Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  Tom spoke up again. “Okay, this all makes sense, Ron. Overall, a pretty brilliant plan if this is the way it indeed happened. But—cut to the chase. What’s a ‘diversionary murder?’”

  “That’s a type of murder that’s designed to look like something else. First, to make it look like an accident. Secondly, to make it look like just a horrific mass casualty. To draw attention away. Everyone would be focused on the ‘accident’ part, and the high body count—and nothing else. So, two things diverting attention away from what was really intended. Just like a ‘head fake’ in football.”

  Nate said, “I think I know where you’re coming from. Spit it out.”

  “I think that only one person was intended to be killed on that rollercoaster. The other twenty-four victims were, sadly, just collateral damage.”

  Chapter 23

  Carl Masterson parked his car in a lot just off L’Enfant Plaza and walked into the lobby of the NTSB headquarters. It had been a beautiful day so far—he’d actually enjoyed the drive down from the NSA compound in Fort Meade, Maryland. He usually didn’t—for some reason he could never relax in the car. Maybe it was the music he usually played—seventies heavy metal.

  Today, with so much on his mind, he decided to suck it up and listen to some soft jazz. And it seemed to have worked. He was breathing easy, his heartbeat wasn’t racing like it usually was, and he could almost feel the possibility of a smile crossing his face. He just had to find something funny and test that out.

  In fact, today he felt like he was in his twenties again—playing football for the 49ers.

  Those were the days. His glory days—well, college ball was probably more glorious, if he was being honest with himself. He’d been a star fullback at the University of Southern California, got drafted in the first round by San Francisco, and then made his debut in the NFL. His childhood dream had come true.

  And he’d had a couple of good seasons as the starting fullback. Things were going well until that damn scandal. The old stripper claimed rape—well, it wasn’t rape at all. She’d wanted it and willingly came back to his hotel room. She was just a tramp.

  And the courts agreed with him. He was acquitted of all charges. She was a gold-digger, looking to tell her story to the tabloids. And hoping she could succeed in a civil suit against a well-heeled NFL sophomore. Even after he was acquitted of the criminal charges, she didn’t give up, the fat bitch. But she failed again.

  But, goddamnit, the scandal took two years off his career. He was suspended until the criminal case was heard, then back on the roster. But after that he needed time off constantly to fight the civil case—suspended again, this time on a morals clause. When he was finally cleared, he then had to deal with the non-stop protests and bad publicity about discrimination, and favoritism towards athletes. Yes, he was an athlete, and yes, she was black.

  He’d kept in shape throughout, knowing he’d win eventually. He wanted his spot in the starting line-up back. But, success in sports is a fleeting thing. If you’re unfortunate enough to fall onto the injury list, someone else slips in and gets noticed. When you finally come back from the injury, there’s a new hero in town.

  And if you’re falsely accused of a crime or something scandalous, the sting remains even when you’re cleared. People still remembered that you’d been accused, and they certainly all remembered the salacious little details of his case—a black stripper, an NFL football player, kinky things that she said he did—nothing was kept private. Everyone he knew was embarrassed as hell, and ashamed to be seen with him.

  And Carl was embarrassed, too, because his world had been laid bare for all to see. And the jokes thrown towards him by fellow players, about the stripper being fat and old—that he was a desperately horny man who wasn’t equipped to hit on someone with youthful beauty, that he had to scrape the bottom of the barrel.

  Carl admitted to himself that he’d made the mistake of stumbling into the wrong joint that night. It turned out to be not one of the higher-end strip joints; the ones that featured young nubile strippers, the classier girls. No, the one he stumbled into was a kinky underground place that featured transvestites, fat girls, black girls and over-the-hill girls. And the girl he picked up had three strikes against her: fat, black and over-the-hill. The locker room jokes that he had to endure throughout that whole affair were painful, and the Press had had a field day with him, too.

  So, when he finally came back onto the roster in 1993, he was a forgotten man. Someone else was the starting fullback—and he’d missed almost two years of active play. He was good enough to get through training camp, but only good enough to make the ‘taxi squad.’ Which meant he was on the team, but not really. Kind of in the background in case they needed him. He never even dressed for games. Was never on the team jet.

  But then, in 1994, he’d earned his way back—not to the first string, but at least on the bench. He was a bencher, a filler—in case a first stringer got injured. And sometimes playing on special teams—kickoff returns, boring things like that.

  But—he was still a part of the team, and got to enjoy the glory of winning the Super Bowl in 1994. Didn’t contribute much—made a few blocks, things like that—just enough to get his sweater dirty, which was something every bencher wanted at the very least. A little dirt smudged on the face always helped, too—great to have when the Press took photos after the victory. You got to look like you contributed something, anything.

  But he felt that he had earned his Super Bowl ring, nonetheless. Carl looked down at his right hand and admired it. Then he rubbed the ring for good luck. He did that before every important meeting or confrontation—a memory of his days of glory.

  Well, he was a winner again—just not in the sports field anymore. Before the NFL, he’d managed to complete his law degree at ‘So Cal.’ And, when he left the NFL, he went right back to college and earned a Master’s degree in Criminology. Then two years with the FBI after that.

