by Dave Buschi
“The dates on the papers,” Marks said.
“Yeah,” Lip said. “I was thinking that too. Most of those newspapers would have been delivered when Johnny Two-cakes was living in Costa Rica. I’ve got some other questions, but not for Marion.”
They waited till Marion finished up. When she came back they told her they were going to need an hour. Lip kissed his mother on the cheek before he left. “Ma, Marks and I need to do some work, would you mind entertaining Marion for a little while?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Lipkin said. A kiss always made her melt.
Lip eyed the oven. Toll House mounds getting gooey.
“C’mon cookie monster,” Marks said. “They’re not going to eat ‘em all.”
18
JERRY had moved ten feet from where they’d left him last. Quite an accomplishment considering the fact he was hogtied and blindfolded.
“Miss us?” Lip said.
No response.
“We’re going to give you a moment to think about something,” Marks said. “When we come back you’re going to have two doors to choose from. One of those leads to a happy place, the other doesn’t.”
They shut the door to the garage. Before question time started they wanted to know all they could about Jiri Dvorak. They went through Lip’s living room and tiny kitchen. Lip’s windowless office, complete with biometric scanner to open the lock, was in the back. They didn’t close the door. Where they were was far enough from the garage they could talk freely. Jiri wasn’t going to hear a thing.
“Big question,” Marks said, as he fingered the Fed Ex envelope he’d retrieved from the car. “How did those men find Marion?”
“Could have followed her,” Lip said, taking a seat and clicking his mouse. He had the wraparound thing going with his flat screens. Big Johnson posters aside, place looked like the Situation Room in the White House.
“Nah, doesn’t make sense,” Marks said. He took a seat next to Lip. “They wanted her out of the picture.”
Marks thought back to the bus depot. Marion had called them en route. He considered the timeline. From phone call to them picking her up at the bus depot had been approximately thirty minutes. They hadn’t gone right away. Drive to the bus depot from their office was only a ten minute drive, tops. They’d arrived about five minutes after her bus had; she’d told them so when they picked her up. She’d been waiting for them less than that on the curb. Which meant three, four minutes max.
After brief introductions, she’d gotten in their car. Marks revisited the scene in his head. Picturing the bus depot, the sidewalk, the covered platform...
Like a movie reel in slow motion, he saw the metallic gray Mercedes with the driver in the red hat. That car hadn’t been waiting. That car had been pulling up, just about the time Marion had stepped in their car. Those men had been arriving. Not waiting.
So… they’d gotten there too late, which meant they were tipped off, were told information, given an address.
“They didn’t follow her,” Marks said. He brought his partner up to speed. Relayed what he remembered. Put him on the same page. Two minds thinking, always better than one. What they really needed was Johnny Two-cakes. He was always better looking at pieces, figuring out the range of possibilities.
“Marion called us,” Marks said.
“Right?”
“Said ‘I’m John Claiborne’s wife’.”
“Right.”
It had been a brief conversation, but all the details were given, where they should pick her up, her approximate arrival time. She’d briefly described herself, what she was wearing, so they would know who to look for.
“She had a disposable phone,” Marks said. “A new one. She’d only placed two calls with it. Taxi and us. It wasn’t her phone. Nothing to track.”
“Someone flagged our phones,” Lip said.
Marks nodded. “Could be. That’d fit. But who and why?”
“Someone inside?” Lip said. “Connecting Johnny Two-cakes to us.”
Marks frowned. Someone inside. Lip was talking about the Shadow Factory. Their previous employer.
Marks looked at the Fed Ex envelope, keying in on the address of the sender. 11600 Springfield Road, Laurel, MD. That address was familiar to them. Should be. They used to work there. It was the address of the headquarters of the SCS. The ‘Special Collection Service’. Name sounded like a branch of the US Postal Service. Bureaucratic and nondescript. Not unlike the buildings you’d find if you went to that address.
Just three, low-rise boxy buildings. Could be any office park of any company. From the street all you’d see was a gate and a simple sign that said CSSG. It was a front name, completely bogus, didn’t stand for anything.
