The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Then we have to find out what he asked Mrs. Chu. Can you find out?”

  Braxton knew Grady was unlikely to let him back into Chu’s room. “I don’t know. Her husband is pretty pissed at me. But Sydney or Sam might be able to.”

  “I saw them inside. You should join them. See what they can find out. I’ll check with Homeland Security. Maybe they can track his movements. But if I had to bet, he’s gone. Get back to me if you learn anything new.”

  Braxton was about to tell Slattery what he thought about all the orders but decided to leave it alone.

  He turned and went back inside.

  * * *

  Singer had to admit that Lufthansa had exceptional flight attendants in First Class. He watched his favorite saunter down the aisle with a wiggle that would put a slithering rattlesnake to shame. Unfortunately, he had work to do and deferred any further observations.

  Two hours into his flight to Frankfurt he had completed his essay. It was written long-hand on a pad of paper he had purchased at Dulles. The document was a sterling piece of investigative journalism. Certainly worthy of WikiLeaks. But he had a less politically-charged source in mind.

  He would never have trusted the airline’s WiFi with the contents, so he folded the papers and placed them in the pocket of his cargo pants. His colleague would take the next step.

  “The Way of strategy is the Way of Nature. When you appreciate the power of nature, knowing the rhythm of any situation, you will be able to hit the enemy naturally and strike naturally … There is Timing in everything.”

  So wrote Miyamoto Musashi, perhaps the greatest swordsman and warrior in Japan’s history, in A Book of Five Rings. Singer had studied the classic treatise on strategy throughout his chosen career. Its teachings had become his Way. Countless times it had given him strength and granted him salvation.

  Singer knew his Time was coming.

  He reclined his seat and dreamed of the reactions the report would receive.

  Chapter 16

  MITRE Corporation, McLean, VA

  Tuesday, 11:00 a.m.

  Walker entered the conference room with butterflies in her stomach. She was not usually a nervous person, but she did have some trepidation meeting her first Jason. Labret had said Donnelly was easygoing, but that had to be considered relative to the Jason norm.

  It was a small room, meant for private study or secure one-on-ones. Labret was on the far side of a small work table, smiling broadly probably realizing this would be one of the last duties of his work life. A stack of folders sat on the table in front of him.

  Sitting next to him was someone as far from a Jason as she could have imagined. Donnelly was a good-looking man with sandy hair and a well-tanned face. He was younger than she had expected, probably in his early forties, and wore a blue-striped shirt, open at the collar, and tailored blue blazer. He looked more like a California surfer than a brainy academic.

  Walker wished she had dressed up a bit more.

  “Sydney,” Labret began, “let me introduce Dr. Ian Donnelly. Ian is Walman Professor of Physics and Physical Communication at Stanford. Ian, this is our new Project Manager, Sydney Walker.”

  Donnelly rose from his seat and extended his hand. He looked about six foot two, but slim, probably one hundred seventy or one hundred eighty pounds. Definitely athletic. But what really surprised her was the friendly smile on his face.

  “Ms. Walker. Great to meet you. Andy has been singing your praises all morning.”

  Walker’s face flushed. She certainly hadn’t expected such an effusive greeting. “Professor Donnelly. A pleasure to meet you.” She took his hand and returned a firm, but not competitive, grip.

  “Please. It’s Ian. No need to stand on formality.”

  Walker and Donnelly took their seats. Good looks aside, Walker had to remember that she was here to get a read on a potential traitor.

  Labret turned to Donnelly. “I’ve already explained some of our process to Sydney. We have received a preliminary request from the Department of the Navy for a Jason engagement. Here are the specifics.” He reached down and gave one folder to each of them. They were standard security folders with a red “Secret” band across the top corner.

  Everyone opened their folder and began reading as Labret continued. “The Navy is looking for an analysis of recent technology on sub-surface to airborne communication.” He turned to Walker. “As you may know, Sydney, underwater communication is challenging. Standard radio-frequency communication is impossible due to the rapid attenuation of signals in water. Today, land-based transmission to submerged submarines is accomplished by ridiculously complex Very Long Wavelength or Extremely Long Wavelength technology. The transmitting antennae are literally miles long. But the signals can only go one way. To respond, the submarines must surface, exposing the vessel to detection.

  “According to this request, investigators at MIT have been working on the direct exchange of signals from submerged vessels to airplanes. The theory is that upward-directed sonar signals produce micro-disturbances on the water’s surface that can be detected by aircraft overhead. This would be a breakthrough in sub-surface communication.”

  Walker was impressed with Labret’s description of the issues. I guess he did pick up a few things in all those years with DOD.

  “I’m aware of the research,” Donnelly commented. “Also, the original ELF communication technology was developed by Jason in the early sixties. It was a ground-breaking, innovative solution. So what does the Navy want from us?”

  Well, despite his appearance, he sure sounds like a Jason.

  “The Navy wants to know if this is a viable technology. So far, the results have been in what they call “toy” environments, like fish tanks and swimming pools. They are requesting an analysis of the limits of such technology, the challenges that could be encountered for deployment, the expectation of enemy interference or detection, and finally, what counter-measures might be deployed. The standard questions. Depending on your results, there is the possibility that they might choose to throw a national security blanket over the research.”

