It was a scenario similar to the one at Madison Park Euro Lodge. Harry would linger in the background, looking and listening, while the police pressed the man at the front desk for information on the fugitive and showed photos. Teagarden had intentionally left The Argonaut lunch napkin he’d used to decode the entry under his beer bottle, knowing it would end up in Harry’s possession.
He waited as a red double-decker tour bus stopped at the curb. He turned his phone on again and quickly keyed in the text message: “only a 2nd rate fixed-wing drone! how come? btw, how’d I manage to dwnld complete hardcopy of file? was that your mistake? does main ofc know about op over easy?”
He pushed the send button and dropped his cellphone into the rear stairwell of the tour bus as it pulled from the curb. It would rest there until at least the next stop, about ten blocks north at the entrance to Central Park.
He stepped back into his concrete subway burrow and watched the new round of action unfold.
First, the air filled with the squeal of police sirens, followed by more cop cars. That was followed by the same old fixed-wing drone buzzing up Eighth Avenue as it locked-on to his cellphone signal. And that was followed by McCanliss racing back to the truck from The Argonaut lobby.
Beautiful. If McCanliss really is FBI, why am I outsmarting him and all of his high-tech toys? There’s no longer any mystery as to how nineteen Arabic men got away with living in the U.S. while some learned to fly a commercial airliner without bothering to learn how to take off, or land, a commercial airliner.
He descended to the platform and caught an uptown train. Despite being a nationally wanted fugitive, he was ignored by everyone with their heads tucked into cellphones. He sat on the bench, balancing his backpack on his lap. The office costume was working better than the Hasidic outfit because it drew zero attention. The reading glasses perched on the end of his nose completed the charade. He looked like every corporate businessman on his way to or from the office. After all, the business of America is business.
The test had worked. He’d determined that, yes, they were on top of him with a swift and coordinated response. Plus, he’d taken a poke at Harry in a way he hoped would snag his swaggering testosterone. If the home office was monitoring all communications, Teagarden had just made it obvious to them that this McCanliss fellow was their problem, too. Further, he’d just demonstrated that he was in the process of breaking a rudimentary code where each entry began with the words “Dear John”—a code that, for reasons he did not yet understand, they did—not—want decoded and released.
Oh brother, are you guys really descendants of the G-Men who whupped John Dillinger and Al Capone?
He shook his head at the flashing shades of tunnel darkness as they whipped past the train windows.
Dark, darker. Dark, darker. Dark, darker.
I’m pressing my luck. If I keep this up, they’re going to corner the fox. It’s only a matter of time. I need to disappear. I need to get completely off the grid.
Chapter Thirty-One
The FBI Building, Washington, D.C.
“Mr. Natujay, I assure you the Deep Field Command is on solid legal ground here.”
It was the third time she had said it and he heard it each time. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. Yet, to him, it sounded like a shopworn advertising slogan. He looked at the ceiling of the DFC’s conference room. His conference room in his corner of the basement in the FBI Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. He wanted more than slogans. But he didn’t want a fight. Not with her. Her father had worked with Director Hoover and helped run Operation Over Easy, which later formed the DFC. Anyone who worked for Director Hoover was company royalty. And anyone descended from first generation royalty, was second generation royalty.
“What if the legality is challenged?” he ventured. She glanced at the cubicles outside of the conference room.
“Mr. Natujay, you oversee the DFC of the FBI. Its very existence is a complete secret. Therefore, who would challenge it? For it to be challenged, the challenger must be made aware of it.”
“What about Congress?”
“What about it?”
“They get reports. They’re informed about clandestine activities.”
She wanted to laugh. The idea of this Congress challenging anything the FBI does in the name of national security was ludicrous.
“Mr. Natujay, if any elected official or government appointee poses a problem regarding this matter, it will be done only in the court of Homeland surveillance. That bench is in camera. The only people watching are the participants, and they’re all sworn to secrecy, not to mention sworn to upholding the security interests of the United States.”
“And you’re comfortable with that?” he asked her.
“I am perfectly comfortable with arguing before that confidential bench that safeguarding the image of the bureau is, in this historic and vital instance, nothing less than ensuring the safety of the United States itself. As far as we are concerned, it is one and the same.”
“What about the press?”
She leaned back in her chair, balancing one elbow on the narrow armrest. For her, there was nothing overtly wrong with this Walter Natujay fellow. He’d been a loyal public servant in the field of national security. Still, she never liked him. He was black. Not African-American, but black nonetheless. Black is still black. What was he? East Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi? It was all the same to her. She had no idea if he was Muslim. Moreover, he’d been promoted to DFC commander under a previous president, and not just any previous president, but—that—president.
Thankfully, he was due to retire soon. Good thing. That was the only reason he hadn’t already been transferred to inventory control. When a government lifer is breathing on a pension, the system has a built-in hands-off policy. When they’ve put in their time, they’re allowed to coast. But for her, the sooner Natujay applied for his government pension, the better.