Past that gate were three hundred acres. The testing ground for the ‘real’ operation inside. The SCS. The place where they tried out their gadgets, their parabolic antennas, advanced listening equipment, bugs, and other eavesdropping equipment that were used out in the field. Most of it was miniaturized; meant for operators to insert in discrete places around the globe. The scenic, tree-lined campus was where the efficacy of that equipment was tested. It recreated actual site conditions, ‘live’ scenarios, simulated the electronic environment of target cities.
The SCS. Not a branch of the US Postal Service, but an offshoot of the NSA. The National Security Agency.
Marks, Lip and Johnny Two-cakes had been part of a special outfit inside a special outfit. The SCS did the dirty work that the NSA needed to have done. Their unit did some of the more “challenging assignments” that the NSA faced.
Marks, Lip, and Johnny Two-cakes had put their time in. Marks was the short timer of the bunch. He’d joined the outfit in ‘96. The SCS recruited heavily from the military and CIA; anyone that had done field work was of interest to them. Their motto was “information in motion”.
They needed boots on the ground. Guys like Marks. Men and women with covert operative training. Ironic. Least Marks always thought so. Grunt like himself, with hardly any computer savvy, working for an outfit that lived and breathed technology—cutting edge stuff. Course, the SCS had plenty of wizards to crunch the bytes and use that stuff. Guys like Lip and Johnny Two-cakes.
When Marks was recruited it was Lip that ultimately made him decide to join up. The chance to work together with his old college roomie was kind of appealing. They’d taken divergent paths out of college. Lip went to the Shadow Factory. Marks to the Marines. While Marks was AJ Squared Away, Lip was at the SCS losing his cherry. Each doing their part to keep the Red, White and Blue safe. For Marks it was God, Country and Corps. He’d lived it. Just show him what needed to be done and he’d do it with a smile on his face if it meant blowing something up.
FORECON… then SCS. Lip, Johnny Two-cakes and he made three. Marks had brought their game to a whole other level. The basement level. The three of them, keeping the US on top. They had a good run. Were together for almost ten years. When Lip and Marks had said sayonara in ‘06 they’d asked Johnny Two-cakes if he wanted to join them. To their disappointment, the man had taken a pass. Then surprisingly he’d left just two months later. Bound for South America.
“How many knew the three of us worked together?” Marks said.
Lip shrugged. “Handful. Five max.”
“Think about it,” Marks said. “Doesn’t really fit. Person that sent that envelope had everything they needed. Marion’s address, directions to a bag of money, our contact info. Way I see it, Johnny Two-cakes trusted the sender. No way he’d give that to somebody for them to send unless that was the case.”
“Give me the tracking number,” Lip said.
Marks handed him the envelope. Lip pulled up another window on the screen and went to FedEx.com. He typed in the twelve digit number in the ‘Track shipments’ box.
The Summary Results pulled up.
[Not Found. No information for the following shipments/FedEx Office orders has been received by our system yet. Please try again later or contact
Customer Service.]
“You sure you plugged in the right number?” Marks said.
Lip looked at the number listed in the box below.
937479178097
“Yep,” Lip said. “That’s it.”
“Maybe it hasn’t been put into the system, yet,” Marks said.
“They use handheld scanners,” Lip said. “It’s real time.”
“Could be an error. Never was scanned in the first place.”
Lip shrugged. “Doubt it. They’ve got to scan to deliver. It’s the way they track, know where to deliver. Other answer?”
Marks paused. “Wasn’t delivered by a Fed Ex guy.”
“That’s definitely a possibility. Would make sense too, considering the sensitive info it held.”
“Let’s come back to that. What do you got on Jiri?” Marks said.
Lip closed out the Fed Ex window. The middle monitor had three views open. There was a picture of their man: Jiri Dvorak. Same picture as was on the man’s Maryland license. Marks scanned the header.
Secure Communities
It was one of the FBI’s databases.
“How do you do this?” Marks said.
“You don’t want to know. But I’m good aren’t I?”
