by Leslie Wolfe
She brought cold Stella Artois for both of them, took an armchair, and folded her legs under her.
“So,” she said, “let’s hear it. What could have possibly been so serious to make you hop on a plane and waste a whole day in flight when you’re supposed to be chasing spies in Norfolk?”
She was making him uncomfortable, irritating him, and she was doing it on purpose. He was clasping his hands together, and obviously refraining from being his usual douche-bag self that she remembered clearly from earlier in the morning. She almost chuckled; she wasn’t gonna make it any easier for the jerk.
“Walcott considers . . . well, actually they believe very strongly you should be involved in this investigation.”
“Huh . . . do they now?” she replied pensively.
“They believe it so strongly that my director was persuaded before I even got back to the office this morning. We have his approval. We’ll set you up as an FBI contractor, have you take the polygraph needed to gain full access to this case, and we’re ready. We should be ready in twenty-four hours.”
“Wait a second,” she snapped, “I haven’t exactly said yes, now have I?”
The smug asshole! That was his version of an apology? Where did the feds find these people?
“You don’t really have a choice, Ms. Hoffmann,” he replied serenely, a crooked smile showing on his lips.
“Yeah? And how’s that?” She stood and started pacing angrily, her bathrobe fluttering around her like a fuzzy superhero cape. She didn’t care if he saw her jammies; she just wanted the fucker out of her house, pronto.
“I’ve done some research on you, to find out why exactly you’re so damn critical for Walcott’s investigation.”
“And?” Alex asked impatiently, tapping her bare foot on the carpet, her clenched fists stuck firmly in her pockets.
He leaned back, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “I know what case you’ve just worked on.”
She felt a rush of blood to her head and the fist of adrenaline hit her bowel. Fuck!
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she managed to articulate, sounding calm and plausible.
“Oh, yes, you do. I’m talking about the twenty-something laws you and your team broke just by knowing about that threat and not calling us in. I’m talking about the elections case. I’d say this fact limits your options somehow, wouldn’t you agree? It should definitely improve your attitude for starters,” he scoffed.
She weighed her options quickly, then replied dryly, “Well, if you know that much, Agent Weber, then you probably must already know that the last asshole who sat where you’re sitting right now ended up dead, and my only problem with it was that I had to replace my favorite couch.”
He laughed, stood up and approached her with his extended hand. “It’s Jeremy.”
“Huh?” she reacted.
“You can call me Jeremy.”
Alex looked at him for a second, thinking. He obviously wasn’t there to arrest her for her work on the elections case, and she was interested in this challenge. Her gut was telling her that by working with Walcott she could come closer to identifying V, her elusive Russian mastermind, the mystery man taking the front and central spot on her crazy wall. That gut feeling, that thin wisp of hope was worth putting up with Agent Weber. Maybe there was room for some decent collaboration between the two of them. Maybe.
She shook his hand and replied reluctantly, “Alex.”
“Shall we start again?” Jeremy asked insidiously.
She grabbed her Stella and gulped down half the bottle, then sat back in her armchair.
“Tell me again, why do they need me? Or why do they think they need me?”
“Here’s the long story, short. Two teams of engineers used the corporate van between detailings. On Tuesday, the fleet manager found an illegally copied document in the van. One of these eleven people dropped it by accident, but that means someone made an illegal copy of a file containing critical state secrets, the laser cannon technology I was talking about this morning.”
“And?” she asked. “I still don’t follow why me.”
“You can infiltrate technical teams, that’s what you do, right?”
“Right . . . That’s what I do. So what’s your plan of action?”
She reached over to the coffee table and grabbed her laptop.
“What are you doing?”
“Booking us flights. Never mind me, what’s your plan?”
“Get you acquainted with the case, get you credentialized first, then we proceed from there.”
“Polygraph, huh?” Alex asked, thoughtful and a little concerned.
“Yup,” he said.
“Mandatory?”
“Gotta do it.”
“Then you better make sure they don’t ask me the wrong questions,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“About the case I’ve never worked on,” she said and winked, “the elections case.”
“I think that can be arranged,” he replied coolly. “What else would you need?”
“I need reading materials about the laser cannon. I can’t hope to infiltrate those teams without having the slightest idea of what that is and how it works. And I’ll need Walcott’s procedure manual, or someone who’ll walk me through everything I need to know about making copies, gaining access to documents, that kind of stuff. I think Mason Armstrong can take care of that.”
“What else?” Jeremy asked, taking notes.
“I need you to work with me and run background checks, people’s profiles. I need access to their files, work histories, financials, all that. Just routine for you.”
“You got it. How are we doing on flights?”
“Like hell,” she replied, frowning and slamming the laptop shut. “With these options we won’t make it to Norfolk before 10.00PM. Let me make a call.”
“It’s 2.00AM!” he exclaimed.
“He won’t mind . . . I hope.”
She dialed a number from her cell’s memory, and the call was answered immediately.
“Brian? Sorry to bother . . . I need your help badly. I need to bail out on your case, and I need to borrow your jet.”
She paused for a minute, listening to Brian’s answer, and watching with amusement how Jeremy’s jaw dropped. Then she thanked Brian and closed the call.
