Winterlong

by Mason Cross

  “But no system is without vulnerabilities.”

  “Correct.”

  I sat back in the chair. “I’ll need his full employee record, past employment, plus anything else you’ve got on him.”

  “You got it.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  He shrugged. “As well as any of my team. Kept himself to himself. I don’t mean to say he was antisocial. I mean, he would come out for beers sometimes.”

  Stafford stopped and thought some more. I could tell he’d be able to reel off chapter and verse if I’d asked him how good a developer Bryant was, or what his three biggest screw-ups had been over the last year and a half. But forced to consider him as a man rather than an employee was a stretch.

  “Single, I think. Or ... wait a minute. He mentioned a wife once.” He stopped and made a visible effort to recall the details. “Ex-wife maybe?”

  “Does she live nearby?”

  Stafford held up his hands in defeat. I made a mental note to follow up on that one.

  “Okay, let’s think about the software. Who are his potential customers? I’m guessing your rivals?”

  Stafford visibly relaxed, on more comfortable ground again. “I can get you a list. We can narrow that down pretty easily. Proving anything is another matter.”

  “Great. Get me that and his company record as quickly as you can and I’ll get to work.”

  “So we have a deal?”

  “One last question: What do you want me to bring back? The software or Scott Bryant?”

  He paused, considering the question.

  “I need both, Blake. He has to go to down for this.” He waved his hand around to symbolically encompass the building. “I have more than thirty people whose jobs depend on this, and Bryant just sold us all out.”

  I sat back and considered it. “Understood. It’s important to establish the ground rules up front. Now here’s mine. I get half the money up front, half on delivery.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “The next one is the most important: I work on my own. As soon as you commission me to find Scott Bryant, that’s it. I’ll come back if I need anything from you, but otherwise you leave me alone.”

  “I’ll need regular updates.”

  He slid a tastefully designed business card across the glass desk. I took it and put it in my pocket.

  “Fair enough, but I’ll call you. Last rule: I do things my way. That means you trust me to take any reasonable steps necessary in order to complete the job.”

  “I’m happy with ... those decisions being taken on a need-to-know basis,” Stafford said after a moment.

  I smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t think we’ll need to bend too many rules on this one. But you never know, and that’s why this rule is important. I won’t burden you with the details, and you don’t ask how I got the results.”

  Stafford nodded assent. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Then let’s get started.”

  3

  NEW YORK CITY

  Emma Faraday nodded briefly in acknowledgment as the doorman stood to attention at her approach. She stepped through the open doorway and looked left and then right. Hank, her driver, was parked at the curb, twenty yards from the front door. He was short, bald, and in his sixties. He had seen her first and was already opening the rear door of the black limo.

  She settled back on the leather seats and fastened her seat belt as Hank pulled out into traffic. Normally garrulous, Hank seemed to sense that this was not one of those days when his employer wanted to be chatted to. She reached into her bag and retrieved her Surface Pro. Detaching the keyboard, she placed the tablet component on her lap and switched it on. A second later, she had the file on her screen again. She had revisited this particular file on and off countless times over the past nine months and with increasing frequency over the past eleven days.

  The file provided a partial history of a specific individual. The records were minutely, even obsessively detailed up until November of 2010. After that, they were culled from numerous, more casual sources. News reports. Questions asked of potential witnesses. Snatched screenshots from blurry security footage.

  Faraday tapped on the screen a couple of times and navigated to the photo library. The photographs were arranged in strict date order and provided a pictorial narrative of the subtle way the subject had changed himself for the camera over the years. Expression, posture, hair length, facial hair, glasses present or absent. Everything fluctuated from image to image, except for the distinctive green eyes, which were the same in the first photograph and the last.

  A soft ping alerted her to a new e-mail message. She tapped the screen again twice, and the image of the subject was replaced by her secure inbox. Except for the most recent arrival, the inbox was entirely clear, the way she liked it.

  The e-mail was from Murphy, confirming that everything was on track for this evening’s operation. The preliminary subject’s location had been confirmed and verified. She only wished they could be as certain about the whereabouts of the other subject, the one in her file.

  She acknowledged the e-mail with a simple “Okay,” archived it, and closed the inbox window.

  The subject’s photograph appeared back on the screen. The most recent DMV picture, under the new name. As Hank braked for a red light, the sound of a sudden impact drew her eyes away from the screen and to the street outside. A tow truck in the next lane had rear-ended a blue Ford. She watched as the driver got out, berated the tow truck driver, and then shook his head as a symphony of horns chased him back into the driver’s seat to move off, reluctantly chalking it up to experience.

  She looked back to the screen, thinking about what would happen once the ball was rolling. They had a multilayered series of plans leading off from the outcome of tonight’s operation, like a formula. If A happens, then they implement X. If B, then Y and Z. Separate courses of action with their own branches and sequels. In theory, they had covered all bases. But in her experience, the human element always trumped theory. And that could cut both ways.

