by J. B. Turner
“I’ve already checked it. You’re on a kill list. Half the people on it are already dead!”
“I need to think about this. It might be a really clever way to remotely access my computer, have you thought of that? It could wipe out all my private correspondence.”
“Shit . . . I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Should I run it past the rest of the team, check the contents, and take it from there?”
Jessica dabbed her eyes as she pulled out the papers. “I don’t know what you should do. What I do know is that Jeff Patterson’s death is making news all over the world. Social media is going nuts. Some are saying he was no heroin user. And a lot of people are saying it looks suspicious.”
Crichton seemed in a daze as he scanned the note. He looked up. “Heroin addict, you say?”
“To be fair—not that I’m expert in that area—but from the pictures I’ve seen of him, he sure as hell didn’t look like a heroin addict. When we spoke, he was sharp, focused, and completely together, albeit obsessing about speaking to you.”
“What if his motives are nefarious, Jessica? Is he using this as a ruse to get to me?”
“I think you need to speak to the Feds at the very least. This is not good.”
“It might just be a coincidence. We need to be aware of that possibility.”
Jessica said, “I can’t understand this. It’s crazy.” She stared at the flash drive in Crichton’s hands. She looked across at the MacBook Pro on the writing desk. “Why don’t you just see what’s on it? I’ve already seen it. Where’s the harm in that?”
Crichton went quiet for a couple of minutes as he considered the best course of action. “Tell me, where did he say he got this information from?”
“Patterson? Said it was from an intelligence source.”
“What else?”
“Said it was classified or something.”
Crichton pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt a headache coming on.
“Brad, he came across as earnest, pretty straight down the line. Really wired, but something must’ve been deeply troubling him to want to speak to me and then you, then to also get his lawyer to send this beautifully concealed flash drive in case something happened to him.”
Crichton began to pace the room.
“Brad, I’ve got to be frank. This is pretty scary territory. I mean, this is out there, way out of left field.”
“You know what else is way out of left field?”
Jessica shrugged.
“The fact that an American military attaché here in Scotland wanted to see me. And all he wanted to talk about was Jeff Patterson and had he passed classified documents to me. I said he hadn’t.”
“Shit. This is bad.”
“Tell me about it.”
“So the conversation with the military attaché . . . That was all he said?”
“More or less. Probing.”
Jessica got up and started pacing the room. “You need to look and see for yourself what’s on the flash drive and then take it from there.”
Crichton said nothing.
Jessica reached out and held his hand. “I’m sorry if I haven’t handled this correctly.”
“What do I always say?” Crichton kissed her on the cheek.
Jessica shrugged.
“The first call should always be my chief of staff. You should have spoken to him, Jessica.”
“Don’t you trust me? Is that what this is?”
“It has nothing to do with trust. It has to do with judgment.”
“So you think my judgment is faulty.”
“You made the wrong call. It was impetuous. OK?”
Jessica extricated her hand from his grasp.
“Think about it. I’m chair of the intelligence committee. We were warned by computer experts that we should not put any USB drives or devices into our laptops unless they come from verified sources. You were told that too, weren’t you?”
Jessica nodded.
“It’s easy to hack, seemingly. Besides, I’ve only been in this role for a matter of weeks. Classified information should stay classified. I can’t just pick up anything on the say-so of some goddamn blogger.”
“I think he was telling the truth.”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t. But I need to think of the legal consequences before I proceed. It’s almost certainly encrypted anyway.”
“I’ve checked it. I saw it with my own eyes. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Jessica, if this information is, as Patterson indicated, classified, do I really want to access that without first getting legal advice? It means it must have been stolen from the US government. I need to know where that leaves me.”
Jessica nodded. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
Crichton pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number for the intelligence committee’s legal counsel in DC.
“What are you doing?”
“I think it’s time to get a second opinion.”
Twenty-Nine
It was dark when Nathan Stone finally pulled up outside the cottage. Inside, he locked the door, shut the blinds, and drew the curtains. Then he showered and took some fresh clothes hanging in the wardrobe and put them on.
He fixed himself an omelet and toast and washed it down with a cold Coke from the refrigerator.
He switched on the TV and channel-surfed until he came to a BBC documentary about the Rolling Stones. He felt himself getting aroused as he watched the Altamont footage from 1969 when some Hells Angels killed a black guy in the huge crowd. The music blared as chaos ensued. Stone watched, transfixed. Thrilled. The Angels glared at the hippies, occasionally meting out pool-cue justice. Blood spilled. Scuffles. Then more beatings.
The hippies were tripping. And the Angels were going mental. And all the time the Stones played, or tried to play. Jagger pleaded for calm as the Angels mocked him from the side of the stage.
The atmosphere was poisonous.
Stone loved the band. He had been too young to see them in their prime. And he had been too poor to see them while growing up. But he loved their music. They sounded American, despite being English.
