The Alexandria Project: A Tale of Treachery and Technology (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 1)

by Andrew Updegrove

  “You see, the site they really wanted to hit will be a site where they didn’t leave the Alexandria Project attack screen! I’ve been assuming their target was a single site on the long list of sites we know were hit, with the rest intended to make it impossible to tell which was the real target. But now it occurs to me that’s not the case at all – I’m betting all 192 sites were camouflage – the whole public campaign must have been launched to divert everyone’s attention from a site we would never guess had been compromised at all!”

  His father had been listening closely at first, but now he put on an aloof, impassive face as he drove. “Okay, but nowhere does your theory lead us yet.”

  “Do you really have to do that? Anyway, I’m hoping it does. If Mrs. Foomjoy’s hard drive has a record of all the sites the real bad guys have attacked, all we have to do is match it up against the CIA’s list. I’ll bet there will be one site, or maybe a few sites, that aren’t on the CIA’s list at all. If I’m right, we’ll know we’ve found what they were really after!”

  “Proud of you Yoda is. But point out he must that know you will only what site the real target was, and not after what the evil ones seek.”

  Frank grimaced. “That was even worse than usual. Do you think in Yoda-speak or something?”

  “Actually, no. Matter of fact, it kind of makes my brain hurt.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t feel obligated on my account.”

  Frank harrumphed to himself. He deserved a little more credit for his revelation, didn’t he? After all, this was his first real progress in weeks. Assuming, of course, that he was right.

  * * *

  George Marchand was relieved after speaking with the CIA Director. Being free of the requirement to log his reports into the joint Homeland Security database not only meant the FBI wouldn’t learn anything more from him, but that the CIA Director wouldn’t, either. Not for a while, anyway, and that was going to be important.

  He was in a tough spot, he reflected. The story Baldwin had fed him didn’t hang together, and Baldwin probably realized that by now, too. If Baldwin had learned that the FBI was on its way to capture Adversego, couldn’t he have sent someone to warn Frank in person faster than he could send a drone from who knows where? And what could he have hoped to accomplish with a Predator anyway?

  Worse yet, how could Baldwin have justified sending an armed drone aloft on an operation in the U.S.? What if it had crashed, as they sometimes did? How would he have explained that? It just didn’t make sense. The only rational conclusion was that Baldwin had been desperate to take Frank out before the FBI could capture him.

  If that was true, it didn’t leave George with many options within the line of duty to help Frank. He’d been trying to think of a second one all day, and so far had failed miserably.

  Nothing to be done, then, but get on with it, and hope that he still had a job when the dust settled. He picked up the cellphone and called Marla.

  “Hi Marla, it’s George.”

  “Hey George! It’s nice to speak to you somewhere other than in a dark alley.”

  He smiled. “That’s what I thought, too. How about dinner tonight? After all, you’re my goddaughter and I can’t remember the last time we got together.”

  * * *

  About 7:30 AM, Frank saw the bridge in the distance he’d been waiting for. He’d slept through half the night before taking over the wheel from his father, and now it was time to turn it back over to him. He pulled into a rest area and shook his father by the shoulder.

  “Time to earn your keep, old man. We’ve reached the Mississippi.”

  His father groaned as he stepped stiffly out of the Land Rover. “You know, sleeping in a car sucked when I was half your age. Don’t you have any respect for your elders?”

  Frank ignored him as he pulled his laptop out of the back of the Land Rover and refreshed the screen. Good – the download was complete. He climbed into the passenger seat and began exploring the disk directory. Ten minutes later, he found what he was looking for.

  “Got it! Give me five minutes and we’ll see whether I’m on to something or not.”

  Frank set up the comparison between the CIA’s list sites they knew to have been hacked by the Alexandria Project, and the record of hacked sites he had extracted from the copy of Mrs. Foomjoy’s hard drive. He held his breath, gently pressed the Enter key, and watched the percentage numbers spin as first one database and then the other was loaded, and then again as the comparison ran.

  “Yes! There’s exactly one new site!”

  “Good fishing! What did you catch?”

  Frank looked at the Web address and replied in a puzzled voice. “A U.S. Geologic Survey database?”

  * * *

  George found Marla waiting for him inside the door of an Italian restaurant not far from the Capitol. He hadn’t seen her dressed for an evening out before, and he was struck by what an attractive and selfassured young woman she had become.

  “Well hello, George. Did you remember to bring your skeleton keys?”

  He laughed as the maitre‘d ushered them to a quiet table near the back of the restaurant and held her chair.

  George sat down, and suddenly felt self-conscious, sitting alone with someone half his age at a candle-lit table. Marla smiled at him and he cleared his throat.

  “You know, I never have an opportunity to say it with Carl always around, but you’ve grown up to be quite an impressive young lady.”

  “Thanks. And I didn’t get a chance to say how much I appreciate all you’ve done for my father over the years.” She looked down as she spread her napkin in her lap. “I never realized it at the time, but you really helped him turn his life around. He’s shared a lot of things with me in the last few months that I never knew before.”