Marks sometimes wondered. Lip had missed his calling. Man was like Neo from The Matrix. When it came to computers, Lip could do whatever he wanted. Access secure websites, shut down power grids, whatever he needed. Marks had even seen him stop a car once. They were following a Chevy Tahoe. The occupants weren’t too keen on stopping. On the fly, Lip had hacked into OnStar; used the vehicle plate number. OnStar had something called SVS. Stolen Vehicle Slowdown. It was a feature popular out in California. Particularly LA, carjacking city of the world.
With a few clicks, Lip had cut the power to the engine. Bam. They had ‘em. Now that was fun. Almost like blowing stuff up.
Lip scrolled down one of the screens. Marks read along. He knew the basics. Lip had set this in motion before they’d gone for tea and had their talk with Marion. Most of these sites would have taken twenty to thirty minutes to spit back what they had. Some of the other sites were quicker. For instance, it took ten minutes to run an SSN Trace.
Lip had been thorough with his searches. Man was all about overdoing it. In that regard, he and his partner were peas in a pod. Proportionate Response, Baby. But their version of it. Do it right the first time. If you need info, Lip was your man. Need to blow something up, call Marks.
They weren’t blowing things up. It was info time.
They read. Lip flipped to other views and dragged windows from the monitors on the left and right. Marks recognized some of the databases Lip had accessed. One of them was used by the Justice Department. Another by Homeland Security. There was the NCIC (National Crime Information Center). ICE, which was used by US Immigration and Customs. CAP, which was connected to ICE and stood for Criminal Alien Program. He’d done a Federal Criminal Record Search.
“Is this all there is?” Marks said.
“I hit all that count. The guy is in the system. What you see is what you get.”
Sum total: Man had no priors. No outstanding warrants. Never been incarcerated. Never done a felony. Never done a misdemeanor.
They skimmed through the different pages; checked out the other databases. No record. No record. No record.
There was some minor stuff. Two unpaid parking tickets. A citation for parking in a handicap zone.
Man’s credit score was 720. Man paid his bills. His last six addresses were in the system. Man lived in Ashton-Sandy Spring, Maryland. Address was a townhouse. Property taxes for 2010 and 2011 had been paid on time. Man had lived there for two and a half years. Had two mortgages. One an ARM. The other a 30-year fixed-rate. No late payments. Was currently employed with a local body shop as a mechanic. Place called Platinum Tune-Ups. Specialized in restoring old Mercedes and BMWs.
Man had two kids and a wife. Credit card records indicated the man favored shopping at Walmart and CVS and ate occasionally at Red Lobster. Had given $100 to the Red Cross and $50 to Big Brothers Big Sisters in 2011.
There was other stuff. An earlier picture of him from DOT. It was the same picture as an earlier driver’s license from New York DMV. Man had moved around. Mug shot had stayed the same. Same bald head, same scar on his face.
There was his name: Jiri Dvorak. Date of Birth meant he was 37 years old and a Scorpio. Physical description matched. Height: 5’-9”. Weight: 195 lbs. Eye color: Brown.
They checked out IAFIS. The prints they’d taken off him in the garage lined up with what Maryland DMV had. Man was a US Citizen. Had a passport that had been issued in 1989. Wasn’t flagged. Not on any watch list.
Cyber records pulled up zilch. Man had Internet service at his personal residence through his phone carrier. Dial up. Cheapest and slowest service available. Had an email address through MSN. [email protected]. Nothing flagged. Didn’t visit pornographic websites. Didn’t gamble online. No chat room stuff. No visits to any sites monitored by FBI’s Cyber-Crime Unit. Man liked football. ESPN.go.com was checked out every day during the Fall. No so much during the other months. Guy spent less time online than most people spent doing their daily dump.
There was nothing. Nada. No criminal records whatsoever on the guy. Man was clean. Mr. fuckin’ Clean.
“Not looking good,” Lip said.
“This is bullshit,” Marks said.
“Did we miss call it? Him being out back in the car?”
