by Jay Deb
Initially, all three candidates hovered at around thirty percent in the polls. But that changed when the incumbent’s wife filed for divorce, and the story appeared in the Washington Post. Brushback held fifty percent in the polls, the businessman candidate had about thirty, and the incumbent’s numbers lingered in the teens.
Three months later, Brushback won the Democratic primary with a convincing margin and didn’t bother to rerun as a congressman. He won the Senate election easily; since 1992, California had not sent a Republican to the US Senate.
After becoming a senator, Brushback was determined not to be sidelined by his senior senator colleagues. To his surprise, he found the Senate to have a congenial environment. Many senators were old and happy to be reelected. Brushback set his eyes on a position on the Senate Intelligence Committee, which he achieved after four years and made quite a name for himself in the process.
Many in NBC News and the New York Times called him a potential presidential candidate. What a difference four years made. He had been nobody in Congress, and now, four years later, people were pinning presidential hopes on him.
But he was no fool. He was aware that a lot of things would have to come together and go right before he could call the White House his home. He needed to have the right friends and the right enemies, too. He took a keen interest in the work done by the CIA and liked to lock horns with its newly appointed director, Alison Stonewall, whenever he met her.
Appointed by President Campbell, Stonewall was the first ever woman chosen as a director of the CIA, and Brushback had voted against her during the Senate confirmation. Many of Stonewall’s opponents, including Brushback, had argued that her lack of military combat experience would someday prove to be detrimental to the nation’s security. But President Campbell had been determined, and the Senate had grudgingly confirmed her with a fifty-two to forty-seven vote.
Stonewall was a cum laude at Harvard and did a four-year stint in the army right after Harvard, during which time she provided translation service and helped military families relocate. She had taught at Georgetown University for six years before heading into a string of government jobs, including the post of New York attorney general for four years, at the end of which she went back to her old teaching job.
Brushback was open about his dislike for Stonewall and told everyone who would listen that she should be replaced as soon as possible.
SITTING ON HIS sofa, Doerr felt as if he were in a bad dream as he watched the CNN anchor push her hair from her forehead and continue. “The DEA administrator, Chuck Jones, was speaking to a small group in Central Park. It happened so suddenly that two of the audience fainted, and they were later treated for shock. Detectives have arrived at the scene, but they are tight-lipped about any further details. We are being told that at seven p.m. tonight there will be a press conference.”
Doerr started pacing in the living room and glanced at the TV frequently. Oh God, I’ve killed the DEA administrator.
Shivers ran down his legs; he felt dizzy and sat on the sofa. He picked up the phone and dialed Samuel’s number – no answer. He left a message asking him to call back immediately. An hour passed, and there was no call from Samuel. He called Victor and Len, but neither of them picked up the phone.
Doerr was up almost the entire night. He knew killing someone was a crime like no other unless it was for a good cause.
He slept fitfully at five in the morning and woke up at ten a.m. There was no message waiting on his phone; there was not even a missed call.
Doerr was worried sick. On the TV, they showed that the FBI detectives had identified the building where the bullet had come from. Doerr knew the rifle had been left in a top cabinet; he knew he had wiped clean his fingerprints from the trigger, but wasn’t sure if his fingerprints were left elsewhere – on the rifle barrel, countertop, or window.
He thought of going back to the condo and retrieving the rifle himself. But maybe Samuel had already picked it up, and realistically, going back to the condo was out of the question.
Doerr called Samuel, Victor and Len many times over the next few days. Still none of them called back, and Doerr knew it was time for him to go to the office at Thirty-Third Street and confront them personally.
The next morning he put on his black suit, the best he had. He got on the Line Two subway train. On the way, he eavesdropped on a suited short man who was telling another guy that he had been jobless for six months and was going to a Wall Street firm for an interview.
