The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  He turned up a side street and drove into his destination, a stately mansion protected from the sea by a massive boxwood hedge that lined the property. The hedge was nearly four feet tall, two feet deep and immaculately trimmed. Surrounding the home was a small, well-manicured lawn and carefully-placed evergreen shrubbery.

  As he exited the car, a damp, salty breeze swept across his face. It was a quiet and peaceful place for retirement. He walked to the door and rang the bell.

  The door opened and Edwin Bullock greeted him, smiling broadly.

  “Roger, how good to see you,” Bullock announced, gesturing for Slattery to enter. “I must say it was quite a surprise to hear from you.”

  Slattery had called Bullock as soon as his flight had been confirmed. He had graciously accepted the visit.

  Bullock was dressed in a blue polished-cotton shirt and gray flannel slacks. His hair was sparkling white and perfectly combed. Despite being in his mid-seventies, Bullock looked quite fit; appropriate for the old don, and part-time spook, who had seemingly amassed significant resources in his long and distinguished career. Still, he seemed shorter than Slattery remembered and there was a slight hunch at his shoulders.

  “Thank you so much for seeing me, Professor. It’s been a long time.”

  “Please call me Edwin, Roger. My academic days are now long past. It will make our conversation much more relaxed. An exchange of equals as they say.”

  Bullock led him down a narrow hallway, lined in carved oak panels with a well-worn oriental on the floor, and into a room deep in privilege and comfort. Bookcases covered two walls, filled with volumes and memorabilia. On his right, glass-paned doors opened onto a covered terrace. Beyond the terrace and the verdant lawn, Slattery could see the waters of the Atlantic.

  Straight ahead was a massive stone fireplace, the rough masonry disappearing into the paneled cherry ceiling. A fire roared deep in the hearth. Above the fireplace’s mantle was a painting of an 1800’s fishing fleet and in front were two heavy leather chairs and a glass-topped table. A single tumbler filled with a dark liquid sat on the glass.

  The room smelled of pine and leather. Slattery again felt as if he had been transported back in time.

  “Care for something to drink?” Bullock asked.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Bullock took the chair nearest the tumbler and offered the other to his guest.

  “So what brings you up here to see an old cold war warrior?” he asked.

  “It’s about one of your students, Edwin. Alfred Whitehead Singer.”

  Bullock’s face didn’t change, but Slattery saw a tightness in his shoulders. He twisted in the seat.

  “I take it you remember him.”

  “I will assume you don’t mean that in an accusatory manner, Roger. I am not as senile as I might seem. I am well aware of Mr. Singer’s unfortunate history with the Agency.”

  “Of course, no allegation meant. You may not be aware that Singer has been involved in, ah, certain activities that have put him in direct conflict with the Agency.”

  “The shootings at the Mall a few years ago, for example?” Bullock added quickly.

  Slattery shouldn’t have been surprised. Bullock must still have several high-level contacts at Langley. “Yes. And even more recently in a plot to assassinate the President.”

  “Ah, our renegade was involved in those events as well?”

  “Indirectly. We believe he is now based in Europe, but we’ve been unsuccessful actually finding him. He’s now been implicated in an operation to sell national secrets. It’s imperative that we find him.”

  Bullock took a swallow from the tumbler. “I understand your urgency to find him, but I don’t know how I can be of assistance. Do you think I have been in contact with him?”

  Slattery recognized the interrogation technique. Rather than answering questions, Bullock was asking ones of his own. The old spook still had style. But Slattery had his own techniques.

  “No, Professor. We do not. But we do believe he may have made some contacts during his time at Princeton that are now in play. Do you remember any of his friends? Anyone he was close to?”

  Bullock smiled, an expression Slattery decided was one infrequently seen on the old don’s face. “Our Mr. Singer didn’t have friends, Roger. They were an anathema to him: liabilities that were to be avoided. That was one of the characteristics that drew me to him. He was the arch-typical loner. A very important trait for those in our business.”