  One day, out of the blue, he was recruited to join the largest spy agency in the world, the National Security Agency. He’d moved up fast, now in the position of Director of the rather clandestine Security and Intelligence division. He had a small staff—only about thirty in total. Very specialized people, all talented in specific areas.

  His staff was small by design—the most sensitive material and actionable events came under his area. Most of the other departments collected and analyzed information and that was it. But his department was charged with doing something about the information—be that strategic planning, communications…or other things.

  What they did was so sensitive he couldn’t run the risk of having too many eyes and ears seeing and hearing what they did. He needed to maintain control and keep a lid on things. So, even he himself did fieldwork—usually the most sensitive stuff. He kept those things close to his chest.

  His staff was an odd collection of specialists. There were marketing experts for the communications area, systems experts, strategic planners, a few engineers and scientists…and a couple of assassins. And of course there was Carl himself—skilled at martial arts, a trained lawyer and a criminal psychology expert. Being a former athlete did nothing for him, however. In fact, no one even remembered him, because he hadn’t even had the chance to make his mark way back then.

  But he had his ring. No one could take that from him. And most people didn’t even recognize it for what it was. He was always surprised about that. Unless they got a close-up look at it, the only comments he got were: “Nice ring,” or “Boy, that’s a big ring.”

  Carl took the elevator up to the fourth floor of the National Transportation Safety Board, and walked up to the receptionist.

  “I’d like to see John Fletcher.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Carl pulled an NSA shield out of his pocket and held it out in front of her face. “No, I don’t.”

  “Oh, I see. The NSA. Okay, what’s your name, please?”

  “We don’t give out our nam
es—national security reasons.”

  “Well, who do I say is visiting?”

  Carl sighed. God, this girl was thick. “You just say ‘the NSA;’ that’s all you have to say.”

  Looking flustered, she picked up the phone and punched in a number. Then she hung up without saying anything and hurried off down the hall. Carl took a seat and waited.

  In a few minutes, John Fletcher made his appearance. Carl noticed a slight scowl appear on John’s face the moment he saw who it was. Carl smiled inside.

  “You again? What do you want now?”

  Carl stood. “I want us to have a little chat in your office.”

  John jerked his head and led the way down to his office. Once inside, he closed the door behind them and sat down at his desk.

  “I signed your report. There’s nothing else to say.”

  Carl allowed his lips to curl up in the corners. The kind of look he used to give to opposing linebackers on the football field. “You signed something else, too. A confidentiality agreement. Have you been faithful to that agreement, John?”

  “Yes, I have been.”

  “Has your wife been faithful to that agreement, John?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and my wife never signed an agreement with you anyway. It’s a moot point.”

  Carl rubbed his ring. “It’s not a moot point—not if you asked her to do the talking for you.”

  John just stared back. Carl could tell he’d hit a chord.

  “Funny thing, the executives at Flying Machines knew exactly where to go, where to find the wreckage. They flew right to Key West, flew over the junkyard and then made a personal visit there. Funny, huh?”

  John shifted in his chair. “I never told them anything.”

  “Another funny thing happened. A woman phoned one of the executives, Tom Foster, from a phone booth in Georgetown only five minutes from your very house. She told him where the wreckage was. Now, isn’t that a funny coincidence?”

  “That could have been anyone.”

  “Really, John? Do you believe in strange coincidences like that? An educated man like you—one who has investigated virtually every serious accident in this country over at least the last thirty years? Someone like you who is trained to look beyond mere coincidence?”

  “Again, it could have been anyone.”

  Carl pulled a mini-cassette out of his pocket. “I have the tape of her voice on this cassette. Would you like to listen to it with me?”

  John shook his head. “There would be no point in that. It’s not my wife’s voice. I suggest you leave.”

  “Would you be interested in knowing that we did a voice match? It is indeed your wife’s voice.”

  John sat up straight in his chair. “How on earth could you get my wife’s voice to do a match with?”

  Carl laughed. “Are you forgetting that I’m with the NSA, John? You yourself, in our last meeting, were angry enough to remind me of the Edward Snowden affair, and how the NSA is so adept at listening in on private conversations. I appreciated that reminder, John.”

  John opened his mouth to say something, and then changed his mind.

  Carl rubbed his ring again. Things were going well. Now he needed to do a good job of bluffing so that John would open up a bit. He needed to make John feel safe, calm him down—he might come clean with him if Carl did this effectively.

  He allowed his voice to slide into a conciliatory tone. “So, don’t kid a kidder, John. I know what you did—you got your wife to make that call. It was your conscience talking and I understand that. You have integrity and it was a tough thing for you to deal with, signing a report that you knew was false. Even though I told you it was for national security reasons, the good guy in you who believes in truth and justice came through.

  “Sometimes I hate my job, John. I have moments of conscience all the time and I have to fight those back for the good of the country. But…you don’t have the training I’ve had, and you haven’t had to endure some of the terrible things I’ve seen—nor the scary things that I know the country needs protection from. I expected too much from you. I realize that now.”

