The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  “Everyone’s in the conference room, Adam. Do you need me?”

  He felt guilty keeping Chu out of the discussion, but the sensitivity of the topic demanded it. At least for now.

  “I don’t think so, Karen. Nothing all that important. We can touch base later.”

  She looked a bit put-off, but smiled anyway, and he crossed the area to the opposite door.

  His conference room looked like all the others in Tysons Tower: plain walls with stock pictures of D.C. landmarks, institutional chrome and leather chairs and an oval mahogany conference table. The only thing it had going for it was the panoramic view of Northern Virginia through the windows that filled the outside wall. He would often come into the room just to savor the vista. A vista now obscured by dark clouds approaching from the west. Braxton hoped it wasn’t an omen.

  Having a conference room was a major perk for his small company, even though it was shared between Cerberus and a quiet CPA whose suite was on the other side of the room from Braxton’s. He could only remember one time in the past two years that there had been a scheduling conflict.

  Two of his closest friends sat at the table. On his left, fidgeting in the narrow executive chair, was Samuel James Fowler: a charter member of the Cerberus family. An ex-D.C. detective—he was forced to retire as a result of an injury received saving Braxton’s life—Fowler augmented his pension with gigs as a private investigator, frequently for Cerberus. At six foot three inches tall and two-hundred-plus pounds, the huge black man was a force of nature. He was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, a can of Diet Dr. Pepper barely visible inside his massive hand. The choice of drink was a consequence of his wife’s never-ending demand that he lose weight. Chu made sure the suite’s refrigerator was always stocked.

  To his right was Walker, sitting quietly in a trim dark green suit, with her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap. She was tall and slim, with soft blond hair that lightly brushed her shoulders and huge brown eyes that seemed to fill her face. Braxton had first met Lieutenant Walker when she was undercover for the Defense Intelligence Agency. She and the DIA subsequently had a falling out, and while unemployed, was hired by Chu.

  Braxton had been dumbfounded when he learned what Chu had done. How could he and Walker possibly work together? The woman was pathologically independent and stubborn as a mule. But Braxton had said okay, and Walker had agreed to stay on. She had explained that someone needed to keep the founder of Cerberus from getting himself killed. As for Braxton, he just liked having her around.

  Braxton took his usual seat at the end of the table.

  “Thanks for coming in,” he began. “I had an interesting conversation this morning and wanted to see what you thought. Ever hear of Jason?”

  “Jason who?” Fowler asked.

  Now it was Walker who fidgeted. “Ah, perhaps.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Sydney. I assume you know them from DIA.”

  Fowler leaned across the table. “Okay, maybe you two could let me in on this little secret?”

  “Sorry, Sam. ‘Secret’ is a good description. At the risk of being overly simplistic, Jason is a federal advisory group made up of the leading scientists in the country. They operate mostly under the public radar. Many of their projects are for DOD and the black agencies. All top secret. They answer questions the agencies don’t have the knowledge to answer, or sometimes even know to ask. They are managed out of a Program Office at MITRE.” Braxton paused to let the explanation sink in.

  “Sounds like a very scary group, Adam,” Fowler commented. “What does this have to do with us?”

  “I met with three members of their Steering Group this morning. Got quite an earful.”

  Walker’s expression was unmistakable. “You met with Jason?”

  Braxton couldn’t help but smile. “Well, that’s a strong vote of confidence.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, I know. They expressed something similar about my capabilities. But they did have an interesting proposition.”

  He spent the next ten minutes describing the conversation and the eventual deal he had agreed on.

  Walker listened expressionless until she heard about the supposed betrayal. Then her jaw dropped. “There’s a traitor in Jason?”

  “That’s what Hawthorne believes,” Braxton said.

  “Why would eggheads like these guys do that?” Fowler asked.

  “Mice,” Walker replied.

  Fowler’s eyebrows curled. “Huh?”