“Who are you, people?” Jeremy asked.
...43
...Tuesday, May 17, 10:55AM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Russian Ministry of Defense, Vitaliy Myatlev’s Office
...Moscow, Russia
Vitaliy Myatlev and Defense Minister Dimitrov lit their cigars, waiting impatiently for the aide to finish his work. The two of them stood by the open window overlooking Moscow’s cityscape under a rare and wonderful blue sky.
The young aide set up a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the small coffee table. Small saltine crackers in a silver bowl. Beluga caviar in another bowl, this one sitting on a bed of ice. Pate de foie gras on a crystal tray, set on bite-sized pieces of toast. An unopened bottle of vodka, Myatlev’s favorite brand, Stolichnaya, ready to serve in an ice bucket.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” the aide asked. Myatlev just waved him away and the young man disappeared.
“What are we celebrating, Vitya?”
“How can you ask that?” Myatlev responded, feigning offense. “Only the first successful recruitment in our new network of agents. And what a first!”
“Smolin’s asset?”
“Da,” Myatlev replied, engulfed in thick cigar smoke. “Smolin said the first set of documents is impressive.”
“Tell me already, I’m growing older by the minute,” Dimitrov said humorously.
“Smolin’s asset confirmed that the Americans have the laser cannon weapon ready to deploy.”
“Fuck it . . . Petya’s going to be mad, so mad. He’ll say we were asleep at the wheel again. You know how much he hates any news that anyone’s ahead in anything.”
“Smolin’s source is very close to the project; he’ll give us more intel. Then we’ll know more.”
Dimitrov reached for the bottle and poured vodka in two glasses, then threw some ice cubes in them. He handed one to Myatlev and raised his in a joyless cheer.
“Ura,” he said, then gulped the liquid.
“Ura,” Myatlev said in unison, then continued, “You keep forgetting something, Mishka. You keep forgetting we should celebrate.
“Hard for me to think of celebrating, when the news is so bad.”
“Yes, but think of the big picture,” Myatlev insisted. “You, more than anyone else in this government, should be able to see the big picture. We have a new network in place. We have new handlers in the field, recruiting and getting us results. We have intel, good intel, and we’ll have better intel soon. And we have channels that we’ve tested now and we know they work. We’re back in business, Mishka, like in the old days.”
“Good,” Dimitrov cheered up a little, “I can drink to that!”
Myatlev quickly obliged and refilled their glasses with generous amounts of vodka.
“It only took Smolin a couple of weeks to hook his first asset, just a couple of weeks. Do you know how rare this kind of talent is? Even for us?”
Dimitrov nodded appreciatively.
“And I have found more like him. We can deploy all the good ones, to consolidate our network of assets.”
“What are you going after, Vitya?”
“Big data, Mishka, I am going after big data.”
Dimitrov rubbed his forehead thoughtfully.
“Do you want to hear me say I’m too old for this game? I won’t say it. Maybe I’m too old for your methods, but not for the game.”
“We’re both old fucks, Mishka, don’t kid yourself. But we can still get it up, we can get the job done like never before. That’s why we have hordes of young people in our organizations, da?”
Both men laughed hard, clicked their glasses, and drank their vodka.
Myatlev invited Dimitrov to approach the coffee table and try an appetizer.
“Now tell me,” Dimitrov asked, “what’s with this big data you’re talking about?”
“There isn’t anything you can’t find out when you’re willing to grab data in a massive way. The Americans are joining all their databases now, associating what people do with where they work and what they spend money on. Such incredible power.”
“And you want us to do the same?”
“Umm . . . yes, but in a different way. I want us to create backup plans to our backup plans, to grab any amount of intel there’s to be had out there.”
“On what?” Dimitrov asked, his eyebrows at an angle, conveying his confusion.
Myatlev stuck two of his right-hand fingers in the caviar and licked them, letting out a groan of satisfaction.
“On anything,” Myatlev replied. “Even if we don’t know on what, they will.”
Dimitrov swallowed a cracker dipped in Beluga, then said, “Now I am convinced you lost it. You’re not making any sense, my friend. I think the stress of life and of working with Abramovich has caused you some permanent brain damage,” he ended, half-jokingly, patting Myatlev on his shoulder.
“Nah . . . nothing like that,” Myatlev reassured him between bites of pate de foie gras washed down with another sip of vodka, “nothing like this, you’ll see. I’ll explain.”
“Huh . . . I’m curious to hear it,” Dimitrov said, then sat in a large leather armchair, stretching his legs, unbuttoning his jacket, and choosing a cigar.
“Just imagine we deploy a hundred assets, managed by ten handlers, on the American East Coast. We don’t know what to look for, but they don’t know that. So the handlers simply tell them to bring valuable information—the latest research, new technologies, and so on. We grab all that, we decrypt it, we study it.”
“Nah . . . that is ridiculous, Vitya.”
“I agree, some of the intel will be unusable crap, but some of it will be good. Good enough to let us know at least what’s out there worth looking for. Then we target our intelligence-gathering efforts, once we know what they’re doing.”
