by Reece Hirsch
“That don’t mean jack,” said Josh. “Could’ve been a city utility crew.”
“But check the location and time. This is an alley off of Van Ness only two hundred yards from the hotel where Bruen and Ayres were staying. And now look at the date and time,” he said, motioning to the time stamp in the corner.
“This was about five minutes after Corbin’s men entered the Guthrie Hotel,” Sam said. “Where does that sewer line go?”
“In all directions, I would think. I’ve ordered the schematics from research. They should be here in fifteen minutes.” Rajiv stood and raised his fists over his head like the scrawniest boxing champion ever. “Plenty of time for me to collect my prize.”
Sam interrupted Josh’s string of abuse by pulling a handful of coupons from his pocket. “Since you both seem to have been focused this morning, Josh gets the second prize of a coffee coupon—but no breakfast sandwich for you.”
Rajiv and Josh took the coupons and headed downstairs together to the coffee shop, busily goading one another. Sam’s ploy had worked, giving him maybe ten uninterrupted minutes alone. He took a seat at Josh’s workstation.
Sigrid was sure to have access to some of the Working Group’s most sensitive information, such as high-level domestic surveillance programs and Skeleton Key. He performed a search for the documents that she’d most recently saved to the system.
There wasn’t time to read them all. He’d have to grab as many documents as possible within his narrow window and then sort them out later. From his bag Sam removed a cable that was part of his cell phone charger, connecting it from the back of Josh’s workstation to a tiny USB port in his smartwatch.
He began exporting large files into the watch, a process that was slower than he would have liked. One document, labeled “XOSkeleton,” was taking a very long time to download. The file seemed to be enormous.
A minute passed as the file downloaded. It was taking too long, but he didn’t want to pull the plug and lose the document.
He heard the sound of Rajiv and Josh approaching down the hallway. They would be back in moments.
Given the document’s title, Sam sensed it was worth taking, so he didn’t want to give up on it. In a matter of seconds, though, he would have no choice.
The voices drew closer in the hallway, but the little hourglass symbol showed that the document was still downloading to the smartwatch. Sam’s eyes remained riveted on the screen as he waited for the download to finish.
The voices were right outside the door now.
Sam put his hand on the connection cable, prepared to rip it out.
The hourglass symbol disappeared.
Download complete.
As the door began to swing open, Sam tore the cable from the port and tossed it in his bag, along with the smartwatch, all in one quick motion.
“Have those schematics of the sewer system arrived yet?” Rajiv asked.
“No, not yet,” Sam said, taking a seat at his workstation. He hoped that Josh wouldn’t notice that things weren’t quite where he had left them.
Josh dropped into his chair, oblivious to the signs of Sam’s intrusion, still finishing the hallway conversation. “Man, what part of national security don’t they understand?”
“Exactly,” Rajiv said. “What’s the point of spending millions of tax dollars on the technology and then not getting to use it?”
“Time to get back to work,” Sam said. “Let’s start by identifying the closest manhole covers to the spot where Bruen and Ayres went under. That will give us a sense of how the tunnels branch out from there. We should have those schematics soon.”
When the map of the sewer system arrived, they proceeded with the painstaking task of identifying each exit point from the sewer that Bruen and Ayres might have taken. Then they had to match those exit points to CCTV cameras accessible through their surveillance network.
It was a long, tedious afternoon of work, but the team was intent on its task. They sensed that they were on the trail, even though they had yet to identify an actual image of the fugitives.
A few hours into the project, energy levels began to flag, and the boys clearly needed a break from their screens. Josh leaned back in his chair and cleared his throat twice, working up to something.
“You know, boss, I get the impression that you kind of don’t approve of us.” He cast a glance at Rajiv as if to say, See, I told you I’d do it.
Sam swiveled in his chair to face Josh and took a moment before responding. “You know, you’re right.”
“So what’s the problem? I think you have to admit that we have skills.”
“No, you do. You know what you’re doing, both of you. More so than I did at your age, that’s for sure.”
“So?”
“You’re all so emotionally detached from your work. You could be playing video games.”
Josh again glanced at Rajiv, but he wasn’t laughing or rolling his eyes. He nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Clearly, you come at this from a different orientation. You’re a 9/11 guy. I was ten years old on 9/11. I understand that it was a tragedy; I just don’t feel it the way you do.”
“I understand. But if you’re not doing this job for the right reasons, why do it? If you want to look at sexting shots and spy on private conversations, there are plenty of big tech companies where you can do that—and you don’t have to go through the security clearances.”
“I think of myself like Han Solo,” Josh offered. “You know, I slag on the job and act like a cynical prick, but deep down, when it’s a choice between siding with the Rebel Alliance or the Empire, I’m going to go with the Alliance.”
“I always thought of you as more of a Chewbacca,” Rajiv added. “With inferior language skills.”
“Cut the shit, man,” Josh said. “We’re doing that thing he’s talking about right now, aren’t we? Sam here is being sincere, and we’re acting like a couple of tools.”
