by Jack Bowie
“The laptop was encrypted, but it didn’t take long to crack. We found email threads that are a clear trace back to Caracas.“
“That’s great work, Eric. Now we know the what and the who. Did you get anything on the how? Where did these bastards get the intel on the weapon?”
“As a matter of fact, we did. The General was really into the dark web. And he wasn’t worried about clearing his browser history. A lot of the sites he visited were, shall we say, for his personal gratification, but there was one we hadn’t heard of before. Seems to be run by some kind of militia group. Call themselves the Principia Militia. We haven’t been able to break into it yet, but superficially it seems like an auction site.”
Another militia group? Slattery’s last encounter with a domestic militia nearly cost the President his life. “So whoever is running this site is selling our technology to the highest bidder?”
“That’s what it looks like. Ever heard of them? I couldn’t find anything.”
Slattery paused, running the name through his memory. “Nope.”
“Well, we’ll keep digging. And trying to break into the site. We haven’t found anything that looks like a password on Sandura’s machine so we’ll have to hack our way in. Could take a while.”
Slattery nodded. “Understood. And, Eric, we all appreciate what your team is doing. This is important.”
“Thanks, Roger. I’ll give you a yell if we find anything new.”
Slattery headed back to the elevator. He needed to find out more about this militia, and he knew just the person to do it.
* * *
After Fowler had received the financial review from White on Friday, he had replied, asking for surveillance support on Turner. White’s team had been in place that evening. Pretty impressive turnaround for his friend.
Fowler was now in his office, a re-purposing of his son’s bedroom, reviewing the weekend report.
Turner lived on Woodland Drive in Annandale, fifteen miles west of NRL across the Potomac. From the image provided in the report, his home was a modest brick split-level with an attached single car garage, probably built in the sixties. It was a mature neighborhood with tall oak trees, well-kept lawns and thick, overgrown hedges. Comfortable, but hardly what Fowler would have expected from a world-class scientist. The divorce must have taken quite a toll.
Fowler read the narrative.
4:35 p.m. - Subject leaves Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) in Anacostia.
5:54 p.m. - Subject arrives home. No visible activity. Occasional lights in home during evening.
11:15 p.m. - All lights extinguished. No visible activity.
8:05 a.m. - Subject leaves home for NRL.
8:56 a.m. - Subject arrives at NRL. No visible activity.
4:10 p.m. - Subject leaves NRL.
4:55 p.m. - Subject stops at Safeway on Braddock Road. Observed buying groceries.
5:18 p.m. - Subject arrives home. No visible activity. Occasional lights in home during evening.
8:35 a.m. - Subject observed at home. Cuts grass, tends flower garden in rear of home.
3:30 p.m.- Subject leaves home.
3:42 p.m. - Subject arrives at Safe-T-Store storage facility on Backlick Road. Observed entering unit 147. Unable to determine contents of unit.
3:56 p.m. - Subject leaves storage facility and returns home. Nothing apparent removed.
4:10 p.m. - Subject arrives home. No visible activity.
All pretty benign except the trip to the storage facility.
What could Turner need to check on a Sunday?
This was definitely something that deserved further investigation.
Chapter 13
CIA Headquarters, Langley, VA
Monday, 7:00 a.m.
Slattery had a fitful night, tossing and turning, unable to get the idea of a dark web auction site selling his country’s secrets out of his head. Beth finally turned over, kissed him on the forehead and told him to go to work. It was behavior she knew well.
He drove to Langley and settled in his office. An update from Gillum was waiting in his email. There was still no luck with the cell phones, and the auction site remained impenetrable, but Gillum said he would be contacting an outside resource for assistance. He also said he would be calling the NSA number Slattery had given him for help with the acoustic device. He ended with an apology for not having anything more positive.
Slattery watched the sunrise through his copper-tinted windows hoping for some miraculous insight into another militia conspiracy. He tried to use the Agency’s search engine for help, but his feeble attempts again demonstrated his complete inability to make the damn computers do his bidding. Another sign of his imminent senility. That was when his savior walked into the suite.
“Cassie,” he called to Lewis even before she was able to hang up her coat.
“Good morning,” his admin said as she stood scowling in his doorway. “Bad night?”
“Just an early morning. I need some help with a search.” One of the reasons Cassie Lewis sat outside Slattery’s office was that she supposedly knew every desktop app ever developed and her ability to navigate through the CIA’s maze of record systems and databases was said to be unique in the Agency. God knew he needed it.
“No problem. What is it?”
“Some new militia group. Or at least I think it’s new. Call themselves the Principia Militia.” He handed her a Post-It with the organization’s name. “Can you see what you can find?”
“Sure, I’ll grab some coffee and get started.”
A few minutes later, Slattery heard the familiar melody of Lewis’ fingers on her keyboard. He hoped her magic could uncover something new.
After about ten minutes, she reappeared in his doorway.
“Find something already?” he asked.
“Not really. I’ve come up empty. But I do have one question.”
Slattery wasn’t sure what additional information he could give, but he’d certainly be willing to try. He sure as hell wasn’t coming up with anything on his own. “Shoot.”
