by Mark Gilleo
“Good afternoon,” Dan said in Spanish. “Who is in charge?” he asked with perfect pronunciation.
Five of the women quickly disappeared to the other side of the van and Dan was left facing the shortest, most elder of the cleaning crew.
“I am in charge,” the fortysomething woman stated, her gold left incisor glistening.
Dan jumpstarted the Spanish corner of his brain and his comfort with the language returned with each conjugated verb, with each dusted off piece of vocabulary.
“My name is Dan. Where are you from?”
“I am from Virginia.”
“Where were you born?”
“I was born in Virginia.”
“No, you were born in Guatemala. Judging by the accent, probably somewhere near Antigua.”
The cleaning woman stepped back and her mouth gaped. “Are you the police?”
“No.”
“Immigration?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t have to talk to you.”
Dan pulled out a thousand dollars and extended his hand. “You can answer my questions, get paid, and forget me, or you can deal with immigration after I give them a call.”
The woman looked back towards the large van. The five other maids inside were watching the proceedings, their faces pressed against the window.
“What do you want to know?”
“How long have you been cleaning this building?”
“A year.”
“Anyone in it?”
“The building is empty. It is very easy to clean.”
“How do you get into the building?”
“I call a number and give them a security code. They open the door via the phone.”
“Have you ever seen anyone in this building?”
“No, but there are cameras on each floor and they are watching.”
“How do you know?”
“Because when you walk in front of them, a little red light comes on.”
Dan thought back to his visit to Clyde Parkson and tried to remember seeing the cameras. “How many offices do you clean?”
“There are five floors. Two offices on every floor. There is also a basement area.”
“Six floors.”
“Yes, but we don’t go into the basement.”
“Do you have keys?”
“No, the doors to the offices are open. Except in the basement.”
“What about the trash?”
“Sometimes there is a little trash. Usually, none. We were told not to take any trash with us. We bag the trash and our cleaning rags when we are done and leave it in a utility closet on the first floor. We dust. Vacuum. Clean the toilets.”
“What is the phone number you call to enter the building?”
The woman paused and looked at the other ladies in the van.
Dan peeled another thousand dollars from his pocket. “I don’t want the security code. I just want the number you call.”
The cleaning lady gave Dan the number and Dan’s hand momentarily shook with adrenaline. As Dan turned away, the prized phone number in hand, the cleaning woman with the gold incisor added a final thought. “We were told today is the last day we are cleaning this building.”
—
Sue walked into the blaze orange room and sat down next to Dan. She had on a beret, black boots, a short skirt with tights, sunglasses, and a large backpack.
“How do I look?”
“Almost like a grad student.”
“Funny.”
“Did you pick up a couple of phones?”
“Yeah. I grabbed a few from your storage room. You have boxes of them. All unused. Hundreds probably.”
“I purchased a few when Circuit City went out of business.”
“A few?”
“OK. All of them in the DC area I could get a hold of. Some drug dealers beat me to the store in Southeast DC. Everyone wants disposable phones but the authorities are making it harder and harder to get them. Those are a cheap Chinese model called GoodBuy. Funny name, but they work well enough. The only thing that matters is they can’t be traced back to me.”
“Well, you have the mother lode.”
“I figure enough for the next ten years or so.”
“You could always sell them.”
“There’s a thought.”
“You know, it’s not my place, but you seem to be on a spending spree. A thousand dollars an hour here, a thousand an hour there. I only mention it because I don’t see clients coming in the door with any money. That equation just can’t work out over the long haul.”
“I am aware of the current financial situation.”
“Just thought I would be the voice of reason.”
“I threw reason out the window when I hired you, and again when I kept you on.”
“So what’s the plan?”
Dan ran through the details of what Jerry the clerk dug up in his offline record search at the courthouse. He then explained both of his trips to the Wisconsin Avenue building and his previous run-in with the person purporting to be Clyde Parkson, as well as today’s meeting with the cleaning crew.
“Holy shit. You are a detective. You found the building and the phone number and you know what the guy looks like—the man who impersonated the attorney.”
“Actually, the only thing I can be certain of is that he is white and a little taller than I am. The rest can be imitated. Hair, teeth, outfit, goatee, accent. I know because I have done it myself many times. Though there is something about him I imagine transcends all of his disguises. Or maybe he didn’t alter one of these description markers. Or can’t. Or won’t.”
“So you can’t identify him?”
“That’s why we are here.”
“I thought we were here for role-playing. Old man picks up college student in local coffee shop.”
“I am not old.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I chose this location for a couple of reasons. This building has ten different rooms on the second floor alone. It’s a maze. It’s the perfect place for surveillance. Or counter surveillance.”
