Agent Out

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Agent Out Page 8

by Francine Pascal


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  GAIA13: Hello? Will?

  WILL22: Gaia? Is that you?

  GAIA13: Will!!! It worked. Thank God.

  WILL22: Gaia, I can’t believe it’s really you.

  GAIA13: That goes both ways.

  WILL22: Are you all right? Are you okay?

  GAIA13: I’m fine. Just a couple of bruises.

  WILL22: You’re sure?

  GAI A13: yes

  WILL22: Good … Then where the HELL are you? Why did you run out of the restaurant?

  GAIA13: I’m so sorry about that.

  WILL22: Get your ass BACK here.

  GAIA13: PLEASE don’t start now, Will. I apologize from the bottom of my heart. It’s a long story that keeps getting longer. I think I’ve picked up Catherine’s trail.

  WILL22: How? Where? What do you know?

  GAIA13: Not enough. I need a favor.

  WILL22: What kind … ?

  GAIA13: I need you to go into the crime database and find some stuff out for me.

  WILL22: What kind of stuff?

  GAIA13: Anything you can about a man named James Rossiter. Address is 1309 Cherry Lane, Baltimore, MD. Caucasian American male, 6’ 1″, black hair, brown eyes. That’s all I’ve got. I need ANYTHING else you can find.

  WILL22: Wait …

  GAIA13: Then personnel files: I need you to find out if there was ever a bureau special agent named Winston Marsh. In his fifties now, allegedly retired a few years ago.

  WILL22: Can’t you explain what this is about?

  GAIA13: Not now. Just do it, Will. I don’t have time to explain or argue. I need to stay on this trail.

  WILL22: I repeat if you’ve found a trail, then COME BACK TO QUANTICO and GET HELP. If you’re not safe, then GET BACK HERE!!

  GAIA13: Damn it, Will, don’t be like this! I don’t have time to explain—I told you.

  WILL22: Not good enough. If you were me, you’d say the same thing. I’m not going to get into trouble just because you say so!

  GAIA13: You’re not going to get into trouble!! You can get the stuff from your dorm computer by logging onto the Quantico local network files. I’ll wait.

  WILL22: *sigh* OK, Gaia. Stand by … I’ll get back to you in like two minutes.

  GAIA13: Thanks, Will XOXOXOX

  Why am I doing this? Will asked himself as he leaned forward at his desk and logged onto the FBI’s Trainee Information Network. I don’t want to be doing this.

  It had taken less than ten minutes for Will’s utter joy at hearing from Gaia to change into familiar, maddening frustration. She needed him to do something, and he was doing it. He could object or refuse, but they both knew he was going to do what she’d asked and it was as simple as that.

  Will resented being so predictable.

  Where is she? Why didn’t she say where she was?

  Because she didn’t really trust Catherine’s “Hacker City”?

  Or because she doesn’t really trust me?

  Even if Will decided to run to Malloy’s office right this moment and say he’d text-chatted with Gaia, he couldn’t give away where she was since she had been careful not to tell him.

  On the screen he could see the familiar interface used for pulling data from the FBI criminology database. It was common practice for trainees to use the extensive FBI crime files in their schoolwork—Will thought of it as one of the fringe benefits of life at Quantico. If you were interested in criminology and crime fighting—if you were an FBI trainee, in other words—it made for endlessly fascinating reading.

  First, the easy part—Will did a quick FBI personnel search, looking for Winston Marsh. The results came back almost immediately.

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION PERSONNEL FILES WINSTON ELIAS MARSH

  ID #45199-ED0-5

  AGENT IN GOOD STANDING 1979-2002

  CONGRESSIONAL MEDAL OF VALOR 04.13.81

  SECURITY OPERATIONS, BOSTON OFFICE, 1985-1993

  DISTINGUISHED ORDER OF SERVICE, 08.12.93

  COUNTERTERRORISM TASK FORCE, 1994-2001

  Impressive record, Will had to admit. It was the kind of record Will would have been proud of if it had been his. There was a black-and-white digital photograph showing a fairly handsome, clean-shaven man with wide, high cheekbones, a pleasantly lined face, blue eyes, and close-cropped, graying hair. Reading from the text on the screen, Will began taking notes on a legal pad. Paging through year after year of arrests, task forces, and assistance programs, Will saw a respectable, above-average career history. The system had no information about Marsh’s retirement or his current whereabouts or activities—but, Will supposed, that wasn’t uncommon. A lifetime of secrecy was a hard habit to break.