  George cleared his throat again. “Well, perhaps that’s not a bad transition to what I wanted to tell you this evening. You see, there’s one more thing you never knew.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Marla, if I share some things with you I shouldn’t, can I trust you completely to keep them to yourself?”

  “You know, I can’t seem to talk to anyone for more than five minutes anymore without running into that question. Do you think it’s something about the way I wear my hair?”

  She laughed, but George didn’t. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip.

  Of course you can, George. Please go on.”

  “Marla, did it strike you as a bit odd that the CIA would tap a library IT director to help out on a covert operation?”

  Marla stared at him. “George! Are you telling me that you’re a spook, too? You?”

  He looked slightly hurt. “I’m too dull and boring to be an agent, is that it?”

  “No, no – I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve known you since I was a kid, and I’ve never looked at you that way – why, you’re the last person in the world I’d expect to be a CIA agent.” She paused. “Well, I mean, I guess that’s the idea, though, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

  “My, my,” Marla said, shaking her head from side to side. “It’s going to take me a minute or two to get my brain around this. I wonder who else I know that’s leading a double life? Or maybe I should wonder who isn’t?” She looked sideways at the approaching waiter with mock suspicion.

  “Something to drink? A bottle of wine perhaps?” George looked at Marla.

  She laughed. “Yes, I guess I could use a drink! Wine would be perfect – I don’t know exactly what I’m ordering yet, but something white will be fine with me.”

  George looked at the wine menu. “We’ll have the Prosecco – hard to go too far wrong with that.”

  They studied their menus and ordered when the waiter returned with the wine in a bucket of ice.

  When he left, Marla raised her glass. “So here’s to the Company!”

  “Here’s to the Company,” George repeated, but with less enthusiasm than he might have a few days b
efore.

  They put their glasses down, and Marla spoke again. “You know, this is really a little awkward. I don’t know why you’re telling me this, or what I can ask you and what I can’t, so why don’t I just listen.”

  “Thanks, and you’re right – I can’t go into a lot of detail. Suffice it to say that I’ve been part of the CIA for a long time, that working for the Library of Congress is my cover, and that I’m very much involved in the Alexandria Project investigation. That’s really all you need to know.”

  Marla suddenly giggled. She put her napkin to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry. It just occurred to me that you might be Carl’s boss. It’s going to be really hard for me not to ask you to tell me embarrassing things about him.”

  George smiled. “By my observation, Carl is quite capable of embarrassing himself without any help from me. But seriously, Marla, he’s very reliable, and he actually does know what he’s doing, even if he is too self important by half for his own good. And if I wasn’t sure you would be completely safe under his protection, I would have assigned somebody else to watch out for you instead.”

  “I am sorry,” she said again. “That was out of line.” Then she giggled again. “Still, if anything really good should occur to you.…”

  “Moving on,” George said as the waiter brought their appetizers and refilled their wine glasses.

  They exchanged small talk, and then George became serious again. “Marla, here’s what I really wanted to talk to you about. I’m worried about Frank. He’s done very well taking care of himself so far, but I think we need to get him into a safe house for awhile. Now that he’s on the run again I’m worried that the FBI is eventually going to spot him. We can’t let that happen. Will you help convince him to take cover again if I provide an appropriate location?”

  “Can’t you just tell the FBI to chill? Don’t you guys ever talk to each other?”

  “Yes and no. First and foremost, you have to understand that the U.S. is the FBI’s turf – not the CIA’s. By law, we can’t do much on U.S. soil, and especially not involving U.S. citizens. Our ability to protect Frank is very limited, and right now, the FBI thinks it might be quite convenient for them to hang your father out to dry.”

  Marla put down her fork.

  “You realize, George, that it’s going to be difficult for me to convince my father to trust the CIA after the FBI came for him, even if I tell him that you’re with the CIA. How does he know that someone else at the CIA didn’t tip the FBI off?”

  George paused, and then said quietly. “When I said, ‘safe house,’ I didn’t necessarily mean a CIA safe house.”

  Marla stared at him. “You mean the CIA did tip the FBI off?”

  “I can’t know for sure one way or the other. Actually, I don’t think they did. But that may be beside the point.”

  Marla frowned. “George, with all due respect, you’re not making much sense.”

  “I know,” he said uncomfortably. Marla raised her eyebrows and waited.

  George took a deep breath and then leaned forward.

  “Let me lead into this gently. Let’s say I’m going to give you some good news, and then I’m going to give you some bad news.”

  “Okay. I’ve set my wine glass down on the table and folded my hands neatly in my lap. Do I look composed?”

  “Yes, you do. So the good news is that at least for now, the FBI thinks your father’s dead.”

  Marla’s eyebrows went up again. ”Okay. And that would be why?”

  “Well, that brings us to the bad news. It seems that the Director of the CIA blew up your father’s camper with a Hellfire missile. And I don’t know for sure that he knew your father wasn’t in it.”

  Marla stared at him, and then stood up abruptly. “You’re going to have to excuse me.”

  George watched as she strode off to the rest room. He stared moodily down at the table while the waiter cleared their appetizers and brought the entrees. Now what?

  It was almost five minutes before Marla returned. George stood up to hold her chair, but she motioned him to sit back down. She spread her napkin in her lap once more, took a sip of wine, and then looked across the table.

