by Carl Rackman
Thursday, 8th September 2016
Jersey City, NJ
Brad was back in his apartment on the Jersey side, trying but failing to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes the images of dead agents with twisted heads rushed into his mind; his eyes were already shut, so he couldn’t turn them away.
He was sent home on leave two days ago. His sleep troubled and his mind disturbed by the events of his last operation. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, mostly because his mind refused to shut down.
The mission debrief was a sham. He decided to bolster Monica’s version of events as the official mission narrative. He chose not to censure her further as she had followed his orders to the letter, and the mistake had ultimately been his. However, they shared some words in private; as far as Brad was concerned, she had learned some valuable lessons about herself and the work she had signed up for. He was reasonably confident she wouldn’t suffer another lapse of that kind, but he wouldn’t be leaving her unsupervised for the next few missions.
As for himself, he was expecting to have a psych evaluation within the next week before being released back to the Fly Team. SAC Duberry witnessed the Brooklyn raid from the bodycams and was aware of the effects of such a loss on the team. Three agents and a valuable informant were dead, but all they pulled in were the confused hippies who seemed to know nothing about the mysterious new additions to their cause.
The only two men in the organisation who knew anything were surprisingly lawyered up within an hour of their arrest. The information they provided so far was negligible. The injured agent was almost incoherent since his admittance to hospital; the poor man had suffered complete fractures of both arms, both legs, several ribs and three vertebrae, all of which he claimed were inflicted by two unknown assailants who had murdered his entire team in less than two seconds.
Most disconcerting of all, he was still claiming the assailants were not human. Brad considered this an extreme reaction to the ferocity of the attack. FBI SWAT members were not exactly renowned for their flights of fancy.
Brad’s reverie was interrupted by the burst of his ringtone, which was ‘Know Your Enemy’ by Green Day; the marching drumbeat of the intro gave him a sense of dread every time he heard it since being on the Fly Team.
Before he picked up, he checked the caller ID and saw it was blocked. It would either be his mom or the SAC‘s office. His money was on Duberry.
“Bradley Barnes.”
“Special Agent Barnes, hold for the Assistant Director.”
Brad was impressed. The brass was calling.
“Agent Barnes, can you speak freely?” The distinctive voice of Assistant Director Eric Morrison rang clearly from the phone’s speaker. He was an Ivy League blue blood with his feet planted on the podium of greatness. His nose, everyone in the New York Field Office agreed, was planted somewhere else entirely; he would no doubt follow it all the way to the heights of FBI Headquarters in D.C. He was the youngest ever AD of the New York Field Office, and nobody was allowed to forget it. He wore his framed diplomas and citations on his glory wall as a sign of intimidation and ambition. Brad hated his guts.
“Sir, I’m alone at home.”
“Good. I must advise you that this call is being recorded.”
“I understand.” What is this about? Brad wondered.
“Agent Barnes, I am required to notify you that the Office of the Inspector General has delegated a case to me. I am appointing a senior agent of the New Haven Field Office to investigate a complaint made against you by another agent.”
Brad’s head swam. “A complaint?”
“Agent Barnes, there will be a preliminary hearing on Tuesday, September twentieth. Until then you are suspended from the Counterterrorism Fly Team and placed on administrative duties. Pending the outcome of the preliminary hearing, we may be required to conduct a full Inspector General’s investigation into Conduct Unbecoming. You will be suspended from all duties for the duration of the investigation. Do you understand what I have told you?” Morrison sounded disappointed.
“Sir, I understand. But what—”
“Agent Barnes, you will receive notification of the nature of the complaint and procedures to be followed by the close of business today. In the meantime, please observe standard office routine. You should report to SAC Duberry this afternoon. He will action your transfer from Fly Team to the senior agent-in-charge of Administration.”
There was a pause. Brad was still wrestling with the news. “Sir…what was the nature of the complaint?”
“Agent Barnes, do you understand my instructions?” said Morrison with an edge of irritation in his voice.