Outside, a faint mist of afternoon rain was just beginning. She hoped it would cool things off. The weather on the East Coast had not been horrible, but it was stifling in D.C. Nothing unusual about that. The father of the country made the call some 230 years ago. He told them to stop arguing and start building the city on a clump of swampy Potomac wetlands. Consequently, when it’s merely hot in Baltimore or Richmond, it’s stifling in D.C.
“Mr. Natujay, how many deep field agents do you have currently under management?”
Here it comes. He had hoped to avoid confrontation. As deputy director, she works on the tenth floor, has the ear of the director, and is in line to be the president’s National Security Advisor. Being a hostile blip on her radar was the last thing he wanted, mostly because she had the authority to turn him into road kill.
“Ms. Trippler, right now there are eleven active agents. As you know, Operation Dear John is presently assigned two of them, one code-named Ice Skater and another code-named Copper Miner. Of those two, only Ice Skater has been granted supreme authority to take life when and where necessary.”
“Right. Ice Skater is the fuck-up in New York that the tenth floor is worried about.” It wasn’t a question, but he answered her as though it were.
“Yes, ma’am. He is.”
“Then, Mr. Natujay, I suggest you grant Copper Miner supreme authority as well. Let Copper Miner complete the job here in D.C. and Virginia, the part that I am telling you is perfectly legit. It needs to be done. The tenth floor wants it done. As chief legal counsel to the FBI, I am telling you there is nothing to be concerned about. So get it done. After that, if Ice Skater still has not accomplished the desired result with this Teagarden character, then you must team Copper Miner with Ice Skater. Maybe the two of them can successfully perform the task as a unit.”
“Very well, Ms. Trippler. If that is what the tenth floor wants, that is what I will order.”
“And, Mr. Natujay?”
“Yes, Deputy Director?”
“As for the press?�
�
“Yes?”
“The press and the public are the reasons why Operation Dear John was formed last week as a mission within the DFC. Preventing that file from being decoded and released is the reason why two of your agents are now granted supreme authority for domestic kills. Do you understand? It is—the—reason. Do you understand? The press is—the—reason why I am here talking to you at this present time.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“The bureau is a family, Mr. Natujay. Our family. My family. Some of us were born into it. And when I say some of us, I mean—me, Mr. Natujay. My father served under Director Hoover. On his order, my father founded Operation Over Easy, the predecessor of the DFC. And we need to put this risk behind us so we can get on with our good work protecting the American people.”
“Will do, Deputy Director Trippler.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Encrypted Field Communication
NSA Apache Code Ofc Baltimore, MD/Washington, DC/CoinTelSatOrbit53/Arlington, VA
TO: copper miner
FROM: deep field cmdr
SUBJECT: operation dear john
deep field cmdr to copper miner: u now have supreme authority…proceed immediately with dbl job you’ve been researching in dc and va…10th flr prefers concurrent…
copper miner to deep field cmdr: k…btw, have been researching weather…heavy rain later today…did you ever drive on shirley hwy in northern va. during heavy rain?…
deep field cmdr to copper miner: never mind…just do it…more instructions to follow…
Chapter Thirty-Three
Shirley Highway, Arlington, VA
“Look at this rain!” the driver complained. “You can’t see anything through this fog except taillights.”
“Yeah,” his passenger agreed. “But when it’s like this, I always admire these Virginia commuters. They’re real pros.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at them. They’re driving safely. Every car out here has their four-way flashers turned on. Nobody’s weaving in and out as though the road were their own private NASCAR track.” The young driver grunted agreement, and turned up the speed on his wiper blades. “Not that I don’t appreciate my son picking me up in the city for your mom’s birthday dinner.”
“Sure.”
“But in this weather, the Metro would have been quicker.”
“I had to drive myself anyway. And I have another motive. I need to talk, Dad. I didn’t want to do it online, on the phone, or around mom. That’s the real reason why I wanted to pick you up at G.W.”
“Uh-oh. Job life or personal life?”
“Job.”
“Well, you’re the spook, I’m only a humble math professor. But go ahead.”
“That’s the problem, Dad. I’m not a spook. I’m not a cop. And I’m not a fed. I’m only a research librarian with a discipline in criminology. But somebody’s got it out for me. Weird things are going on.”
“Like what?”
“Like, I’m suddenly being watched. A new security camera was installed in the ceiling last week, with a lens trained straight at my desk. My computer’s been tampered with. And somebody put a new SCD on my main keyboard.”
“What the hell is an SCD?”
“Stroke Counter Device. It records everything you type and separately stores it forever as backup, just in case the files get erased. I never had one until last week.”
“Maybe you’re up for a promotion and they need you to pass one final clearance before the boss makes the announcement. That’s the way spooks do it.”
“At my apartment on P Street?”
“What about your apartment?”
