by Leslie Wolfe
“Onboard cameras would have been nice to have now, right, sir?” Terry ventured.
“Yes, definitely,” Armstrong confirmed with a frown.
Armstrong had been an advocate for video surveillance in all company vehicles, but with no success. Walcott’s CEO had resisted the thought, stating that it would insult their guests and visiting officials with such a blatant manifestation of distrust, shown as early as an airport pickup—their first contact with Walcott Global. Maybe the current situation would get him to reconsider.
“Did you touch the document with your hand at any time, Terry?”
“No, sir, I wear gloves when I work on the vehicles.”
“Good, good,” Armstrong said, giving Terry an encouraging pat on the shoulder before he turned away and walked toward the main building.
A few minutes later, he closed the office door and immediately pulled out his cell phone, using voice recognition for his command.
“Call Sam Russell, encrypted,” he said.
“Calling Sam Russell, mobile, encryption active,” the smart phone’s robotic voice answered.
Two short rings later, a familiar voice picked up.
“Mason, hey, good to hear from you,” Sam said.
Armstrong stifled a sigh before responding.
“Well, maybe not so good . . . Sam, I need your help. How fast can you get here?”
...35
...Tuesday, May 10, 5:49PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Undisclosed Location
...Norfolk, Virginia
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a minute. It felt good to be home after such an emotionally draining day. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, loosening his tie. He’d made it home in one piece, documents included. He could make the drop now, and that was going to be easy.
He went straight for the dining room table, where he placed his briefcase carefully on the shiny surface. He pulled the curtains shut, making sure their edges overlapped to ensure perfect privacy, and only afterward he turned on the lights.
He opened the briefcase and carefully tugged at the bottom lining, separating it from the edge on one side. He gently pulled the file folder from underneath the lining, and then he stuck the lining back under the edges with his fingernail.
Photographing was next. He took an older digital camera, one that didn’t connect to anything via any technology, Internet, or Bluetooth; one that didn’t have a GPS built in. It was a simpler model, one of the first to use an SD card. He opened the file folder and started photographing the pages one by one, in the right order.
As he worked, his hands steadied and his heart rate dropped to more normal levels; he was getting used to the idea of what he was doing; he was getting more comfortable walking on the path of no return. He had no regrets . . . he was actually happy he was going to even the score with his employer . . . the bastards deserved what was coming to them, and more. That feeling of accomplishment, of setting things right overcame all his fear—fear of getting caught, of spending the rest of his days serving a life sentence for treason, fear of death.
He paused after each file, verifying his work on the camera’s tiny screen. All three documents were going to make his handler very happy. Not bad for his first drop: the capabilities assessment for Zumwalt-class destroyers, the evaluation memorandum regarding the compatibility and readiness status for laser cannon installation onboard the USS Fletcher, and the performance and capabilities assessment for the laser cannon. Yep, not bad at all. Well, actually too good. Why give him everything in one drop? He could make more money if he delivered the valuable goods one gem at a time.
He chose the evaluation memorandum for the drop, and brought an extra SD card to store the other two files.
When he finished photographing the last page of the memorandum, he verified the images on the camera; they were all there. He removed the SD card from the camera, then packed it neatly in a small Ziploc bag.
He took the documents and camera out of sight, hiding them in a kitchen drawer. He made a quick call to his favorite messenger service, FastLite, asking them to pick up a package.
Taking a new canister of three Dunlop tennis balls, he carefully opened it, making sure the clear wrapper stayed as intact as possible. Using a box cutter, he cut the tape sealing the cap on the clear plastic wrapper, and took two of the balls out. He carefully made a small incision in one of the balls, slicing along the gum line for about an inch. Then he slid the packet containing the SD card in its Ziploc bag inside the tennis ball. He verified carefully; the cut wasn’t visible at all, hidden in the green fuzz at the edge of the gum line. Satisfied, he put the ball on top of the remaining one in the canister, then topped it with the third ball and sealed the package with a fresh piece of tape.
He finished everything moments before the messenger rang his doorbell. He opened the door promptly.
“Got a package, sir?” A kid, no more than sixteen years old, wearing a FastLite tee and cap, stood in his doorway, still mounted on his bike, leaning sideways on one foot.
“Yeah, just this,” he said, showing the boy the set of tennis balls. “It’s my kid’s birthday; I need these to get to him tonight. It’s not far . . . Can you do it?”
“Sure . . . that’s what we do,” the boy answered, a bit confused by the question.
“Great, just give me a second, let me wrap this real quick.”
He took gift-wrapping paper from one of the drawers and packed the tennis balls quickly, slapping some tape at the ends so it stayed wrapped. He handed it to the boy, together with two twenty-dollar bills.
“No card?” the boy asked.
“Huh?”
“It’s his birthday . . . no card?”
“N–no,” he said, caught off guard. “I called him earlier.” Fuck . . . he thought. That’s really sloppy work, damn it.
“Ok, I’ll go, if that’s it,” the boy said, filling out a small form and handing it over. He started looking for change, but the sender stopped him.