  Slattery felt the opportunity of this visit slipping away. It had always been a long shot, but one still worth investigating. “I understand. But he must have had some friends, or acquaintances, perhaps. Anyone he spoke with frequently.”

  Bullock paused, gazed around the room, and reached for his drink. Then he stopped, his hand floating over the table. “As a matter of fact, I do remember one other student. They were in a number of classes together, including mine. It was impossible to be completely isolated at Princeton, of course. Joint projects, shared assignments. He did gravitate to this one.”

  Slattery’s heart beat a bit faster. “Do you remember a name?”

  Bullock finally grasped the tumbler and took a swallow.

  “Unfortunately not. That was many years ago.” Bullock’s face became quizzical and Slattery realized he had more to say. But he was going to make Slattery figure out how to extract it.

  “But you do know more about him, don’t you? Was he someone you evaluated?”

  Bullock sat back in the chair. It seemed to envelop him. “You haven’t lost your instincts, Roger. I’m impressed. But you are wrong on one point. The student wasn’t a ‘he’. It was a ‘she’.”

  “A ‘she’? He had a female friend?”

  “Again, not a friend. An acquaintance. Or a colleague, if you will. They had shared goals and objectives and found value in a relationship. And yes, I did consider her for recruitment. For a time. She was also an introvert. And possessed an appropriate set of psychological … challenges. Eventually, however, I decided she lacked a sense of higher purpose. She would never commit to a cause greater than herself.”

  Slattery’s instinct was still intact. And it was screaming at him that this was the break they needed.

  “Do you remember her name?”

  “No. I’m sorry. Names and nouns are the first to go. Or so the experts say.” Bullock paused, then glanced up to the ceiling. When his eyes returned to Slattery, they almost twinkled. “There is one thing. I believe she was a political science major. ”

  Political science. Where have I heard that recently?

  “Oh. One other thing. Quite odd, actually. She was black. Perhaps you could search the yearbooks.”

  Slattery’s heart skipped a beat. It had not been a worthless journey after all. ”That won’t be necessary, Edwin. I know exactly who she is.”

  * * *

  Given the criticality of the situation, Slattery didn’t think he could wait to start the investigation.

  The Gulfstream had just reached cruising altitude when he reached for his cell phone. He pulled up a familiar number and hit “Call.” It was time to bring in the big guns.

  “Hello?”

  He recognized the smooth female voice. “Mary Ellen?”

  “Yes. Roger, is that you?”

  “Sure is. Your friendly spook is calling. I’m not interrupting am I?”

  “Nothing but a truly remarkable vintage Merlot. I knew it was a mistake to give you my cell number. What’s happened now? Another death by bizarre technology?”

  “No, but you’re close. It has to do with Jason.”

  The line became silent. “Should I get something to write on?”

  “It would probably help.”

  Slattery explained his investigation into the acoustic attacks and how it led to his belief in Jason leaks—aided by Flynn’s description of the odd death at Georgetown Medical Center. Then he described the chain of evidence that pointed to Singer. And the parallel investi
gation by Braxton and Walker.

  “They’re involved with Singer again?”

  This might not be as easy a sell as I thought.

  “So it seems. But that’s not relevant to why I called. I believe I’ve found the leak. The traitor. But the Agency obviously can’t move against her. Legal niceties and all that. I need your help.”

  “Someone involved in Jason is leaking national secrets so they can be sold to our enemies.”

  “Yes.” It was Flynn’s summary. She was rehearsing her pitch to the Director.

  “Okay, how do we prove it?”

  “I believe I have probable cause. We get a warrant and bring her in. I’ll have the guys in forensic accounting go through her financials. You process the house.”

  “You mean I get a warrant and put my head in a noose in case this goes sideways?”

  One last chance.

  “This is your call, Mary Ellen. We both know that. But I believe this could be the biggest betrayal since Hanssen. We already know Singer’s responsible for the Havana Syndrome. Who knows what else? We have to stop this.”

  Flynn went silent again. What would she do?