  Copying down the details, Will went into the general crime database—the system that had all the FBI’s criminology records, indexed and cross-referenced—and typed the name James Rossiter and the Baltimore address Gaia had given him.

  This time there was a delay. Will tapped his fingers on the desk, watching the progress bar that indicated that the data were being retrieved. After a moment the screen gave him an unexpected message:

  The requested data is NOT AVAILABLE at this station. All terrorism and counterterrorism inquiries relating to keyword SOCORRO are restricted from access through this station. To retrieve the requested search data [ROSSITER, JAMES], you must access the central FBI database at records bldg. Clearance level 4 required.

  —Thank You—

  Quantico Library Secure Criminology and Investigative Records System Administration

  Will frowned. He had seen this happen before—certain FBI information wasn’t available to trainees, who didn’t have the security clearance that would allow them access to sensitive, terror-related data. But it wasn’t what he’d expected.

  Counterterrorism?

  Gaia was “on Catherine’s trail”—and she had somehow run across a man the FBI computer wouldn’t tell him about because he was so dangerous.

  Socorro? What does that mean?

  Will was wishing he’d asked Gaia more questions when he’d had the chance. Not that Gaia seemed likely to provide any meaningful answers—but he didn’t know anything about where she was and what she was doing. Not to mention how she’d ended up crossing paths with suspects on the FBI’s terror-watch lists.

  She might not know he’s a terrorist, Will realized unpleasantly. She might not know anything about him at all except his name.

  Will’s eyes were caught by the word Socorro on the screen. His fingers quickly tapping the keys, he performed a network-wide search.

  FBI Database Retrieval System—321 Users Currently Logged On

  SEARCH QUERY RESULTS

  Search term: SOCORRO

  Results: 8 unclassified, 543,432,001 classified

  MOST REQUESTED ITEM: ATTF-20439 08.22.05 click to read

  Haifa billion classified documents—and eight they’ll let me see. Will wasn’t sure if the “most requested item” was anything relevant (or even if it was unclassified), but he clicked the link anyway.

  He was in luck. Apparently the system was willing to let him see this famous “most requested item”—a document created today, he noticed.

  A moment later, as the familiar FBI seal filled the top of the screen, he realized he was looking at a standard “briefing letter”—the kind of low-security document that got routinely distributed through the bureau.

  Leaning forward, Will read on.

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION ALERT STATUS—FOR IMMEDIATE GLOBAL RELEASE—ALERT STATUS

  This FBI memorandum is hereby marked for mandatory distribution to all field offices and law enforcement communications networks throughout the continental United States and liaisons to CD-040 (“friendly power”) international law enforcement agencies in accordance with the International Terrorism Act of 2001.

  MISUSE OR UNAUTHORIZED DISTRIBUTION OF THIS MEMORANDUM IS A FEDERAL CRIME, PUNISHABLE BY UP TO FIVE YEARS IMPRISONMENT IN A STATE PENITEN
TIARY OR A FINE OF UP TO U.S. $5000 OR BOTH.

  ALL-POINTS BULLETIN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN ALL-POINTS BULLETIN

  [Washington, D.C., ATTF-20439]

  The Federal Bureau of Investigation has learned that the international terrorist organization code-named “SOCORRO” has completed preparations for a MAJOR TERRORIST ACTION.

  The details of the present SOCORRO operation are unknown. It may be assumed that SOCORRO’S plans are part of their larger political agenda, but this agenda is difficult to interpret and understand, and for this reason, the tactics and goals of SOCORRO’S plans remain a mystery.

  THE BUREAU HAS LEARNED THAT SOCORRO IS PLANNING TO RECRUIT AN FBI AGENT AND “BRAINWASH” OR “REPROGRAM” THIS AGENT TO ASSIST IN THE EXECUTION OF THIS TERRORIST ACTION.

  IMPORTANT: Reliable corroborating intelligence (available only to FBI personnel with A-21 security clearance and above) has shown that SOCORRO’S terrorist action is timed to occur on a single day, code-named “EL DIA”—08.24.05—and will definitely involve the aforementioned “reprogrammed” FBI agent.

  URGENT: AS OF 08.24 THE BUREAU HAS LEARNED THAT SOCORRO HAS ALREADY MADE CONTACT WITH THE FBI AGENT WHOM THEY INTEND TO “BRAINWASH” OR “REPROGRAM.” For this reason, all stations are advised to observe all FBI personnel having SOCORRO ties and to employ the highest-possible scrutiny in doing so.

  SOCORRO (originating in Latin America) is considered among the most dangerous organizations of its kind in the world, with an established track record of successfully recruiting and “turning” law enforcement officials as well as civilians to their cause or forcing them to act in SOCORRO’S interests. SOCORRO has been responsible for many crimes to date, resulting in civilian deaths and the disruption of all free societies and their way of life. SOCORRO has demonstrated a clear disregard for civilian life and for this reason must be investigated and pursued with extreme care.

  Given the extremely short notice of this worldwide terror alert, law enforcement personnel are urged to regard ANY AND ALL potential terrorist activity in their jurisdictions as URGENT AND IMPORTANT. All suspected links or information concerning SOCORRO or its satellites or cells should be reported to the bureau with all possible speed.

  END OF BULLETIN—[Washington, D.C., 08.21.05]

  ALERT STATUS—FOR IMMEDIATE GLOBAL RELEASE—ALERT STATUS

  Will felt a cold wave passing over him, as if the temperature in the dorms had dropped a few degrees while he read the memo.

  Terrorism, he thought bleakly as he got ready to re-enter the “Hacker City” chat room. Gaia, I hope you know what you’re getting into here. I really hope you do.

  On the screen Will had navigated back to the plain, textbased interface for “Hacker City.” Gaia? he typed. Hello?

  Even with the entry-level antiterrorism training Will had received, he knew enough to be scared. “Terrorist actions” were notoriously difficult to prepare for. In the movies terrorists made speeches, grandstanding on television and advertising their cause. In the movies terrorists did things like take over stadiums and office buildings, demanding money or political asylum and making clear what they wanted and what their deadlines and timetables were. Then it was up to some steel-jawed hero to come in and save the day.

  But real-life terrorists were a very different story. In real life you never saw them coming. Until it was too late. They blew things up, shot people, crashed planes, all without warning or logic, and then they let the world do the hard work of figuring out what they wanted and why they’d done it. Bruce Willis couldn’t save you from real terrorists. They lingered at the outer edges of society, drawing absolutely no attention to themselves until it was time for them to strike.

  Gaia, he thought helplessly, you’re in over your head. You can’t do this by yourself.

  You have to come home. Come back here and get help.

  On the screen the cursor blinked on and off serenely, as if it had all the time in the world. Will had typed Gaia’s name four more times, he saw—but he hadn’t gotten any response at all.

  Gaia? Are you there?

  ambushed

  RAISED LIKE BLADES

  Someone was watching her.

  Gaia wasn’t sure how she knew, but in moments like this—when she was suddenly, overwhelmingly convinced that she wasn’t alone—she tended to trust her instincts.

  She was standing on a threadbare brown carpet in front of a motel ice machine. Her right hand was wrapped around a plastic scoop, shoveling miniature ice cubes into a blue plastic bucket. To the right of the ice machine was a big plate glass window that revealed a nearly deserted parking lot beneath a fading afternoon sky and an enormous, revolving neon sign whose letters spelled out CLAVARAK MOTEL and, below that, CABLE, TV, POOL, AIR-CONDITIONING, and VACANCY. The sign had not yet been turned on. Along the edge of parking lot Gaia could see the brown doors of the motel’s rooms, including her own closed door and the door to Marsh’s room right next to it. The Altima was parked in front of the rooms, its chrome gleaming in the sun.

  She and Marsh had driven quite a ways after leaving the park where they’d had their conversation. Marsh kept pointing Gaia in different directions, ordering her to reverse herself, making sudden lane changes and U-turns as she drove. He seemed determined to evade any conceivable pursuit. Gaia had to admit that his technique—his “tradecraft”—was excellent, right out of the Quantico training manuals.