“Yes, sir. Perfectly.”
“Very well. Full details will follow. You may continue to liaise with your new SAC. The investigating agent will make contact today, probably via e-mail. That is all, Agent Barnes.”
Brad still held the phone to his ear after Morrison hung up. He was astonished. He tried to think who would have made such a complaint, and then the answer hit him like a fist in the gut. Monica.
She had stabbed him in the back. She’d got him to cover her ass in the debriefing, then hit him with a misconduct accusation. It put her out of harm’s reach if he retracted his debriefing statement and maybe even placed her in the frame for his job. Very slick, Diaz! He had to give her credit for a smooth career move, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
He decided to do something to shake off the weight that had fallen on him since the raid. He headed for the shower and tried to feel a little optimistic that two weeks of administration work would keep him out of trouble, if not bored out of his skull.
Half an hour later, he was on the transit train towards the World Trade Center station. It was another still, autumn day, just like the one fifteen years ago. He watched the steady string of planes overhead reaching the three main hubs on both sides of the Hudson River. He remembered it was a day just like today when two of those planes changed the world – and his life.
It was also the day that led to his decision to transfer to the FBI rather than re-up for another stint in military intelligence. The Feds stole the limelight that day, cracking the case within hours, producing remarkable evidence that pointed to the hijackers’ identities.
Now he was one of those FBI people; the amazing run they had been on since 9/11 showed no sign of diminishing. Plot after plot foiled by solid intelligence, courageous planning and daring, some might say audacious, interventions far from the eyes of the media, as he had done that weekend. Yet the payoff was not the admiration of a grateful public; instead, he was sneaking around, recognised only in the covert thanks of his superiors.
But now he was being cast off beneath a pall of suspicion. The injustice gnawed, urging him to get angry, or get even. But his mind knew, even as his emotions tried to pull him away, that he had to let the investigation run its course. He was confident that justice would prevail – he trusted the Bureau to do right by its own.
This hope brought back warmth to the cold pit of his gut just as his phone rang again.
“Barnes.”
“Special Agent Barnes?” asked an unfamiliar voice that sounded like an older man.
“Yes?” he replied.
“Agent Barnes, this is SAC Ferguson of Counterintelligence. I expect you’re headed in to the Plaza to see Duberry, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ve already spoken to him. You’ve been assigned to me.”
Brad was surprised. Counterintelligence wasn’t the Fly Team, but it was a better gig than Administration. “Thank you, sir.”
“Sure, Brad. Now, I’ve got a little pickup job I need you to do at Newark Liberty airport.”
Brad gritted his teeth silently. Sure, no problem. I just came from there. “Yes, sir.”
“Listen, Brad, I know you’re under some sort of cloud with Counterterrorism, but I also know you’re a good agent.”
Brad straightened due to this unexpected sur
prise.
“I’m sending you a partner. You headed for Penn or WTC station?”
“WTC. I’m about twenty minutes out.”
“Okay, wait at the station for her, she’ll meet you there. Her name is Special Agent Diane Breecker. She’ll give you the paperwork for your transfer. Do the right thing and just sign it, Brad. Then I want you both to get over to Liberty and pick up a suspected foreign courier and bring him back. Breecker will brief you on the suspect. That’s about all I know for now. You got all that, Brad?”
Brad was flushed with something akin to exhilaration. This was exactly what he needed after the robotic dismissal from ADC Morrison.
“That’s fine, sir. Meet Breecker at the station. You got it!”
“Okay, Brad. I’ll see you later.”
“Thank you, sir.” Brad felt a foot taller. The train journey suddenly seemed a lot less bleak.
When he disembarked from the train, he checked along the platform and knew he wouldn’t even have to look for Special Agent Diane Breecker. He guessed she was the tall, blonde woman just behind the barriers dressed in a dark suit and wearing a severe ponytail and shades pushed up on her head. Her ramrod stiff posture and wholesome, athletic look practically screamed ‘FBI’ from every pore. Brad hoped he didn’t look quite as obvious himself, but she immediately zeroed in on him in return.