The snarling, bluesy sound, underpinned by seductive rock riffs and tight, incessant drumming, seemed to strike a chord with him.
Stone stared at the screen as Altamont became a battleground, unlike Woodstock on the East Coast. The whole vibe had been poisoned. He loved it. Wished he’d been there.
When the documentary finished, he switched off the TV. He got up and made himself a black coffee. He switched on the radio. Classical piano music played low.
His cell phone rang.
“Nathan, good day today?” his handler said in a world-weary tone.
“Hanging out in a fucking bird hide and hanging about some goddamn airport is not my idea of fun, let me tell you.”
“You getting cabin fever?”
“I want to get it on.”
“All in good time, Nathan. We’re moving closer to resolution.”
“So the target is now accompanied by a lady friend. How does she fit into my plans?”
“That’s why I called. You’ll like this.”
“What?”
“Turn on Channel 928 on your TV.”
Stone wondered what his handler was talking about. “Huh?”
“Just turn on your TV.”
Stone got up, headed through to the living room, and turned to the channel as instructed. And there it was. High-definition footage of the senator and his aide going at it. The footage was extremely precise. Stone stared at the flushed face of the libertarian politician and his mistress.
“Working hard for all Americans, right, Nathan?”
“He’s working hard all right. How long now?”
“We’re nearly good to go.”
“But when?”
His handler sighed. “Take a good look at the senator.”
Stone stared at the red-faced politician.
“You
’re going to be the one who wipes that smile off his fucking face. Do you hear me?”
Stone’s mind flashed back to his father’s eyes, leering at a young woman on a New York street. He’d never felt so crazy. It was as though his head was going to burst. “But when?”
“It’s all in hand. And then you can deal with both of them.”
The line went dead.
Thirty
It was early evening, and Jessica Friel was sitting up in bed while Crichton got changed after his shower. “Have you forgiven me yet?”
Crichton buttoned up his shirt and smiled. “What’s done is done. You were acting in good faith. That’s all I need to know. But in the future, just gimme a call.”
Jessica was glad her boss-lover wasn’t mad at her anymore. “Where are you going at this time of night?”
“Dinner at eight thirty, then drinks with some British diplomat. Sir Henry something or other.”
“Am I invited?”
“Not this time. We’ve got you security clearance to be on-site. But not inside the conference itself.”
“So what am I supposed to do? I’m hungry too.”
“Room service.”
Jessica puffed out her cheeks with a huff as Crichton put on a jacket, combed his hair, and tightened the knot in his tie. “Can I stay here tonight?”
“No. If my wife called, we’d be in deep shit, trust me.”
Jessica folded her arms. “Fine.”
“Listen, I’ve got business to attend to over the next couple of hours. But tomorrow is a free day.”
“Thank the Lord.”
“I have a hiking trip planned. Why don’t you come with me?”
Jessica smiled. “I’d like that. But I don’t have any gear.”
“We’ll buy some. What do you say? And we can get some fresh air, exercise, and time together.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
“Crack of dawn, OK?”
Jessica jumped out of bed and hugged Crichton tight. “You’ve got a deal, Senator.”
After Jessica had showered and changed, while she was drying her hair in the bathroom, her cell phone rang. The caller ID showed it was her mother. “Jessica, where are you, honey? You said you’d be flying up for lunch today, remember?”
Jessica closed her eyes and groaned. “Mom, I’m so sorry. I’ve been so caught up with things here.”
“But, honey, you said you’d be up for my birthday.”
“Mom, what can I say? A situation came up.”
“A situation . . . ? What kind of situation?”
“The senator is out of the country on business, and I had to join him for part of it. I’m sorry, but it was very last minute.”
“I see. So you’re not in the country.”
Jessica stared at the shadows under her eyes. “That’s right. Scotland to be precise.”
“Oh my Lord . . . Is it a conference?”
“It’s a political gathering. Diplomatic stuff. I can’t say any more.”
“So who else is there from the senator’s team?”
“It’s only me.”
“Only you?”
“Yes, only me.”
There was a long pause. “I see.”
Jessica sighed as she adjusted her earrings. “What is it, Mom?”
“I don’t follow, honey.”
“I know that tone of voice, Mom. What do you mean by, I see?”
“Jessica, I may not know much about the workings of Capitol Hill, but I do have a mother’s instincts.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You don’t know?”
Jessica sighed again. She’d grown used to her mother’s sharp tone and insinuating comments about her private life. “No, I don’t know. You mind enlightening me?”
“Jessica, I can hear it in your voice.”
“Hear what?”
“You’re being defensive.”
“Defensive? I am not.”
“Jessica Friel, I know everything there is to know about you.”
Jessica stared at the reflection in the mirror, tears filling her eyes.