“Who are we surveilling?”
“Whoever comes when we turn on one of those throwaway phones and start making calls. Did you bring your computer?”
“Yep.”
“I want you to sit over there in the corner, in the big chair, and act like a student. Write a paper. Put on headphones. Play with your cell phone. Act distracted. Like you have ADHD. Keep your eye on the door. When someone comes in looking for the phone, text me.”
Sue looked around the room.
Dan continued. “There are four other people in this room. Others could come at any moment. There are probably another twenty-five people in the other rooms on this floor. The first floor is packed as usual.”
“Are you trying to make me less nervous?”
“A little. The crowd is good for safety. No one is going to kill you here with all these witnesses. They’d probably drug or otherwise incapacitate you, then call a fake ambulance, and take you out that way.”
“That is not making me feel better.”
“They wouldn’t get far. I’ll be watching the front door from the deli across the street. Are you comfortable with the graduate student persona?”
“I’m ready.”
“OK. I am going to dial the number the cleaning crew calls to enter the building on Wisconsin Avenue. I assume it is the same number my nephew called thirteen times. Obviously, it was used to access the building in some fashion. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Dan picked up one of the prepaid phones, turned on the location services, and checked the signal strength. He punched the phone number and put it to his ear. To his surprise, a female voice answered on the second rin
g. “Security code, please.”
“Yes. My name is Conner Lord,” Dan said.
“Security code, please.”
“I forgot my security code. My name is Conner Lord. I dial this number the first week of every month for access to the building.”
“Just a moment.”
Dan raised his eyebrows and waited. A moment later the voice returned.
“You have the wrong number.”
“Are you sure?”
Click.
“Now what?” Sue asked.
“If I am correct, then in, say, about fifteen minutes someone will enter the room with some sort of electronic device and search for the phone.”
“But you hung up? How are they going to find you? I thought they can only triangulate on an active signal.”
“That is correct. And I have a plan for that.” Dan dialed the customer service line for COX cable. After bouncing through two voice menu selections he was in the customer service queue, listening to light jazz. The voice recording stated the company was experiencing higher than normal call volume and wait times would be longer than usual.
Dan kept the phone on and slipped it under the sofa on the ragged carpet. “That should do it. The phone is live. Location services are activated. I am on hold with the cable company. The customer service wait time is forty-seven minutes. That should provide plenty of time.”
“And what do I do?”
“Go to the chair in the far corner. Act inconspicuous. When someone comes to look for the phone, you text me as soon as it is clear to do so.”
“Easy.”
Dan looked at his watch. “Gotta go. Keep your head down. Don’t make eye contact. Use your disguise. Blend in.”
—
Dan sat in a window seat at Sam’s Corner Deli, twenty yards from the front of the coffee shop. Before the lady behind the counter could deliver his salami on rye, a burgundy sedan double parked next to a delivery van on Wilson Boulevard. A white male with a short haircut jumped from the driver’s side, throwing some credentials on the dash of the car. A large black male with an imposing physique slipped smoothly from the passenger door.
“Who do we have here?” Dan said to himself. He depressed the shutter button on his SLR camera, the lens of the expensive black equipment protruding from under a copy of the Post. By the time the two guys reached the front door of the coffee shop, Dan had snapped over two dozen photos.
Minutes later his phone vibrated with a text message from Sue. Two men. One white. One black and very large.
On their way out of the coffee shop, Dan zoomed in for another twenty photos. He moved from his window seat, camera in hand, finger depressed. He stretched to get a photo of the car’s license plate as he moved towards the door of the deli, camera in full motion. The incoming lunch crowd ended his paparazzi effort. Between the delivery truck, the angle of the car, and the lunch time regulars, the burgundy sedan escaped without showing its license plate.
—
Dan pulled a bottle of Gentleman Jack from the desk drawer and filled the two paper cups on his desk. Sue was at the printer, collecting printouts of the photographs he had taken of his two suspects. When Sue sat down, Dan picked up his cup.
“To a successful day of detective work.”
Sue grabbed her cup. “What makes it successful?”
“The same thing that makes everything successful—we survived.”
The shots went down the hatch and Sue spread the photos across the desk.
“So what happened inside the coffee shop?” Dan asked.
“Exactly what you thought would happen. Two guys showed up. One of them had a handheld device with an earpiece. It was obviously pretty accurate. They walked into the orange-colored room, took one circle around the couch, turned over the cushions, and then looked on the floor underneath. They were in the room less than a minute. They took the phone with them.”
“Did they check you out?”
“Not really. And I wasn’t looking up.”
“Did one of them seem like they were in charge?”
“Maybe the white guy. But the black guy was so large, I couldn’t imagine him following any order he didn’t want to follow.”
