by Leslie Wolfe
“Yes, there is. They’re building a large center, partly buried underground, relatively close to an enrichment facility, the one in Novouralsk. We’re not sure what that facility will be housing, not yet. On the political side, they’ve forged a troublesome alliance with India, another nuclear power. Finally, President Abramovich made a bold statement in the media, stating that North American defenses, specifically NORAD, cannot stop his new and improved nuclear missiles anymore. By his count, we’re defenseless. That’s unconfirmed, though. The fact, I mean—”
“Henri, we need to get a task team going. I’ll assign some more analysts under your supervision. Find the underlying correlation behind those incidents you haven’t finished modeling yet, and get me some working scenarios. I’ll deploy a resource in the field to find out what’s going on at that center they’re building. Maybe even find out what the extra funding is supposed to buy them. We need to get ready.”
“For what, sir?”
“World War III, most likely. We’ve already entered Cold War II.”
...3
...Friday, February 19, 5:25PM PST (UTC-8:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence
...San Diego, California
Alex liked her rental home, a comfortable three bedroom in the heart of Carmel Valley. It had a peaceful backyard she often enjoyed, where she could work on her laptop until late in the evening, in almost complete privacy offered by several dense bushes and mature trees. She enjoyed the deep, heady scent of flowering citrus trees, especially at dusk, when cooler air came rolling in from the ocean, bringing a little moisture with it, to enhance the sensation of peaceful, comfortable paradise.
She’d had that house since she’d started her employment with The Agency, a small, private, investigation firm working exclusively with high-profile corporate clients. Founded by Tom Isaac and his wife, Claire, The Agency had become Alex’s second family. With an IQ of more than 160 and a driven, assertive nature, Alex found her work for The Agency quite enjoyable and fulfilling. It supplied the fast-paced challenge, the reward, and offered a politics-free environment where she could thrive.
It was a great team at The Agency. She’d been lucky to find it. Tom carried all the wisdom of the business, and the experience of doing this kind of work, for more than twenty years. He was always willing to share that knowledge with her or any one of her peers.
Claire Isaac was adept when it came to figuring out how someone could infiltrate an organization that The Agency was hired to work with. She found the right open spots on the organizational charts and wrote amazing résumés that fit client job openings, getting a team member inconspicuously hired.
Brian Woods was an expert in procedures, protocols, and systems, and he was a top-notch strategist.
Richard Fergusson, a financial and business genius, normally started his work after the culprits had been identified. He helped CEOs and boards of directors with the cleanup, serving as a senior executive on an interim basis. Richard was also Alex’s personal fashion advisor, having taught her how to dress for every role or cover story she needed to fulfill.
Louie Blake, ex-SEAL and expert computer hacker, broke though firewalls whenever they’d get stuck using other methods. She had recruited Louie from her first job at The Agency when she worked with NanoLance and had him to thank for her self-defense and handgun proficiency.
And Steve Mercer, corporate psychologist, was the one who assisted clients navigate the rough waters of their investigations, managed everyone’s expectations, and profiled suspects and other players based on their actions and methods. But Steve was more than that to her. She had fallen in love with Steve, despite her better judgment and her determination to follow the unwritten rule forbidding any type of romantic involvement with a coworker.
Yes, they were a great team, that’s why she thrived at The Agency. She had a strong sense of right and wrong, and native investigative skills that helped her navigate the intricacies of undercover investigations in corporate environments, where entire fortunes were at stake, and the perps were highly qualified and knowledgeable.
Alex didn’t hold any official function; she didn’t wear a badge. She infiltrated organizations at the request of business owners, CEOs, or boards of directors who had reasons to suspect malfeasance within their corporations. Her clients preferred their concerns to stay quiet, private, yet to be investigated just as thoroughly as any official inquiry. Over time though, she had forged good working relationships with the authorities. In a couple of cases, some of the wrongdoing she had exposed had crossed the line from corporate misconduct well into criminal code territory.
When she had a new client, she immersed herself in her work, and the effort was quite considerable. Her cover, typically a newly hired leadership employee starting at the company she was investigating, was a fulltime job in itself. In addition to that, she had The Agency team to work with, a client to update, reports to write, and actual investigative work to handle. No wonder she didn’t spend a lot of time decorating her home or picking out new furnishings.
She didn’t have a lot of furniture; just a few items she needed to feel comfortable and function effectively. A large leather sectional occupied the living room, together with a huge TV and stereo surround she’d bought the night she moved in. The master bedroom, painted in a light shade of green, held a king-size bed, two nightstands, and two lamps with tabletop dimmers. It wasn’t much, but she was most comfortable in open, clutter-free spaces.
The second bedroom was another story altogether. Painted in light blue, it had track lighting installed on the ceiling, holding many powerful light bulbs. Thick, dark blue velvet curtains, not allowing a single shred of that powerful light to be visible from outside, covered the windows.
A huge corkboard covered almost an entire wall. Another curtain railing hung above it. If needed, matching thick velvet drapery could cover the corkboard completely, leading any visitors to believe there was just another window behind it.
