Dark Side of the Moon

by Alan Jacobson

  “And?”

  Vail leaned back in her chair. “I’ve narrowed it down to five. One’s deceased, one’s out on a long-term workers’ comp from a failed hip surgery, one’s been on maternity leave for six months because she’s had complications. So that leaves two: Jason Lansford and James Feith. If they turn out to be dead ends, we’ll go back and loosen up those filters and start over.”

  “Of those two,” Rodman said, “what does your gut say?”

  “I’ve got some people working up Feith. So far nothing stands out. But Lansford holds a lot of promise.”

  “Because?”

  “Both are software engineers who’ve worked on Orion. Neither has any connection to Alec Hayder. There were trips to Houston, but because of the Johnson Space Center and NBL, that’s to be expected. Regardless, neither went there in the past nine months.”

  “That’s it?”

  Vail called up a photo of a couple in their late thirties. “Lansford’s twin brother and sister-in-law live in China. And Lansford’s made multiple trips to Beijing during the past couple of years. He was in danger of having his house foreclosed upon two years ago, but I’m not seeing any further notices from the bank. We still have some digging to do on that. Feith shows no connections whatsoever to any of our targets. No financial issues. And no international travel.”

  “NSA?”

  “Putting together a dossier right now on both of them. But if Lansford’s our guy, I doubt we’re gonna find a smoking gun. That foreclosure situation might be our only indication of a sudden infusion of cash—and even that’s circumstantial unless we can prove a direct line of payment from China to Lansford. But spies these days are careful.”

  “And they use encrypted comms.”

  “Which means NSA might not be very helpful,” Vail said.

  The sliding doors opened and Richard McNamara strode in. “Where are we?”

  In the Pentagon, sir. “It’s been tedious, but we’re making our way through—”

  “I need results, not excuses.”

  “We had to wait for NASA to get the list and then fly to Ohio to apprehend Alec Hay—”

  “Sounds like another excuse.”

  Vail’s jaw dropped. “I wasn’t making excuses. I—” Be smart. This guy is career military. You’re not gonna win this argument. And he may be right. “Yes sir. No more excuses.”

  “Results are all that count,” McNamara said, firming his brow. “Am I being clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then do you or do you not have someone to look at?”

  “We do.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Grab him up, get him in a room.”

  “Right,” Rodman said. “We’re on it.”

  Oops. Left out the warrant part. Probably because we’d never get one.

  “Agent Vail.”

  Guess I’ve gotta work on my poker face.

  McNamara stepped closer and sat on the edge of the desk. “I realize you’ve been a law enforcement officer all your life. And that affects how you approach your OPSIG duties. But we need to be on the same page here. We’re not looking to build a legal case against the Chinese spy. It’s better if we don’t because it’d be embarrassing for China and at the moment, that’s not in our best interests. It’d stoke an international crisis—on top of the one we’re gonna come dangerously close to sparking. So the idea is to get the information we need. Quietly. We must assess the damage to our program, what the Chinese have gotten hold of, and take proper steps. Under the radar.”

  “If this is our guy,” Vail said, “what happens after we get the information from him?”

  “After that, we may cut him loose. Or not, depending on what he tells us. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.” I understand I don’t have a choice.

  “I’ve got Agent Zheng Wei on standby, ready to help out. He and a small team led by Agent Rodman will accompany you and pick up this guy—what’s his name?”

  “Jason Lansford.”

  “Zheng is in charge of the op to grab up this Lansford. So you’ll follow his orders. Got it?”

  He looked at Rodman for acknowledgment but did not need to say anything further.

  “I get it,” Vail said.

  McNamara eyed her wearily. “Let’s hope you do.”

  12

  Falls Church, Virginia

  The buzzer sounded in the study of Lukas DeSantos. He glanced at the television screens displaying closed circuit high definition video and saw several armed men dressed in black tactical gear at the front entrance to his palatial home.

  They discharged high end submachine guns of some sort—MP7s from what he could tell—and his security guards returned fire. But they were outmanned and outgunned, and several difficult seconds later, his men were but dark heaps on the ground.

  Jesus. What the hell is going on?

  He glanced at the other set of monitors—showing the rear of his extensive property—as the same scenario played out there.

  His mouth suddenly dry, he grabbed for his phone—and found the line dead. Dug out his mobile—no service.

  “Of course,” he said into the still air.

  Whoever these guys were, they were professional, organized … and lethally efficient.

  He had mere seconds to get to his safe room, a hardened chamber that could withstand reasonable intrusion attempts. He was a seasoned battlefield commander, career military—but the instant, massive adrenaline dump into his bloodstream sent his heart rate to dangerous levels.

  As he made his way out of the study and through the walnut-­paneled library, the lights went out. Because of his decades of training, he had anticipated this and was prepared. By the time he arrived at the door to the bunker, the backup generator had kicked in and restored power to the electronic keypad. He punched in the code and the magnetic lock released.

