, turning back to me.

  “It’s a veterinary analgesic—horse tranquilizer,” Thomas interjected. “You may have heard of it in the movies or on TV as—”

  “M99,” I inserted quickly. “Yeah. I’ve heard of it. So I guess it was supposed to be an abduction.”

  “It looks that way,” John said.

  I thought about it for a moment, trying to suppress the shiver that ran up my spine. If I hadn’t killed those two, God only knows where I’d be right now—or if I’d be right now.

  “How confidential is this meeting?” I asked. “I mean—is it being recorded?”

  John shook his head. “We're clean in here, and you can trust these two.
They’re part of the same section I am.”

  They looked at me expectantly.

  I hesitated a moment longer, not sure how my observation would go over with John. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence that my condo was broken into the same day we did our debrief on Gaines.”

  John shook his head unenthusiastically. There was a warning in his glare though.

  “That’s not to say it was Richards,” I added quickly. “But I’m assuming his bodyguard is Baynebridge as well.”

  “Your assumption is correct—and we are already looking into that possibility,” Ruth said. “But we have to be careful. Messing with Baynebridge can bring some heavy political players into the mix, and then we'd get nothing accomplished…we'd be locked up in House Committee hearings and subpoenas.”

  “Baynebridge can’t seriously believe they aren’t being looked at after two of their thugs broke into my house,” I said.

  “Former thugs…and it’s not that simple,” John said. “There’s a dance that has to be performed when dealing with other agencies.”

  “The hell with that,” I replied plainly. “I can’t dance for shit. And the last time I checked, Baynebridge wasn’t an agency.”

  Thomas and Ruth chuckled. John continued glaring at me, warning me with his eyes.

  “They might as well be, as deeply entrenched in the system as they are. Don’t make me regret bringing you in,” he said.

  I stared back at him, measuring his resolve on the issue. I could tell he was bluffing. He wanted this information as badly as I did.

  “Okay, boss.” I lied in an attempt to pacify him. “I’ll behave.”

  I got a knowing smirk from Ruth. Judging by her sideways stare and the subtle smile that lingered as the meeting continued, she could tell I was going after Baynebridge on my own. It occurred to me that I might be able to rely on her as a resource in a pinch.

  “And Mary Browning?” I asked.

  “We don’t have anything on the fake one, and we’re still having a hard time figuring out how she got her biometrics switched out at TravTech,” Ruth said. “That’s not an easy thing to do, especially considering the security contract that manages it.”