  “When?” she finally asked.

  “Tomorrow morning. When she leaves her home. I’d prefer not to involve MITRE.”

  “Works for me. I’ll call the Director. Roger, why do I always let you sweet talk me into this shit?”

  Chapter 34

  Great Falls, VA

  Tuesday, 7:30 a.m.

  Slattery and Flynn sat in the back of the Agency’s Escalade and watched as Flynn’s team approached the house. The target was a small colonial in Great Falls, Virginia, a pricey neighborhood for the MITRE executive. As soon as Bullock had described Singer’s friend as a black female, Slattery had known who it was. A quick check in the Princeton records merely confirmed what he had already decided.

  It had taken until past midnight, but Flynn had worked her magic and secured an arrest warrant and comprehensive search warrants covering Cutler’s property and financials. By 5:00 a.m. she had gathered and briefed her team, who were now in positions around the home.

  The timing of the “snatch”, as Slattery liked to call it, had been discussed late into the previous evening. Public disclosure was completely unacceptable. Walker’s life was on the line. It had to be done quickly and quietly. A middle-of-the-night grab had too many opportunities for accidental observation and anything at MITRE was out of the question. It would be on social media in seconds. They had decided on an early morning intervention as Cutler left for work. It was deemed to have the least risk of exposure.

  Flynn had also demanded a cautious approach. She couldn’t take any chances on booby traps, or on the destruction of evidence from premature exposure of her team. The squad had strict orders to hold back until she gave the go-ahead.

  Slattery had tossed and turned all night, fearing some colossal screw-up in which Cutler would disappear without a trace. But the watchers had reported no unusual activity. So here he was again, sitting safely in the back of an armored car watching others have all the fun. He really didn’t like getting old.

  The garage door opened and Cutler’s bright red Porsche Cayenne SUV backed out.

  Nothing subtle about this lady.

  “We are a go, Alpha,” Flynn said into her headset.

  Cutler had almost reached the street when another Escalade pulled up blocking her exit. She blasted her horn—Slattery could even hear it through the thick windows of his Escalade—then stormed out of the car when the intruder refused to move.

  Her arms were in full flight as the lead agent left his car and confronted her. Slattery read her body language as the familiar steps played out: irritation at the interruption, shock at the presentation of the warrants, anger at her impotence to change the events, and resolution as she watched the agents enter her home.

  The lead agent reached out and took her arm. She hesitated, then nodded and followed him to the back seat of the Escalade.

  At least she knows enough not to resist.

  Ten seconds later the Escalade was on its way to D.C.

  Slattery finally relaxed. “You’re up, Mary Ellen.”

  Flynn flashed a smile that reminded Slattery of a tiger ready to devour its dinner.

  * * *

  Slattery shuffled his feet impatiently as he stood behind three FBI agents in a monitoring room at FBI headquarters. In front of the agents, four computer monitors hung on the wall above a desk filled with gauges, switches and sliders. The setup reminded Slattery of an audio mix panel for a recording studio. Which, in part, it was. The difference was that this panel was not for recording music, but for the discussions that were about to occur in a room down the hall.

  On the monitors, he could see Cutler sitting defiantly at the table in the interrogation area. No longer just a room with a two-way mirror, the FBI’s latest iteration was wildly electronic. The space itself was plain: composite flooring, pale green walls and acoustic ceiling. But there were pan-zoom cameras behind bubbles in the four corners of the ceiling, hidden microphones everywhere and even experimental sensors in the suspect’s chair, monitoring temperature, moisture and pressure. Everything was being recorded, all under the control of the FBI technician sitting at the control desk.

  Cutler had been taken to the room two hours before and left to sit. During this time, she had successfully exasperated every agent on the coverage detail with an unending litany of demands, from restroom breaks to water to snacks to “the person in charge”. All had been satisfied, except for the last. That person would be Flynn, and Slattery looked forward to the upcoming fireworks.

  The door opened, and Flynn strode in. She had changed into a conservative gray pants suit with light blue blouse. Her red hair was pulled back into a bun.

