The Canton Connection

by Fritz Galt

  “Listen, I’m just trying to keep an eye on Stacy Stefansson.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Let’s talk about Stacy. Is this just a personal thing, or were you assigned to protect her under the Witness Protection Program?”

  “I don’t know her full story. My assignment is just to watch her. Make sure she doesn’t skip the country or get kidnapped or something like that.”

  “Did you kill anybody because of her?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  How could a deputy marshal be so ignorant of his role? “Who gave you this assignment?” Jake asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “His name is Oscar Walsh.”

  Jake had heard of Walsh, but only through the grapevine. Walsh was a fixture at the U.S. Marshals’ Witness Protection Program.

  “What did Stacy do that needs witness protection?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How couldn’t you know?”

  “That’s how it works,” Wu said. “The deputy assigned isn’t supposed to know.”

  Workers were beginning to edge the cargo containers toward the plane. UPS had to keep on schedule. Jake thought about putting the gun away, but wasn’t so sure of Wu’s story.

  As if to answer his dilemma, his cell phone rang. He switched the gun to his other hand to answer the phone. “Yeah?”

  “This is Bob. I got the fingerprints you sent from Stacy’s car.”

  “And?”

  “It’s not Simon Wu.”

  Jake stared at the man he was holding at gunpoint.

  “What do you mean it’s not him?”

  Bob tried again. “The fingerprints on Stacy’s car are hers and someone else’s, not Simon Wu’s.”

  Jake was confused. He had seen Wu hovering around Stacy’s car in her driveway and Wu had driven with her to Charlottesville.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “If they aren’t Wu’s prints, whose are they?”

  “Another member of the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  Suddenly Jake’s blood froze. Was Simon telling the truth?

  “Whose prints are they?” he said under his breath.

  “They match the prints of Oscar Walsh, the Associate Director of Operations for WITSEC.”

  Jake lowered the pistol. It no longer pointed at the man across the shipping floor from him.

  He put the phone away and spoke to the man he had been chasing. “What is your name?”

  “I’m Wu. Simon Wu.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Jake said. The man claimed to be someone whose identity didn’t match up with the Justice Department’s fingerprints. But he looked much more like a Simon Wu than an Oscar Walsh. “I’ll need to take your prints and match them up with the lab.”

  “Fine,” Wu said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  This was very strange, more bizarre than embarrassing. And frightening, too.

  Jake had almost shot a fellow law enforcement officer.

  Chapter 26

  An hour later, Jake sat waiting in the UPS office with Wu. He had faxed a blowup of Wu’s two thumbprints to the Hoover Building for analysis. However, since he had been banished from the ranks of special agents, he’d sent the prints under Bob Snow’s name.

  Jake sipped his third cup of coffee.

  Wu sat across from him trying to rub off the ink from the inkpad they had just used.

  The phone rang and Jake picked it up.

  It was the lab. “Bob Snow there?” a man asked.

  “Yeah,” Jake lied. “What did you learn?”

  “Well, you just sent us the thumbprints of Oscar Walsh.”

  It took Jake a moment to digest the information. How could the thumbprints he had just sent into the lab directly off of Simon Wu’s hands belong to Wu’s boss, Oscar Walsh? It was just like the prints he had taken off of Stacy’s car turned up as those of Oscar Walsh.

  “Are you sure you didn’t mix up the prints?” Jake asked.

  “Not unless Oscar Walsh’s prints are filed under Simon Wu or vice versa.”

  The thought had been dawning on Jake slowly. Someone may have switched the two marshals’ prints on file.

  “I want you to check the metadata on those two prints you have on file,” Jake said. “Look at Oscar Walsh’s non-searchable metadata and compare it with Simon Wu’s.”

  “It’ll take a second.”

  “I have the time.”

  Wu leaned forward and whispered. “What did the lab say?”

  “They say we sent in your boss’s prints.”

  “That’s strange.”