  “Mice. M - I - C - E. Money, ideology, coercion and ego. They’re the reasons for espionage they taught us in Intelligence School. Money, well that’s obvious. Ideology, the social activist employee who hates her capitalist bosses. Coercion, threats against her family or blackmail for some past bad deed. Ego, she thinks she’s smarter than everyone else and wants to prove it.”

  “That could fit any of the Jasons,” Braxton said.

  Fowler looked like he still had questions. “Is this something you really want to take on, Adam? Why can’t they find their traitor on their own?”

  It was a good question. One Braxton had been struggling with all day.

  “I don’t think they know how, Sam. It’s like any organization that tries to investigate itself. It never works well. Look at how Internal Affairs is viewed in police departments. I truly believe it would destroy Jason.”

  “Full disclosure,” Walker added, “I have heard of Jason from some scuttlebutt at DIA. They were not the most popular advisory group among the brass. But they did apparently help with some thorny technical problems. I think they provide an independent view that is really needed. Otherwise, we’re relying on bureaucrats and politicians to make decisions on topics they don’t understand. You wouldn’t believe some of the crap I saw going on at DIA.”

  Braxton sat back and waited. He needed their help, but it had to be voluntary. He might have started this assignment, but they would need to carry it out together.

  Walker stared down at her hands, then looked up and finally spoke.

  “You do realize how messed up this job is?”

  “That isn’t quite the word I would have used, but it is odd. And important.”

  “So we’ve got a job we can’t talk about, to find a traitor we don’t know and will be disowned by our clients if we screw up. That about cover it?”

  Fowler just shook his head, but Braxton managed a smile. Walker did know how to get to the bottom of a situation. “I’d say so.”

  Walker outdid him with a sparkling grin. “Okay. Sounds like fun.”

  Braxton looked over to Fowler. “Oh, hell,” he replied. “If I don’t help you, I’ll never hear the end of it. So what’s the plan?”

  Braxton took a deep breath. Time to get to work.

  “After I agreed to this opportunity, Hawthorne shared some of his ideas on how we should proceed. He certainly doesn’t lack for confidence. We finally decided on a basic plan. It has two components: one focused internally on Jasons and one focused externally on whoever is selling the secrets. Hawthorne believes, and I agree, that the traitor cannot be selling to multiple buyers. It’s too complicated. The external play is to figure out how the secrets are being transmitted. From what Hawthorne said, the disclosures have been traced to a number of different countries. So our traitor didn’t just stop by the Russian Embassy and sell his secrets. They are being parceled out, probably via some kind of auction. Now he, or she, couldn’t just do it via eBay, so I’m thinking a dark web site. My job is to find it.”

  “Okay, that makes sense,” Walker said. “But what about the internal play? How do we check out all the Jasons? We can’t just infiltrate them. We don’t have the qualifications. No disrespect intended.”

  Braxton shook his head. He did like his new hire. “None taken. And there are about fifty active Jasons. But Hawthorne helped there as well. He knows of four leaks for sure: some type of acoustic device, technology for a cruise torpedo, a quantum computer design, and a new AI algorit
hm, better than deep learning. He analyzed the teams that worked on these projects, and only two Jasons participated in all of them. Dr. Conrad Turner, a physicist at the Naval Research Lab here in D.C. and Prof. Ian Donnelly, another physicist from Stanford. They have to be our initial targets.”

  He looked over to Fowler. “Sam, do you have anyone who could do a little financial deep dive on these guys: do they have lots of debt, an influx of cash, living beyond their means? Under the radar of course.”

  The ex-cop nodded. “Well, I do have a friend of a friend that is in that, ah, kind of work. I’ll give it a try. It’ll take a couple of days though.”

  “That would be great. Thanks. Now while we can’t become Jasons, we can become part of Jason’s support organization. MITRE’s Program Office manages all of the Jason engagements. So they have files on all the Jasons. And it turns out that they have an opening for a Project Manager. Now if we only knew someone with a security clearance, undercover experience, and incredible investigative skills.”

  “Well,” Walker replied, the smile still on her face. “I may have someone in mind.”