  Walker realized she was now in the middle of very heady stuff. If the Navy was thinking of classifying the research, and thus yanking it from a research university like MIT, they must believe this could be a game-changer. The last time she had heard about this happening was with Phil Zimmerman’s PGP encryption technique.

  Donnelly went back to the folder and spent the next few minutes going back through the pages.

  “I don’t see any major problems with the proposal,” he finally commented. “I’ll need to confirm with the Steering Committee, but my initial thinking would be to approve. I’ll be out of the country later this week, so I’ll try to get back as soon as possible. Should I communicate our decision to Ms. Walker?”

  Walker’s attention peaked at the reference to international travel. How could she keep track of him if he was outside the country?

  “Yes,” Labret said, with a clear smile on his face. “This is Sydney’s project now.”

  “Very good,” Donnelly replied. “I think that should do it for now. Andy, it’s been a pleasure working with you. Anyone up for lunch?”

  “Ah, certainly,” Walker replied.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass,” Labret said. “Have some exit interviews with the security group. Ian, I wish you the very best. I know Sydney will take good care of you.”

  Walker gathered up the folders. This was now her project. In more ways than one.

  * * *

  Walker and Donnelly had gone down to the cafeteria, each grabbing a salad and a bottle of juice, then sat down and mixed conversation with nourishment.

  “Thanks so much for the invitation,” Walker began. “I feel like I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  “I’m sure you’ll catch on very quickly. And we’re not nearly the ogres you hear about.”

  “If my present company is an example, I’m sure it
will be easy.” Walker hoped this small bit of flattery would get them off on the right foot.

  Donnelly smiled. He did seem to be just a regular guy. That will probably change, but either way, she needed to remember why she was really here.

  Unfortunately, the Plan was not at the top of her mind. It was bad enough that Chu had been attacked, but by that psychopath Singer? Why would he come back here after all this time?

  “Ms. Walker?”

  She needed to figure out how to get back to the hospital. Chu has to know we’re here for her, even if Adam—”

  “Ms. Walker?”

  “What? Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Donnelly had a look of concern. “You seem distracted. Is anything wrong?”

  “Sydney, please. But, I’m sorry. A friend was in an accident yesterday and I’m still a bit overwhelmed.”

  “Is he alright? Please feel free to go if you need to.”

  “No. It’s okay. Really. She’s recovering and in good hands.” I hope. But I have to get back to work. “I do have a question, if I may. Why did you become a Jason?”

  The smile returned. “Obvious answer is that I was asked, but I’m sure that’s not what you meant.” Donnelly’s smile dissolved and he stared up and to the left.

  He’s remembering his decision process. Probably not a lie.

  “A lot of reasons. And I can only speak for myself, of course.

  “First, it’s sure not about the money. Jason pays a lot less than my normal per-diem. There is certainly some amount of pride or elitism. Everyone likes to think they’re special. And being a Jason does stroke a guy’s ego.

  “I know it may sound trite, but the real reason I became a Jason is to protect science. I believe in facts, in data. Something that is in short supply in Washington these days. Jason can play a significant role in making a better and safer world. We just need to be given the chance. That’s why I accepted.”

  Walker was taken aback. Either he was blowing smoke up her ass, or he had thought about all this. Doesn’t sound like something a traitor would say.

  “Do the other Jasons feel the same way?”

  “I can’t speak for all the Jasons, but I think most do. And that’s the last reason for being a Jason. These guys are my comrades. My friends. We share a lot: personality, a way of thinking, a history of being made fun of as kids. The other Jasons are like my family.

  “Oh, and knowing secrets is definitely cool.” He managed a straight face for almost a minute. Then he broke down in a wide grin.

  “Well, that’s quite an explanation.” She smiled in reply. “I’ll remember not to ask you anything when I’m in a hurry.”

  “Fair enough. You know, I wondered why Prof. Hawthorne suggested I take the lead on this engagement. Honestly, I was reluctant to break in a new Project Manager. Now I’m glad I did.”

  Well, that explains one coincidence.

  They took a break to finish their meals.

  “I understand you’re going out of the country this week?” Walker asked. On to the next part of the interrogation.

  “Yes. I’m leaving tomorrow for a conference on cryptography in Budapest. I’m giving a paper on signal encryption using crystal dislocations.”

  Walker shrugged. “I’m not sure I even understand what that means.”

  “Okay. Let’s try this. It’s a study of using man-made crystal defects to affect the polarization of incoming laser light, thus encoding the output signal in an apparently random, but reconstructable, manner.”

  Walker smiled. “Right. That didn’t help. Are you a cryptologist?”

  “Oh, no.” Donnelly looked aghast. “Like most Jasons, I’m a physicist. Physics is the basis of all science. You can’t understand the other disciplines without understanding physics.”

  Right. And not too shy about it are you?

  “But, you need some training,” he added. “You should come with me.”

  Walker’s eyes popped. “Come with you?”

  “Sure. PMs follow us around all the time. It’s a great learning experience. You have to write the reports for the generals, right?”