Doerr got off the train and sauntered to the gate that led up to the ground level as the train hummed away, carrying the rest of the passengers to their destinations. He hoped that the short man would do well in the interview and get the job. He walked to Thirty-Third Street and turned right. When he reached the nondescript entrance of the CIA building, he paused. He pushed aside the old memories and focused on the current situation. Mentally he ran through the course of action he was about to take.
He stepped inside and saw the same warning as before – private property stay away. He walked past the sign, and, as expected, he was confronted by four hulking men in black uniforms.
“Please turn back, sir,” the man on the right said.
“I want to talk to your boss,” Doerr tried to explain. “I work for the CIA.”
The black guard took his Glock from his shoulder holster. He looked at another guard and said to Doerr, “Show your ID.”
“I don’t have my ID with me right now. I just want to talk to your boss to clear up a few things.” Doerr was sure if he told them what he had done lately, it would only lead to more trouble. And he had never received his ID after shaking hands with Samuel.
“This is a private place,” the black guard raised his gun, “and has nothing to do with the CIA or whatever it is that you worked for. Now please leave, or we will be forced to take action.”
Doerr knew they were just following protocol. But he could not be flippant about the raised gun, and engaging in any violence with these men was out of the question.
“I just want to speak to your boss for one minute. After that, I’ll be gone. I promise.”
The four men exchanged looks. The tall guard said, “Wait here,” and disappeared inside. The remaining three guards stood blocking the entry and looked away from Doerr.
The tall man came back with a middle-aged guy who looked like he could be their boss. He was short but stout, a black man with a thick mustache. He threw an unfriendly look at Doerr and asked in a thick voice, “I am Steve. What can I do for you?”
Doerr told him that he worked for Samuel.
Steve frowned and said, “Come with me, please.”
Doerr followed the man through corridors he remembered quite well. Steve turned at the end of the hallway and entered a room, and Doerr followed him. There were ten computers on a long table, and Steve sat in front of one of them. He asked, “What is his name again?”
“Samuel. Samuel Bolenback.”
Steve typed something on the keyboard and clicked the mouse a few times. Then he turned in his revolving chair and said, “Samuel left us a year back.”
“Are you sure?” Doerr could not hide his surprise. “How is that possible? Can you check one more time?”
Steve frowned, turned to the keyboard, typed something and clicked the mouse again, and then turned the monitor so Doerr could see it. “See here. Samuel Bolenback – end of service, fifteenth November, 2010.”
Doerr moved forward to see the monitor. He saw the same date, and the icy hand of realization gripped the back of his neck, and his blood ran cold. A feeling of anger and sadness spread through his body at an intensity that he had never felt before in his life.
“Now get the hell out of here,” Steve ordered.
FBI SPECIAL AGENT Josh Miller sat on a chair in the forty-sixth floor of the FBI office in Manhattan. He had joined the FBI when he was twenty-three, the youngest age allowed by the FBI for a new recruit. Five years back, when he was twenty-seven, he had tracked down t
he seventh man on the ten-most-wanted list, in Mexico City. Soon after, he was promoted to the elite team.
Sitting on his chair, he looked at the file on the DEA administrator’s murder. A single .50 caliber Remington Magnum bullet had hit the man’s head, killing him instantly. Judging by the angle at which the slug had entered the skull, it must have come from a height of thirty to fifty floors up. The closest building of that height was at a distance of about fifteen hundred feet from the murdered man. Miller knew the sniper was a darn good one. The question that remained was whether the killer was as good at covering his tracks. But he was sure in his mind that the killer’s days of freedom were numbered. The FBI profiler and the behavioral specialist would arrive at the scene tomorrow.
Miller looked outside but could only see a tall glass building, belonging to a bank, blocking his view. As he gazed at the glass walls, he could see his boss, O’Brien, approaching. O’Brien reported directly to the FBI director.
O’Brien stopped in front of Miller’s cubicle.
Miller turned his black revolving chair to face his boss. “So far, we don’t have a solid lead.”