  Chapter 6

  Starbucks, Howard Road, SE, Washington, D.C.

  Thursday, 8:57 a.m.

  Fowler arrived at the Starbucks by the Anacostia Metro Station on Howard Road, SE, a few minutes before nine. He picked up his drink and found a table in the rear, out of direct sight of the barista, a location his contact would appreciate.

  A few minutes later, a tall thin black man appeared at the door. Dreadlocks hung to his shoulders partially obscuring his face. He wore skin-tight leather pants and a multi-colored satin shirt. The shirt was open halfway down his chest exposing multiple gold chains around his neck. Fowler was surprised the man could hold his head up from the weight.

  He pranced across the room, singing some incomprehensible reggae song and waving his hands like a midtown rapper.

  “Hey, mon,” he called as he approached Fowler’s table. “Whatcha all doin’ here? How’s about I join ‘ya?” He plopped down in a plastic chair opposite Fowler.

  “That there lah-tay looks right fine. Don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed Fowler’s drink and took a long swallow.

  Fowler slid his chair back expecting the drink to come back at him.

  “Jesus, Sam. Hot chocolate? Really? I’ve been up all night and this is what you bring me? Has Pat cut off your caffeine?” The man’s English had become decidedly more refined.

  “That’s quite a disguise, Ricky,” Fowler said. “What are you trying to do, get arrested as an undesirable Haitian refugee?”

  “I’m undercover. My client believes his ole lady is coloring outside the lines, if you know what I mean. Just trying to blend in.”

  Fowler shook his head. “I thought you had associates for this kind of work.”

  “Yeah, but sometimes I just gotta get back on the street. Keeps me sharp.”

  Fowler had known Ricky White for over ten years. The man had appeared in D.C. with a shiny new law degree from the University of Alabama, ready to take on injustice in the nation’s capital. He had just gotten a position as a public defender when one of his clients tried to frame him for a murder the client had committed. Fowler had found evidence of the real killer and White had escaped arrest, barely.

  White had then rethought his career choice and became a private investigator, figuring his years growing up on the streets of Birmingham might count for something. It had been a good choice; he now ran Aegis Investigations, the largest and most successful PI firm in the District. Over the years, the two had kept in touch and White had even provided occasional background for some of Fowler’s cases.

  Fowler had called his friend the day before and asked to meet.

  “What do you need, Sam?”

  “I could really use some financial background on these guys.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the table.

  White opened the note, then slipped it into his pocket. “Who are they? Drug dealers? No, you wouldn’t do that. Executives?” Fowler sat stone-faced. “Okay. Politicians. That must be it.”

  “Actually, they’re scientists, Ricky.”

  “Scientists? Selling secrets? You’re not involved with that CIA guy again are you?”

  White was way too intuitive for his own good. But that was what made him so good. “No. Well, maybe. It’s just background. Can you do it?”

  “Sure. But it will take a few days. I’ll get you something by the end of the week.”

  “Thanks, Ricky.”

  “How’s Pat doing?”

  For reasons he had never been able to understand, White had always gotten along exceptionally well with Fowler’s wife. Personality wise, they were day and night, but the two just seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

  “She’s great. Started taking courses at George Mason a couple of years ago. Gets her degree in Psychology next spring.”

  White’s face beamed. “That’s wonderful. Give her my best. Needed to get out once you were around all the time, huh?”

  Fowler ignored the barb. He was afraid it was probably true. “How’s Henry?”

  “He’s doing well. Just got promoted to lead litigator.”

  Henry Abelson was White’s partner and fellow Alabama Law grad. An expert in tax law, he had joined the IRS and had rapidly moved up in their fraud division. Fowler often wondered if Abelson was the secret resource behind White’s ability to uncover financial improprieties for his clients. It had always seemed imprudent to ask.

  “Gotta run, Sam. Duty calls. Give my best to Pat.”

  “Will do, Ricky. One last thing, though. I may need some help on surveillance. I can’t pull all-nighters anymore. Do you have anyone available? Don’t need pros.”