  Marsh had already checked in here when he’d arrived in Baltimore—his gray Audi sedan was parked in the shade to one side. Marsh had gone into his room to check his phone messages while Gaia checked into the motel, moved her suitcase into her room, set up her laptop, and contacted Will. He had promised to get back to her in a few minutes with the information she’d requested—just enough time for her to come out here and get some ice.

  And get ambushed.

  Gaia had no idea who was behind her—tall, short, male, female—but she could feel a presence. Moving suddenly, she dropped the ice bucket and slid toward the floor, pivoting out of the way of any possible blow as she rolled into a reversed fighting stance, crouched in place with her hands raised like blades.

  “Don’t try it,” said the tall, blond man standing there. His large, dark sunglasses reflected Gaia’s own face back at her. “Best advice you’ll get all day.”

  It was the man from the park—the man who had been watching them earlier. He was reasonably young—in his thirties—and was dressed in a conservative dark blue suit and a gray tie. Up close, he looked healthy and well built.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Gaia told him.

  “I know; you’ve got unusually good fighting skills for a trainee,” the man told her. His voice was quiet and ice-cold. “But I’m a ten-year field-combat veteran. Thom Kinney, FBI, Baltimore branch. You think you can take me”—Kinney’s shoulders moved as he balanced himself—“you go ahead and try.”

  “What do you want?” Gaia asked. She was coming out of the crouch, slowly rising to her full height, never taking her eyes off Kinney’s. “Why are you following me?”

  “Everyone’s following you,” Kinney said, taking a step closer. “The whole bureau’s running in circles obeying a directive to locate you and bring you back to Virginia. Me, I’m the lucky one—I happened to pick up your trail first. I’m surprised you’re not surrounded by agents. You didn’t ditch your car—you didn’t even change your plates. It’s like you want to get caught.”

  “You’ve found me,” Gaia corrected. “It doesn’t mean you’ve caught me.”

  “Moore, if you don’t let me or another agent ‘catch’ you, you’re going to be risking a lot more than a reprimand or a court marshal.” Kinney seemed very angry beneath his cold demeanor. “We know what you’re up to you—you traitor.”

  What?

  Gaia was so surprised, she was momentarily speechless.

  “I’m not a traitor,” she finally blurted. This was ridiculous—she was standing in the vestibule of a cheap Baltimore hotel arguing with a man who w
asn’t giving her the slightest explanation of what he wanted—or what he thought she had done. “I broke some bureau rules, admittedly. I understand how seriously—”

  “Don’t talk to me about rules. I read the memo,” Kinney said intently. “I know exactly what you’re up to. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You took an oath—an oath to uphold and defend the American Constitution.”

  “The Constitution?” Gaia was as puzzled as she was angry. “What memo? What are you talking about? Look, I don’t want to have an ethical debate with—”

  Gaia and the man both flinched at a sudden, loud crashing noise. Winston Marsh was right outside the aluminum-framed door, pushing it open.

  “Hi,” Marsh said brightly, looking at Kinney. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sir, I’m a federal agent,” Kinney said, taking a menacing step toward Marsh. “I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and walk right out of here.”

  “Federal agent, huh?” Marsh was nodding. “Can I see your credentials?”

  “Sir—”

  “If a citizen asks to see your credentials,” Marsh went on calmly, “you’re supposed to comply. You actually have no choice but to comply.” He was holding out his hand.

  “Sir, please,” Kinney went on. Gaia saw that his hand was moving, inching slowly toward his lapel. “This is government business—I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

  Drawing his gun, Gaia thought. Getting ready.

  “Unless you’re making an arrest,” Marsh went on. “Are you making an arrest?”

  “Sir,” Kinney said loudly. He had turned completely away from Gaia and was clearly drawing his gun. “I won’t tell you again. Please turn right around and walk out that door, or I’ll have no choice but to—”

  Gaia shifted her weight, stepped forward, and in one clean move brought the rigid inside edge of her right hand down on Agent Kinney’s neck.

  Kinney’s eyes rolled back in his head. His body tensed, flailed, and then fell like a dropped mail sack. Before he hit the ground, Marsh moved to catch the unconscious man by his armpits, pulling him toward the wall beside the ice machine. Incredibly, nobody was around. The wide concrete motel parking lot and the surrounding landscape—a two-lane blacktop, a 7-Eleven, and a gas station—were completely empty of passersby.

 

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