As he passed the barrier, she stepped towards him and stuck out a hand with a knowing smile that wasn’t quite a smirk. She was about an inch taller than him even in flat shoes and the slight lines at the corners of her eyes put her in the same Nineties school generation as Brad, he guessed.
“Diane Breecker. How’re you, Agent Barnes?” Her grip was as firm as he expected, but her smile was warmer. She had a lot of impressive white teeth. Brad suddenly realised who she looked like: Denise Austin, the fitness guru.
“Brad Barnes. Good to meet you, Agent Breecker.” He wondered if he reminded her of Vince Vaughn; apparently, a few people thought Brad resembled the actor. Including Brad himself.
They stood awkwardly for a second or two, then Breecker seemed to realise she was in the lead role. “I guess we could talk in the car. I have some paperwork for you from SAC Ferguson’s office.”
“No problem. Lead the way.”
They exited the station and made their way past the Plaza, which was overshadowed by the bizarre double row of enormous spikes that represented the new transit station.
Brad expected them to cross to the parking garage on Fulton Street, but Breecker turned left and stopped by a black Dodge Charger sitting brazenly in the street outside the post office. Miraculously there was no ticket despite her prolonged absence. NYPD weren’t fussy when it came to towing vehicles, Feds or not.
“Wow. Gutsy move, Breecker!”
She looked quizzically back at him through her Ray-Bans.
“You took a risk parking on the street. I’m surprised it’s still here.”
“Well, it is here, so what’s the problem? Saves time walking to and from the garage. I thought we were meant to be in a hurry? You’d better get in, Agent Barnes!”
Brad kept his expression as neutral as possible. If we’d been towed, we’d have lost two hours instead of ten minutes! Still, he did as he was told, sitting tight and pulling on the seat belt. He looked up again and was surprised to see her entering the route into the GPS.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sure, this won’t take a second.”
“Just take Church up Sixth to Watts, then hit the tunnel.”
She shrugged and finished what she was doing before finally pressing ‘Go’. The electronic male voice told her to head straight on Church Street.
Brad was thinking, hard. He was trying not to judge her Barbie-doll looks, but he had to concede she was the ditziest agent he’d ever met. He knew the FBI was above the sexist tropes of recruitment because the arduous and meticulously scored process of becoming a special agent was not swayed by good looks and cup size.
As she fussed around the car, holding the steering wheel like an old lady with both hands perched on the top and leaning towards it with her nose in the air, Brad tried to concentrate on what he was doing. It was almost as if she had been hand-picked to… Brad smiled to himself for a second before the penny finally dropped.
“Have you been in Counterintelligence long, Breecker?” he asked.
“About twelve years. You?”
“About twelve minutes. Since I put the phone down with Ferguson. Is he your boss?”
“Sure.” She paused at the lights and glanced down at the GPS display.
“Just stay left, you’ll see the tunnel lanes coming up.”
“Uh-huh. I got it.”
There was a pause, and then the radio crackled. It was an out-of-town call sign for someone else, but she answered it.
“Casey Seven-Six is 10-15 Liberty International.” She gave the code for prisoner pickup at Newark Liberty international.
“10-4, Casey Seven-Six. Proceed Code Two.” The dispatcher advised there was no need to rush, but not to hang around.
Brad decided it was cards on the table time. “Why don’t you tell me where you’re really from, Breecker? You drive like you arrived in New York yesterday.”
She shot him a sideways glance. Her eyes were impassive behind the shades, but he saw the lines of a suppressed smile around the corners of her mouth.
“Okay, you got me, Barnes. I just got here this morning. Damn, I should have let you drive!”
“You’re from New Haven, right? You’re handling the complaint against me.”