  “You know, that wasn’t the most persuasive bit of information you could have provided to convince my father to trust you.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. But it was also true. And it should convince him how high the stakes are that people are playing for here.”

  “Granted. But it’ll take more than that to convince him.”

  “You name it, and if it’s anything I can do, I will.”

  “Good! That’s the right answer.” Looking around to make sure that no one was watching, Marla reached into her purse and then handed him a small slip of paper.

  “What’s this?”

  “That’s the address of a database at a U.S.G.S. website. I called my father while I was in the lady’s room to bring him up to date. He wants you to get him the password and full rights to access the information at that website.”

  He looked down at the slip of paper and then placed it carefully in his pocket. “And then?”

  “And then I’ll see what I can do about bringing my father ‘in from the cold.’”

  She raised her glass and smiled. “Did I say that right?”

  * * *

  Not far away, Francis X. McInnerney was dining alone. After bungling the capture of Adversego, his people in Las Vegas had come through for him. And a good thing for them they had.

  He sipped his celebratory glass of 30-year-old scotch and reflected on the news Johnson had delivered to him. It seems that there was no trace of any human remains to be found in the wreckage of the camper. Baldwin may have thought he’d put one over on McInnerney, but the missile had struck the rear of the vehicle, leaving the engine and more than half of the cab more or less intact. Johnson had found parts of a video camera in the grill of the camper. He was almost 100% sure the vehicle had charged his men under remote control.

  Johnson had also assigned someone to review all the details in the joint Agency database about Adversego’s family and friends, and then ran it against the FBI’s own master database of information. When he did, he found a surprising connection. It seemed that Frank’s long lost father was actually a retired FBI agent living in Nevada under the name Bart Thatcher. And also that Thatcher hadn’t been seen or heard from since Johnson unknowingly left him a voicemail seeking help in capturing Frank.

  Thatcher’s relation to Frank, of course, would never find its way back into the joint agency database. All the CIA would find there was the fact that every FBI agent and state trooper in the country was looking for an old heap of a Land Rover, light green, with Nevada plates, VEK 452, driven by someone named Bart Thatcher and carrying another person of interest. Upon capture, they were to be brought immediately to the nearest FBI field office.

  McInnerney bet he’d be showing that bastard Baldwin who was boss within 24 hours. He swirled his scotch meditatively in his glass, and then with a smirk raised it in a silent toast: Here’s to the Company!

  * * *

  29

  A Car Chase is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

  What do you mean that website doesn’t exist? I’m looking at its log-in screen right now.”

  George Marchand was on the phone with the director of IT services at the U.S. Geological Survey.

  “No it doesn’t George. You know what I’m saying.”

  “I know you’re saying you know something you’re not telling me.”

  “No, George. You know I’m saying I know something I can’t tell you. C’mon, be reasonable.”

  “Okay, have it your way. Then how about giving me a user ID and a password that don’t exist for this website that doesn’t exist?”

  Bill Fine sighed. He’d known Marchand for years through interagency IT meetings and liked him. But he didn’t like him enough to end up fired or in jail.

  “George, you know I can’t do that, either.”
>
  Marchand waited, but Fine was silent. “So, is that it?” He mentally crossed his fingers and waited.

  Finally, he heard a sigh at the other end, and then Fine began to speak again. “It should be. But as I recall, you were granted the highest level access to a variety of sites last week in connection with an interagency interoperability/security pilot that will start next week. Maybe you should take a look at the list of sites that will be part of the pilot. Gotta go.”

  Well, how about that. So he had. George opened the locked cabinet in the corner of his office and removed a thick envelope. Sure enough, the USGS would be part of the pilot. He sorted through the contents until he found another sealed envelope. In it was a set of log in instructions and two security tokens.

  * * *

  “Second token number entered? Okay, one last time, hit Enter.” Then the phone line went dead.

  Frank pressed the Enter key, and a moment later he was inside the USGS site that didn’t exist. But what was it he was looking at?

  A database, it seemed. And a big one, too. It must have hundreds of millions of individual data cells. He opened one up at random and found a pair of numbers, ending in the letter “W.” He checked a few other cells, and saw that each one ended in an either an “E” or a “W.”

  “What do E and W have in common?” he asked his father.

  “Well, throw in N and S, and you’ve got the four points of the compass.”

  Of course – that must be it. These were geographic coordinates – latitude and longitude. And extremely precise ones at that. Instead of reflecting just degrees and minutes – 38° 53’ N, 77° 02’ W – in the traditional presentation – each pair of coordinates was much more exact, displaying in decimal form to six significant digits. The number in the cell he’d last opened looked like this:

  42.495372N-70.858922W

  Then he noticed something else that was strange. The last digit in the longitude number had just changed from 2 to 3. This wasn’t a simple, static database of information at all – it was an enormous dynamic data warehouse that was updating in real time. What was that all about? Frank tagged and copied the number for future reference, and then began browsing through the administrative functions of the database. He found a field marked “search” and another marked “report,” so he pasted the coordinates he’d copied into the “report field.” He hit enter, and saw the following: