Hunting Savage

by Edlund, Dave;

  “If it comes to that, you’ll know.”

  Martin leaned forward, hands folded on his desk. “Peter, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Peter looked at his attorney, but decided not to voice his thoughts. There were far too many pieces missing from the puzzle, and even he wasn’t sure any of it made sense.

  Chapter 9

  Bend, Oregon

  April 18

  It had been a long, stressful day, and Peter was emotionally exhausted. But he had one more thing to do. After he finished at Martin’s office, he called Kate. Although she had not seen the emails or the classified files, Peter had a nagging fear that something deeper, something sinister, was in play.

  “Have you had any recent contact with the police?” he asked.

  “No, why? Is something wrong?”

  “Yeah, you could say so. I was arrested for espionage. My attorney got me out on bail only a couple hours ago.”

  “What?” Peter could hear the concern in Kate’s voice.

  “I got a friend to help me, and we know what was in Emma’s email.” Peter paused to see if Kate was going to respond; she didn’t.

  “That’s what got me in trouble. I need to talk to you… soon.”

  She hesitated. “Okay. I’m at the house, but only for another hour. Just packing a few more things. I’ve been staying with a friend.”

  Peter drove directly to the rental where he had first met Kate. She must have seen him drive up, because she opened the door before he knocked.

  Most of the furniture was gone. All that remained was the sofa in the living room and the dining table and chairs. Peter glanced into the kitchen and noticed many of the cabinet doors open. Cardboard boxes were on the floor and bubble wrap on the counter, ready to embrace the remaining glasses and dishes.

  Kate looked exhausted. Her eyes appeared sunken with dark circles underneath, and she moved slowly, with effort. She looked at Peter, her arms folded across her chest.

  “How are you doing, at your friend’s place?” he asked.

  “Fine. I’m almost completely moved. Sold some of the furniture—just the sofa and table left. Someone’s coming tomorrow to look at them.”

  Peter nodded. He hated moving, and this was ten times worse for Kate. “Can I help you finish boxing up the kitchen?”

  “That’s not why you came here,” she said.

  “No, it’s not. You said that Emma was working on something on her laptop early the morning she was killed, and that she tried to hide it from you.”

  “Yes. She said it was for a term paper, but I didn’t believe her.”

  “I think I know what she was doing. We found a number of messages in her account. The messages had been deleted, but a friend of mine knows how to retrieve that sort of stuff.”

  “So your friend is a hacker.” She said it as an accusation, not a question.

  Peter tipped his head to the side, deciding how much information he would share. “Not exactly. More like computer forensics and cyber security.”

  Kate nodded.

  “Anyway, this person Emma was corresponding with had emailed a large file late the previous night. I’d bet that’s what she was reading when you spoke to her in the morning. The file details top secret memos and reports related to an incident that happened a long time ago—an attack on a U.S. Naval ship. A lot of sailors died.”

  Kate sat on the sofa and Peter followed her, taking the opposite end.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “That information was not supposed to be released to the public. I think someone killed her because she had those files.”

  “This doesn’t sound like Emma, not at all. She would never go looking for secrets, especially classified secrets. And you said the ship was attacked a long time ago, so why would anyone even care anymore?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  “What do you have?” Angela Meyers said, foregoing a greeting as a waste of time.

  “It’s that Simpson woman,” Richard Nyden said. “She’s talking to Peter Savage and somehow they’ve managed to recover deleted emails from that hacker in Friday Harbor.”

  “What do they know?”

  “I’m listening to the conversation now. Savage claims they recovered the entire PDF file that was received by Emma Jones.”

  “Is he telling the truth?”

  “You want me to ask him?”

  “I want you to fix this problem for good!” Meyers nearly shouted into the phone.

  “Yeah, I think Savage has read the file, or at least portions of it. He knows it’s about the Liberty incident, and he referred to memos and investigative reports.”

  “Keep listening and find out if anyone else knows about this. And deal with those two!”

  “I’m on my way there now,” Nyden said and then ended the call. He was only a couple blocks away from Kate’s house.

  The street was deserted as before. “This is one quiet neighborhood,” he mumbled as he parked the dark blue sedan across the street from Kate’s rented house. He continued to listen to the conversation, adjusting the fit of the ear buds and turning the volume down a little. The bugs he planted—one in the living room inside a floor air register, one on top of a cabinet in the kitchen, and one in a floor register in the bedroom—continued to send a strong signal. The devices were very small and would remain powered by the internal battery for two weeks. To accommodate for the limited range of the transmissions, he placed a repeater in the hall closet on the top shelf behind a stack of bedsheets and towels. No one would find it unless they climbed onto a stool and searched all the way to the back of the shelf.

  “Do you have any idea if Emma had a relative—maybe a father or uncle—who served in the Navy on the USS Liberty?” Peter said.

  Kate was shaking her head. “No, her father works at a bank in Portland. He and Emma’s mother visited here often, and always for the holidays—Thanksgiving and Christmas. They’d take us both to dinner, except for Christmas. But they helped Emma and me cook dinner, and they bought all the food. I never heard Mr. Jones talk about the military. I don’t think he served.”

  Peter rubbed his chin. “I know someone who can check it out. There must be some connection, some reason—”

  “Your hacker friend? I don’t want him messing with their personal information. They’re nice people.”

  “No, nothing to worry about. I’m thinking of someone else—he’s in military intelligence and can check service records.”

  Kate nodded. “This is just so out of character for her. I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll continue to work on the why. But right now the bigger question is who is trying to keep this information secret?”

  “It’s the government, right? I mean, it’s always the CIA or FBI.” Kate looked like she was about to cry, but she held back the tears and chewed her lip.

  “Sometimes it isn’t that simple. Everyone is eager to believe conspiracy theories, but most of the time the truth is not so complicated.”

  “What happened to this ship, anyway?” she asked.

  Peter smiled, appreciating the opportunity to move the conversation away from the grim reality. “It was the fifth of June, 1967, and the Six-Day War had just begun. Israel launched a pre-emptive attack on the Arab coalition—Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Iraq, Kuwait, and Algeria. In a brilliant move, Israeli warplanes destroyed most of the Egyptian air force on the ground, and then went on to decimate the air forces of Jordan, Syria, and Iraq.

  “With air superiority, the Israeli Self-Defense Force launched a blitz against Egyptian ground forces in the Gaza Strip and the Sinai, quickly winning that territory all the way to the Suez Canal. Israel went on to defeat Jordan, capturing the West Bank and the Old City of Jerusalem, and they defeated Syria, taking control of the Golan Heights.

  “It was on June 8, during the height of the conflict, that the USS Liberty was sailing in the eastern Mediterranean not far off the coast of Egypt. She
was in international waters and flying the American flag.”

  “And the ship was attacked,” Kate said, already knowing the answer.

  “That’s right. She was attacked—by Israel.”

  Kate’s eyes widened. “Why? Israel and the U.S. are allies. Right?”

  “Yes,” Peter said. “Israel claimed it was a mistake, but the attack lasted many hours and involved both fighter aircraft and torpedo boats.”

  Kate was speechless, her jaw slightly agape.

  “Everything I just said is public record, a common narrative you’ll find if you do a search on the ship’s name. And yet, in that file emailed to your roommate, there are a hundred pages of documents that are still labeled classified—some from the White House, some from the Department of the Navy, some from the State Department—that reveal details that were never shared with the public.”

  “Like what?”

  “There’s a lot there. Some of the information corroborates what’s in the public domain. To be honest, I’ve only read a small number of the documents.”

  “Did the Navy send other ships or planes to protect the Liberty?”

  Peter shook his head. “The Liberty managed to send out a mayday radio signal that was received by the Sixth Fleet. They were also sailing in the Mediterranean. Attack aircraft were launched from both the America and the Saratoga, twice in fact, but those planes were recalled before they arrived on site.”

  “Surely that was a mistake,” Kate said.

  Peter shook his head. “No. Launching and recalling warplanes from the deck of an aircraft carrier is not done by mistake.”

  “Okay, so there must be a rational explanation. And I still don’t see how any of this could motivate someone to murder Emma.”

  “I’m certain the answer can be found in those documents, but it’s going to take a lot of time to read and digest that information, and then cross reference it with other sources.”

  There was a knock and Kate swung her head toward the front door.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Peter asked.

  She shook her head.

  Peter approached the door and looked through the narrow glass sidelight to the right of the entrance. He saw a middle-aged man with short, black hair. He was wearing a suit and tie. Beyond, on the other side of the street, Peter noticed a dark blue sedan—it had not been parked there when Peter pulled into the driveway.

  He opened the door partway and leaned around the edge of the door.

  “I’m Agent Barnes, FBI. Is Kate Simpson home?”

  She was standing back from Peter, looking through the partially-opened door at the agent. “Yes, I’m Kate.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  “Just a minute,” Peter said. “How about some ID first.”

  Agent Barnes reached inside his suit coat until he grasped a wallet from the jacket pocket. As the coat opened, Peter noticed the grip of his weapon, secured in a shoulder holster. With practiced fluency, Barnes flipped open the wallet and displayed the gold badge along with his ID card.

  “If you’re satisfied, may we move on?” Barnes said as he returned the wallet.

  “You’re from the Bend field office?”

  “No, I drove from Portland. It’s been a long day. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Ms. Simpson.”

  “Why not fly? It’s a lot faster.”

  Barnes placed his hands on his hips and addressed Peter. “Mister…”

  “Savage, Peter Savage.”

  Exactly as Barnes thought. Now he had confirmation: both his marks were still at the house.

  “Mr. Savage, you are very close to obstructing an official investigation. Now, my business is with Kate Simpson. So I’ll ask once more. May I come in to discuss this matter, or would you prefer we continue in more official surroundings?”

  “It’s okay, Peter. Let Agent Barnes in.”

  Peter opened the door wider, but not by much. He kept his legs planted securely and his shoulder against the solid wood door.

  As Barnes was passing through the opening, Peter suddenly slammed his weight into the door, driving it into the agent. Barnes was crushed against the door frame. His head bounced first off the door and then the frame. Already blood was seeping from a gash at the edge of his scalp.

  Quickly, Peter opened the door and was straddling Barnes. He slammed his fist into the agent’s face, bloodying his nose. Barnes was barely conscious, on the verge of passing out. Peter reached inside his jacket and ripped out the holstered weapon.

  “This is a Mk-9 impulse gun. Where did you get this?” Peter said.

  Barnes was lying on his back, his eyelids fluttering. He moved a hand to his head, and felt the wetness from the gash. When Peter’s eyes moved from the agent to the gun, Barnes struck, lashing out with his fist, aiming at Peter’s groin.

  The blow connected and he went down, landing both knees on the agent’s chest. The impact, backed by Peter’s full weight, drove the air out of the FBI man’s lungs and bruised multiple ribs.

  The pain was excruciating, forcing Peter to further collapse over the body beneath him. As he did, he brought the grip of the pistol down hard on the bridge of Barnes’ nose. There was a crack of cartilage, and Agent Barnes was out.

  Peter rolled over, trying hard to catch his breath and counting the seconds until the agony waned. After what seemed like an eternity, but was less than a minute, Peter was able to rise to his knees. He checked for a pulse, relieved that the agent was alive.

  After several more deep breaths, the worst of the pain and nausea had passed, and Peter became aware of Kate’s voice. “Are you crazy?”

  Peter finally stood, still gripping the magnetic impulse gun.

  After two more deep breaths, he answered. “No, this guy is a fake.” He was dragging Agent Barnes inside as he spoke. “This gun he was carrying—it was made by my company. They’re only sold to the military, Special Operations. I recognized the two LED lights on the grip when he reached inside his jacket.”

  He shut the door. “And his car has Washington plates. If he was from the FBI’s Portland office he’d be driving with Oregon license plates.”

  Kate sat down, her hand covering her mouth, frightened by the ever-growing vortex. Secret documents related to a decades old military incident… her friend murdered… and now a man impersonating an FBI agent assaulted in her home.

  Peter sat next to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Kate, you need to listen to me, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “We have to go. I need to get you somewhere safe.”

  Chapter 10

  Bend, Oregon

  April 18

  When Richard Nyden finally regained consciousness, his first sensation was intense throbbing in his face. He’d experienced that before and quickly surmised that his nose was broken. His chest ached too, and he felt a tightness of breath.

  He began to stand, but stopped when his head pulsed in pain. He waited a minute and when the pounding ache subsided, he crawled to the sofa and eased into a sitting position. He punched a number on his phone.

  “That was fast,” Angela Meyers said. “You have good news, I assume.” It was late in Washington, and Meyers was still at her office adjoining the Speaker’s office. It was not at all unusual for Meyers to work late, or even all night, taking short naps on the sofa.

  “Not good news. Savage got the jump on me. They got away, and he has my weapon.”

  “You idiot!” The screaming voice caused a flash of pain and Nyden pulled the phone further from his ear. The line was silent for a half minute.

  Having quickly thought through the implications, Meyers issued new orders. “Stay there, but do not pursue Savage or the woman. Not yet. They are obviously on to you, and if you eliminate Savage the police may take the woman into protective custody. We can’t risk that. I’ll have my contact at the FBI issue a new arrest warrant—assault of a federal officer and kidnapping. That should get Peter Savage
behind bars without bail.”

  “Should I look for Kate Simpson?”

  “No, let the police find her. I’m going to call in another operator from Washington State. I believe you know her—Jana Cooke.”

  “That psycho? Yeah, I know her. Did a job together a couple years ago.”

  “Once Peter Savage is locked up, a woman’s touch should be all that’s needed to convince Kate Simpson to drop her guard. When that happens, terminate her. Oh, and make certain nothing—not a trace—is found.”

  Angela Meyers was fuming. It simply should not be this complicated. Her operators were all trained killers, physically fit, and with the best equipment and intelligence. How could it be that an ordinary man was causing so many problems?

  Meyers placed the call to Jana Cooke. She was somewhere in the Seattle area, having completed the assignment in Friday Harbor. She was instructed to take the first available commercial flight to Redmond, Oregon. At the airport she would rent a car for two weeks, drive the short distance to Bend, and book a hotel room. While masquerading as a tourist, she would surveil Peter Savage from a safe distance. If there were any other persons involved, they needed to know and tie up the loose ends.

  Now Meyers had to address a more delicate issue. She debated waking Cliff Ellison or waiting until the morning. She decided to text him—if he was asleep, he’d get the message in the morning.

  Surprisingly, a few minutes later her phone rang. “What’s the problem?” he said. He sounded alert.

  “I think we should talk… in person.”

  “It’s after eleven. I assume this can’t wait until morning?”

  The pause was answer enough.

  “Okay. Meet me at the Mayflower Hotel. Shouldn’t take me more than an hour to get there. Look for me at the bar.”

  Angela Meyers slipped on some comfortable sneakers and then a light jacket. She pocketed her cell phone and left, locking her office door. A short distance from the Longworth House Office Building she boarded the metro, catching the last train of the evening. The trip was short and there were few other passengers at this late hour. She exited at Farragut North and walked the block and a half to the Mayflower.