  He noticed that John’s jaw seemed to be relaxing a bit. “So, what happened just happened, period. Can’t put the genie back in the bottle. All I want from you—need from you—is just for you to be honest with me and tell me if you’ve told anyone else about this. About the report being false, about how the accident really happened, things like that. All I’ll do is contact those people and have them sign confidentiality agreements. Then we’ll be done.”

  Carl was feeling confident. John’s face had really relaxed now. He waited. John licked his lips and wiped the sleeve of his right arm across his forehead, soaking up the sweat that was glistening on his brow. Then he stood.

  “Get the hell out of here, you dishonest prick! Do you really think I’m that stupid? Not only do you want a false report filed, I’m convinced that you and your spooks committed mass murder. I told you what I found—I found melted steel. That’s evidence of Thermate. And those lap bars did not disengage upon impact—I know that for a fact. Seeing you sitting there in front of me, spouting your crap, makes me sick.”

  John walked to his office door and yanked it open. “Get out! I don’t want to see you again, whoever the fuck you are!”

  *****

  Carl felt unsettled the entire drive back to Maryland. Even the soft jazz wasn’t helping.

  He hadn’t handled that as well as he could have. He had no idea if Fletcher had confided in anyone else. There might very well be loose ends out there, but Carl couldn’t tie them up if he didn’t know what they were.

  Well, he would just have to deal with what he knew. This Fletcher guy was a loose cannon. But Carl had to assume that at this stage all the man had done was to get his wife to make that call. Carl knew nothing that would indicate anyone else had been told anything, and certainly nothing else had come to his attention. So, maybe this could be contained. With a little fear.

  He could kill him—but that would just draw more attention. The NTSB investigator who had signed the report for a high-profile rollercoaster accident dying suddenly? That would just be too coincidental. He had to shut him up—make him realize he was serious. That this was serious. Operation Backwash could not be jeopardized by a moralistic accident investigator. And if Fletcher knew what Operation Backwash was all about, he might even agree with Carl.

  But, of course, he couldn’t be told. That operation was classified and it would remain that way. No, he would just have to put the fear of God in John Fletcher.

  Gas leaks had been quite common the last few years in the United States. In some cases, entire neighborhoods had been leveled. Houses flattened, its sleeping occupants left even flatter. These things just seemed to happen in this day and age of high efficiency appliances and central heating. Gas was volatile and unpredictable.

  Sometimes, they were indeed accidents…and sometimes they weren’t. The average American citizen couldn’t tell the difference.

  Chapter 24

  Dinner had been lovely. Candlelight, pasta, some red wine, and a wee bit of dancing afterwards. John Fletcher had never really learned how to dance, but Linda was really good and she’d patiently showed him a few steps over the years. At least now he wasn’t embarrassed when she persuaded—or, more like coerced—him up on the dance floor. He’d managed to move around without stepping all over her toes.

  She’d worn his favorite dress tonight—beautiful purple, a slight dip in the front showing just a hint of cleavage, bare on the shoulders, low cut in the back. And she’d donned her favorite black dancing shoes, too—that was John’s first hint that she’d be dragging him up onto the floor.

  They’d talked and laughed for hours, trying hard to forget the grim death sentence John’s tumor had given him. And they did forget—for a while. They reminisced about their forty plus years together, and both knew that they’d do it all over again if they could.

 
; John just loved her dearly. There had never been anyone else. While he knew that a lot of his friends had fooled around on their wives over the years—and loved to brag about it—it wasn’t something that ever occurred to John to do. He felt sorry for his friends, sad that they hadn’t found that special person like he had. He never lectured them, never judged them—usually just shrugged his shoulders and said something like, ‘Whatever turns you on.'

  And John, with the good looks he’d been blessed with, would have had an easier time picking up women than any of his friends. One of his best friends, Gary, said to him one time when they were having a beer together: ‘John, if I had your looks I’d be in bed with a different girl every night!’

  And John had been hit on numerous times during his forty years of marriage—he had no problem letting them down gently. And he never regretted doing that. It just wouldn’t have felt right—and he would have been thinking of Linda the whole time anyway, thinking about how much she loved and trusted him and how much he loved and trusted her.

  No, he couldn’t betray that—and never would. It was too good to ruin.

  He glanced over at her as he made the last turn to reach their home in Georgetown. Her cheeks were flushed from the wine and the dancing, and her auburn hair was a little out of place from the breeze flowing in through the open sunroof. She sensed that he was looking at her and smiled at him. A warm smile, one that didn’t need any words. But, she said them anyway. “I had a lovely time, John. We should do that more often.”

  John pulled up in front of the house. Linda’s car was in the driveway, so he always left his on the street. Their garage was full of junk, so neither of their cars had ever seen the inside.

  But…this was Washington. Garages were meant for storage down here—there were hardly ever any weather issues to be concerned with.

  As he shifted the Lexus into park, she reached over and squeezed his hand. “I love you, John.” Then tears started to stream down her cheeks. “And…I’m…going to…miss you.” She started sobbing and covered her eyes with her delicate hands. “You…don’t know…how much. I can’t imagine…life without…you in it.”