EXFIL

by Anthony C. Patton

  I glanced at the statue and nodded.

  Lewis was right, but one of the biggest challenges in the intelligence business was keeping the generals and policymakers focused on our products, not on how we collected them, which sometimes meant withholding important information. Ignorance was bliss, but phony moralism ran the risk of diminishing the quality of the intelligence reports they demanded every day. Only a fool wouldn’t order the torture of someone with information about a nuclear attack.

  “We’re under attack,” Lewis continued, “but I fear our worst enemies might be within, given the frequency of these attacks. Is it possible that Lieutenant Colonel Li is running an American source, someone with access to our computers?”

  “If he is, General, I’ll find the son of a bitch.” One of the challenges of living in a free society like America, with deeply held values like private property, free speech, and freedom of the press, was that we often naïvely assumed that our fellow Americans would never commit espionage against our great republic. “Li is a professional, so it will be difficult to catch him in the act, but we’re on him like white on rice.”

  “Then it’s even more critical for you to make progress with him,” he said. He removed a laptop from the safe and handed it to me. “After this attack, our programmers coded new security patches for you to hand-deliver to the Pentagon. For obvious reasons, we can’t transfer them electronically, not even over our most secure systems.”

  I was confused by the strange request.

  “I’m not in a computer guy, but why don’t we buy better computer systems?”

  He groaned and shook his head. “We’ve requested money from Congress, but the budget cuts are killing us. This isn’t like buying the latest upgrade for Windows. We’ve made progress with JWICS for top secret information, but most personnel lack the right security clearance and do most of their business on NIPRNet and SIPRNet.”

  He handed me the laptop as we walked to the door. “The J6 is waiting for you,” he added.

  We shook hands. “It might be necessary to take off the gloves, General.”

  He nodded soberly. “Keep me posted.”

  I was pleased to see that we were opting for a low-tech solution for a high-tech problem: hand-delivering the security patches to produce an air gap between Cyber Command and the Pentagon. For many years, the terrorists had relied on phones and social media to communicate, but after we’d exploited their communications and struck them dead with lightning bolts from above, they resorted to a low-tech network of couriers to pass messages by whispering into the ear of the intended recipient, often traveling long distances to do so.

  But no system of communication was one hundred percent secure: the couriers might not be trustworthy or might be intercepted along the way.

  Across town at the Pentagon, the J6 was responsible for military command, control, communications, and computers/cyber, collectively referred to as C4. I didn’t understand their job but couldn’t overstate their importance. From calling in air strikes to conducting raids on terrorist compounds, I never took the J6 folks for granted.

  The J6 operations center was also in a state of controlled chaos in the aftermath of the cyberattack. The first thing I noticed was that the area was divided into two sections, with the more sensitive activity inside a secure zone separated by security controls and wire-lined glass, the JWICS top secret system. The less sensitive activity—the SIPRNet secret system and the NIPRNet unclassified system, which had faced the brunt of the attack—had an open bay of cubicles.

  The technicians on the top secret side must have recognized my laptop because I was swiftly escorted inside, where a young man with glasses, a retro paisley shirt, and an argyle sweater vest booted it up, inserted a factory sealed USB drive, and downloaded the security patches.

  I would normally say that I sensed a homosexual vibe, but someone explained to me that the younger generation embraced the beta male culture.

  “Welcome to my world,” Colonel O’Connor said as he approached, wearing a long-sleeve green uniform shirt with cufflinks and a tie.

  “I can only imagine how busy you are,” I said as the technician fidgeted and tapped his foot, his eyes averted while the files downloaded.

  “If I can ask a favor,” O’Connor said to me, “please find the bastards who are responsible for these attacks and make them stop.”

  We had no intention of telling anyone that Lieutenant Colonel Li was that bastard. “I’m on it,” I said with a wink and allowed my eyes to wander to the other side of the room, where Anna was talking to other technicians. She wore faded jeans with an oversized navy-blue Irish turtleneck sweater, black-rimmed glasses, and her hair pulled back in a ponytail—obvious steps to moderate her beauty in a room filled with horny and insecure computer geeks.

  “We’d sure love to get Anna working on this side,” O’Connor said, attuned to my gaze. “If you can pull some strings with her security clearance, that would be swell.”

  The technician removed the USB drive and closed the laptop.

  I tucked it under my arm with a salute.

  “Pleasure doing business,” O’Connor said.

  TEN

  There were other times when “getting the call” was something we dreaded. Parents always dread receiving bad news about a child. Military commanders dread receiving bad news about a raid for their soldiers. So, when I received a late-night call from Army Criminal Investigation Command, asking me to meet them at a remote motel in northern Virginia to discuss a sensitive matter, I said I would be there right away. It didn’t sound good. Didn’t feel good, either.

  I spoke in the most professional tone I could muster. The enlisted CID special agent sounded rank deferential, but my mind raced to dark places. Knowing that my family was at West Point, I could safely rule them out as being in trouble. The least worrisome scenario was a soldier in Cyber Command had done something stupid, like getting drunk and arrested. I doubted that, though, because I was new and assumed that no one had listed me as their commanding officer or emergency point of contact. Lieutenant General Lewis had said nothing about assuming these responsibilities.

  I was reluctant to consider my own actions as a possible reason for the call, but when I recalled my misdeeds in Bangkok, I couldn’t help but think I deserved reprimand. Although I didn’t do anything illegal with Jewel or Anna, in the criminal systems of Thailand or the United States, the Uniform Code of Military Justice had prohibitions against “conduct unbecoming an officer and gentleman” (Article 133) and infidelity (Article 134), but this chivalrous code seemed to be a relic of the past for the new generation of soldiers that couldn’t grasp the idea of an anti-sodomy law.

  The doubt and uncertainty I felt while driving proved that narratives were constructed after the fact. While events were happening, there was no way to know in advance how things would turn out. Many people who’d shaped history had no idea that they were doing so at the time. I imagined that many of the soldiers crossing the Delaware River with General Washington on Christmas Eve would sooner have opted for a hot meal and a sleep.

  After the exit from I-66, I drove a county road for a few miles, entered a rural town, and saw three Army vehicles with flashing red lights parked outside a motel with a neon vacancy light and an otherwise empty parking lot. I selected a space away from the Army vehicles and paused to observe the scene. The CID special agent, lanky with a flattop, was wearing a black suit and talking to a man with long hair, flannel shirt, and a baseball cap, probably the motel owner.

  A few uniformed soldiers were entering and exiting a room a few doors down from the lobby. A bright flash from the room suggested photographs were being taken. With a deep breath and a mental note to avoid exuding guilt, I exited my car and strode toward the CID special agent.

  “Thanks again,” he said and turned to me as the motel owner returned to his office.

  “Colonel Reed,” I said. “What’s happening here?”

  “Special Agent Barry Johnson,” he
said, a senior NCO with an off-the-rack black suit, white dress shirt, and a loosened knot on his skinny tie. “Thanks for coming on short notice, sir.” He closed his notepad, clicked his pen, and gestured to the motel. “Could you follow me, sir?”

  I followed him with a pounding heart and entered the room to see a body bag on the bed and a half bottle of bourbon and an empty bottle of pills on the nightstand.

  Johnson silently gestured for the three uniformed soldiers to leave us alone.

  As he grabbed the zipper at the top of the body bag, I had no idea who was inside and couldn’t possibly have prepared myself for the horror I felt when he opened it to reveal Captain Tom Howard. I sank into a chair and hid my face in my hands, unable to speak or look up.

  “Do you recognize this man?” he asked as he zipped up the bag and opened his notebook.

  I took a deep breath and looked into his eyes. I was shocked, unaware that Tom had traveled from Thailand. No matter what, I would have to keep this professional. I nodded, silent.

  Then I managed to say, “Captain Tom Howard. He worked for me.”

  Johnson signaled for two soldiers to enter. They wheeled in a stretcher with obscene efficiency, hoisted the still limp body, which suggested a time of death less than two hours ago, and rolled it out of the room and into the back of a vehicle before driving away.

  I felt as though I needed more time with him.

  “We found your name in his pocket,” Johnson continued, and jotted something in his notebook. “My men are tracking down his family.” He closed the notebook and clicked his pen again. “What was the nature of your work with the deceased?”

  I stood and took a deep breath to gather my composure.

  “We worked together at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok, until about a week ago.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “What kind of work?”

  I decided to continue being vague.

  “The Defense Attaché Office,” I said, opting for silent eye contact to suggest the details were above his pay grade.

  He clicked his pen and jotted a note, then nodded.

  “Have you spoken with him during the past week?”

  “I was planning to call him to discuss a work-related issue,” I said, assessing that this topic might surface during the investigation.

  “Was there a problem?” he asked with pen to paper, the nib lightly contacting the surface.

  I had to nip this in the bud, but couldn’t lie by saying no. “We can discuss the details of our work in another venue, if you have the proper security clearance.”

  “Do you have a theory about why Captain Howard might have committed suicide?”

  “Are we ruling out homicide?” I asked to deflect attention away from me.

  Johnson looked around the room and shrugged. The CID guys were trained to detect lies, so I didn’t want to drag this out any longer than necessary. I honestly had no idea why Tom might have killed himself. I knew him well enough to know that sleeping with a Thai go-go dancer probably wouldn’t drive him to suicide, even if his wife and family had found out.

  The third uniformed soldier entered. “There’s no sign of a note.” He handed Johnson a piece of paper. “We tracked down his wife.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve got it from here.”

  The soldier nodded, exited the room, and drove away.

  As we walked to the parking lot, I finally wondered about the obvious. “Have you notified the police?”

  Johnson waved to the hotel manager, turned to me, closed his notebook, and clicked his pen. “Sir, the U.S. Army has jurisdiction for this particular investigation. Please don’t discuss it with anyone until we release a public statement. I will personally notify the sheriff.”

  My preference was to leave and let the investigation play out, but there was something I had to do, both because it was the right thing under the circumstances and because it might provide insights into why Tom had killed himself.

  “I know Captain Howard’s wife, Donna. I could call her to break the bad news.”

  Johnson looked me up and down, lit a cigarette, and took a deep drag.

  “I appreciate the offer, sir,” he exhaled, “but I’ll go with you.”

  With hindsight, my offer had been a mistake. Rightly or wrongly, Johnson would assume that I wanted to meet Donna alone to tell her a version of the story I didn’t want him to hear.

  Talking to the spouse after an apparent murder or suicide was job number one, so my offer was probably alerting.

  Donna sounded pleased to hear from me on the phone, but given that Tom had been out of contact for several hours, she quickly went to a dark place. Now she was “getting the call.” I offered to meet her at a diner near her parents’ house, where she and the children were staying.

  To manage the inevitable scene, I waited for Donna in the parking lot as Johnson waited inside. She immediately sensed that something was wrong and cried for what seemed like an eternity before we entered the diner.

  Johnson stood respectfully and offered condolences as he gestured for Donna to sit on the other side of the booth as I sat next to him.

  Donna had bleached-blonde hair and brown eyes, a small-town girl and devoted mother with a finely tuned radar for detecting bullshit. With her first sip of coffee, the tears were ending, which suggested this news might not have come as a complete surprise.

  She might have found out about Tom’s indiscretion with the go-go dancer in Bangkok, and the ensuing fight might have pushed him over the edge.

  “You saw him?” she asked.

  I nodded and stirred my coffee.

  Her eyes shifted between us, keeping her cards close. “Why would he do this?”

  “We were hoping you might have an idea,” I said, followed by a tense silence. I sensed that Johnson didn’t approve.

  “He didn’t leave a note,” Johnson said and sipped his coffee. “I understand that you recently traveled here from Thailand. Was it for work or personal?”

  “He said it was for work,” she said, “so the kids and I are spending time with my parents.”

  “What kind of work?” I asked. Given how recently I had left Bangkok, I felt sure I would have known about any planned work travel.

  Johnson looked at me and turned to Donna. “Was Captain Howard acting differently lately?”

  She looked at Johnson. “He dropped us off at my parents’ house after we landed at the airport.” She turned to me. “Did Tom seem different to you?”

  I leaned back and shrugged as my heart raced.

  “Not at all. We had a big success together before I left.”

  “Nothing comes to mind?” Johnson asked.

  I felt the weight of their stares, shook my head innocently, and finished my coffee.

  Johnson handed her a business card. “If you remember anything or need anything, call me.”

  Donna set the card in her purse. Johnson set six dollars on the table for the coffees and led the way to the front door. He offered professional handshakes, sensed that we needed a moment alone, and excused himself.

  I hugged Donna as Johnson drove away. “We’re going to find out what happened.”

  She wiped her tears, nodded, and walked to her car.

  I walked to the bathroom, splashed some water on my face, and looked in the mirror, then slammed my fist into the wall, leaving a dent. I walked out, noticed the shocked faces looking my way, and set $100 on the cash register.

  ELEVEN

  At three in the morning, I was pacing around my hotel room sipping a Scotch on the rocks and watching the empty streets below. No matter how I attempted to divert my mind, I just couldn’t get over the image of Tom laid out in the body bag.

  I had lost soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, but there was something honorable about dying in battle that made it easier to bear with taps, a 21-gun salute, and an American flag draped over the casket. On the other hand, there was no explanation for this waste of a good life—completely out of character and totally
at odds with the man I knew.

  It’s human nature to accept too much guilt or to deny all responsibility, so I focused on not dwelling on his night in Bangkok with the go-go dancer. There was no way a cocksure Puerto Rican like Tom would take his life over that. And if he had, I felt angry with him for doing so.

  As I mulled my own culpability in his death, an easy out was the fact that Tom had been a junior officer who’d worked for me. Although we had developed a friendship and a personal bond, there were also many things about our lives that we hadn’t discussed.

  For all I knew, he was having personal problems and chose not to share them.

  We sometimes have to accept that people are a mystery. I also knew that the military life, combined with the stress of moving from place to place, often took its toll.

  As much as I needed time to grieve, the show had to go on, and I had to get ready for my meeting with Li. I drifted off to sleep for an hour or two and was ready to launch again after coffee and a hot shower.

  The FBI dedicated a surveillance team to monitoring Li’s every move, with the goals of identifying pattern-of-life information to build a profile on him or catch him in the act of meeting a source. In the latter case, we could present him with evidence of espionage on American soil and attempt to “flip” him. With this in mind, Brett and Nguyen invited me to the FBI Washington Field Office to read the latest reports. In the conference room, I filled an FBI mug with black coffee, ready to get down to business as they flipped through their files in silence.

  I sipped my coffee and drummed my fingers on the table, perhaps one too many times.

  Nguyen cleared his throat, set his file on the table, and looked up. “Colonel Reed, we heard the devastating news about Captain Howard. We’re both very sorry for your loss. You know we have to ask—do you think his suicide had anything to do with the China operation?”