“We are becoming the butt of a joke,” O’Brien said, not even trying to hide his frustration. “The Internet is abuzz with messages like ‘cops do more when a homeless guy dies in another city.’”
“We’re doing everything we can. So far, we’ve gathered only minor details. No suspect yet.”
O’Brien took a step forward and looked straight into Miller’s eyes. “Let me hear the minor details.”
“We interviewed some people – shopkeepers, guards in the nearby residential buildings. One man reported he saw a tall man rush out of the building immediately after the shooting. He carried a large carry-on suitcase. A guard in another building said he saw two men enter the building. One carried a duffel bag. The guard never saw the two men leave. He didn’t get a good look at them either.”
O’Brien shook his head and tapped his knuckles on the table; light reflected off his shiny bald head. “We gotta do something. The press is baying for blood. They’re saying terrorists are here, killing anyone they want.”
“Terrorist or not,” Miller said, “the shooter was a darn good one. He put a bullet right in the middle of the DEA administrator’s head and didn’t need to take a second shot. He must have had real good training – Marines, Navy or Army. I don’t think this is a terrorist job.”
IT WAS OCTOBER, and the colors of fall were arriving in Virginia. Doerr drove his rented crimson-color Chevy Impala on Route 270 toward Langley, and the traffic was getting thicker. The memory of the mammoth white CIA buildings was fresh in his mind. After he had been rebuffed by the office at Thirty-Third Street, he was desperate to talk to someone he knew.
He had phoned Lazarus, who had been his boss when he had quit the agency three years ago. The call had gone to voicemail, and he left three messages, but there was no callback. Doerr was headed for the CIA Headquarters, not to see Lazarus, but his old buddy Andrew, who worked in the Science and Technology division. Andrew had held a desk job at Langley for almost fifteen years, and Doerr knew his area of expertise was cell phones and other wireless devices.
When Doerr reached the parking lot, it was already ten a.m. He hurried through the lot to the concrete walkway. An elderly man held the glass door open for him. Thanking him, Doerr went straight to the reception desk.
“I’m Dawn,” the receptionist greeted him. “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to meet Andrew,” Doerr said. “Andrew Johnson.”
The heavyset lady looked at him over her rimless glasses and asked, “Your name?”
“Max Doerr.”
“ID, please.”
Doerr opened his wallet and handed over his New York driver’s license. He watched the lady put the license inside a slot, and the black machine made a cracking noise. After a few more seconds, the license came out. The lady gave him a visitor tag, and Doerr affixed it to his shirt.
The receptionist pointed to the waiting area in the corner and lifted the black handset of the phone, indicating he should go and wait while she called Andrew. Doerr proceeded to the designated area, which was empty but for a black leather cushiony sofa.
Not much has changed here in three years, he thought.
Doerr decided not to sit; he stood in the middle of the room and waited.
Five minutes later, Andrew was standing in front of him. “It’s been a long time,” he said, grinning. “How you doing, buddy?”
“Great.” Doerr took a step closer to Andrew and said, “How is it going?”
“Good. Now come on,” Andrew said and then walked to the elevator, scanned his ID card and pressed the elevator button. Doerr followed him.
Once they were inside the elevator, Doerr asked, “What kind of work are you doing these days?”
“We’re working on some pretty interesting stuff in the mobile area. Now we can pinpoint a cellphone’s location within two seconds.” Andrew obviously took a lot of pride in what he did. “The goal is to be able to tell where someone is – in real time – as the person walks through…let’s say a mall or a large office, like this one, from where a communication signal isn’t all that great.”
Doerr was thinking through his next plan of action. He desperately wanted to talk to Lazarus. But he was sure if he told that to Andrew, he would not agree and might even escort him out.
Doerr followed Andrew to his cubicle. The table was strewn with at least fifty mobile phones. Old Nokia phones, Samsungs, an iPhone – all kinds of phones. Andrew showed him a printout of the white paper he had written.