“You were never very good at hiding your feelings,” her mother continued. “You’re like me in that way.”
“Mom, look, I’m kinda busy. You mind getting to the point?”
“Jessica, I’m not an idiot.”
Jessica felt the tears on her cheeks. “I never said you were.”
“So don’t take me for one.”
“Mom, honestly, I have no idea what you’re getting at.”
“What I’m getting at is why you’re the only member of the senator’s staff who’s there with him thousands of miles from home.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a junior aide to the senator. Where’s his chief of staff? His secretarial support team? They’re nowhere in sight. But you are. Why is that?”
“I told you . . . this is an important meeting . . .”
“That only the junior aide is invited to?”
Friel saw her cheeks flush in the mirror. “What are you insinuating?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“Please.”
“You have a thing for the senator, don’t you?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Jessica, I’m not stupid. I can see the way you talk about him, show us pictures of you and him.”
“What?”
“Jessica, Senator Crichton is a married man with children. Does his wife know you’re there?”
Jessica closed her eyes. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“Are you having an affair with this man, Jessica?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You haven’t answered my question. Does the senator’s wife know you’re there with him?”
Jessica felt her eyes well up with tears again. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Jessica, he doesn’t love you. Do you understand that?”
Friel said nothing.
“Nothing good will come of this.”
“Mom, I think you’ve said enough. I gotta go.”
Jessica ended the call as the tears fell.
Thirty-One
Brad was at the bar enjoying a whisky with a senior British diplomat when his cell rang. He recognized his home telephone number. “Gotta take this,” he said, leaving his seat.
The diplomat smiled. “Of course.”
Crichton retreated to a quiet outer room near the bar. “Honey, how are you and the kids?”
“We’re good, Brad. How’s Scotland?”
“Beautiful. Sadly, not seen much of it. Wall-to-wall meetings. But very rewarding.”
“Oh, Hans was asking after you.”
“Hans?”
“You know . . . Peter’s father. The journalist from Newsweek.”
“Oh, him. Sure. Tell him if you see him we’ll have to do lunch.”
“Don’t worry. I already did.”
“Just what my calendar needed. Another lunch with a member of the press corps.”
“He’s really nice.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Just because he doesn’t like the NRA doesn’t mean you have to dislike him. He’s very smart.”
For the first time in a long while, it felt good hearing his wife’s voice again. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder, he thought. “I miss you.”
“And I miss you. Look, just wanted to let you know we’re good and looking forward to seeing you at the end of the week.”
“Can’t come too soon. We’ve got a day off tomorrow, so I’ll get out into the great outdoors. Get some much-needed fresh air in me.”
“I want to see some nice pictures to prove it!”
“You got it.”
The diplomat was pointing to Crichton’s empty whisky glass, and Crichton nodded in agreement. “Honey, I gotta go.”
“Take care, honey. Love you.”
Crichton ended the call and rejoined the
diplomat for a nightcap. Afterward he headed back to his room. Jessica had already called it a night and left a note apologizing for dashing across the Atlantic. He felt bad for being so tough on her. But he also felt guilty after hearing his wife’s voice, thinking about the deceit at the heart of their relationship.
He wondered if it wasn’t time to end his relationship with Jessica. She was lovely. He had come to care for her. But he didn’t love her the way he loved his wife. And the way he suspected Jessica had come to love him.
He fixed himself a single malt from the minibar and switched on a late-night TV program about British politics. He sipped the whisky, the amber liquid warming his stomach as the commentators talked about the rise of the right in British politics. He felt the liquor go straight to his head.
His cell phone rang and he reached for his jacket pocket.
Crichton recognized the name of the intelligence committee’s legal counsel, Jack Schultz, whom he’d left a message for earlier.
“Brad, are you on a secure phone?”
“Absolutely. You?”
“Of course.” Schultz sighed long and hard. “First, you did the right thing sending the encrypted files to me. There’s CIA classified information on this. Highly sensitive.”
“What exactly does it contain?”
A beat. “Just a moment. Brad, I need to know who’s seen this.”
“No one.”
A long sigh. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“What about your aide Jessica what’s-her-name?”
“Jessica Friel. She definitely did access this information.”
Schultz sighed. “And she’s the only one?”
“Yes.”
“Would’ve been easier if she hadn’t looked at it.”
“Jack, she flew all the way over here to bring it in person. She could have easily put it in a laptop in DC and sent the contents across to me. She didn’t.”
“OK, fair point.”
“So, what’ve we got?”
“Let’s get back to basics. You took an oath when you joined the Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence.”
“I know.”
“Rules of Procedure are very clear. Rule number twelve limits the discussion of classified work with people outside the committee if the classified information was received from any source. Therefore, as Jessica Friel isn’t on the committee or assigned to the committee, she should not be privy to any information of such a nature.”