“Are you sure this is a militia group?”
He cocked his head. “So far as we know. Why?”
“Could the name be Principia mil-ih-tee-ah?” She spoke the syllables slowly.
“I suppose. But what would that mean?”
“It would be Latin.”
“Latin? You know Latin?”
Lewis gave him the same look she did when he asked her, for the hundredth time, how to access his browser favorites. “I’m Catholic and I went to Georgetown. Of course I know Latin.”
Appropriately castigated for his continued ignorance, Slattery tried again. “Okay, so what if it is prin-see-pee-ah mil-ih-tee-ah?” He tried to reproduce her pronunciation.
“That would mean Military Principles or Principles of Warfare. You know, like the famous Principia Mathematica by Alfred North Whitehead.”
It took a few seconds for the connection to click. Or more accurately, detonate. An icy spear shot through Slattery’s spine.
Shit! It’s him.
* * *
Like most good investigators, Trevor Lambkin didn’t believe in coincidences. So when two of his clients called regarding the same problem over the course of a couple of days, he knew it wasn’t just chance.
Perhaps all those rumors he had heard about his friend working clandestinely with the CIA really were true. And Braxton wouldn’t necessarily have known the CIA would call him about the dark web.
So should I let Adam know the name of the site?
But doing that would break the conditions of his security clearances. And that would jeopardize all his government contracts.
I’m sure they’ll share the results soon.
Besides, it sure as hell was more profitable to be able to log hours on both cases.
* * *
Braxton spotted an open space directly in front of the Old Vienna Cleaners and jerked his Grand Cherokee in just before a woman with a gigantic Toyota Sienn
a stole it from him. It was downright dangerous to be out in the daytime with the soccer moms.
He had never been able to figure out why it was “Old” Vienna since the shop had only opened three years before, but they were close to his apartment building, efficient and relatively inexpensive.
He had called Chu at nine and told her he needed to run some errands before coming in. It seemed like his life had been nothing but a tornado of work ever since Nolan had appeared in his office. Now his apartment had mountains of dust bunnies, baskets full of dirty clothes, and an empty refrigerator begging for sustainment. Something had to be done.
Braxton should have taken care of these chores over the weekend, but instead, he had spent most of the last two days camped out in the George Washington University Computer Science library, reading everything he could find about Tor and Onion vulnerabilities. He had found a few recent papers that gave some procedures for defeating the router cloud and determining the physical location of sites, but the techniques were well beyond his expertise. They would be good background for Lambkin’s next inquisition but unlikely to be anything Braxton could put to use himself.
When he had returned to his apartment, he had used his learnings to explore the dark web. He had loaded Tor on his laptop, then searched the Tor site, and various chat rooms, for dark web URLs. One by one, he had collected a list of sites, which he then accessed and studied. One of the most surprising things he had found was how professional the sites appeared. Rather than garish, amateur designs, the sites he reviewed were attractive, well-designed and very approachable. Sales sites had familiar features such as vendor “likes” and purchaser reviews.
I guess that’s the idea if you’re selling drugs or pornographic material.
The sites ran the gamut of content. Besides the highly publicized drug and porn sites, he had found sites for hacking, counterfeiting, gambling, and conspiracy theories. There were even dark mail and dark wiki sites. Many of the sites were password-protected, requiring the use of screen names and often Bitcoin deposits. He wasn’t prepared to go there just yet.
Unfortunately, there had been nothing that looked like the site he was seeking. Braxton hoped Lambkin could come through with that piece of critical information.
He grabbed an armful of shirts and slacks from his backseat and headed for the door.
* * *
Singer entered Tysons Tower looking every bit the overworked government drone. He had picked up a bland gray suit at Marshall’s along with a drab leather briefcase. A few hits against a concrete pillar in the parking garage had given the case a realistically time-worn patina. But the contents of the briefcase were hardly those of a typical federal employee.
He signed in as Walter Fields, Bureau of Labor Statistics, and asked for directions to the offices of the National Society of Oil and Gas Drillers. Singer had scanned the Tysons Tower web site that morning and had selected the most mundane cover he could find.
He took the elevator to the floor of his destination and walked directly to the restroom, where he removed a set of deep blue contact lenses. Through some quirk in his DNA, Singer had been born with albino eyes: colorless white orbs showing only the deep black void of his pupils. His parents had learned early on how frightening the mutation was to his friends. He had been called “evil-eyes”, “devil-boy” and even more profane names. They had quickly fit the young boy with colored contact lenses which provided their son a normal childhood, or at least as normal as was possible given his personality.
As Singer had grown older, however, he had discovered the benefits of the mutation: the ability to rapidly change his appearance, and the powerful effect his natural appearance had on his enemies. For this particular encounter, he chose the latter advantage. He wanted to make sure he was recognized. And remembered.
Setting his briefcase on the counter, he flicked open the locks and extracted a small object which he slipped into his coat pocket. Then he closed the case and returned to the hallway.
Three doors past the restroom were the offices of Cerberus Consulting. Singer had been watching the Tower and its adjacent parking garage all morning and was reasonably sure his target was alone in the office.