“It will be published in Discover magazine next month,” Andrew said proudly.
“I thought all the work you guys do is confidential.”
“It is. But sometimes we collaborate with outsiders, such as researchers in universities, who are desperate to publish their work. So we allow them to publish, but they have to withhold any stuff that directly concerns us.” Andrew held up the printout. “This will be published under the name of Professor McClusky of Yale. He does a lot of work for us. I never get any recognition for the work I do,” Andrew sighed, “at least not outside the agency.”
“We never get any outside recognition for anything,” Doerr said.
They carried on their conversation a while longer. “Let’s go for lunch,” Andrew said. “It’s 12:30.”
They headed for the cafeteria. Doerr picked up a grilled chicken salad and a bottle of Diet Snapple. He finished his lunch quickly while Andrew munched his sandwich.
Doerr suddenly stood up. “All right. It was so nice to see you. I must be going.”
Doerr pushed his chair back, took one last look at Andrew’s bewildered face, and without giving him a chance to reply, he walked away briskly. He felt bad using Andrew to gain entry into the CIA office. But he had to do it, and Andrew wouldn’t be in any sort of trouble for letting him in.
Doerr walked through the wide door out of the cafeteria and into the marbled walkway that connected to the main building. He took the next turn and then another, so Andrew wouldn’t be able to see him, if he was following.
He walked to the area where Lazarus’s office was located. On the way, he watched the antennas outside that were capturing signals from satellites orbiting two hundred miles above.
Doerr took the elevator to the third floor and then walked straight to Lazarus’s office.
The door was wide open. Two monitors lay on the glass-covered table, and Lazarus was talking on the phone, holding a pen in his right hand. His face was pointed away from the door, so he didn’t see Doerr at first. There was a book rack in the room, holding at least a hundred books and some thick folders. Doerr knew some of those folders held secret information about the world’s most notorious men. On top of the rack were four world map globes. On the other side there were six big clocks hanging on the wall that indicated local times in different parts of the world.
“How are you?” Lazarus gree
ted Doerr. A thin, cautious smile showed on his face. “I will have to call you back,” he said into the phone and hung up.
“I’m good.” Doerr took two steps inside and said, “How are you?”
“Good. What brings you here?”
“Listen, Lazarus, I’m in trouble,” Doerr got to the point quickly. He rested his hands on top of the high wood chair.
“Oh yeah, I got your voicemails.” Lazarus looked at him, and then his eyes veered away. “But I’ve been busy. I was about to call you.”
Doerr knew his old boss was lying, but he played along. “It’s okay.”
“The thing is, Max, Samuel doesn’t work for us anymore. He left us a year back, I think,” Lazarus said. “I don’t know why he left, though. So whatever you did for him must be for the new organization where he works.” The smile returned to Lazarus’s face.
Doerr was now sure Samuel didn’t really work for the CIA. But then who did he work for?
When Doerr had left voicemail for Lazarus, he had told him only that he did some operations in Bangkok and London for Samuel. He hadn’t mentioned about the DEA administrator; he couldn’t. “I’m worried, Lazarus. What I did for him in London and Bangkok was illegal if he wasn’t authorized by the CIA.”
Lazarus sat up straight. His large belly touched the table. “Where exactly did you work for him?” he asked with a gloomy face.
“One was in London, and one in Bangkok,” Doerr said.
“I know that. Where exactly in Bangkok and London?”
“In Bangkok, it was in Sukumvit area. In London, it was in Maida Vale,” Doerr said and realized that when he worked for Samuel, he had always worked through Samuel and never really worked directly with anyone else at the CIA. When he needed the CIA techies to do something for him, he had passed the request through Samuel and got the result through Samuel as well. The report on what happened to the Jordanian terrorist came through Samuel’s mouth only.
“I can’t really help you on this, Max. Maybe you should contact the police.”