Post-it notes, knitting yarn in four colors, scissors, multicolored pushpins, markers, and tape cluttered the two tables in the blue bedroom. A small coffee machine and scattered coffee pods in various flavors completed the inventory of apparently disorganized items. A large armchair stood in the middle of the room, facing the corkboard. Despite the sunny day, clear sky, and perfect temperature, Alex chose to close the heavy drapery and curl up in that armchair rather than go outside and enjoy her backyard. There was one thing she couldn’t take with her outside: her crazy wall.
Numerous pictures, clippings, and Post-it notes covered the corkboard, pinned down with colorful pushpins and tied with yarn. Every color she used had a meaning. Green yarn reflected a verified connection between two people, events, or pieces of information. Blue was for plausible, most likely to be true, yet unverified connections. Yellow marked a suspected connection, while red was for surprising, unverified, wild hunches.
Pictures of several individuals were pinned to the corkboard, together with country names, maps, locations, dates, all organized on a timeline illustrating events that had started taking place roughly two years earlier and had stopped in November of the previous year. That was the timeline of her most recent case: a corporate investigation that had uncovered a terrorist plot. She hadn’t been able to paste a whole lot of information after that November date. Just scattered Post-it notes with single words followed by question marks, her guesses, and hunches, all unverified, pasted on the timeline wall to stay at the forefront of her attention.
Focused intently on the upper midsection of her timeline wall, Alex stared for minutes at the yellow Post-it marked with the X and a question mark. The position of that Post-it with the letter X showed that he was the leader of the entire structure reflected on her timeline. Underneath that Post-it, there were several others listed facts, conclusions, and hypotheses, using the appropriate marker color. She knew he was Russian, rich or well-funded, mobile, and a male. Those facts were written in green. She wonder
ed whether he was working for the Russian government—SVR maybe? The Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation, or SVR, was just as powerful as the KGB had once been. After all, it was led by mostly the same people and had the same agenda. That Post-it held the letters SVR and a question mark written in yellow marker. Then a little lower, another Post-it held the initial V written in blue. During The Agency investigation, she had learned this valuable piece of information. His initial was V. His name most likely started with the letter V. Last name or first name? Unknown. She knew nothing more. Not a shred of information, nothing. In almost four months.
Absentminded, she almost missed the doorbell chime. Steve’s here, she thought.
“Come right in!”
She started getting up from her chair, extracting her long, slender legs from underneath her and looking for her missing left slipper. There it was, almost buried under the armchair.
When she looked up, Steve was leaning against the doorframe, a look of deep disappointment clouding his blue eyes.
“Hey,” she greeted him happily, “good, you’re here! We can leave in just a few.” She had to reach up and stand on her tiptoes to peck him on the lips. He didn’t meet her halfway, and his kiss wasn’t all that warm.
“Come right in? Seriously?” Steve’s frown was prominent. “In how many ways is that just plain wrong? How can you be so careless?”
She looked at him sheepishly. It was gonna be one of those days, when he treated her like a child. She hated that more than anything.
“Look, I knew you were coming. I had unlocked the door just minutes before you came, really.”
“But that doesn’t make it OK, Alex. Not in our line of work.”
“Yeah, I know.” She sighed, and tried to deter his attention. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. Let me grab my bag and we can go.”
She tried to pass by him through the door, but he stopped her in her tracks.
“Not so fast, Alex.”
She turned to face him, feeling her blood starting to boil.
“And this?” Steve pointed at the timeline corkboard. “Didn’t we talk about this?”
She sighed again, trying to calm herself and salvage the evening. She wanted them to have a good time, to enjoy their weekend at the cabin, but she also needed to make a point.
“Look, Steve, this is my home. I do what I want in my home, in my time.”
“I agree,” he conceded, “but it’s unhealthy, and I’m worried about you. You’re obsessing over a case we closed four months ago. It isn’t good for you. You have to move on.”
“I’m not obsessing; stop being a shrink, all right?” Anger tinted the pitch of her voice.
“I can’t,” he smiled bitterly. “I am a shrink, and I can’t just turn that off and pretend I don’t see you heading in the wrong direction, although sometimes I wish I could. The case is over, let it go.”
“It’s not over, not until we find him!” Alex pointed at the Post-it note marked with the letter X.
“We may never find him, Alex. Sam told you it could take years! You can’t live like this. Have you been to work today?”
She blushed and ground her teeth angrily, repressing a groan. She remembered the sweatpants and wrinkled T-shirt she was wearing, her unkempt hair, and lack of makeup. Yep, busted, she thought.
“Brian said he didn’t need me today, so I took the day off.”
Steve paced slowly toward the window, and then pulled back the thick curtains, letting the sunshine in through the sparkling white sheers. She squinted.
“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was warm, concerned, and almost parental. “Talk to me.”
She stood quietly, unwilling to have that conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d had it, and it would probably be a waste of time again. He just didn’t get it.
“You used to like your job,” Steve continued. “Just two years ago, when you came to work with us, you couldn’t get enough of it. You were so excited, so happy to have the opportunity to do the work we do. What happened?”