  White paused then nodded. “Sure. Brought a couple of new guys in last year. Just text me if you need them.”

  “Thanks again. Take care of yourself.”

  “No problem, bro. You be good, now. And thanks for that DEE-licious lah-tay.” White jumped back into his persona, danced his way back through the store and disappeared around the corner.

  Fowler stared at his hot chocolate, then got up and dropped it in the trash on his way out.

  * * *

  Slattery gathered his papers and walked out of the briefing room with hardly a nod to his colleagues. He had a lot more important things to do than listen to the Director of National Intelligence ramble on about the need for constant vigilance. Franklin Vargas was President Matthews’ third DNI in as many years, and POTUS had apparently chosen the most politically acceptable, and operationally inept, candidate possible.

  Trekking down to Liberty Crossing for this kind of posturing was not his idea of keeping the country safe. He was lost in his thoughts when he heard the call.

  “Roger?”

  Slattery turned and saw Mary Ellen Flynn waving from a crowd leaving the briefing room. He stopped and let her catch up.

  The Special Assistant to the Director of the FBI was dressed for conflict. At least her kind of conflict. She wore a trim light-gray suit, cut to highlight her tiny waist, and tight-necked white silk blouse. Five feet ten, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, she was a poster-child for FBI recruitment. Her fiery red hair was pulled back and tied in a neat bun; a concession to the conservative nature of her agency.

  Her attire aside, Flynn was a hot-blooded investigator who had clawed her way to the top of the FBI’s good old boys’ network. She currently led the FBI’s team at the National Counterterrorism Center. Both respected and hated within her agency, depending on who you asked, she was Slattery’s kind of agent.

  “Sorry, Mary Ellen,” he answered when she had caught up. “My mind was elsewhere.”

  “Not enthralled by Vargas’ analysis of the state of the world?”

  “Yeah. You could say that.” He shook off his frustration and focused on his friend. “What’s up?”

  “I was hoping I could get a few minutes of your time.” Her expression told Slattery this was not a ca
sual request.

  “Certainly. Now okay?”

  “Yes. Let’s go to my place.” She turned and strode down the hall, the sound of her high heels on the hard marble floor echoing through the corridor. Slattery smiled and followed obediently.

  “My place” was Flynn’s office in the NCTC. A few minutes later, Slattery was seated across from Flynn at her desk. She was sitting at attention on the edge of her chair. He had an uneasy feeling this wasn’t going to be a friendly encounter.

  Hoping to diffuse the tension, he started informally. “You’ve redecorated.”

  The last time Slattery had been here, Flynn’s office had been outfit in classic Washington Bureaucrat: heavy in oak and leather, with numerous staged group photographs and the requisite portrait of the reigning Director, Franklin Squires.

  The portrait of Squires was, of course, still present, but a variety of colorful landscape prints had replaced the agency photographs. Her furniture was now modern and lighter in color. It was a refreshing change. Another addition was a new item sitting on her desk: a mug that said, “Women Belong in All Places Where Decisions are Being Made.” The quotation from Justice Ginsburg was a fixture among the beltway feminati.

  What was still missing, however, was any artifact that would suggest the Special Assistant had a life outside the Bureau.

  Flynn smiled. It was friendly and relaxed. Maybe he was just being paranoid. “Wanted to change a few things: new furniture, a few new pictures. The old stuff was getting to me. Life in this place is dark enough already.”

  Slattery decided to maintain the mood. “I like the outfit. Got a job interview?”

  The smile turned to a grin. Her eyes sparkled, and Slattery caught a glimpse of what she might be outside of this toxic job. “Not a chance. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I have a meeting with the Director this afternoon. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to dress up a bit.” Then the smile disappeared. “But you’re stalling. I need you to take a look at this.” She handed him a folder.

  It was a Metropolitan D.C. Police Report. He opened the folder and scanned the pages. “Hit and run in Southeast. One pedestrian killed, a Carlos Torres. Why is the FBI involved?”