Sam acknowledged the accuracy of that statement with his silence.
“This guy has been a top analyst at the agency for as long as we’ve been alive, and we should listen to what he has to say. So, what else do you have to say?”
“That’s about it,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Josh said. “Respect.”
Sam sensed that some kind of corner had been turned in his relationship with his geeky minions, but he almost regretted getting to know them better. It would only add to his guilt when he left them behind to answer some extremely tough questions.
At the end of the day the team still had not sighted Bruen and Ayres.
Sam stood and stretched. “Everyone’s on overtime for this. I know we’re close, and we can’t stop until we have them. Trail’s getting cold.”
“So where are you going?” Rajiv asked.
“I’m going to go home and get a couple hours’ sleep, then come back for the late-night shift.” Sam cleared his throat. “Or not. I think I may be coming down with something.” Sam actually felt fine, but he was about to disappear, and he wanted to buy himself a little time before his new colleagues grew suspicious.
“Don’t push yourself too hard, boss. We’ll call you on your cell if we find anything.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Sam went downstairs and joined the Working Group’s nine-to-fivers, who were filing out through the security station. He immediately recognized that something was different.
Usually, security was focused on those entering the building and not so much on those who were leaving. But on this day the line to leave was long because each employee was being searched, presumably for extracted data. Sam wondered if this was a random, post-Snowden spot check. Or maybe his access to Sigrid’s documents had already been detected.
Purses and computer bags were being emptied.
A woman in front of him in line turned and just said, “Fucking Snowden.”
“Yeah, fucking Snowden,” Sam agreed.
When Sam reached the head of the line, he placed his wall
et, shoes, keys, and watch in a plastic bin to run through the X-ray machine. The same security guard who had commented on the smartwatch when he had reported to work was still on duty.
The guard picked the watch out of the bin, and Sam nearly had a heart attack.
“You mind?” he asked.
“No, not at all. Knock yourself out,” Sam said, immediately wishing that he hadn’t been quite so encouraging.
He examined the face of the smartwatch, turned it around to scrutinize the miniport that had been used to extract reams of top-secret classified material.
Finally, he placed the watch back in the bin. “I guess now I know what I want for Christmas.”
The watch made its way along the conveyor belt, through the X-ray scanner, and was there to greet him when he emerged on the other side of the security station.
Sam put the watch back on and walked on unsteady legs into the blistering, humid heat of the parking lot. He knew that if Sigrid, Corbin, or his other colleagues at the Working Group figured out what he had done, they wouldn’t hesitate to put him down.
So this is what treason feels like.
21
As Corbin passed Reston in the hallway, he could see his breathing grow shallow, hear the tension in his voice as he gave a choked greeting. Corbin knew the effect that he had on people; it was one of his most consistent sources of pleasure. But today it was not enough.
Corbin sometimes wished that he could have an intelligent conversation with one of his coworkers, but that proved difficult. The colleagues that were his peers or subordinates were made nervous by knowing what he did. And the colleagues that were above him in the office hierarchy seemed to want to distance themselves from those that did the wet work, fancying themselves policy makers.
Waiting in his office for the surveillance team to produce results on Bruen and Ayres, Corbin felt listless, gray, lacking affect—and he was someone who on the good days took joy in his work. But this was not one of the good days. His psychiatrist had diagnosed him as bipolar, so his days tended to be one way or the other and never a bland, well-adjusted in-between. Either he was firing on all cylinders, synapses blazing, or he was mired in a fugue state of depression and malaise. And on those dark days he heard a particular voice in his head—and that voice was the lugubrious drone of German film director Werner Herzog.
He was a bit of a film geek and had seen enough of Herzog’s self-narrated documentaries for the voice to have lodged permanently in the recesses of his brain. Right now Werner was murmuring something or other about the futility of our plans and the fate of men who spilled blood for a living. Corbin wasn’t having a psychotic break—he knew that Werner was just a manifestation of his depressive tendencies. But he also wondered if Werner’s insistent presence of late signaled that he knew he was reaching the end of the line in his chosen field.
The day before, Corbin had grown tired of waiting for Sam Reston’s crew to produce results. He’d decided to cast a broader net to track down Bruen and Ayres by recruiting a separate surveillance team with the assistance—and under the supervision—of the blonde Popsicle, Sigrid.
Not only had he become impatient; he also suspected that one of Reston’s team had tipped the fugitives at their hotel hideout. Although he wasn’t yet prepared to make any formal accusations, he thought the traitor might even be Reston himself. Corbin knew that he couldn’t make such a charge lightly. Reston was known to be an NSA true believer. But sometimes it was the true believers that you had to watch out for. Beliefs change, but someone who was motivated purely by self-interest was predictable. He could work with that sort of person—someone like himself.
As Corbin brooded, something impinged on his peripheral vision. Instinctively, his hand went for his pistol, but it was only a pale, thin surveillance technician hovering in the doorway of his office—a member of the second surveillance team he’d formed yesterday. Corbin hadn’t bothered to learn his name.
