by Leslie Wolfe
“Wow,” Sam said quietly, “you do know how to make life interesting, Mason. This isn’t going to be easy, you know.”
“I know,” Mason replied, looking at Sam with a serious, intense gaze.
Sam thought for another minute or so, regretting he had earlier declined the invitation to get a cup of coffee.
“I might have a solution for you,” he said. “Might being the operative word here.”
“I’m all ears,” Mason replied calmly.
“There’s a private investigations firm called The Agency, have you ever heard of it?”
“No, never,” Mason replied.
“I didn’t think so. Their experts specialize in corporate covert investigations. They infiltrate organizations and conduct their analyses from within, discreetly, no one being the wiser. Then they report their findings to the company owners or leaders and disappear, just as naturally and inconspicuously as they had appeared. They might consider taking your case.”
“Interesting,” Mason said, a trace of optimism coloring his voice. “Are they government contractors? Will there be a conflict of interest?”
“No, they’re not,” Sam replied, unable to repress a chuckle. “The owner, Tom Isaac, would never even consider becoming a government contractor. He loves being a free, unregimented spirit.”
“Then they probably don’t hold the clearance to even hear my case,” Mason said, all optimism disappearing from his voice.
“One of them does, Alex Hoffmann is her name.”
“How come?”
“Well, not sure if I should share this with you, but here it is. She handled the NanoLance drone case.”
“By herself?” Mason reacted.
The NanoLance drone incident was a well-known subject in government circles, where just months before a congressional hearing had taken place to examine the facts leading to several incidents involving military drones. Some of those incidents had been responsible for a substantial loss of lives, both in the United States and abroad, in combat zones.
“Not entirely, but she was the lead in the investigation, the only Agency executive deployed inside NanoLance. She’s not your average investigator, you know. She’s a CalTech computer science major with an IQ that’s thirty points or so north of genius level. She took a director of technology job with NanoLance to get inside, and no one was the wiser. That’s how she does it.”
Mason whistled appreciatively and scratched the back of his head, thinking.
“Now that you mentioned it,” Sam continued, “there might be a second Agency employee with top-secret clearance. His name is Louie Blake; he’s a computer expert of sorts. He used to work for NanoLance, so he must have been cleared.”
Mason thought for a minute, then said, “I’m not sure what they could do for me, but if this is your best bet, Sam, why not? Let’s give it a shot and see how it goes. I’ll have to clear it with the boss, but I’m sure he’ll be OK with it. Go ahead, set it up.”
Sam looked at Mason for a second, to see if he was sure about that. Satisfied, he pulled out his cell phone and retrieved a number from memory.
A familiar voice picked up almost immediately, expressing loudly a string of complaints sprinkled with expletives.
“Yeah, kiddo, I know it’s 6.00AM in California, but how would you like to hop on a plane and come work on a case with me?”
He put the phone back in his pocket and smiled. “She’s on her way.”
...40
...Friday, May 13, 8:07AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters
...Norfolk, Virginia
Mason Armstrong’s office seemed small and crowded with so many visitors, yet they all crammed in there instead of moving to a conference room.
Jeremy Weber came in last, seven minutes tardy for the unexpected early morning meeting that had been announced late the night before. Surprised to see such a large audience, Jeremy closed the door behind him and studied everyone’s face, not recognizing anyone other than Mason.
He had to stand; Mason’s two other visitors had taken the only two visitor chairs available, while Mason took his own, behind his desk.
Jeremy shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and frowned. This investigation was turning into a corporate circus.
“Come on in, Agent Weber,” Mason greeted him. “Thank you for taking the time to come in this morning.”
He nodded a silent greeting to all those present.
“What is this about?” Jeremy asked, cutting to the chase.
“Agent Weber, please allow me to introduce Sam Russell.”
The two men shook hands.
“Sam is a security consultant with Walcott Global. He is former CIA, and he’s helping us handle this investigation on behalf of Walcott,” Mason continued. “Alex Hoffmann works with Sam. She will also be involved on behalf of Walcott Global.”
Jeremy shook Alex’s hand and was a little surprised to see the woman shook his hand firmly and openly, the type of handshake he’d expect from a man.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“Agent Weber,” Mason said, “Walcott Global would really appreciate it if you’d partner up with our consultants during the investigation. They both bring a lot of value and can assist the FBI and NCIS teams. Considering the time pressures and the sensitivity surrounding this issue, Walcott believes that a joint task force should conduct the investigation. Our CEO is ready to make the necessary calls to your director, if need be.”
“Mr. Armstrong,” Jeremy replied, “are you suggesting we bring into our investigation civilian contractors? Uncleared civilians, no less?”
“They’re not just any civilians,” Mason said in an appeasing tone. “Sam Russell is ex-CIA, and Ms. Hoffmann holds a top-secret clearance and a portfolio of achievement in covert investigative work inside government contractor organizations. I hope you’ll reconsider.”
