Three Minutes to Doomsday

by Joe Navarro

  Jay Koerner, who led us here, is headed upstairs to work his contacts at HQ so we can move the Ramsay case along. I’m expecting good results, and I’m particularly glad Jay is willing to expend some capital on this effort. He’s in a unique position: well respected at HQ but with no desire ever to occupy an office within its imposing walls. In Washington, you can get a lot done once people know you don’t want their jobs.

  Susan Langford and Rich Licht are here at my insistence. This is Susan’s first big case and she’s working hard on it, but her trepidation at not knowing everything she should is pretty obvious. I’m hoping this visit to the Royal Maze will calm her down some and make her feel ready for the challenges still ahead. Rich is a newbie, too, but he’s rock solid and not easily fazed. I’ve off-loaded plenty of horror stories on him about dealing with HQ. Time for him to see the place in the flesh, especially the Division 5 floor where so many of our overlords hold court.

  And me? I’m mostly looking forward to our midday trip out to Fort Meade, in Maryland, to meet with some people at the National Security Agency. Until then, I’m hoping to keep a low profile, stay out of trouble, and dope out what the hell at HQ is holding this case back, and I’m counting on Jane Hein to help me do all those things.

  First, though, we need to get our temporary badges at the security office. That’s easy. We’re expected. Finding the right elevator bank is a lot harder. Even though I’ve been in the Hoover Building many times, I still take the wrong hallway, and we end up at a set of elevators I’ve never seen before, going places I can’t imagine.

  We puzzle it out eventually. I’ve taken a left when I should have gone right, or maybe two rights when I should have kept straight ahead. The exterior of the Hoover Building is what’s known in architectural circles as Brutalist Modern, sort of intentionally ugly. Inside, though, the Hoover is closer to a Skinner Box, designed to see how well rats negotiate the endless hallways in search of rewards.

  Jane’s office is small, barely big enough for the four of us, but she’s quick to make Rich and Susan feel welcome, and she’s aware that all FBI agents travel on their stomachs.

  “Let’s go get some coffee and pastries,” Jane suggests and leads us off to the cafeteria on the eleventh floor. Along the way, she gives Rich and Susan, both increasingly wide-eyed, a hallway-by-hallway tour, including areas so sensitive that no agents ever see their insides. The cafeteria is its own revelation, swarming at this morning-break hour with well-groomed guys in impeccable suits with colorful suspenders and French cuffs shooting out just so from under their coat sleeves.

  “What’s with the fashion show?” Rich asks.

  “Teachable moment,” I say, grabbing both Rich and Susan by their elbows. “What are all these Fancy Dans not wearing?”

  Rich puzzles over it for a second, then gloms on to where this is heading. “Belts. Holsters. No one packs in here . . . or anyplace else he goes.”

  “No one’s changing his own tires either,” Susan adds, studying the beautiful French-cuffed shirts.

  “Welcome to the world of no fieldwork, and no manual labor,” I’m saying when Marc Reeser descends on the three of us like a hockey defenseman in overtime. That’s the other purpose of this visit: a reunion. Marc has been recalled to HQ, at least temporarily, to help with the budget strains of our investigation. We all miss the hell out of him.

  Once I’ve said hello, I leave the three of them to catch up in the cafeteria line and join Jane over by the twenty-foot-high windows overlooking Ninth Street. We sit with our backs to the view so we can watch the human zoo in front of us while we talk shop.

  * * *

  “IT’S ALL SET FOR one p.m. at the Antenna Farm,” Jane says, using the shorthand for NSA HQ, a place that literally bristles with telecommunication equipment.

  “Great. You coming?”

  “No, you’re on your own. I’ve got to mind the store. Besides, Jay is going to be tied up most of the morning, and he’s asked for some time with me.”

  Over in the cafeteria line, Marc looks to be demonstrating slap shots. Whatever it is, he’s got Rich and Susan in stitches. The people in front and back of them are looking on like the three of them have just farted very, very loudly. A fun house this building is not.