“Nah . . . keep it!”
“Thank you, sir!”
He closed and locked the door carefully, and put the chain on. He had one more thing left to do before calling the job done. He had to destroy the documents.
He pulled the file folder from the drawer and took it in the garage. He grabbed a bucket and filled it halfway with hot water, tore the papers in a few pieces, then submerged them in the water, one by one. The water dissolved the bonding agent that held the cellulose fibers together, and the paper quickly turned mushy. He helped the process stirring the contents of the bucket with a long screwdriver, and, within minutes, the paper was mashed up in small little bits, the writing on it gone, liquefied by the hot water.
He carried the bucket to the bathroom and flushed its content down the toilet. He put the bucket back in the garage where it came from, and looked around to see if everything looked in order.
Finally, he did the one thing he’d been waiting for the whole day. He poured himself a double shot of whiskey neat, and gulped it with a couple of antianxiety pills.
“I need to get better at this,” he heard himself saying. “Way better.”
...36
...Tuesday, May 10, 7:48PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence
...San Diego, California
Alex curled up on her couch in the semi-darkness of her living room. The dusk projected long shadows on the walls, but she didn’t turn on the lights or close her curtains. She welcomed the nightfall in her home to match the gloom in her heart.
She’d kept the word given to herself and slept on her resolution, avoiding any rash decisions. A full day of anguish and pain had passed since she had her eye-opening conversation with Tom. Despite her sleeping on it, the decision remained the same. She had to regain control of her life and clean up her own mess. The decision felt right rationally; it was the logical thing to do, but broke her heart.
A rebel tear rolled on her cheek.
She wiped it with the back of her hand, just as the doorbell rang.
“Yeah, come right in,” she said, not moving.
Steve walked through the door, a frown of concern replacing the smile on his face as soon as he took in the details of what he was seeing. He reached for the light switch on the wall, but she stopped him.
“Leave it off,” she said.
“All right,” he said in a pacifying tone. “You left your door unlocked again, and we—”
“Save it,” she cut him off bluntly. “Take a seat somewhere; this isn’t gonna take long.”
He seemed to turn pale, but she couldn’t be sure; it was quite dark in the room. He sat in the armchair across from her and remained silent, waiting.
She let the silence match the darkness for a while, thick, bothersome. When she spoke, her voice was broken and quiet, whispers hiding sobs that were pressing to come out.
“We have to part ways, Steve. We’re over.”
He jumped on his feet and came toward her. She raised her palm outward, stopping him.
“Don’t. Please. It’s hard enough as it is.”
“Then why do it, Alex? What’s wrong?”
“It was a mistake to mix our work with a relationship, an idiotic rookie mistake. We both knew better,” she articulated with difficulty. “We both knew there was no way this could end well, despite how we feel.”
“What happened?” Steve asked in a soft voice.
“You betrayed me, that’s what happened.”
The surprise on his face was genuine.
“What you see in my house,” she clarified, “when you come visit, is private. It’s mine and only mine. My secrets, that I chose to share with you, were mine and only mine, yet you chose to share them with others without my permission.”
“But it’s Tom we’re talking about,” Steve said, gently. “Tom only wants what’s best for you, and so do I. We’re all worried.”
“I need to be in control of my life, Steve,” she said, wiping another tear with the back of her hand. “Tom is also my boss, you’re forgetting that. You jeopardized my job, my existence.”
“Tom would never fire you—”
“It’s not about that, and yes, given enough reason, he would,” she interrupted. “He’s not running a daycare; he’s got a business to run. Maybe I’m too new at this, or maybe I don’t feel so confident anymore. In any case, I need to regain full control of my life.” She paused for a few seconds, closing her eyes. “And that means letting you go,” she whispered.
“Alex, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll ne—”
“It’s too late, Steve, I’m sorry. I fell in love with you and I made excuses; I rationalized how we’re not gonna be a cliché; not us, ’cause we’re so much better than everyone else is. We’re not gonna fall into the traps of doomed office relationships, not us. But we did, we did exactly that.”
His head hung, and he clasped his hands together, in an unspoken plea. She stifled another sob.
“After yesterday, I could never trust you again, not like before, and my heart would ache for that kind of trust, for that loss. I would have to lie to you, hide from you. It would slowly ruin our relationship, putting us through more pain than either of us can handle.”
He looked at her silently, unable to say a word, the sadness in his blue eyes speaking in his place.
“I’m sorry, Steve, I really am.” She wiped another tear with her sleeve, then said in an agonizing voice, “Please, go now.”
He approached her slowly and took her hand, holding it gently. She didn’t turn to look at him; she just continued to stare into the thickening darkness.
“There’s one thing that neither Tom nor I were going to tell you, but I think you should hear it anyway. This obsession you have with your elusive Russian terrorist, your stubbornness to accept that the case is closed, is who you are: dedicated, persistent, driven. The fact that saving a few lives and catching a few terrorists just isn’t good enough for you, well, that’s what makes you who you are. That’s what makes you great, what makes you special. That’s what makes you so damn good at what you do. But that’s also what could destroy you. And we just couldn’t sit idle and let it happen . . . we’re here for you. I’m here for you . . . always.”
