by Leslie Wolfe
A bike messenger, probably eighteen years old, scrawny and crazy fast on his two wheels, appeared from around a corner. He wore a T-shirt and a cap, both inscribed with the FastLite logo. Jeremy waved his badge at him and stopped him before turning on McLeod’s street.
“Weber, FBI. I’m gonna need your T-shirt and your cap. And your bike too.”
The kid gave Weber a doubtful, amused look. Agent Weber was twice his size.
He read his mind and said, “It’s gonna fit, son, don’t worry. It has to.”
He put on the kid’s shirt with difficulty. It would be a miracle if the T did not end up ripped along the seams; it had to be at least three sizes too small.
“Hey,” the boy called. “You’ll need this too.” He handed him the receipt pad and a pencil.
“Thanks.”
Weber took the kid’s bike and rode it to McLeod’s door, then rang the bell.
McLeod opened the door and checked Weber out, frowning a little.
“You’re . . . a little mature for this job, if you don’t mind me saying,” he commented.
“Yeah . . . Well, just making an extra buck at night, man, what can I do? Car’s broken, can’t do pizza delivery no more.” He scratched his forehead, then played indifferently with his phone a little, going through his music, giving McLeod the time to make up his mind.
McLeod sighed and handed him a gift-wrapped package.
“It’s for my son’s birthday. He lives in Smithfield with his mom. Do you think you can take this there tonight?”
“You bet.”
McLeod handed him forty dollars and asked him to keep the change. Weber almost forgot to write the shipping receipt.
He turned the corner and stopped, then took the T-shirt off, as soon as he was out of McLeod’s line of sight, and handed it back to its rightful owner. Then he opened the package. Wrapped neatly inside a Disney DVD case, several documents marked TOP SECRET were folded in half, all of them unregistered, unauthorized copies of original classified documents. The first page was titled, “Capabilities Assessment for Zumwalt-Class Destroyers.” The package was addressed to Smolin’s residence.
“Let’s bust the fucking bastard,” Weber spoke into his radio.
...71
...Tuesday, June 7, 5:04PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Federal Bureau of Investigation—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
Alex checked her temporary desk, drawer by drawer, making sure she didn’t leave anything behind. Hmm . . . her own office inside an FBI building, who would have thought?
She was getting ready to leave. Her case was closed, and her client, Walcott Global Technologies, happy. Well . . . as happy as it could have been under the circumstances. She was joining Mason and Sam for dinner later, to celebrate. The next day, she’d board a flight back to her home in California.
“You ready?” Weber asked from the doorway.
“Yeah, ready.” She turned to grab her laptop bag, then added, “One more thing I gotta ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“When you interrogate Smolin, can you ask him . . . well, about the man, that
Russian . . .”
“You mean the man from the case you said you had no idea what I was talking about?” Weber asked with a crooked smile.
“Yeah, the case we never worked on, that one,” she confirmed and winked. “Ask him about a Russian with the initial V, who calls all the shots and plans majestic endeavors of espionage and warfare,” she said, almost laughing at how cheesy her description sounded. But how true . . . she thought bitterly.
“You got it. And here’s something else that you might find interesting. It’s highly confidential; please handle it appropriately.” He handed her a manila envelope containing a dark blue brief bearing the insignia of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“What is it?”
“It’s a report prepared by a senior CIA analyst regarding Russia’s intentions to invigorate its nuclear arsenal and restart the Cold War. It might help you identify your Russian.”
She dropped the laptop bag to the floor and flipped through the pages.
“I have to meet with this analyst,” she said, then looked on the cover page for the name she was missing. “I need to speak with this Henrietta Marino ASAP. She’s missing critical information.”
“That’s a bad idea, Alex. Hell, no.” He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “See? That’s why I shouldn’t break the fucking rules, ’cause they bite me in the ass every goddamned time,” he said angrily. “You’re not authorized to know this report even exists. Don’t get me in trouble, all right?”
“I won’t, I promise. But I do have to speak with her, and it’s urgent.”
He shrugged, defeated, then added, “Trying to stop you is like trying to stop the damn midnight express. Good luck with that . . .” Weber rubbed his neck as if to get rid of a migraine. “But be careful, all right? Not every agency out there is willing to look the other way on some of the stuff you . . . didn’t do.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Alex replied with a frown. “I have to.”
...72
...Wednesday, June 8, 10:45AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Federal Bureau of Investigation—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
The thirty-six hours Bob McLeod spent in federal detention had left marks on his face, his clothes, and his entire appearance. His hair and beard were grimy and unkempt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his dirty hands ran through his hair and over his face almost obsessively. He had slept, the little he’d been allowed to, in his suit, and that looked crumpled and dirty, the fine, designer, wool fabric reduced to a rag.
By contrast, the FBI agent seated across from him at the small, metallic table looked fresh and almost content, sipping steaming coffee from his tall cup and showing slight irritation in his eyes when reviewing McLeod’s file.
McLeod decided to break the silence.
“You’re still not going to allow me my right to an attorney?” he spoke almost defiantly.
“Traitors have no rights,” Agent Weber replied indifferently, almost casually.
“How long are you gonna keep me here?” McLeod protested, slamming his hands on the tabletop as much as his chained cuffs allowed him. “You can’t keep me like this forever.”
“That is correct,” Weber confirmed, not even looking at McLeod and continuing to read the excerpt from prior interrogation sessions. “But you seem to be forgetting you were caught in an act of espionage and treason, and that voids all your rights under the Patriot Act.”
McLeod fell silent for a while, them whispered, “Gitmo?”