Jeremy struggled to contain his irritation. SAC Taylor was gonna have his ass on rye with mayo if he let this happen. There wasn’t an excuse in hell he could find to justify this. And why should he? There was no valid reason for that. He didn’t need to trail on some retiree and some chick during the entire time, just to make Walcott’s fat cat happy. They’re gonna call the director? So be it . . . at least this time he was gonna follow procedure.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said, “This is simply not going to happen. We have procedures to follow, and this is a high-profile case, where we can’t risk making any mistakes. I hope you’ll understand,” he ended, as politely as he could, getting ready to leave.
“Again,” Mason insisted, “we are willing to make all necessary phone calls to get the approvals to make this happen. Just let us know who to call.”
“We have procedures for a reason,” Jeremy said, almost entertained to hear himself making the case for procedures, him of all people. He continued, “There’s simply no way this can happen. Plus, in all fairness, and pardon my blunt honesty, I don’t see the value in this partnership. It would slow us down and risk compromising the outcome of the investigation. If you feel the need to make those phone calls, please do. Have a good day.”
He turned away and grabbed the doorknob, getting ready to leave.
“She worked the NanoLance case,” Mason threw out. “Ms. Hoffmann did.”
Really? Jeremy thought. That was maybe worth spending a few more minutes, but he still wasn’t gonna change his mind.
He let go of the doorknob and turned toward his host, registering the sudden blush in Hoffmann’s face and the frown on Sam Russell’s.
“All right,” Jeremy said, “how exactly do you see us partnering on this, Ms. Hoffmann?”
“It’s Alex,” she replied. “I can bring a different angle to the investigation; gather information without hard handing it, without any visible authority. Your kind of authority scares people into silence, Agent Weber. I bypass that.”
“Pfft . . .” he scoffed. “Ms. Hoffmann, do you eve
n know what’s at stake here?” Jeremy asked, feeling a little embarrassed to hear how assaholic his voice sounded.
“No, can’t say that I know any of the details yet. I just arrived late last night.”
“Let me tell you exactly what this is about. We have developed a new weapon, the laser cannon. It’s the biggest breakthrough in weapons technology this country has seen in decades. It can be installed on any military vehicle, air, sea, or land, from destroyers to MRAPs to drones, since you’re so goddamn familiar with them. Why is it such a big breakthrough? Because that cannon can blow anything out of the water or out of the sky with precision and for under a buck a shot! Yes, you heard me,” he emphasized, registering her reaction, “less than one dollar per shot. And someone just stole that technology and gave it, or is planning to give it to our enemies. Now, can you please explain to me exactly how you think you can bring value to our investigation?”
She didn’t seem intimidated; she looked annoyed. She cocked her head defiantly, and her lips curled up just a little, in the most irritating hint of a smile he’d ever seen. When she spoke, her voice was calm and cold, factual.
“Well, maybe you’re right and I can’t assist in this case. But don’t get me wrong. That’s only because you’re one of the most stubborn, head-up-your-ass, sorry excuses for an agent I’ve ever met. I can’t work with someone who’s so closed-minded. We wouldn’t be able to communicate; we don’t coexist on the same planet.”
She stood abruptly and walked toward Sam, and quickly leaned down and kissed him on the top of his clean-shaven, shiny head.
“Sorry, Sam,” she whispered, then turned around and left, closing the door gently behind her.
Jeremy stood speechless, watching her leave without being able to articulate an answer. He saw Mason covering his face with both his palms.
“You idiot!” Sam said. “You just blew your only chance to infiltrate that group of people. If the feds want to go undercover on this, it will take you weeks to prep.”
Jeremy looked at Sam. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
“I wish I was,” Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you’re thinking of investigating this with guns blazing, locking each one of your eleven suspects in a room with a polygraph and hoping you’ll find who-done-it, well, think again.”
“Why?” Jeremy asked and instantly regretted it.
“Because the moment the word gets out there that we’re looking at this, whoever’s done it will run for the hills, expedite whatever delivery he had planned, and take as much intel with him as he can carry. Your only shot is to somehow start the interrogations and polygraphs with the traitor first, before anyone else. You keep forgetting you must contain the information leak and identify the uplink—find the handler, not just catch the traitor. And you’re running against the clock, you need to infiltrate that group today. How do you like your odds now?”
Jeremy didn’t reply; he processed Sam’s point of view, trying to poke holes in it and couldn’t find any.
Motherfucker, he thought. Who the hell are these people?
...41
...Friday, May 13, 9:52PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Astro Entertainment Casino
...Virginia Beach, Virginia
Sylvia Copperwaite watched in a blur how the man sitting across from her raked the entire pot over the green velvet to his side of the poker table. His satisfied, wide grin was disgusting, showing discolored teeth, crooked, most likely about to fall from their rotted gums. A lifelong of poor hygiene, of smoking cheap crap, and drinking moonshine can do that to almost anyone.
She shuddered, thinking how different she was, how she didn’t belong with that crowd, yet there she was, again. She looked around the table, at the four strangers around her.
Horrible . . . this couldn’t be her reality, just couldn’t be true.
The truck driver at her left was about to deal.
“Ante?” he called out.
“Huh? N–no,” she said, after looking at her chips for a second. “I’ll sit this one out.”