“Almost three years,” she said.
“All right, almost three years. But still . . . You are a fantastic computer engineer, you’re a great investigator, you have this super-intelligent brain, you’re analytical, brave, and bold. Do you remember what you liked the most about working for The Agency?”
She stood quiet, uncooperative. She’d been through this before. Oh God . . . make the preaching end already, she thought.
“I’ll tell you if you don’t remember.” Steve continued unperturbed. “You liked that you could go inside organizations and right the wrongs you found, making people’s lives better. You liked you could make a difference for so many. You loved to dig around, chase the facts, and find the corrupt, greedy, evil individuals who made everyone else suffer. You loved saving lives. And you loved taking a new client every few months, keeping your mind challenged and alert, helping you learn new things and celebrate the achievement with every closed case and happy client. Where did all that go?”
Silence engulfed the room for several seconds, interrupted only by chirps and trills coming from the birds in her eucalyptus tree. The world outside was alive, was filled with sunshine, life, and happiness, while she was buried here, with her ghosts. Maybe he was right.
“It didn’t,” she finally spoke.
“Huh?”
“It didn’t go anywhere. I still love doing all that; I wouldn’t change it for the world. But my case isn’t over, that’s why I can’t let go.”
“Do you trust me professionally?” Steve asked.
“Sure I do, with my life.”
“Then trust me when I say you delivered your case successfully. The client was happy. You saved the day. You made us all proud: me, Tom, Brian, Richard, Claire, and Louie. Louie would follow you into a burning building; did you know that? And you made Sam proud too, and he’s hard to impress.”
“But somehow I can’t let go. I’m still twisting my mind looking for clues, and there are none. Did we overlook something? Who knows what he’s up to next, our Mr. X? Will we even see it coming? He is scary brilliant!”
“Yes, he is. But if you can’t take any of our advice for it, take Sam’s. We’re all corporate investigators, I agree, but Sam’s ex-CIA. He knows the spy-and-terrorist business better than we’ll ever know it, and he said the same thing. Keep your eyes open, but move on with your life. We might never get to him; he might never resurface again. He might be busy doing time in Siberia for failing his mission, for all we know. Who the hell knows?”
“We’re definitely never gonna find him if we stop looking, that’s how I feel. Someone’s gotta keep on looking. No one knows we’ve worked this case. Sam’s retired CIA. He’s not active anymore, so he’s not looking either. So, who is? Or who should be?”
She knew she had a point, and he didn’t argue.
“All right,” he said, “what if you continue to search for him, but with a time limit?
Say . . . two hours per week, not more?”
“I tend to not trust you when it’s about me. You’ve always been overprotective. Will two hours per week keep me sane?”
“Yes, it will teach you to control this urge you have to obsess about the puzzle piece you’re missing.”
“Can I do four?”
“Huh?”
“Hours. Since you tend to be overprotective and all that,” she said, tilting her head to the side in a flirting gesture.
“No. Not more than two hours per week. Please promise me. Go back to doing what you loved to do, put your heart in each client you’re working. If your mind is elsewhere, your work will suffer.”
“This client’s fine, it’s Brian’s client anyway, not mine. I can afford to do it. I’m just support, not that important or essential anyway.”
“Would you be comfortable repeating that statement to Brian?”
She blushed and pursed her lips. Damn.
“Umm . . . No.”
>
“Why do you let yourself think that? We’re all risking our lives when we go undercover. Our support is critical, and you know that. You should know that better than anyone. We’re all counting on one another, and we’re all counting on you. When you’re primary on a case, we don’t cut corners on your support, or allow ourselves to become preoccupied by something else.”
“All right,” she admitted. “I’ll give you that. But if I limit this to only two hours, the only question is what would I do for fun?”
He let out a long, pained sigh.
“That’s your choice too. I could be here with you every day, if you’d only let me. We could spend our lives together.”
“No. We’ve discussed this. As long as we work together, we can’t have that type of relationship. Weekends and vacations, and only if we go out of town. That’s it, and I’m not budging.”
His blue eyes didn’t hide his sadness very well.
“You know we talked about it,” she continued in a softer voice, “you know why I can’t. It would be risky for us both, for the entire team. We can’t, and you know that. Even if Tom doesn’t mind, I do.”
“Then let’s get going,” he said, trying to put some cheer in his voice and mostly failing.
She took a quick shower, changed, and got ready for their weekend trip at his cabin up in the mountains near Alpine. He grabbed her bag, opened the door for her, and loaded the bag in the trunk of his black Mercedes G-Class.
Alex turned on her heels and headed back into the house.
“Be right there, I forgot something,” she said, as she closed the door behind her.
She went straight for the blue bedroom. She pulled the window curtains shut, turned on the powerful track lights, and took several pictures of her crazy wall with her phone. Satisfied, she turned off the lights, pulled the curtain that concealed the corkboard shut, and locked the main door on her way out. Two hours, four hours, whatever, but who’s counting?
“I’m ready,” she said, smiling, and hopped in the car. “Let’s go.”