He opened the door, then reached behind and closed it, quietly turning the lock. Chu was typing away, huddled in front of her computer.
“Just a moment,” she commented without turning around.
“Please finish what you’re working on,” Singer replied, slowly walking around the desk. “No rush.”
“Thank you.” After a few seconds, Chu’s fingers stopped and she turned to her visitor. “How can Cerberus help you …” She stopped short when she looked into his face.
Singer was pleased to see the recognition. Nothing like a bit of terror to improve an interrogation. “Oh, no, Mrs. Chu. It’s you who can help me.” Before she could react, he grabbed her hair and pulled back her head, driving the syringe from his pocket into her exposed neck. Chu slumped into the chair.
Scanning the room, he spotted the door to Braxton’s inner office. He rolled Chu into the room, placed her at the end of the desk and set his briefcase beside her.
Next, he ripped the sleeves off Chu’s blouse and tied them over her mouth as a gag. Taking Zip Ties from the briefcase, he then secured her arms and feet to the chair, pulling them extra tight to heighten the fear.
Almost ready.
He reached for the second syringe and jabbed it into her bare shoulder. It was the antidote to the first injection.
Chu’s eyes fluttered open then popped wide.
“Hello, Karen,” Singer whispered. “I can call you Karen can’t I? You seem to know who I am. We’re going to have a little talk. As long as you cooperate, this will all be over very soon. I don’t want to hurt you.
“If you don’t cooperate, however, things could get quite painful.” Singer reached down and squeezed on Chu’s already swollen wrist. She let out a soft groan. “And if I’m forced to hurt you, I will do the same to your husband, Russell, and your son, Greg.”
Singer reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and showed Chu the display.
“I must say, the little guy looked quite dapper this morning in his Spiderman suit. Is that new?”
Chu’s eyes bulged, and Singer could smell the fear rising. So far so good. He needed to complete the interrogation before anyone arrived back at the office.
“I’m going to give you a small shot in your arm. Just something to calm your nerves. Then I will take off the gag and we’ll talk.” Singer took the third syringe from the briefcase and cleared the needle. “You remember what I said about cooperation?” Chu nodded quickly. “And don’t even think about screaming. I would react to that quite violently.”
Raising the needle, he jabbed it into Chu’s other shoulder and pressed the plunger down. Chu groaned again, then her face relaxed and her eyes lost focus. Singer reached behind her head and untied the gag.
“Now, Karen. Let’s talk about your boss.”
Chapter 14
Whole Foods, Falls Church, VA
Monday, 11:20 a.m.
Braxton finally made it to Whole Foods. He could not afford to eat out breakfast, lunch and dinner. No matter how satisfying it was.
He had tried to call Chu and tell her he was running late, but there had been no answer. Odd, but not concerning. Everyone gets to have a bio-break now and then.
Anyway, he didn’t think it would take him much longer. As long as he didn’t get too carried away in the pasta aisle.
I wonder if I can find some of that arrabbiata sauce?
* * *
Fowler made his decision after a restless night during which his wife had banished him to the living room sofa. The only way he was going to figure out what Turner was up to was to get inside the storage unit.
He had emailed White first thing in the morning, requesting that the surveillance team text him if Turner made any unexpected trips during the day. His friend must have been off the street because
he had responded almost immediately, confirming the request. Fowler assumed the PI knew exactly what Fowler was up to, but thankfully kept his suspicions to himself.
After lunch, his wife went to the library to study and Fowler set out on his op. He took the Beltway west into Virginia. About halfway around the circumferential, he went north on Backlick Road. Backlick was a four-lane commercial artery running through Annandale lined with strip-malls, big-box stores and light industry. The Safe-T-Store facility sat behind an eight-foot-high chain link fence two miles from the interchange. It was only a few miles from Turner’s home in Annandale.
The facility was unimpressive, just a cinder block office out front and three long rows of metal storage units, each with a roll-up access door.
The gate into the facility was open, and Fowler drove into the small parking area. He walked into the office—there was barely room for him between the counter and the side wall—and saw a young man, hardly older than a teenager, sitting behind the counter. The boy, dressed in jeans and a Washington Redskins sweatshirt, was staring into a small TV in the room’s corner. A soccer game played on the screen. The room smelled of greasy pizza and popcorn.
“Can I help ya?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Fowler replied. “I’d like to rent a unit.”
“What size?”
“Ah, what have you got?”
The boy produced a laminated sheet showing the sizes of the units. It didn’t matter what size he got. Should he just get the smallest? Then he had an idea. “I’ve got a friend that rents a unit here. Number 147. He really likes it. What size is that?”
“That’s a ten by twelve.”
“Thanks. Have you got anything nearby? It would be easier for me to find.”
The boy checked his computer. “I’ve got 145 available. It’s just two units over.”
“Great. I’ll take it.”
Fowler completed the paperwork and paid for a month. There was one more question he needed to ask.
“What kind of security do you have?”
The boy hesitated. “Well, the gate is locked unless someone is here.”