“Who do you think they are?”
“Ebony and Ivory.”
“Seriously.”
“Ex-military. Beyond that, I am not sure.”
“You think Tobias would know?”
“I think Tobias could find out, but he won’t. When those phone numbers disappeared from the cell tower hard drives after he ran his queries for us, I think he got, shall we say, ‘spooked.’ The only thing Tobias wants is to be paid and to move on with his plans for retirement.”
“Are you worried about him?”
“Not really. He knows how to disappear. And he has the means. He knows the risk of what he does. Thus, he charges accordingly for that risk.”
“So how do we find the guys in the pictures?”
“I’m working on that.”
“Are you sure the white guy isn’t the attorney you met at the building on Wisconsin Avenue? You said you may not be able to identify him.”
“He’s not tall enough. Height—particularly for men—is one of the parameters difficult to alter. Heels are obvious on a man. Ditto for hats. A combination of lifts inside the shoes and a baseball cap may provide an inch or two of discrepancy that is not too obvious. Otherwise, it is tough for a man to hide his height.”
“You know anyone else who can help identify them?”
“I know someone who has access to military records, but he is out of the country. And of course, even if he were around, we would have to go through thousands of photos.”
“That would take forever.”
“Indeed. My attorney friend, Clyde Parkson, is another story. I am reasonably confident he is not military.”
“Someone in intelligence?”
“Very likely. One with a high-level security clearance and a big set of balls.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If I am right, he has orchestrated the killing of four Americans on American soil. That is a very big no-no.”
“So how do you find him?”
“I call in another favor.”
—
In the basement of the Octagon building in Tysons, an agitated Reed Temple watched as Ridge wrapped the last strap to his lower left leg and stood. The exoskeleton looked like scaffolding for the body, an outer frame of space-age composite bone layered over real flesh and blood.
“How does it feel?” Major asked.
“Effortless,” Ridge replied.
“Then give it a test drive.”
Ridge started easy with lunges and deep knee bends. The hinges on the exoskeleton slid smoothly and silently.
“Any resistance?”
“None. It’s like I’m not even using my own muscles.”
Reed Temple grinned. “So it works as designed?”
Major responded. “Indeed. The exoskeleton picks up the user’s body movements as they occur. There are hundreds of sensors in various locations and several microchips with backup redundancy. The microchips process the data in real time and translate it into exoskeleton movement. The exoskeleton assists the user’s own muscles with the task it is performing, supplying power to the user’s intended movement. Pretty awesome, really. And of course there are all kinds of practical applications if you are concerned with non-military scenarios. Physical assistance for the elderly. For the paralyzed. Once the sensors can accurately read brainwaves, the system will bypass the body’s muscle movement, or lack thereof, entirely.”
“I am only concerned with the military application.”
“Imagine a team of special forces parachuting behind enemy lines and strapping on these skeletons. Preliminary estimates in
dicate that a team of special forces soldiers could cover one hundred miles a day on foot, in total silence, without exertion. Add body armor and you are talking about a truly dominating force. With the added strength assistance of the exoskeleton, we could load additional gear. Biohazard suits. Radiation protection. Scuba gear. Anything you can imagine.”
“How strong is it?”
Major turned to Ridge. “You ready to lift some weights?”
Ridge smiled and walked to the corner of the concrete-walled room. The large barbell on the floor had six forty-five pound plates on each side.
“We have been testing it with just under six hundred pounds,” Major said.
Ridge bent over and lifted the weight to his waist as if beginning a clean-and-jerk routine. He held the weight at belt height for a full minute before setting it down.
Ridge provided his assessment as Major and Reed whispered to each other. “Hurts the hands a little. My body can support the weight, no problem, but a barbell requires grip and the exoskeleton does not currently assist well enough with that.”
“We are working on it. Try a squat.”
Ridge moved two feet to his left and stood under a weighted bar that was shoulder height.
“Six hundred again?” Reed Temple asked.
“Affirmative.”
Ridge bent slightly to position the weight on his shoulders and then flexed his own muscles to stand. The bar bent on each end, the weight pushing the limits of the steel. Ridge began doing deep knee squats. Once again, he was smiling during what would have otherwise been crushing exertion. “I can do this all day long.”
“Try the treadmill,” Reed Temple said.
Ridge followed orders and moved to the treadmill, the large bar still arching in its position. With the bar resting on his shoulders, Ridge freed one hand and pressed the start button. Seconds later, the treadmill, with Ridge and an additional six hundred pounds, came to life. For ten minutes Ridge ran on the treadmill, six hundred pounds on his shoulders, the bar bouncing gently with the natural rhythm of the running motion.