“Guys are watching it. Around the clock, in shifts. I see them getting in and out of a truck parked at the curb. They go to the Starbucks at DuPont Circle. They use the public restroom, buy coffee, then they get back in this panel truck with lettering that says ‘Durgan’s Lawn & Garden Service.’ It’s like they don’t care if I see them. Plus, my snail mail is being tampered with. Why would they want to look at all those junk catalogs in my mailbox? It’s mysterious.”
“Well, they’re welcome to come get my junk catalogs. You’d think that in the year 2019 we’d be rid of all that oil-based crap.”
“Besides, I’m not up for one.”
“One what?”
“Promotion. I’m not up for a promotion.”
“Oh.”
The driver was about to speak again, to tell his father about the static on his phone line and the sudden aloofness of his boss. Then there was the Asian woman who raced up beside him with a camera and snapped a close-up shot while he jogged in Rock Creek Park. She didn’t really want a photo. She only wanted to jar his nerves. She wanted him to know that he was under surveillance.
Traffic prevented him from saying any of it to his father. There was an opening in the jam of cars which he used to turn onto the high-speed ramp and ascended to the triple deck of Shirley Highway. The collision happened when he picked up speed on the rain-slicked, elevated straightaway.
First, the drone hovered directly over the hood of his car.
“Hey, those things are supposed to help prevent accidents.” His father spoke just as the drone fired a high-pressure jolt of concentrated air that made a sound like vah-WOOSH-tah, shattering the main windshield.
“Jesus,” the driver shouted, as his wheels turned into a broadside skid.
The car gained speed and rolled a total of five times before hitting the concrete barrier where it was immediately smashed by two additional vehicles. The third pounding came from an SUV the size of a tank that forced the concrete retaining wall to give way. The impact sandwiched the first and second cars, sending them tumbling to the main highway three levels below.
In the end, a dozen vehicles crashed, six people were injured, three seriously, and five were killed. Two of those five were Professor Stuart Shelbourn, Sr. of George Washington University, and his son Stuart Shelbourn, Jr., a librarian with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The Virginia State Police called the accident “weather related.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Monday Night, July 22, 2019
Encrypted Field Communication
NSA Apache Code Ofc Baltimore, MD/Washington, DC/CoinTelSatOrbit53/Wilmington, DE
TO: copper miner
FROM: deep field cmdr
SUBJECT: operation dear john
deep field cmdr to copper miner: good work…very tidy…where u?…
copper miner to deep field cmdr: thx…am on i95…near wilmington…on way north to nyc…
deep field cmdr to copper miner: good…
copper miner to deep field cmdr: where is ice skater?…& does he know i am coming?…
deep field cmdr to copper miner: ice skater is at safe house near Central Park Zoo…his fox gone silent…he’s working theory that fox is shacked up…haven’t told him u are now his partner…u tell him…carefully…
copper miner to deep field cmdr: understood, say no more….
Chapter Thirty-Five
Madison Square Euro Lodge
She felt safe there.
It wasn’t much, but Svetlana Gelayeva thought of room 413 at Madison Park Euro Lodge as more secure than anywhere she’d ever known. After enduring the war years in Chechnya, it felt like true shelter. The Russian soldiers killed her father, raped her mother and frequently raped her, too, even as a child.
The months that followed were better, but still not good. She survived with factory work, cleaning homes, stealing, and occasionally selling her body to Chechen rebels and Russian soldiers. When the
men were young, they were less of a threat, and she could be in charge. And sometimes, when they were sweet about it, it made her feel—well, helpful.
Now, at the age of thirty-three, she looked much older. Her two children were being raised by an aunt on a small potato farm near Grozy while she worked as a drug dealer in America. It was the most financially productive period of her life. Ironically, it was also the safest.
When the knock came at the door, she had no reason to worry about her safety.
“Ms. Gelayeva?” he asked.
He knew her name, so she cracked the door. It was late and she did not recognize him in the semi-light of the corridor.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Svetlana Gelayeva?”
“I am the manager. How can I help you? What room are you in?”
“I’m with the FBI.” He flashed his shield. “May I come in?” He didn’t like the delay in her response. He particularly didn’t like that her eyes betrayed no fear. They nearly always show fear, no matter if they are guilty of something or innocent of everything. But she betrayed no trace of fear. He put two fingers on the door and slowly pushed it wide enough to enter. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to frighten you.” He closed the door behind him. “But it is of vital importance. I need to know what Sam Teagarden told you. It is very important that you tell me.”
It was only after he was inside her room that she recognized him in the full illumination of her bedside lamp. He was the same man who arrived with the police after her 9-1-1 call to claim the $50,000 reward for a wanted fugitive. The same man who stood quietly in the reception area, observing everything. The same man whose image she had downloaded to DVD and sent by bicycle messenger to The Argonaut Hotel. The same man Teagarden had warned her to be careful of or “your life would be in danger.”
Flight of the Fox Page 11