Serpentine

by Peter Parken

  Shelby smiled warmly at him. “My pleasure, John.”

  Nate started things off. “John, we’re all so sorry about your loss. You must be still in shock. Our condolences. But we are glad you’ve agreed to help us despite the loss you’ve suffered. This is such a weird mystery that just keeps getting weirder and anything you can share with us would be appreciated. Would you like to tell us your side of things?”

  John nodded. “I’ll be brief—mainly because I’m not feeling too communicative these days, as you can probably appreciate. In a nutshell, I was forced to sign that investigation report—forced by my boss and some shadowy man from the National Security Agency. I know from my own inspection that the steel on the track was melted—I’m a metallurgical engineer, and my experience told me that it was probably done with Thermate.”

  Ron jumped in. “I agree, John. That was my initial guess, too. And the photos my colleagues took of the wreckage down in Key West show the molten metal.”

  John nodded and continued. “You all probably know that I’m dying of a brain tumor. About a year left to live. That was the reason I chose to go along and just shut up. The wrong thing to do, I know, and I’m ashamed of that, but I was worried about benefits and life insurance remaining intact.

  “At that time, my wife, Linda, was still alive.” John paused to wipe a tear away from his eye. “My conscience started getting the better of me, so I asked Linda to make an anonymous call to you, Tom. You and I had chatted over the phone about my inspection report, so I figured you were as good a person as any to give the tip to. I wanted you guys to see the wreckage before it was sunk in the Caribbean.”

  Tom wrung his hands together. “Yes, thanks for that, John.”

  John let his eyes roam to everyone at the table. “I’m convinced that my wife was murdered because of that phone call.”

  He paused to let that comment sink in, and then continued. “That night, we were out to dinner. When we got back, Linda went upstairs and I was just about to join her when my car alarm went off. Went outside and discovered the glass had been smashed on my car. Then I noticed another car a few houses up the street doing a U-turn and speeding off in the other direction. I got the license number.

  “I walked back toward the house and suddenly all hell broke loose. A gas explosion tore the house apart. It was too late to save Linda.” Some more tears, which John wiped away with the back of his hand.

  “I believe that the car alarm was intended to draw me outside. I think they knew that the husband would normally check something like that in the dead of night rather than the wife. My best guess, is that the scum in that vehicle I saw, used a remote control release on the gas valve; a receiver and device they must have installed while we were out to dinner. Then they must have used the remote control again to trigger something that would cause a spark. There’s no way of knowing any of this for sure—the destruction of the house was total. So, I’m just speculating, but I think I’m pretty close to the truth.”

  Nate was jotting down notes as John talked. “Sorry to interrupt, John. But why would they want to kill your wife? You’d already signed the report—you did what they wanted.”

  John grimaced. “That same NSA guy who forced me to sign the report paid me a visit after Linda made the anonymous call, and after you guys had trekked down to Key West. He told me that he knew the phone booth was close to my home, and that they’d taped Linda’s voice. And he had a voice match—God knows these clowns can do anything—so he knew it was Linda’s voice. He wanted to know who else I’d told about the wreckage. I got angry—threw him out of my office, told him I thought he and his cronies had committed mass murder. Told him again that I knew that Thermate had been used.”

  Ron interrupted. “John, originally when he asked you to sign that false report, did he tell you why?”

  “Just that it was for national security reasons.”

  Nate leaned his elbows on the table and stared at John. “So, you’re convinced that they intended to kill your wife. But not you?”

  “Not me—just Linda. I don’t think they wanted the coincidence of me turning up dead. I was the one who investigated that horrific coaster accident, and they already knew that you guys saw the wreckage so you knew it wasn’t an accident. If you raised alarm bells, it would look really bad if I suddenly became dead.

  “No, they wanted to scare the shit out of me by blowing up my house and if my wife died, all the better. They wanted me out of the house—that’s why the car was vandalized. And I think they knew that I would know it wasn’t an accident. They wanted me to know. But I’m certain they didn’t know that I’m dying, so being frightened about my future is now a moot point.”

  Ron turned his laptop on. While he was staring at the screen, he asked, “Did you check on that license plate number?”

  “I tried to—gave it to a policeman. He told me that since it had the prefix ‘W,’ he wasn’t able to access it. The ‘W’ told him it was a military vehicle.”

  Ron nodded. “Yeah, that’s ‘Army’ to be exact—probably a pool car out of Fort Meade.”

  “Yes, and guess where the NSA operates out of? Fort Meade!”

  “You’re right, John.”

  Nate pulled the sketch out of his briefcase and slid it over to John. Shelby followed his lead with her sketch. “Is this the guy from the NSA?”

  “It sure is. Bang on, both sketches.”

  “Was he wearing a large ring on his right hand?”

  “Come to think of it, yes. He kept rubbing it.”

  Nate lowered his voice. “John, I saw that guy at Adventureland a minute or two before the accident, with his fist raised at the track—we’re guessing that in his fist was the remote control that caused the Thermate to ignite, and the lap bars to disengage.”

  John whistled. “Geez!” He directed his attention to Shelby. “And where did you see this guy?”

  “Out of the blue, he dropped down in the seat in front of me at a restaurant. He threatened me into joining the Class Action lawsuit, and told me I had to testify that the bars opened on impact.”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t get his name either. Refused to give it to me for national security reasons.”

  Ron was clicking away on his laptop. He looked up at John. “We’ve concluded, John, that the mass murder was done to cover up the murder of just one person. We don’t know the reason yet…but I think we’ve just discovered who the person was that they wanted to kill.”

  Tom perked up. “Who do you think it was, Ron?”

  Ron turned away from his keyboard and stared at Tom. “I’ve received some information from my contact at ‘Anonymous’—that rogue group of pesky hackers and troublemakers. I checked that name out that you seemed to have misspelled.”

  Ron looked back at his computer screen. “Looks like Alexei Dragunov worked for the NSA. Out of Fort Meade. He’s an American, but from Russian heritage—still has family back in Russia. Looks like Mr. Dragunov was assigned to the Russian Unit of the NSA, as an analyst. They have separate units there that are dedicated to tapping into communications for virtually every country in the world. It allows the NSA to specialize and focus on world hot spots, and also of course make use of the multiple language skills of some of their operatives.”

  Nate looked over at Tom and frowned. “That was a pretty serious oversight, Tom. Every rider on that rollercoaster has been checked out and no one else’s occupation jumped out at us. But the one—the only one—who worked at the NSA, is the one whose name happened to be misspelled. And now after what John has told us, we know that our mystery man, who’s been literally pushing all the buttons, is from the NSA as well.”

  Tom nodded. “I agree. Let me check with the people I assigned to this and find out how it happened.”

  Nate tapped his fingers on the table. “I asked you to do that checking yourself.”

  “I know, but I have good people—and I was busy with other t
hings. Leave it with me, Nate. I’ll find out and heads will roll.”

  “Who did you assign to this?”

  “I’d rather not say right now. Let me get back to you.”

  Nate cracked his knuckles. “Are you trying to protect someone, Tom?”

  “Maybe—until I find out more. As I said, leave it with me. Heads will roll, I promise you.”

  Nate shook his head. “I don’t care about heads rolling, Tom. I’m only interested in how this mistake happened and if it was accidental or deliberate. It’s a glaring error, and it seems far too coincidental to me.”

  “I agree. I’ll get on it.”

  Nate looked back at Ron. “Anything else to report on this guy?”

  “Yeah, and there will be more to come, too. But, in the meantime, you all may be interested in knowing that Anonymous have checked Dragunov’s known contacts. The one and only Edward Snowden is listed here as a close ally and friend when they both worked at the NSA together. And…as the entire world knows, Snowden is now hiding out somewhere in Russia, having been granted asylum by Putin. It’s been rumored that he’s living in the Moscow area. And, as we’ve just discovered, Alexei Dragunov just happens to have had family living in the Moscow area.”

  There was absolute silence around the table. Several stunned mouths were hanging open until Nate broke the stillness.

  “Another coincidence.”

  Chapter 33

  The meeting was at a bar in Old Town Alexandria, just a short walk from the Flying Machines’ offices. Ron Collens was going jacketless today, with the temperature in most of Virginia expected to soar close to 100 F. All he had with him was his laptop case. He wouldn’t need anything else—and knowing the skills of the man he was meeting with, he may not even need that.

  He and Chet Mathers had served together in the Seals; comrades in arms. Friends for life. They had each saved the other’s life at one time or another, and would owe each other for that until the end of time.

  Chet, like Ron, was a Systems Engineer—but with talents and skills way up in the stratosphere. He owned his own software company and had become immensely successful, specializing in the entertainment field. That industry required creative solutions to their challenges, and Chet’s company had gained a reputation that surpassed all others.

  Chet also had a secret occupation—a volunteer one. He was an ‘Anon,’ an active member and one of the founders of the shadowy quasi-activist group, ‘Anonymous.’

  Anonymous was an international group of hackers, but more appropriately labeled as “hacktivists.” Their symbol was a stylized version of a Guy Fawkes mask, made famous in the movie, ‘V for Vendetta.’ Anonymous members wore these masks whenever they protested in public.

  The group, which originated in 2003, now numbered in the thousands around the globe. They were originally just written off as pranksters, hungry for publicity. One of their first targets was the Church of Scientology, with online pranks, embarrassing revelations, and ‘denial of service’ attacks on the church’s website.

  Those establishment figures who didn’t take Anonymous seriously were caught by surprise when they suddenly became emboldened with their newfound notoriety. Because next on their impressive list were several sensitive government agencies of the United States, Israel, Australia, Spain, Turkey and the United Kingdom.

  They didn’t stop with governments—new victims were added to their list, including PayPal, MasterCard, VISA, and Sony.

  Anons then publicly supported WikiLeaks, Occupy movements, and more recently Edward Snowden.

  An unstated vow that Anonymous seemed to have was to use their impressive skills to fight oppression, corruption, and dishonesty in governments and corporations. Supporters of the group have referred to them as “freedom fighters” and “digital Robin Hoods.”

  Critics abound, too, and of course from the predictable circles: governments and large corporations. Called “anti-religious and racist,” “cyber lynch mob,” and “cyber terrorists,” the group had made their presence felt in painful fashion and in all the places they wanted it to be felt.

  In 2012, TIME Magazine even elevated the group to the position of being a “person,” calling Anonymous “one of the most influential people in the world.”

  From what Ron could gauge from Chet, the group had very few rules for its members. The three most important guiding principles were: to not disclose identities; to not talk about the group with anyone; and to not attack the media. They were motivated by primarily one thing: ‘an unrelenting moral stance on issues and rights, regardless of direct provocation.’

  The anthem of Anonymous that a lot of the members seemed to use in communications or warnings was: We are Anonymous. We are Legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.

  Ron knew far more about Anonymous than he was supposed to know. But his close relationship with Chet gave him special privileges, and Chet knew that Ron would never betray him to anyone. Ron had actually been invited by Chet to join the group years ago, but he’d declined. It just wasn’t his thing.

  And he’d never had a reason before to tap into his relationship with Chet. But this time, he had a reason and Chet agreed to help without question, providing he remained ‘anonymous.’ Ron and his partners needed help and he wasn’t shy about asking his old military buddy for a favor. And he knew that Chet certainly wouldn’t hesitate to ask him either—the bond between military comrades was a strong one indeed and it lasted a lifetime.

  Ron walked through the door of a politically cheeky-named bar called ‘The Confederacy.’ He strolled to the very back and saw his friend sitting alone at a booth. Ron slid into the seat across from him and they saluted each other. Then, with big smiles, they shook hands.

  “So, are we on for golf next Thursday—same time, same place?”

  Ron gave a thumbs-up sign. “You’re on, bud. A hundred bucks a hole?”

  “I hate to take your money, but I will. After I beat you, I’ll buy the drinks though.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll book the tee-times for us. So…hate to rush you, but I have a meeting in an hour. Can we get to it? We can talk pleasantries next week.”

  The waiter came by with a couple of draught beers. Chet paid him and included a generous tip. “I took the liberty of ordering for us while I waited patiently for you.”

  They clinked glasses in a toast. Then Chet leaned his head forward over the table and lowered his voice.

  “I’m glad you came to me. From what you’ve told me, I think that what you guys are going through is just a travesty. Sounds like something is up, something big.”

  “Well, I filled them all in on your initial findings—about Alexei Dragunov being with the NSA and possibly associated with Edward Snowden. And the fact that he might still have family living in Moscow—which made all of us wonder if Snowden is hiding out with one of those families.”

  “Yeah, and you can bet the American government is wondering about that, too.”

  “But, Chet, none of that explains why they would have wanted to kill Dragunov.”

  Chet nodded. “We’ll get to that in a few minutes. I don’t really know for sure about that yet either, but I do have a bit of a trail. Let me talk to you first about that NFL roster of players from the 49ers Super Bowl team of 1994.

  “We went through the entire list, then did extensive database tracking of the history of each of the players, coaches, trainers—the whole bunch. The list totaled about seventy people.

  “Approximately thirty percent are dead, several are in hospitals or in chronic care, quite a few live out of the country and rarely return here even to visit, some are Little League coaches, and some are still involved with the NFL or in the sports broadcasting industry.

  “There were really only three who stood out as being in the category of the person you outlined: one was a Secret Service agent, now retired; one is with the CIA based in Egypt; and the third one couldn’t at first be traced to our current time, so he looked suspicious to us.�
�

  Ron whispered. “Who is he?”

  “A man by the name of Carl Masterson. He was a star fullback, but a scandal kinda sullied his career. He worked his way back to the second string of the 49ers just in time for the ’94 Super Bowl. He has both law and criminology degrees, and worked for the FBI for a while. Then he disappeared off the radar.”

  Ron swore under his breath. “Just our luck. That does sound suspicious, but a dead end.”

  Chet smiled. “My friend—you weren’t listening to me. I said ‘couldn’t at first be traced;’ the operative words being ‘at first.’”

  “Okay, my friend—cut to the chase.”

  “Well, considering what we found out about Dragunov, we decided to hack into the databases of both the CIA and the NSA. Nothing at the CIA. But bingo! We found him at the NSA! He’s quite high up in the ranks; that’s why he was blocked from tracking. Dragunov wasn’t blocked because he was just a lowly analyst, but this Masterson guy is a Director of the Security and Intelligence division, whatever the fuck that means. He works out of Fort Meade in Maryland and we have his home address in Maryland as well. In addition, he spends a lot of time in Washington—credit card transactions trace him nicely.”

  “Do you have a current photo of him?”

  Chet turned on his laptop, made a few keystrokes, and then spun it around for Ron to see. “Here’s the photo from his driver’s license.”

  Ron whistled. “That’s the guy! I’ve seen the sketches and it’s him for sure!”

  Chet laughed. “We’re good, huh? We can pretty much do anything, Ron. Hacking is really easy if you know what you’re doing. Damn illegal, too—so I trust you to keep this on the ‘down low’ as regards Mr. Carl Masterson of the NSA. You didn’t get this from me, or Anonymous.”

  Ron paused to let it all sink in. “Don’t worry, Chet. But I can hardly wait to tell the others. We’re making real progress now.”

  Chet slid his laptop back around and entered a few more keystrokes. “I’m not finished yet. You’re going to find this very interesting. When Alexei Dragunov died on that rollercoaster, he was actually unemployed. He was fired—described as a layoff for government cutback reasons—just over three months ago. Around the time that you guys announced your inaugural ride of the Black Mamba. And at that same time you announced the names of the riders from the Coaster Crazies who had been chosen to ride. I thought it was coincidental that he was fired just a short time after that. And even more coincidental was an email that Dragunov sent just a few days before he was fired.”