  Murphy was beginning to disconcert her a little on this operation. He seemed be taking an unusual interest, to care a little too much about it. She supposed that could be explained by the fact that he had worked with the man in the file. There was an unavoidable personal dimension there. She was uncomfortable with that. But on the other hand, it made Murphy particularly valuable on this operation.

  In some ways, Murphy had made things less difficult for her than they could have been, when she had been brought in to direct the organization a year ago. The change of personnel had been made in unfortunate circumstances—the previous director had killed himself after being diagnosed with terminal cancer. It had been decided that an entirely fresh way of doing things was required.

  The upper reaches of the DOD had begun to question the veil of secrecy drawn over so many of the operations of the organization, even though they seemed happy enough with the results. The organization was a black box. An entity defined by inputs and outputs, with no one able to see its internal workings. Instructions in one side, results out the other. The detail of what went on in the middle was lacking, and that was beginning to make people nervous.

  So Faraday had been quietly imported from the CIA. Her track record with the agency, including an impressively disaster-free stint as station chief in Baghdad, gave her the skills, the background, and the credentials to take over as director. She understood, too, that the fact she had no dependents and kept any romantic relationships brief and entirely isolated from the job had worked in her favor.

  That did not mean it had been an easy transition. The organization was the most closed of closed shops up until that point, run as near to a personal fiefdom as the US military allowed by just one man since the early 1990s. But that was where Murphy had come in handy. He had proved an able right-hand man, quelling potential dissent among the men and occasionally translating her more controversial com
mands into more digestible language. Freed to focus on the big picture, she had started out with one aim: to keep what worked, and to ruthlessly jettison what did not. A year on, she was pleased with the progress. Tonight’s operation would begin the work of cutting one of the last remaining ties to the past.

  So why did she feel so uneasy about it?

  Hank started signaling and looked for a place to stop as they approached the building on West Fortieth. It was an unassuming thirty-eight-story glass and steel structure, built within the last fifteen years. It didn’t stand out, certainly didn’t look as though it might contain the headquarters of a secret military intelligence organization, but then that was entirely the point.

  The organization had started out in a windowless sub-basement in the Pentagon more than two decades before, moving to an office park in Virginia in the late nineties to blend in more fully. After 9/11, the organization had looked ahead of its time. It had been designed as an agile, kinetic response to emerging threats; focusing on bringing together the top tier of military and intelligence operators in a small, compartmentalized unit. These attributes put the organization in a perfect position to adapt to the new world. In 2003, it had moved once again, to its present location. The shifts in physical distance from the seat of power seemed like an apt metaphor.

  As Hank pulled to a smooth stop at the curb, she looked down at the file one more time. The green eyes stared back at her from the DMV photograph, as though aware of her gaze.

  The subject had the ideal skill set for the work they did. An expert tracker, good with people in every way that mattered, above average on the firing range, adept in unarmed combat. A strategic thinker, too, able to respond creatively to changing conditions on the ground. Both a thinker and a warrior. Carter Blake would be a perfect asset, if she were recruiting.

  But more likely, within thirty-six hours, he would be dead.

  4

  NEW YORK CITY

  The twenty-fourth-floor conference room of the building on Fortieth Street was overheated, and the absence of windows meant that after a while you could almost forget you were in the heart of the city. If you spent long enough in here, it was possible to forget what country you were in. It had the feel of a bunker, nothing to distinguish it from similar rooms across the globe. Cornell Stark couldn’t help but wonder if that was deliberate, given the subject matter of today’s briefing.

  Stark glanced around him. Twelve men in the room altogether, and he wondered how many of them knew why they were here. The only reason he knew was because he had been on the Crozier operation and Murphy had given him a heads-up that this was coming. The men were seated in two rows of six, facing the screen at the front of the room. At first glance they didn’t look like what they were. For a start, grooming choices varied as much as they would have in a gathering of college students: buzz cuts to longer hairstyles, clean-shaven to bearded. The men were mostly dressed in cargo pants and T-shirts: the colors black or dark blue or olive green. None of them was wearing an official uniform of any kind. But a random civilian who happened to open the conference room door and look in would not mistake this group for anything but a team.

  Not that anyone would be in a position to just walk in here by accident.

  Stark himself wore boots, black combats, and a black tennis shirt, and he was one of the clean-shaven, short-haired contingent. He had been regular army up until a year ago, and he was still getting used to this. Not just the disregard for strict uniform and grooming standards, but the patterns of deployment. The long periods of downtime followed by a sudden call, after which he’d be expected to report within the hour and in peak fitness. Ranks were almost never referred to. The only person who was ever called anything other than their last name was Faraday. The director.

  Stark checked his watch. Four minutes to noon. Which meant the briefing would begin in precisely four minutes. Murphy was a precise guy. And even had he not been, Faraday was going to be in on this one, and Faraday made Murphy look carefree and relaxed.