  “Joe,” Jane says, turning my way, “I can’t tell you everything, but there are a lot of people above me and over at WFO who just have it in for you. They don’t like that you took over this investigation, and not to sugarcoat things, they despise that you showed them up. This was supposed to be their golden apple, and you’ve taken it away from them. Up here, careers are made on cases like this—you know that.”

  “Are you fucking serious? This is what they’re so upset about?”

  A nod from Jane is all the answer I need.

  “Thanks,” I say, “at least, I think so. At any rate, I want you to know that we really appreciate what you’re having to put up with. I tell our SAC you’re the only real friend we have up here, you and Reeser, and you’re the one stuck in the middle. You don’t deserve to go through all this shit.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m a survivor. Speaking of which, you look like you’ve lost more weight. You okay?”

  “Yeah, you know, big cases, big problems, little sleep. I’ve lost my appetite, the stress of dealing with WFO . . . ”

  “Yeah, well, watch yourself. You’ve got quite a crew here to mind. How’s Mrs. Moody? Just weeks away now, right?”

  I nod, although Terry is closer.

  “Do you miss her?” Jane asks, leaning toward my ear.

  “Terribly. She’s probably one of the few friends I have left, and she’s so great to work with.” My eyes actually start to water up as I say it, so I look away.

  “She’s a gem,” Jane says with her hand on my arm. “Let’s gather the troops.”

  Back in Jane’s office, I have Rich, Susan, and Marc go through all the information we’ve gathered from Ramsay and what we’ve been able to corroborate thus far.

  Rich begins by reviewing the thousands of leads that have gone out all over the US and to at least seven European countries, retracing everywhere Ramsay has lived, from Boston to Japan to Hawaii to Germany and elsewhere, including confirming the bank robbery that took place shortly before he left for Hawaii. We’ve also scoured by hand customs and immigration forms to identify entry into the US both by Ramsay and Conrad, something HQ and WFO never bothered to do.

  Susan follows up with the documents that Ramsay has mentioned thus far as well as other material that didn’t come directly from him but was seen at the—now well-corroborated—secret apartment in Germany. The list of documents, Marc confirms, is larger than anyone anticipated, and Ramsay has described each one accurately. We now have duplicate copies from the army, and Ramsay’s recall of each is, as Rich puts it, “scary accurate, in the most minute of details.”

  Both Rich and Marc further confirm that the espionage tradecraft Ramsay has described is entirely consistent with what has been garnered from the army, the Germans, and the Swedes. Conrad, we’ve established to our satisfaction, did rely on Ramsay after he retired, and the two definitely traveled to Austria and elsewhere for meets. What’s more, Conrad used video recording equipment, just as Ramsay told us, as well as photographic equipment that he also described.

  For their part, the Hungarians—the new, post-Communist version—have been able to determine that Conrad and Ramsay made deliveries directly to the Hungarian Intelligence Service. Conrad also used dollar bills torn in half and those tiny souvenir cowbells as agent recognition signals, all useful at trial, especially since Rod kindly gave me one of those cowbells as a present. And of course, there was also the famous hello number that Rod thought we’d never make much use of and will now definitely be government exhibit number one at trial.

  Even I am a little overwhelmed by the weight of all this evidence when Marc, Susan, and Rich finish up.

  “You’ve seen all of my FD-302s,” I say to Jane. “There’s no quest
ion that Ramsay understood what he was doing and that despite the threat it posed to the United States, he was willing to assist in espionage. We need this guy arrested, and we need to start thinking about a trial and getting the US Attorney’s Office in Tampa involved.”

  “Whoa, cowboy,” Jane says, holding up a warning hand. “Believe me, Joe, I’m trying to get people to move on this, but they’re resistant. The biggest hurdle is WFO and Internal Security. You have no idea how hard they’re fighting this. They’re doing everything they can to intercede.”

  “But why?” is all I can ask. “This is what I still don’t get. We have more information to prosecute Ramsay than any other spy we’ve ever tried. Meantime Rondeau and Gregory are up to no good and we’re waiting for what? Nothing will ever be perfect. This is as good as it gets. No . . . more . . . waiting.”

  “Joe, for crissake, you’re preaching to the choir!”