She didn’t answer, but at the next set of red lights she reached back behind her seat and pulled her briefcase forward. She had long arms, with real muscles, not the stick-like appendages that were the vogue for many women these days. Propping the case on her lap, she pulled out a sheaf of files fastened with a rubber band.
“The top one’s for you. It has your department transfer orders, which you need to sign. The next one is the briefing for this assignment. The third one is the OIG file detailing the nature of the complaint against you, and that’s the one we’re going to look at when we’ve delivered this guy back to Federal Plaza.” She passed the briefcase back and resettled herself in a more professional driving position just in time for the green light.
She continued in a business-like tone, “Let’s just get this job done. We’ll have those discussions when we get back. I was hoping to observe your interactions before I revealed my role here, but it makes no difference now.”
Brad knew they wanted to see if he had a problem with female agents in the field. Ex-army, single male, lives alone… either he was a textbook dinosaur, or Monica must have really done a number on him.
“No problem, Breecker. Honestly, it feels good to do something normal.” He leaned back in his seat. He felt he could handle someone like Breecker investigating his case. There was no need for her to test him with the dumb blonde act, but he felt relieved to have sidestepped it all the same. It was a pretty good day, in fact.
The traffic was average all the way to the Holland Tunnel where it remained normal, which meant heavy. The Charger’s engine burbled in the traffic and the air con blew cool air as the sun streamed through the tinted glass.
Brad studied the files given to him. He was itching to skip to the OIG file, but priorities were the order of the day. He signed his name on the transfer forms, effectively suspending himself from the Fly Team; the document told him he would not forfeit any of his additional pay during administrative suspension, which cheered him slightly.
He moved on to the case that had thrown him and Breecker together. It was an odd one. A British airline pilot had arrived at US immigration without a passport. That was not unusual in itself, but during the flight the New York Field Office received an anonymous tip-off that the man was a suspected spy and seeking to turn sensitive information on to a third party, whom they presumed to be a non-state actor. The information was encrypted on a Micr
o SD card the spy had secreted on his person. Customs and Border Patrol were sitting on him until the Bureau arrived.
Darkness suddenly fell as they left the bright sunlight into the maw of the tunnel. The white tiles and artificial lighting were a poor substitute. Thankfully the traffic moved, though it concertinaed from the constantly changing speed patterns. The Toyota SUV in front braked irritatingly late each time, but Breecker had dropped the ditzy act; she smoothly kept the Charger moving, anticipating the erratic moves of the traffic ahead.
As she moved her hands up the wheel into a relaxed pose, Brad caught sight of her left hand and saw a plain wedding band topped by a muted engagement ring. He felt a slight relief on seeing it as it eased some of the tension out of their working relationship, which was already slightly strained from the subterfuge she and SAC Ferguson had sprung on him.
The tiles lining the tunnel hummed past the car; the tail lights ahead cast ghostly red eyes that tracked them along the tiled roof. Red reflections flared as the SUV ahead braked, too late again, but Breecker kept them moving.
“So you’re just here for my review? You haven’t transferred?”
Breecker looked over again, her shades resting back up on her head, she looked at him seriously. She had vivid blue eyes.
“As far as I know, Barnes, I’m just here till Friday.” Her face glowed red as the SUV braked again, sharply.
She switched her full concentration back to the view ahead, which was rapidly filling up with a Toyota tailgate. She pushed firmly on the brake pedal letting the big Charger come to a smooth halt. Her gaze flicked straight up to the rear-view mirror and widened slightly as a black pickup screeched to a halt just inches from the Charger’s bumper.
Brad kept his cool. He wanted to curse the driver of the SUV, but didn’t want to prejudice his case if she turned out to be female. He didn’t like the sensation of walking on eggshells, but he liked the fact that it identified any latent sexism in his everyday life. It was good to find that he wasn’t quite sexist enough not to recognise it; there was still hope for him yet. He always felt he treated his female colleagues with respect, but he had no real idea how the women around him interpreted his actions, especially when he was giving the orders.