  Walker nodded.

  “Then you need to understand the tech. You’ll really enjoy it.”

  Chapter 17

  Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, VA

  Tuesday, 1:30 p.m.

  The door to the suite opened, and Fowler strode in.

  “Sam!” Braxton exclaimed. “Come in. I really need a break. Lock the door and we can go into my office.”

  “Sounds good,” Fowler replied.

  Braxton had been sitting at Chu’s desk all morning trying to answer calls, most of which meant absolutely nothing to him.

  When would the contracting forms be completed?

  Where is the GSA Schedule update?

  What is the account number of the latest payment?

  How long could he function without her?

  The investigator latched the outer door and followed Braxton to his office. On the way, he stopped at the small refrigerator behind Chu’s desk and grabbed a cold Diet Dr. Pepper from his private stash. He popped the top and took a long swig. Then he walked to Braxton’s small conference area and dropped his huge frame onto the padded sofa.

  “Nice. Something new?”

  “The sofa? Yeah. Karen forced me to get a new one. She said it was because I had slept on it too many nights. Personally, I think it was due to some of my over-sized friends.”

  Fowler shook his head and wiggled farther into the cushion. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay. Nothing like getting thrown into a pit of contracting minutiae. I don’t know how Karen does it.” He suddenly remembered why he was forced into this situation. Who was he to be complaining? She was lying in a hospital bed.

  “How is she, Sam?” he asked softly.

  “Looks a lot better. When Russell wasn’t around, she apologized for his outburst. Said she misses seeing you, but understands our decision.” The three of them had agreed that Russell Chu wasn’t ready to see Chu’s boss anytime soon. There was no reason to create a scene and upset her further. They had decided to leave the visiting to Fowler and Walker.

  “The doctors say she could be released in a day or two. She says she wants to get back to work.”

  Now Braxton shook his head. That was vintage Chu.

  “That would be great. If she’s up to it.” Braxton felt drained from the events of the past two days. He was sure it showed on his face. “I couldn’t have stood it if something permanent had happened, Sam.”

  “Like I told you, Adam, it isn’t your fault. Get over that. It won’t help Karen.”

  Braxton wondered how many times Fowler had given this speech to other friends and relatives of victims of violent crimes. He couldn’t imagine seeing all that horror. He was lucky to have the ex-cop around.

  “How’s Sydney doing?” Fowler asked. “Solved the case yet?”

  “Not quite yet,” Braxton forced a smile. “How about you?”

  “I have made some progress. The guys I have following Turner found out he has a storage locker. I, ah, checked it out yesterday.”

  Braxton’s jaw dropped. “You hired someone to follow Turner? And broke into his storage locker?”

  “Well, I didn’t really break in. And there was nothing in the place but clothes.”

  “What is he? Some kind of cross-dresser? That would make him blackmail material.”

  “Nope, they were men’s clothes. With makeup and wigs. It was a dressing room for someone who wanted to disguise himself.”

  Braxton tried to fit the pieces together. Why would a Jason need disguises? What would he be doing? It was still a jumble.

  “These guys you hired. Are they any good? You think you can find out what he’s doing?”

  Fowler nodded. “Yeah. They’re good. We’ll find out.” He drained his drink. “Guess I’ll leave you to it then.”

  “No. You stay put. It’s too lonely in this damn office. I’ll get you anoth
er.”

  Braxton picked up Fowler’s empty can and went back to the outer office.

  * * *

  Singer approached the Cross and Sword pub with heightened apprehension. It was after ten o’clock. He was exhausted, and the pain in his gut was excruciating. He needed drugs and sleep badly. In that order. His connection in Frankfurt had been delayed and Wien-Schwechat airport had been filled with a mob of tourists.

  The pub, a classic English watering hole dropped into the heart of Vienna, was a familiar location, but the stakes were rising every day. He couldn’t afford a mistake now.

  Just as he reached for the door, it flew open and a man ran out. This occurrence was not particularly out of the ordinary, except for the fact that he had his hands clutching his crotch. He was medium-sized, about six feet tall wearing jeans and a football jersey that probably had fit him ten years ago. He fell to his knees and promptly tossed the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk.

  Singer carefully maneuvered around the puke and entered.

  Rather than its usual raucous mix of English and German chatter, the pub was deathly silent. The attention of the patrons was focused on a single individual in the center of the room. She stood alone, legs akimbo like some diminutive Amazonian warrior. Her hair was ebony black and cut short. Impossibly high cheekbones and exotic almond-shaped eyes should have made her an alluring beauty, but the Goth makeup, and even darker scowl, would scare off even the most ardent suitor. She wore her standard uniform: scuffed black combat boots, black jeans and a torn black leather jacket. A silver backpack hung loosely off one shoulder.

  Singer walked up to the figure. “A new friend?” he asked.

  “You’re late,” she responded without moving.

  “How about we try not to become the object of any more attention?” He scanned the room and found an empty booth along the side wall away from the windows. He reached for her arm, but she yanked it away and strode over to a table near the back. Singer followed.

  They pulled up a pair of sticky, scarred wooden chairs and sat down.