“Sir,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I think we found something.”
“Did you find something or not?”
“Yes—sorry, we did. It’s video from a weigh station on I-5 South at Santa Nella.”
The technician set a thin laptop on Corbin’s desk. Kneeling next to Corbin, he clicked an icon and a grainy, green-tinted surveillance camera video played. As the eighteen-wheeler slowed into the weigh station, two male passengers visible in the front cabin, both wearing baseball caps, looked down.
Almost as if they were hiding their faces from the camera.
After the weighing was complete, the driver shifted his truck into gear, but just before they pulled away, one of the passengers looked up, as if startled by a sound. The face was in view for only a few frames, but there was no mistaking Ian Ayres.
“When was this taken?”
“Five hours ago.”
“Where is that truck now?”
“We’re working on it. It could be as far as the Greater LA metro area.”
When Corbin didn’t respond, the technician averted his eyes from Corbin’s gaze. “We’re checking every camera along every major route into and out of LA.”
“Get back to work, and I want to know as soon as you have a fix on them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call the trucking company.” Corbin looked again to get the name off the side of the truck. “Baker’s Choice Bread. You have the license plate. Find out where that truck is heading. I doubt they hijacked it, so it’s probably still following its route.”
“The company’s . . . ah, closed.”
“So get the owner’s name and call him at home.” Corbin grimaced, showing his teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Todd Barkley.”
“I shouldn’t have to think of these things myself, should I, Todd?”
“No, sir.”
“Because that means I’m doing your job.”
Todd Barkley shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir.”
“And if I’m doing your job, then what does that make you?”
Several different expressions flashed across Barkley’s face as he tried to calculate the safest response. Finally, he said, “I don’t know, sir.”
“It makes you expendable, Todd. Trust me, you don’t want to be expendable. Now go and do something to justify your continued existence.”
Todd hurried out with a stricken look on his face.
As he reached the door, Corbin said, “Oh, and Todd, I didn’t mean that as a threat, okay? I just have a way of speaking that, well, tends to sound more menacing than I mean it to be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look . . .” Corbin worked his expression into a smile that only seemed to make Todd more uncomfortable. “This team is going to work better if you feel free to tell me what you’re thinking. If you see something that looks suspicious but you’re not sure—if you have a theory but you’re not sure if it’s a good one—I still want to hear it.”
Todd nodded almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenched. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”
Corbin waved his hand in dismissal. “Thank you, Todd.”
Lord, he thought. What does it take to have a conversation around here?
Bruen and Ayres were most likely making a run for the Mexican border. That’s what he would have done if he wanted to elude Working Group surveillance. The Mexican government cooperated with the NSA but did not afford them the unfettered access to CCTV feeds that the agency had in the United States.
Bruen was smart, or he wouldn’t have remained at large this long. Corbin decided that he was going to have to handle this personally. He needed a ticket on the first flight to the West Coast. San Diego was probably a good place to start.
He felt better already.
22
The eighteen-wheeler rumbled into a truck stop just outside Coalinga on a parched stretch of Interstate 5. True to his word, the trucker, whose name was Kyle Bradshaw, ordered them out to clean themselves up.
Re
luctantly, Chris and Ian pulled their baseball caps low to hide from the security cameras, hurried in, and bought some fresh T-shirts in the convenience store. Then they ducked into the restroom, donned the fresh shirts, and rinsed their rancid-smelling jeans out in the sink to lessen the sewer stench.
They walked back across the lot to the truck looking like two dogs that had just gotten an involuntary bath, their wet jeans clinging to their legs. When they climbed back up into the cabin of the truck, the driver sniffed the air tentatively.
“Well, you ain’t exactly springtime fresh, but I suppose that will do.”
Chris and Ian were both sporting the gas station’s only item of apparel, a baggy T-shirt with a defiant American eagle staring daggers at some unseen enemy as the Stars and Bars rippled defiantly in the background.
Kyle nodded at the shirts. “Don’t you two look patriotic.”
“These colors don’t run,” Chris said.
Kyle chuckled. Ian grimaced at the uncoolness of it all.
When they were back on the long, dead stretch of Central Valley interstate, Kyle said, “I believe you owe me a story.”
Chris and Ian looked at one another blankly.
“You got anything?” Chris asked Ian.
“I got nothing.”
They both turned to Kyle to see if this response was acceptable. “Now, I let you ride on the condition that you give me a story. A good one too. Like I said, I’ve listened to all of my audiobooks. Now, I’m not expecting Jack Reacher, but I do expect to be entertained.” A pause. “Unless you’d like to get out and try your luck hitching.”
Chris stared at the highway stripes as they sprang before the truck’s headlights like dolphins at the bow of a ship. Finally, he said, “Okay, I think I may have one.”
“I’m listening.”
Chris proceeded to tell the heavily redacted story of his work for BlueCloud Inc., in which he and Zoey tracked cyberterrorists who had developed a sophisticated new computer virus and used it to take down New York City, nearly causing a meltdown at the Indian Point nuclear power plant.