“So, you’re saying . . .”
“I’m saying Russia hasn’t conducted any decent intelligence work in the past two decades, Mishka, no offense intended. The Chinese are ahead of us in intelligence work, Mishka, the fucking Chinese! We have a huge gap. We don’t know who the players are any more and what they’re doing. This laser cannon thing caught us by complete surprise. And it was a pure shot in the dark.”
“Don’t tell me we don’t have lasers . . .” Dimitrov said, a hint of irritation coloring his voice.
“We do, but ours can’t be installed on battleships. First, we never thought of that, then second, we seem to be unable to make them smaller than a house.”
“Fuck . . .” Dimitrov took another drag from his cigar and blew the smoke out in small circles toward the open window.
“You see my point? The laser cannon intel was a shot in the dark. Smolin had no idea he had to ask for it. He just put the bait out for the asset, and the asset delivered one big motherfucking surprise.”
“How did he even find this asset?”
“He started from a list of interesting companies, from information that’s publicly available on the Internet. Now you see?”
“What?”
“What we could do with this type of approach, if we go after data and intelligence in a big way.”
Dimitrov nodded almost imperceptibly, then whistled quietly in admiration.
“You’re not crazy, my dear friend, not at all. Your diabolical genius still inhabits your attic,” Dimitrov said, tapping his own head with his finger. “But how are you planning to work through that massive amount of data?”
Myatlev smiled cryptically.
“How’s the construction going at your new military data center?”
“Almost done. They’re scheduled to bring in the equip—oh, no,” he stopped mid-sentence, “oh no, the Army needs that center, Vitya.”
“So you’ll build another one, Mishka, what’s the big deal? We need that center to build the biggest intelligence and security center in the world—the ISC. Ours. Just think what we can do with all that computing power.”
“We need that center, Vitya, for satellite operations, for military research, for new weapons.”
“And it will do all that, indirectly. Well, maybe not satellite operations, but everything else I think we can do.”
Dimitrov scratched his head, a doubtful look shading his eyes and wrinkling his forehead.
Myatlev didn’t let him think it for too long; he put a glass filled with vodka on ice in his hand, and toasted enthusiastically,
“To the ISC, ura! To Operation Leapfrog!” Myatlev cheered, baring his teeth in a wide smile filled with contagious confidence.
“To the ISC, to Leapfrog, na zdorovie!” Dimitrov replied, a little hesitant at first, then wholeheartedly.
The two men drank, then sighed loudly in the typical manner Russians express satisfaction when drinking to their hearts’ desire.
“How are you going to pay for this intelligence gathering, Vitya? It will cost a fortune. Intel is expensive, especially in America. People won’t betray their country for five bucks. You’ll need billions for such a bold plan.”
“I’m not going to spend a lot of money,” he said and winked. “I’m going to spend fear. And a little money too, but mostly fear. Just a little bit of carrot for our future assets, but mostly stick.”
Dimitrov looked him in the eye, surprised.
“That’s the value of big data,” Myatlev replied, but Dimitrov’s gaze remained puzzled.
Myatlev smiled a little arrogantly and whispered, “Trust me, everyone can be turned, everyone is gettable.”
...44
...Wednesday, May 18, 8:57AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Walcott Global Technologies Headquarters
...Norfolk, V
irginia
The four of them huddled closely together around Mason’s desk, a desk covered in paper and file folders unlike the typical organized workspace Mason liked to keep. Alex pushed the stack of files away from her a little, making room for the steaming cup of coffee she had brought in. Sam sat quietly, watching her get ready with a faint smile on his lips.
“Thank you for accommodating us this morning,” Alex said, “we appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do,” Mason replied. “Wouldn’t a conference room work better, considering the size of my office?”
“For now, I think we’re good,” Jeremy replied.
“Great, let’s get started,” she said.
“I’ll start,” Jeremy said, “by giving you your temporary FBI credentials,” he said, handing Alex a badge. “Welcome to the FBI.”
“Thank you,” she replied, studying it on both sides. “I understand contractor, but why temporary?”
“You haven’t passed your polygraph yet. You’re scheduled for tomorrow morning; that was the earliest I could arrange.”
“All right,” she replied with a little hesitation and a frown. Sam smiled encouragingly, and she nodded an unspoken thank you to him.
“This credential clears you to gain access to all information regarding this case,” Jeremy continued, “so if you have questions, now’s the time to ask them.”
“I have plenty,” she said. “Mason, can you please walk me through the procedure one needs to follow to make a photocopy of a document—any document—inside Walcott corporate offices?”
Mason ran his hand over his shiny, clean-shaven scalp and thought for a second before answering.
“The protocol differs significantly between any document and a TOP SECRET file,” he said.
“Let’s focus on the TOP SECRET files, then,” Alex asked.
“Let’s start with gaining access to TOP SECRET files. One can only do that if one has access to the CDR, our Centralized Documents Repository. Even if someone has clearance to enter the CDR, they can only access or remove files they are cleared to work on. We have an internal system that keeps track of everyone’s projects, tasks, and workloads, and matches those with document inventory numbers. With me so far?” Mason asked.