  Wu didn’t seem to have figured it out yet.

  A minute later, the lab came back on the phone. “You were right. I just checked the thumbprints. Someone switched the prints, but wasn’t able to hack into the metadata on the files. I’m going to have to report this.”

  Jake disconnected and stared at Wu. “It looks like your boss is trying to frame you.”

  “For murder?”

  Jake nodded.

  “And who committed the mur…”

  Jake continued nodding.

  “Walsh?”

  “Yeah,” Jake said. “And I’m the fool who fell for it and tried to turn you in.”

  He swished the coffee residue around the bottom of his cup and took a final, head-clearing swig.

  Hoffkeit had called Jake off the case. Why? Because he realized that Jake had been given the runaround? Or because Jake was getting too close, and Hoffkeit was in on the secret with Oscar Walsh?

  Either way, Jake could no longer turn to Hoffkeit to remedy the situation.

  Wu sat with his head in his hands.

  Jake was curious about how Wu had ended up in both Charlottesville and Louisville at the same time that the murders took place.

  “Who sent you to Charlottesville?” Jake asked.

  “Oscar Walsh.”

  “Louisville?”

  Wu groaned. “Oscar Walsh.”

  That explained Wu’s movements around the country, and Walsh’s involvement.

  Jake thought back to the few fleeting memories he had of Oscar Walsh. A former football star for Wake Forest, he had an aggressive personality and tended to hammer people until they submitted rather than won them over with the force of his intellect. Yet Walsh was incredibly successful running the Witness Protection Program, not having lost a witness in over a decade.

  If he was running a racket, he must have been highly successful at that, too, because nobody had been onto him. Until now.

  Jake crumpled up his paper cup and tossed it into the trash.

  Who knew how many resources Walsh had at his disposal as Associate Director of Operations for the Federal Witness Protection Program? Walsh had former mob figures, sex offenders, white-collar criminals, and all manner of felons stashed all over the country under assumed identities. Presumably, he could activate any one at will.

  Now Walsh was dabbling in murder. Was he acting for the good of national security? Or was Walsh as duplicitous as the evidence seemed to suggest?

  Jake stared at the shaken man seated in front of him. What was important enough to ruin a deputy marshal’s life?

  Oddly, Walsh’s methods seemed needlessly risky. Clever at substituting his own fingerprints for those of an innocent man, it wouldn’t take long for someone like Jake to figure out what had happened. Doing so seemed like an act of desperation. Maybe it was a last act before Walsh made his final move. Maybe he wanted people to trace the crimes back to him, like a deliberate clue to reveal his genius for murder.

  Once discovered, where could Walsh go? Such a well-known Washington figure couldn’t easily disappear, even into his own Witness Protection Program.

  Jake’s thoughts mingled with the sound of a jet taking off on a nearby runway.

  Walsh could only go…

  “Did you say that Walsh wanted you to make sure Stacy Stefansson didn’t slip out of the country?”

  Wu nodded.

  Jake could picture where Stacy was now. Either walki
ng around unguarded in Bluefield or passing with Walsh through security on an international flight.

  “I’m afraid our bird has just flown the coop.”

  Jake and Wu were in an awkward position. After Jake had chased Wu down and nearly killed him, they both found themselves the scapegoats in what looked like a corrupt scheme by the head of the Witness Protection Program.

  It was time to find out what Wu knew about Chu and Stacy.

  “How much do you know about Stacy’s job?”

  “Close to nothing,” Wu admitted. “I was not supposed to know.”

  “Well, now I’m telling you. She works at Verisign and is responsible for maintaining the key computers that hold all the web and email addresses for .com companies.”

  He checked if Wu was following him.

  “I know a lot about computers,” Wu said. “I earned a computer engineering degree from Berkeley before I…”

  “Before you what? Got your Green Card?” Jake said, only half joking.

  “Before I made the U.S. Marshals Service.”