  “Okay,” I say. “Sorry. I know that. But what about the leaks? The New York Times, ABC News, Bamford—they’re all over this even before we in Tampa get the information.”

  “That pipeline has been going on here at HQ a hell of a lot longer than I’ve been here,” Jane says. “I’m amazed at how much leaks out of this place, always to favorites, always with a purpose, and no one so far as I can tell does a damn thing about it.”

  “Well, somebody better start doing something about these leaks,” I say, knowing I’m getting too excited again, “because we’re damn lucky that Rod Ramsay hasn’t already disappeared somewhere in Moscow. The Russians would pay a fortune for what he has in his head. Christ almighty, he knows the same go-to-war and contingency information that the generals in Europe know. And every time there’s a new leak we have to scramble to make sure he doesn’t run, and I have to talk to his mother, and Rod . . . Jesus, Jane, we have to arrest this guy.”

  “Joe, I try to sell this at every meeting.”

  “But this isn’t vacuum cleaners. It’s not Avon Lady shit, for God’s sake. We shouldn’t have to sell this to anyone. It’s crazy that Jay has to spend the morning at Internal Security, trying to convince John Dion—the number two person in the ISS, for crissake!—of the need to at least brief Greg Kehoe on the details of the case. This is a huge case. Why would ISS even think about blindsiding the first assistant in the Middle District of Florida and not tell him what’s going on in his own jurisdiction? Talk about nuts!”

  All Jane can do is shrug her shoulders at this outburst, but Rich and Susan wear looks that tell me they’re starting to realize how deep this tar pit is.

  “One last thing,” I go on. “Our leads in Austria. Tracking down the restaurants where Ramsay says he met with the Hungarians is going to be key. He’s described those restaurants with particularity, but the names are blurry to him, and we need to confirm those places exist for trial.”

  “Speaking of Austria,” Jane jumps in, “letters rogatory have come in from Germany, and the Director as well as Internal Security agree . . . ”

  “On what?”

  “You’ll be going to Germany to testify next month.”

  “Goddamn it, Jane, no! N-O! If I go, the news services are going to be all over that. My army source tells me it will be in open court. As soon as I walk into that courtroom, Ramsay will find out about it, and so will his mother. You think defense isn’t going to ask where I interviewed Ramsay, and is he under arrest or will he be arrested? What am I to say to that? I’m not going to do it. You’ll have to order me to go.”

  “That’s easy. Agent Navarro, you are being ordered to go testify in Germany during the week of May 6. How is that?”

  “Jesus, Jane.”

  “Joe, when the Director says jump, it’s our job to say how high, not to question it.”

  “I just want it on the record that I’m opposed to this and that it will be a real security and containment problem for us.”

  “Noted. It’s not your decision, Joe.” And then, with a growing smile: “After you testify, I’ll join you over there, and we’ll travel together to Austria to see if we can find those meeting places.”

  * * *

  ON THE WAY DOWN in the elevator, we drop Marc off at his floor, then stop at the FBI Recreation Association store next to the Federal Credit Union so Rich and Susan can pick out some souvenirs: T-shirts, mugs, golf balls, towels, just about anything that will hold an FBI logo. I’m thinking about a T-shirt for Stephanie when it dawns on me that Luciana might take it as a slap in the face. They get the T-shirt; the FBI gets me. Instead, I buy a “JR FBI Agent” onesie, size 0–2 months. She-Moody is due a week from Friday.

  19

  INSIDE THE ANTENNA FARM

  Marc rejoins us a little while later, and the four of us head out in a borrowed HQ car to NSA headquarters, with a quick lunch break along the way. Just getting into the Antenna Farm parking lot is a hassle, but the security desk is a whole other story, mostly because of me. My security clearances are sky-high, but the NSA computer system has me down as “Joseph” while all my credentials use my legal name: “Joe.”

  Eventually—as in after half an hour of valuable time—the problem is cleared up, and we get waved through to the inner sanctum, where we’re greeted by a woman and two men, told to leave everything but paper and pencils behind (no pens), and led immediately into the most well-manicured secure room I’ve ever seen. Not until the door has been shut and all our ears have popped in the newly pressurized environment are introductions forthcoming.