He placed a gentle kiss on her hand, then let it go. She still didn’t look at him; she couldn’t.
He turned away and walked out, closing the door behind him silently, after releasing the auto lock on her deadbolt.
She heard his car start and pull away from her driveway. Soon thereafter came a deafening silence, the time for her to mourn her loss.
...37
...Wednesday, May 11, 9:31AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Federal Bureau of Investigation—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
Jeremy Weber knocked three times on the doorframe before stepping in his boss’s office.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes. Sit down.”
He sat where instructed, and waited for SAC Taylor to speak.
“I’m putting you on the Walcott case,” Taylor said, pushing a file folder across the desk.
“Me, sir?” Weber blurted, then bit his lip. Stupid remarks like that cost people their careers.
“Yes, and I’m doubting my own sanity as we speak,” Taylor replied coldly. “There’s no better choice . . . believe me, I tried. I had assigned Porter and Sinisky on it yesterday, but their car got rammed by an eighteen-wheeler. They’ll both be out of commission for weeks.” Taylor stopped for a second, drilling Jeremy with his intense gaze. “You’re it. Don’t screw this up. One moment of embarrassment from you while you’re on this case and you’re history.”
Jeremy didn’t reply; diplomatically he diverted Taylor’s attention to the work at hand.
“What’s the scoop?”
“Walcott’s got an info leak, state secrets, major damage,” Taylor replied. “The rest is in the file. Read it. Carefully.”
“Yes, sir. Umm . . . I don’t have a partner assigned yet,” Jeremy said hesitantly. “I’m perfectly fine without one, sir, but—”
“But I’m not,” Taylor cut him off. “Just get me preliminary findings and come back to report. I’ll assign you a partner.”
Jeremy stood and grabbed the file from Taylor’s desk.
“Understood,” he said, turning to leave.
“Weber?”
“Sir?”
“This could be a major clusterfuck . . . Huge government contractor, massive political influence, and the leak is scary as hell—their latest weapons technology, no less. Tread lightly, be thorough, but get the facts ASAP. Follow the damn procedure, got it?”
“Yes, sir, got it. You can count on me,” Jeremy added, and immediately regretted it.
“Well, that’s precisely it, Weber, I can’t. Can’t count on you, now can I?”
Jeremy hesitated, inclined to make additional promises to his reluctant boss, but decided to keep quiet instead.
“Sir,” he said in lieu of a farewell, then stepped out of Taylor’s office.
He didn’t even stop by his office; he went straight for the parking garage. He wanted to get as much work done as possible, before getting who-knows-who for a partner to slow him down or drive him crazy.
...38
...Wednesday, May 11, 11:26AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Central Intelligence Agency Headquarters, Director Seiden’s Office
...Langley, Virginia
Henri Marino checked her reflection in the stainless steel doors and repressed a sigh. She looked professional, of course, yet not really in line with what she had in mind for herself. The loose ponytail keeping her long brown hair in check looked sloppy and hasty, like she’d tied that up in a hurry. Well, in fact, that was the truth. She had to admit it, remembering how she had finished dressing in her building’s elevator that morning.
She checked the time again; just a few more minutes before Director Seiden would see
her. She put down the brief she had prepared for the director, afraid her sweaty palms would leave marks on the elegant cover bearing the CIA logo in gold foil emboss.
Now she had two idle hands and nothing to do, while waiting, pacing, checking the time once more.
“You can take a seat,” Seiden’s assistant said, visibly irritated by her restlessness.
She was tempted to oblige for a split second, then declined with a shy smile. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”
For the next few minutes, she tried to stay true to her commitment to never crack her knuckles again. She’d read somewhere it was a bad habit, not necessarily causing arthritis or anything, but annoying the hell out of everyone present.
“You can go in now,” Seiden’s assistant said.
She headed straight to the director’s door, then turned on her heels and grabbed the report she’d forgotten.
She knocked twice, then entered the director’s office. Seiden had loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves, but the perma-frown on his forehead looked deeper than usual, ridging canyons above his bushy eyebrows.
“Henri,” he greeted her and pointed to a chair in front of his desk.
“Sir,” she croaked, then cleared her throat. “Good morning,” she added, to demonstrate she could still use her vocal chords.
“So?” Seiden asked, keeping his hand extended toward her. “Are you gonna let me read it?”
“Umm . . . sure,” she said, handing him the brief, painfully aware she was blushing.
Director Seiden took the brief and started reviewing it, flipping through pages at a constant pace, for what seemed like endless minutes. Finally, he spoke.
“OK, never mind this,” he said, putting it on the table and placing his hand on it. “What do you think?”
“Well, it’s in there,” she started talking, then stopped abruptly. Of course, it’s in there, you ninny, she thought. He knows that. He just wants to have a conversation with his senior analyst.