  The fact that Wu’s employer had turned against him was a bitter pill to swallow.

  “Good,” Jake tried to cheer him up. “Then you’ll appreciate the fact that the company run by Han Chu, the first murdered man, created the encryption software that allows Stacy to do her job. In the past two days, two of the key programmers who worked for Chu have been murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “Frankly, I don’t know, and I want to find out. Maybe the programmers knew too much about the firm’s real intent or they were trying to stop something.”

  “So, Walsh rubbed the programmers out,” Wu said. “Was this all his idea?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is Stacy the next to get murdered?” Wu asked.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She alone knows the password to the server.”

  “Oh.”

  “She holds the key to whoever wants to exploit or destroy the address system on the internet.”

  Wu shook his head with dismay. “I could see lots of people wanting to get to her. It seems a logical thing for Oscar Walsh to send me in to protect her.”

  “But you and I are no longer with her. And there’s another possible thing to consider.”

  Was Wu ready for this? Was Jake?

  Jake posed it anyway. “Stacy, herself, might be behind this. She is a flight risk. And she has her passport with her.”

  Wu stood up. “We need someone on her right now. I’ll call my office.”

  “Wait,” Jake said. “By now, the Department of Justice might have you on their Most Wanted list. I’ll set the wheels in motion to find her.”

  Jake picked up the phone and dialed Bob Snow.

  “Bob, it’s me.”

  “Jake, where the hell are you?”

  “I have Simon Wu with me. And get this. He’s not guilty of anything.”

  “Did you know that Epstein has a dragnet searching the countryside for Wu? You’ve got to hand him over.”

  “Not so fast. Someone switched his fingerprints in the DOJ database. Wu didn’t commit the murders.”

  “What were you doing in the DOJ database?” Bob’s voice rose in pitch. “You’ve been shit-canned.”

  “I know the FBI put me on administrative leave, but I’ve got one last favor to ask of you.”

  “Since when do I owe you a favor?”

  “I need you to find out where Stacy Stefansson is. I’m afraid she has fled the country.”

  “Jake, Jake. Can’t you see the obvious? You were put on administrative leave.”

  “Yeah, and why was that?” He fought to keep the anger out of his voice. “Was it because I got ahead of Michael Epstein’s slow-moving investigation? Was it because I was going around the Inspector General’s office to investigate another DOJ employee? Or was I stepping on someone else’s toes?”

  “I have no idea,” Bob said. “But I know when to follow orders. And this is the time to follow orders. Just drop it.”

  “Bob, this is the A root server we’re talking about. It’s too big for the DHS, the Pentagon, the NSA and the CIA to handle. You know this case is too important to drop.”

  “Look, Jake. Who’s worried about it anymore? Nobody at Quantum is clamoring for a full account. Han Chu has no family that’s going to the press in search of answers. And the top brass wants us to bury the investigation. I’d say this case is not ‘too important’ for anything.”

  Jake was running up against headquarters on very little evidence. “Bob, do this little thing for me. Track down Stacy. If she’s headed overseas, then we have a case on our hands, on security breach grounds alone. If she’s still with her folks in Bluefield, West Virginia, then I’ll put up and shut up. But we owe it to the country to at least check.”

  “Okay. I’m not going to instigate another FBI sweep, but I’ll check in with Epstein’s team and see what they know.”

  “Plant the idea to find Stacy.”

  “I’m sure they’re already on it,” Bob replied. “God, I hope she’s in Bluefield and that’s the end of it.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Jake hung up.

  “I predict we’ll hear back about Stacy within the hour.”

  It took fifteen minutes.

  “Okay, rookie,” Bob’s voice came over the phone. “Are you sitting down? Stacy Stefansson left Bluefield. She drove to Charleston. And she flew to Chicago.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “On a flight to Beijing.”

  Jake had half-expected the news. But he still wasn’t emotionally prepared for the idea of Stacy defecting. “Do you have the flight manifest?”