“No,” Marks said. The man had pulled a knife. Gone after Lip. Not the actions of Joe Schmoe Mr. Innocent Citizen. “Man’s hands are all scarred up. The guy’s an enforcer.”
“Or a mechanic,” Lip said.
“No, if he’s a mechanic, then I’m the fuckin’ Tooth Fairy. Nails are dirty, but not from grease. Hands aren’t stained. He has scar tissue on his knuckles. Lots of it. Man has used his fists, busted some heads.”
“Maybe. And maybe he’s a mechanic that wears gloves, likes to box on the side.”
Marks gave Lip a look.
Lip shrugged. “I’m just saying. You saw what was in the system. The guy is thirty-seven years old with no priors. He was born here. If the guy was dirty, there’d be something. Remember Miami?”
Miami. South Beach. Marks remembered. Hard to forget. And it wasn’t because of the sights on Ocean Drive.
They’d picked up a guy. Had solid intel. Turned out the guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Major fuckup all around, on their parts.
No one bats one thousand. But in their profession, you miss a call like that, you don’t forget. They were supposed to be the good guys.
“I remember,” Marks said.
“What do you want to do?” Lip said. “The guy didn’t have a weapon. Vehicle is in his name—I checked it. Maybe the guy was just stopping to think. People do that.”
“What about the guy in the back? The one I took out?” Marks said.
“Could have been dropped off. There was the other car. The Lexus. Could have dropped him and circled around. Jiri pulled up afterwards,” Lip said.
“No,” Marks said. “There were shots. Man would have heard it. His car door was open.”
“Maybe he’s got bad hearing. Look. I know the guy ain’t pretty to look at,” Lip said. “But that doesn’t make him a bad guy.”
“Man has an accent. Russian, I think.”
“So? Wait… name’s Czech,” Lip said.
“I know, but I heard him twice.”
“Okay. What did he say?”
Marks thought back to the car, before he hit him with the Five SeveN. What is dis? the man had said. Man wasn’t looking back towards the rear of the Starbucks. He was just sitting in the car. Boot out, door open, car running.
Then, later, after he got out of the trunk, when Lip went back to get the Taser, the man had said Who are you? While holding the knife.
Neither was good. But the car was running. That said something. And…
> “The man came at you with a knife,” Marks said.
“Yeah? And we put him in a trunk. You said shoot him. Maybe… just maybe… the guy didn’t like that.”
“Who carries a knife in their belt?”
Lip frowned. “Old ladies carry mace. Senators pack heaters. Happens all the time, we’re not locking them up.”
“Half of them we should.”
“Right. I agree. Particularly those Senators. Listen. We’ve got a guy in there hogtied. I’m not pulling another Miami.”
“Fine,” Marks said. “Guy has no record. Maybe he’s stayed under the radar all this time.”
Lip shook his head. “No way. Not the sites I hit. You saw it. If he’s associated with bad guys, emailed someone he shouldn’t, called a known felon, farted in church, I don’t care, he’d be flagged. We’d see something and there was nothing. No record. If I pulled up stuff on my mom, I’d find more stuff than we found on him.”
“Exactly,” Marks said.
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe stuff was erased, changed?”
Lip laughed. “Yeah, and maybe I’m the Tooth Fairy.”
“I’m serious. C’mon… with the stuff you do? You accessed what? Twelve different databases? How many of those are available to the public.”
“One of them,” Lip said.
“And you did it in what? Ten minutes?”
“Eight.”
“Set, match, you made my point.”
“If you’re playing a Cub Scout.” Lip frowned. “You’re talking worlds apart. I accessed a few sites. And the only reason it’s easy for me is because I used to have access. You’re talking about manipulating data of highly secure sites. Federal databases.”
“And erasing that video footage wasn’t doing that?” Marks said.
Lip laughed. “No. Starbucks…?”
Marks raised his hand. “Bingo. Starbucks. You said they turned the cameras off.”
“Yeah, I did.” Lip frowned. “That’s easy stuff.”
“Okay. Walk me through it. How do you do it?”
“You don’t like to hear that stuff.”
“Now I do. Tell me how it’s done.”