“Hey, if you’re at the table, you gotta play, lady,” the man across said. “In, or out,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in a gesture inviting her to take a hike.
She only had two blue chips left, twenty dollars; that was all. She’d come in at 8.00PM or so with seven-hundred dollars, and now she was down to twenty bucks. She felt tears burning her eyes.
Where did it all go? Where and when had she lost her mojo? She used to win, and win big. She used to be able to read her opponents so clearly that she could almost tell every card they held, with accuracy, in cold blood. She knew who was bluffing and who had a strong hand. She used to know when to bet and when to fold. God . . . One night she’d won thirty-two large ones at a game, bought a new Volvo the next morning. But that was all gone . . . including that car. She’d sold it a year later, to pay off debts that piled up quickly once Lady Luck had decided to be a bitch and hung her out to dry. She drove a beat-up Honda now, bought from a curbsider for less than two grand.
“Hey, lady,” the man across barked, “either ante up, or take a hike, you hear me?”
She got up clumsily, arranging her skirt that clung stubbornly to her sweaty legs, and dropped her purse. Her belongings scattered on the floor—her lipstick, cell phone, car keys, her wallet. The man at her right obliged, reaching out under the table to help pick up her belongings.
“Ah, don’t bother, buddy, that wallet’s empty,” the brute across laughed, “I just cleaned that baby to the bone.” He continued to laugh, a coarse, disgusting laughter that made the other three men look away with embarrassment.
“Don’t mind him, miss,” the man helping her said, “he’s just your garden-variety asshole.”
She heard everyone talk like in a dream. Unable to articulate an answer, any answer, she stood quietly, her mouth slightly open, her brain unable to process her reality. They all seemed far, distant somehow, in an alternate plane of existence. Her eyes couldn’t focus; everything around her was a blur, a cacophony of sounds and images that didn’t make sense.
The man across whistled sharply and repeated the gesture with his thumb, inviting her again to get lost. She grabbed the two remaining chips and moved away from the table, heading for the cashier.
As she walked away, she regained a little more of her connection with reality, and she suddenly realized what was wrong. She was too desperate, that’s why she couldn’t win anymore. Back when she used to rake in all the chips on the table, she was cool about it, did it for fun, and didn’t really care. Now her back was against the wall, all her credit cards maxed out, and the line of credit exceeded and past due. That’s why, she realized, that’s why she felt forced to bet on a losing pair of stupid nines, when the smart thing would have been to fold and wait for a better deal to come. It’s written in the mathematical rules that govern chaos; the better hand will come eventually. All she needed to do was pace herself, so that her money would last the needed time she had to wait for the winning hand to show up. Huh . . . that simple. You can’t win at poker if you’re desperate or in a hurry.
She turned and went for the ATM instead, and put in her debit card as soon as the line of gamblers in front of her cleared up. She entered her pin and saw the option to withdraw cash was grayed out. She checked her balance; it showed $-2,482.27, and available funds $17.73. Even her overdraft protection was maxed out.
One by one, she tried all her credit cards, under the judgmental, impatient, sympathetic, or annoyed looks of customers waiting in line to use the ATM.
Nothing; no stars aligned to give her access to the little cash she needed to win again, now that she knew what she needed to do to get back in the graces of Lady Luck. Nada . . . she was cleaned out, with one more week left until payday.
Stifling a sob, she went straight for the cashier’s desk and actually made it, exchanged her two remaining chips for a twenty-dollar bill. She needed to eat until n
ext Friday.
In the silence and bleakness of her apartment, she sat on the side of her bed, nurturing the few remaining drops of liquor she’d been able to squeeze from the bottom of some empty bottles. Her tears had run dry, getting the emotion out of the way so that her brain could take over and think rationally. She was an engineer; the years of discipline, deductive reasoning, and use of logic finally engaged in the process of identifying what her problem really was and figuring out how to fix it.
In the silent darkness of her bedroom she whispered, “Hi, my name is Sylvia, and I’m an addict.”
...42
...Friday, May 13, 11:52PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Alex Hoffmann’s Residence
...San Diego, California
The doorbell startled Alex a little; it was almost midnight. She thought it must be one of the guys, with something so urgent and confidential that it couldn’t be handled over the phone.
She smiled, remembering how she had sneaked in to slide a piece of paper under Tom’s door one night, and scared the crap out of both of them when she’d stumbled upon him smoking his cigar on the patio, in complete darkness. Yup, emergencies like that can happen.
She paused the TV, put on a bathrobe, and opened the door widely, without checking the peephole. She was expecting a friend, but the man standing in her doorway wasn’t one of her Agency colleagues.
“You!” she exclaimed, perplexed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Well, believe it or not, I’ve come to apologize,” Jeremy Weber said, “and to ask you to come back to Norfolk.”
She mumbled some oaths and, after thinking for a few seconds, reluctantly got out of the way.
“Come in,” she said eventually, “take a seat. Need anything? Water? Beer?”
“Beer would be nice,” he said, sitting down on her couch, uneasy. “It’s been a long flight.”