  The NSA people use first names only: Emily, the woman, clearly in charge although no titles are given or name tags worn; Leonard, the older of the men; and Henry, younger, with three pencils stuffed in his shirt pocket. On our side, I introduce everyone by first name, last name, and title: special agent or, in Marc’s case, senior research specialist.

  Emily gets us immediately down to business once I’m through, sounding every bit the senior manager. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate it. Obviously, we’re very concerned with all of the NSA equities that are at issue.”

  “Of course.”

  “Leonard and Henry are two of our top technical people in this field and can assist with the validation, investigation, and corroboration process. If what your resource has told you is true, we’ve never had so many systems compromised seemingly at once, but while we’re concerned, we’re also highly skeptical.”

  “I would be, too,” I say, “if it were anyone but Roderick James Ramsay.”

  “Do you believe everything he says, Mr. Navarro?” Henry asks. He’s clearly a worrier and under considerable stress. The hairs on his left eyebrow have been picked almost clean, and the skin beneath is red with worry.

  “No,” I answer, “I don’t believe everything he says. That’s not my job. My job is to get Ramsay to open up, to memorialize [pure Bureau-speak] what he says, and then to validate it.”

  “I see,” says Leonard, perhaps nearing seventy years of age from the way he walks, speaks, and dresses. He looks like a Harvard mathematician working out of a basement office with no windows—a place where chalkboards, not whiteboards, are ubiquitous and well worn, just like his elbow patches.

  Emily is the one not from central casting. She seems to be wound very tight; even the hair in her bun has been done to an extreme. From her inflection I’m thinking multiple PhDs but not a mathematician. More likely, she’s an engineer. If I had to bet money right now, I’d put it on MIT. Her clenched-teeth manner of speaking says she’s lived mostly within the northeast corridor, but the way she stands with hands behind her back and her chin ever so high also tells me she probably has done a stint or two in England, maybe liaising with GCHQ, the NSA equivalent.

  “We’ve seen your reports, the FD-302s as you call them,” Henry begins. “Obviously, you have been capturing Rod’s words, but words can be misleading. We do have some questions for you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Prior to this matter, had you been exposed to any NSA equities? In other words, did you know about permissive
action links, did—”

  I stop Henry in his tracks.

  “I gather what you want to know is whether my previously existing knowledge of your ‘equities’ could have, through osmosis, entered Rod’s mind? Did I poison the well? It’s a reasonable question, but the answer is no—I had no prior exposure to any of these systems. Everything I’ve written about came directly from Rod and was introduced by him into the conversation.”

  Emily goes next, in a tone bordering on arrogance, or at least academic superiority. I suspect from her manner that she looks down on just about everyone, Henry and Leonard included.

  “Why would he tell you these things? If he’s as smart as you suggest and the army IQ exam seems to confirm—although that’s hardly a definitional test when it comes to intelligence—he must have known that he was feeding you evidence of his own crime.”

  I’m about to answer when Rich, who’s promised not to say anything, jumps to my defense: “Because Joe treats him with respect.”

  I look at Rich with the same look my dad would use to put me in my place when enthusiasm got the best of me, and take it from there.

  “I do think Rod does respect me, as Rich says, but he also trusts me, and at this point I’m probably the only friend he has left.”

  “And that’s it?” Emily asks, looking perplexed, as if trust weren’t a basic human motivation.

  “I wish there were more to it,” I allow, “but yes, it is just that. He likes me, and we get along.” I can see from Emily’s face that this goes against everything she’s seen on television about interviewing, and quite possibly everything she understands about human nature as well. NSA hires engineers and mathematicians. They’re all experts at quantification and the abstract—social engineering, not so much. If I were to tell Emily right now that one of the reasons Rod confided in me even at his own peril was that I’d helped him deal with the clap, the top of her head might just blow off in dismay.

  Leonard the Elder, as I now think of him, looks up from his notes just then and picks up the questioning. These people are as scripted as I am, I’m thinking, but I’m dealing with the suspected and accused when I ask these questions.