  Cutler immediately lit in. “It’s about time. I don’t know what this is about, missy, but you better damn well get someone in here with authority. Do you know who I am? I’ve got more friends on the Hill than you can imagine. You’ll all be lucky to have jobs when this is over.”

  She finally took a breath and stared daggers at her interrogator. Slattery checked his watch.

  Flynn walked slowly to the table, set down a plain folder and took her seat across from Cutler. She interlaced her fingers and set her hands on the folder. Her face was impassive.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” Cutler finally exclaimed.

  Only thirty seconds. Flynn had already won the first round.

  “Wow,” Flynn began. “That was quite a speech. Been working on that all morning? Pathetic but informative.” Cutler opened her mouth but went silent when Flynn raised a hand. “My name is Mary Ellen Flynn. I’m Special Assistant to the Director, FBI. You are,” she paused and slowly opened the manila folder, “Candice Regina Cutler. Cute name, Regina. Currently Jason Program Manager at MITRE. A position I doubt you will hold much longer.

  “You have been charged with espionage, a capital offense, under a sealed National Security Finding in accordance with United States Code Title 18, Chapter 37, Section 798, Disclosure of classified information. I will dispense with the details since you signed a security certificate when you received your clearance and stated you understood the terms. You have been read your rights and stated you understood them as well.”

  “You can’t—” Again Flynn raised her hand and Cutler stopped.

  “Now, this will be a very brief discussion. I have only a few questions. First, when did you meet Alfred Whitehead Singer?” Flynn nodded to Cutler.

  Cutler did a passable job at crinkling her face. “Singer? I don’t know anyone named Singer. Now let me out of here.” Her combative tone had returned.

  Flynn paused, shook her head, then continued in the same, paced cadence. “You really are making this easy, Candy.” The technician had zoomed one of the cameras in on Cutler’s face and Slattery saw her flinch at the affectionate diminutive. “You and Mr. Singer were close friends at Princeton. Joint projects, comm
on classes, et cetera. All corroborated by Professor Edwin Bullock, Distinguished Professor of Political Science. Now let’s try that again, how long have you been working with Mr. Singer?”

  “I’ve had enough. I want a lawyer.” Cutler’s voice became a bit less strident.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do. These are serious charges. There are just a few problems. First, we have frozen all of your offshore accounts. That might make it difficult to hire a lawyer willing to take on a capital case. It was quite convenient for you to keep them all in the same bank, by the way.” Slattery watched as Cutler’s arrogant facade slowly cracked. “Next, there is the matter of the secret Jason documents you were kind enough to have hidden in the wall at your home. It makes it much easier for us to determine exactly what secrets you sold to Mr. Singer. Their discovery was all covered by our warrants, of course.

  “Finally, there is my colleague, Mr. Slattery. He is from the CIA and is quite adamant that the national security implications of your case call for more, how should I put it, drastic measures. Mr. Singer is a known international terrorist. That puts your collusion in a very sensitive area. He would prefer we turn you over to the Agency for transport to a more, uh, secure, location.”

  Cutler’s eyes nearly popped out her sockets.

  “Before I permit that to occur, perhaps you could answer my final question. Where is Mr. Singer now?”

  “I … I don’t know. Honestly.” The camera showed a bead of sweat trickling down Cutler’s cheek.

  Flynn remained still for about fifteen seconds. Then she stood, picked up her folder and walked to the door.

  “Goodbye, Candy. I have a bus load of DOJ lawyers outside fighting to be the prosecutor who sends you away forever. It will be quite a feather in their hat. I’m sure you will get everything you deserve.”

  Cutler jumped up from her chair. “No. Stop. I don’t know where he is. But I can tell you how to contact him.”

  Flynn glanced up at one of the cameras and grinned.

  * * *

  Slattery met Flynn in the hall outside the recording room. She was leaning against the wall, breathing deeply.

  “Excellent job as always, Mary Ellen. I really do like that delicate female touch.”