  The other men were talking among themselves, waiting to find out why they were here. Some were shooting the shit about what they’d been doing on downtime. Some were speculating carefully about where they were possibly about to be deployed. Stark thought about the common denominators of the eleven men plus himself and decided Murphy had made these particular selections because, for want of a better descriptor, these were the most normal guys in the team. None of them would particularly stick out in a crowd, like the six-foot-eight Davis would have. They were all reasonably at ease talking to people, blending in.

  Blending in would be important.

  The only one who didn’t quite fit that bill was Usher. Like Stark, he was sitting in silence, observing the others. He was at the far end of the front row—diagonally as far away from Stark as he could be. He wore glasses and was dressed neatly, but in subtle contrast to the others. He wore black jeans, soft shoes, and a white oxford shirt. That hypothetical civilian, in his or her brief glance into the room, might have had time to note that of all the men, Usher seemed to sit at one remove. As Stark’s gaze lingered on Usher’s profile, he sensed he was being watched and his head snapped around. Their eyes met. Stark smiled and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “Do you know why we’re here?”

  Usher’s expression didn’t change. After a moment he looked away again, staring at the blank screen on the wall. Usher knew, he decided. Usher had been in LA, too.

  There were men in the unit with whom Stark got on very well. There were others who proved more difficult to like. Usher was in neither of those two brackets. He was an enigma. He never spoke about anything not directly related to the job. Even then, he was economical with words, communicating exactly what he needed to as efficiently as possible. Stark had tried to engage with him a couple of times and concluded that, as smart a guy as Usher was, his brain was evidently missing the software that allows a person to interact normally with other people.

  The conference room door opened and the conversation trailed off as Faraday entered, followed by Murphy. Jack Murphy was tall and broad-shouldered. Although he was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and tie, there was no mistaking his military bearing. He was in his midforties, and although his days in the field were now behind him, Stark was in no doubt that he could still handle himself in a rough situation. The serious, focused version of Murphy had shown up today. He was the type of guy who could buy a round of drinks and fit in with the crowd at the bar, but he was capable of switching that off and projecting the persona of a cold professional when necessary. Stark wasn’t sure which was closer to the real him. He reminded Stark of a politician, which explained why he’d been able to move so seamlessly into the role of deputy director. Not, of course, that anyone referred to him as such.

  Emma Faraday, on the contrary, had only one side that Stark was aware of. The director was all business, all the time. She actively disliked any hint of levity. She discouraged any attempt at small talk. Stark had seen her respond to an innocent comment about the weather with a withering put-down. As far as Faraday was concerned, if it wasn’t related to the job in hand, it was a waste of breath.

  She was shorter than Murphy, around five six. Light brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, a midnight-blue shirt under a black pantsuit. She was a little younger than Murphy, too, but still older than the rest of them. Her high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes would have demanded attention even if she hadn’t been the only woman in a roomful of men. Her permanent frown spoiled the effect somewhat. Thinking about it, Stark genuinely couldn’t recall ever seeing Faraday smile in the year she had been in position as director.

  The conversation immediately died away, and the men straightened in their seats, awaiting illumination as to why they were there.

  Stark saw Murphy glance discreetly at Faraday before starting to speak. She responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Gentlemen,” Murphy began. “I’ll cut to the chase. You’re about to be deployed on
a mission to acquire a target. The target in question is smart, he’s deadly, and he knows our methods. This is not business as usual.”

  “Sounds like business as usual to me,” Dixon cut in, to mild laughter from some of the others. Faraday fixed the brawny Texan with an arctic stare, but said nothing.

  Murphy left a pause before continuing. “First point of difference: As you may have gathered, given that you’re not sitting on a C-130 right now, we’re working stateside on this one.”

  The men were too jaded to show much in the way of surprise, but Stark noticed a couple of raised eyebrows from his vantage point. Jennings and Abrams exchanged a glance. They were sitting together, as usual. Their similar builds, hair, and features had led to Faraday mixing them up a couple of times early on, leading in turn to the nickname that both men hated: the twins.

  “This is real world?” Abrams asked. If they had genuinely been twins, Abrams would have been the evil one. Stark had had to rein in his predilection for mayhem on more than one occasion.

  “Real as it gets,” Murphy confirmed. “Second point of difference. I told you our target knows our methods. There’s a very good reason for that. He used to be one of us.”

  Faraday stepped forward as the screen lit up behind her, showing a low-res photograph. It showed a man in his mid-to-late thirties, dressed in a suit and wearing dark glasses. He was entering the lobby of a building, the picture taken from a security camera. A better-quality photograph appeared on the right-hand side of the screen, superimposed over the surveillance pic. This one was head and shoulders: an identity photograph from a driver’s license or passport. It showed what Stark assumed was the same man: dark hair, green eyes, a carefully neutral expression, as though he didn’t want the picture to reflect any kind of likeness.

  Faraday said nothing for a moment, scanned the seated men with her stare. She looked as though she was daring someone to speak before she began. Nobody took her up on it.