  “Right in front of me.”

  “Check if Oscar Walsh is on that flight.”

  While Bob checked, Jake whispered to Wu. “I was right. Stacy’s on a flight to Beijing.”

  A moment later, Bob came back. “No Oscar Walsh listed on the manifest.”

  Jake still couldn’t be sure if Walsh was traveling under an alias. After all, he was America’s master at switching identities.

  “There’s one more thing,” Bob said.

  What more could there possibly be?

  “There’s a warrant out for Wu’s arrest,” Bob said. “The U.S. Marshals have ordered his arrest, and Hoffkeit is preparing a case against him.”

  It was crazy. Hoffkeit had fallen for the switched fingerprints.

  “Jake, I’m strongly advising you to turn him in.” But there was no conviction in his voice.

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  Jake quietly hung up.

  Wu had a concerned look on his face. “What is it?”

  “They have a warrant out for your arrest.”

  “The Marshals Service and FBI think you’re the killer.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Not when you consider the evidence,” Jake said. “The FBI’s Criminal Division was doing a slow motion investigation, and what did they have to go on? Three murders, all with your fingerprints.”

  “Which aren’t my fingerprints,” Wu reminded him.

  “I know.”

  Wu’s eyes explored his. “And I suppose they think you’re harboring a suspect.”

  “I guess I am harboring you.”

  Jake sat down hard and stared at the young man who was now joined to him at the hip. “How do we get to China? They’ll have us on a No Fly List at all the international airports.”

  Another jet was gunning down the runway on its way out of town.

  Wu’s eyes met Jake’s. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “No way,” Jake said.

  Wu was already out the door. Floodlights bathed UPS Worldport in light. The cargo activity on the tarmac had reached a fever pitch.

  “I had a good look at the process,” Wu said. “I think I know how it works.”

  “Hell, the UPS tracking system will spit us out. Even if we get on a plane, we’
ll suffocate or freeze to death.”

  Wu faced him squarely. “How can you be a big FBI special agent and still be such a wuss?”

  “Hey, I’m just being practical.”

  “And dead wrong. That big system in there is not all that complicated.” Wu nodded toward the long, four-story building. “And I can get us on a plane.”

  “How about we force ourselves into a cockpit and highjack the plane?”

  Wu regarded him with disgust. “That’s a federal crime.”

  “Then what are you suggesting? Stow away in an airplane and find ourselves in Timbuktu?”

  Wu was already striding toward the distribution complex. “You’ve got to trust me.”

  Jake took a deep breath. He was reluctant to trust the guy. Even if he was a federal marshal.

  Wu flashed his badge at the security guard who stood between them and the tarmac. “Air Marshals,” he said.

  “You’ve got the wrong airport,” the guard said. “This is cargo only.” He pointed at another set of buildings. “That’s your passenger airport.”

  Jake stepped forward and pulled out his FBI badge.

  “What is this, a federal case?” the guard asked.

  Jake nodded grimly. “Yes. And we need complete access to the facility.”

  “You’ve got it,” the guard said, and allowed them onto the tarmac.

  Jake had no idea why he should trust Wu. What about the deputy marshal made him think he could navigate his way through the miles of conveyor belts and innumerable bins and end up on an airplane heading to China?

  An FBI special agent couldn’t figure it out that quickly, if at all. And certainly no deputy U.S. marshal could.

  Unless, of course, that deputy U.S. marshal was also a computer engineer.

  Chapter 27

  Jake looked out a large window at the sprawling UPS complex. Bright lights threw airplanes in stark relief. The terminals were connected to each other through a main building that contained miles of conveyor belts. Finding which conveyor connected to which flight would be impossible.

  “I’m not going to take another conveyor belt,” Jake said.

  Wu agreed. “Rather than slap a China sticker on our foreheads and have the electronic eyes shuttle us to the correct airplane, let’s just find out which airplane is leaving for China.”