  Lukas slid inside and closed the door behind him. He took a deep breath to settle his nerves, then placed his thumbprint over a sensor. A steel cabinet popped open, exposing a bevy of weapons. He set the MP5 submachine gun on the counter to his right, then took the Beretta 1301 tactical shotgun in his left hand and shoved a SIG 9-millimeter pistol in his waistband.

  After activating the color LCD screens, which tapped directly into his security system, he watched as the men made their way into his home. He threw a switch and the generator powered down, maintaining electricity to only the safe room.

  The cameras switched to infrared mode. Lukas tried to get an angle that would give him a clue as to who these men were—which might indicate who had sent them. He had plenty of enemies, those in foreign countries that had been on the losing end of a military offensive that he directed, high profile battlefield wins in Iraq and later Afghanistan that put his face on Time magazine. It was something he resisted, but ultimately agreed to, given his plans to retire and start his own defense contracting company. He knew the system and he had the contacts, political heft, and access to the massive funding to make it work.

  And make it work he did. DeSantos Defense Industries was the fastest growing military contractor with a profit-to-earnings ratio more befitting a high-flying Silicon Valley tech company. When he took his company public two years ago, he pocketed $750 million and retained control of the company. Not bad for six years of work.

  But he also knew it made him even more of a target than he otherwise was—which was saying a lot.

  No. Enemies were something Lukas DeSantos was not lacking.

  It came with the territory, like tanks and missiles and fighter jets came with armed conflict.

  Lukas watched the screens and saw the men make their way directly toward him.

  That’s when he realized he had made one error. And it was unfortunately a big one. He had guarded the plans for his bunker construction—but he had hired the job ou
t to a local architectural firm. That was the mistake, because no matter how well he kept the security system blueprints under wraps, he had no control over that company’s employees and computers. He thought it unlikely an enemy would know how to find out who designed and built the alarm, but sometimes the “unlikely” became reality. He played the odds as a four-star general, and it had served him well.

  Not so much in this case, however.

  The men stood at the door to his safe room—which was not feeling so safe about now.

  He stepped back as far as he could get, the shotgun grasped firmly in both hands.

  Nothing was impenetrable. No one was impervious to attack if an enemy wanted to get in badly enough. He knew this. And he was prepared.

  But whoever was behind this was prepared too.

  Lukas watched as they pulled something from a rucksack and appeared to be placing it on the wall.

  An explosive.

  Ten seconds later, the door blew and swung open, the reinforced hinges destroyed by steel-defeating charges.

  “Down on the ground!” one of the ski-mask-clad men shouted.

  Despite the darkness, Lukas made out half a dozen intruders. And based on what he had seen on the cameras, there were several more waiting somewhere else in his house … likely going through his papers and searching for his laptop. The hard drive was encrypted, so he doubted it would be of much use to them, but whoever was responsible for this knew what he was doing and had considerable resources behind him.

  But Lukas was not going down without a fight. He fired his Beretta shotgun with a couple of enormous blasts. Two men recoiled and the rest withdrew.

  Lukas grabbed the MP5 from the counter. Cordite hung in the air, smoke filling the small space. Then two men appeared in the opening, ballistic riot shields held out in front of them.

  Lukas understood when it was time to fight and when it was time to submit. He had no clear exit route at the moment and he wanted to continue living out the rest of his life and, hopefully, find a way of reconciling with his son Hector and his wife Silvana. There was no longer a way to shoot himself out of this predicament.

  “On the ground!” one of the men yelled again.

  This time he did as instructed and kissed the industrial carpet, setting the MP5 down at his side.

  “Who are you?”

  “We’re the guys who’re now giving the orders, general.”

  Lukas thought he detected a slight accent, but it was subtle and he could not place it. Regardless, they knew who he was. No surprise there. They efficiently neutralized his guards and breached a high-end security system with ease. Whoever they were, he respected their skill and level of training.

  “And I’m taking the orders,” Lukas said. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  Something blunt and heavy struck Lukas in the back of the head. Searing pain erupted from his skull as everything went dark.

  13

  Dulles Technology Corridor

  Reston, Virginia

  Vail sat in the back of the Ford surveillance van with Rodman and Zheng Wei, an intense man of few words. Physically he reminded her of a friend, ATF agent Richard Prati: short in stature but imposing and built like a bulldozer.

  While their colleagues continued sifting through the records of both suspects, the three of them had been camped in the parking lot of a large defense contractor, Aerospace Engineering, Jason Lansford’s employer. They took a spot across, and a dozen yards away, from his late model Infiniti FX, waiting and observing.

  The idea was to grab him up in an out of the way location where cameras, witnesses, and video cams were nonexistent. They had done this numerous times, mostly overseas, but the concept was the same: Lansford had to vanish without a trace of foul play. To do that effectively, it was best to wait until dark, when he was alone, and preferably on a low-traffic road. They had rigged his car with a kill switch, which would interrupt the flow of fuel into the carburetor and bring the vehicle to a halt wherever, and whenever, they wished.

  “You think China’s involved?” Vail asked.

  Zheng pulled his eyes away from the LCD screen, which showed a wide-angle view of the parking lot, and looked at Vail. “My thoughts are unimportant. I was told that you felt Jason Lansford was worth questioning. That’s all I’m concerned about.”

  “I’m looking for some background,” Vail said. “Your name hasn’t been Americanized, so I’m assuming you’re originally from China.”

  “Correct assumption.”

  “Knowing the country as you do, is this something the government is capable of?”

  “Capable of? Absolutely. Beyond that, I’d just be offering my opinion.”

  “That’s what I’m asking for.”

  “Might as well answer her,” Rodman said. “She’s like a Boston terrier. Once she gets her teeth into something, it’s tough to make her let go.”

  “I respect that.” Zheng turned back to his screen. “Yes, this is something they would and could do. They’ve done things like this before, as I would imagine you’re aware of.”

  “Actually, only superficially. I’m a behavioral analyst. I’m not in counterterrorism, and I don’t investigate industrial espionage or international relations.”

  “All countries spy on one another. And industrial espionage is unfortunately a fact of doing business. But China takes it up a notch or two. Or three. So yes, it’s worth looking at. I reviewed what you guys put together on Lansford and it’s promising. You might be on to something.”

  “And you’re not concerned about violating Lansford’s civil rights?”

  Zheng looked at Rodman, as if asking him to answer in his stead. He did not, so Zheng said, “China is a very proud country. Calling them out is deeply insulting. And the people resent it. There’s been a lot of tension the past few years because of the South China Sea, China’s repeated cyberattacks on the US, and its growing military might—some of which it got from stolen US military technology.”

  “So if we built a case,” Vail said, “arrested Lansford, and it became a huge media story, wouldn’t they think twice about—”

  “No. It’d only strain relations further. China would not take it well; they’d be insulted that we took such action, regardless of how reasonable it was. They would deny, deny, deny. It wouldn’t make this guy talk and it wouldn’t stop the government from spying on us.”

  “The president does not want another high profile incident with China,” Rodman said. “So we do it this way. Quiet, under the radar. It also helps the US avoid another embarrassing episode of military property being stolen or hacked or leaked.”

  “There he is,” Vail said, gesturing at the screen.

  “An hour early.” Rodman checked his watch. “This is not good.”

  Zheng leaned back in his chair. “Doing a snatch and grab in daylight is too risky.”

  Vail looked at Rodman, then Zheng. “But McNamara said he wants—”

  “I know.” Zheng continued watching the monitor as Lansford walked to his car and got in.

  Rodman knocked on the wall abutting the passenger compartment. “Fire it up and follow, but at a safe distance.”

  “If he’s going directly home for the evening,” Vail said, “we’re gonna have to change our approach.”

  Rodman pulled his seatbelt tight. “Like I said, this is not good.”

  LANSFORD DID NOT go straight to his house. He stopped at a grocery store in a well-lit area then returned to his car and took side streets. The sunlight was waning, dusk not too far off.

  “Another twenty minutes and we’ll be able to take him,” Rodman said.

  Vail consulted her phone. “He’s only … 1.2 miles from his house.”

  “Unless he’s planning on making another stop,” Rodman said, “we’ve gotta do this soon or—�
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  “Get ready to hit the kill switch,” Zheng said to Rodman. “This road looks pretty secluded.”

  They were headed down a residential street with only a few homes and no people visible outside.

  “Not a good idea,” Vail said. “We’re out in the open. It may look clear, but someone’s bound to see us.”

  Rodman fingered the button on the remote. “Even if they catch our tag, the license plate won’t show up in any database.”

  “I feel like we’re desperate,” Vail said, “and that’s no way to run an op. We need to be smart about this. We can’t delay it forever, but we can’t screw it up, either. That could be a whole lot worse.”

  Zheng did not reply. Vail could not tell whether he agreed and did not want to acknowledge it or if he was merely ignoring her. But at that moment, Lansford pulled to a stop at the corner.

  “Now,” Zheng said. “Kill it.”

  “No!” Vail leaned closer to the surveillance screen. “Patrol car approaching. Block away.”

  “You kidding me?” Rodman said.

  They watched as Lansford accelerated through the intersection and two streets later, hung a left onto a boulevard. The cops were now queued up behind their van.

  “He’s gonna take this street right to his house,” Vail said, zooming in on her smartphone map.

  “And that,” Zheng said, “means Plan B.”

  VAIL, RODMAN, AND ZHENG sat in their vehicle a block away from Jason Lansford’s Herndon residence. The two-story home was gray with steel blue accents, a well-maintained structure built in the late seventies. It had an attached single-car garage—where Lansford’s Infiniti was now parked. Strategically, there was decent spacing on both sides between neighboring homes and weak lighting in the area, which made their job marginally easier. In short, they should be able to operate without too much difficulty or prying eyes.