“No. We’ve recently closed that facility, but we have others, just as capable of handling our country’s traitors, maybe even better, because no one really knows they exist. Everyone knew about damn Gitmo . . . It was becoming such a drag to deal with all that public outrage. That’s over, done with. We have new locations.” Weber sipped some more coffee, then continued, “For example, we have a new facility specialized for people who won’t talk at all, for traitors who just fail to understand their situation. They make things hard for us? Then we make things hard for them . . . And, of course, we have to keep such operations offshore, in places so deep and dark no one ever hears the screams, and no one ever counts the bodies.”
McLeod shuddered and swallowed hard. His defiance was all gone; he sat crouched, with his shoulders forward and head bowed. Then he spoke quietly.
“What do you want to know?”
“For starters, I want to know details on every piece of information you stole, and who you gave it to.”
McLeod hesitated. He must have known that an admission of treason was not going to help his case much. For a logical, cold-blooded thinker as he obviously was, he must have known by now he was finished anyway. He might as well cut his pain and get this phase over, done as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Treason carried an un
avoidable death sentence. If McLeod didn’t know that by now, Weber was determined to reiterate that point and help him make up his mind to talk.
McLeod sighed and started talking in a low, almost casual voice.
“I had access to three classified files—SECRET, TOP SECRET, or above— all about the laser cannon installation on Zumwalt-class destroyers, or about the cannon itself. I copied all three and took the information home.”
“Go on,” Weber said.
“Then I prepared several deliveries.” McLeod cleared his throat, continuing, “I wasn’t going to hand out everything in one deal. I milked it for all it was worth.”
“So, you’re just a regular Judas, a traitor for money?”
McLeod smiled bitterly. “That’s what you think, huh? How simple it is for you ignorants to slap a label on someone and find peace with your conscience, no matter how wrong you are. Amazing . . . Ignorance is bliss.”
“Then tell me, what am I missing?”
“You haven’t asked the most important question: why? Why did I decide to risk my life and my freedom to give these people information? I couldn’t care less about their ideology.”
“OK, I’ll bite. Why?”
“A few years ago I filed a patent for a new navigation stabilization system, one that could be used on Navy vessels, and also adapted to any aircraft. My invention introduced variable geometry controlled by environmental sensors. In short, the vessel would change its hull properties depending on currents and wind direction, bringing significant gains in speed, fuel efficiency, and stability. Do you even know how important that is, how much of a game changer? I guess I’m safe to presume not . . .”
“Yes, you are. Go ahead, I’m all ears,” Weber replied dryly, immune to McLeod’s biting arrogance.
“The patent was filed under joint authorship, me and Walcott Global. It wasn’t the first patent that I filed under these circumstances.”
“Then what happened?” Weber asked, while his interest piqued.
“A couple of months ago I heard it on TV, on the fucking TV no less, that Walcott had sold my patent to Endeavor Aviation for 157 million dollars. Nicely done! I didn’t even know about it.”
“Then what did you do?”
“At that point I was still a solid citizen,” he said with a disgusted scoff. “I went to see my boss about it, then Human Resources. They all said the same thing, that all my work was work for hire, that I was being paid every two weeks, and that they didn’t owe me anything. Fucking bastards!”
“I understand you were upset—”
“Upset? I was frantic! What a difference 5 percent would have made for me, for my life, while they wouldn’t even have felt it. Even 1 percent; I’d have taken that 1 percent and be eternally grateful. But no . . . the fucking greedy parasites, the leeches, sucking every ounce of someone’s value and paying pennies for it. They had the arrogance to think they could own my brain. They only pay for eight hours of my time during each business day. They don’t even come close to paying for everything this has to offer,” McLeod finished his tirade pointing his right index finger at his temple.
“Then what did you do?”
“I decided to make them pay a different way, if I couldn’t negotiate with them. I thought maybe there was someone else out there willing to pay me, while I taught the leeches a lesson in humility and fair compensation. That’s why I didn’t hand out all the documents at a time.”
Weber’s anger was getting harder to control. He couldn’t believe the entitled arrogance in that asshole.
“Did you ever stop to think you were betraying your country, Mr. McLeod?”
“My country can take it, Agent Weber. This country is full of brilliant schmucks like me who’ll invent new gizmos every day and get paid next to nothing for it. That’s what makes America great, isn’t it?”
Weber stood abruptly and exited the interview room, afraid his mixed feelings would cloud his judgment in there. He had spent his entire life serving his country, and nothing disgusted him more than a traitor. He could have wrung that arrogant bastard’s neck himself in there, with his bare hands. Yet, in the back of his mind somewhere, he could feel the man’s frustration and see his point. Maybe McLeod wasn’t the only guilty party in this game . . . Maybe Walcott could have done things a little differently too, although Walcott had never broken the law; only McLeod had.
But if that were entirely the case, why didn’t Mason Armstrong find any evidence of this situation anywhere in McLeod’s file, Human Resources debriefings, or during the interview with his manager?
...73
...Wednesday, June 8, 1:46PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Naval Medical Center
...Portsmouth, Virginia
Evgheni Smolin woke up a little disoriented and started looking around his hospital room. The smells of disinfectant and medication were his first sensory input, followed by the whiteness of everything in that room.
He was by himself; always a good thing. His healthy left arm was handcuffed to the bed rail, and an IV line was stuck in it. His right shoulder hurt quite badly, but it was bearable. His right arm was bandaged and immobilized. His mouth felt dry, probably from the anesthetics they had given him for surgery.
There was a chip in one of his molars. He felt around with the tip of his tongue, then grunted angrily. His cyanide capsule was gone, probably removed during surgery. Bastards . . .
He was hooked up to several sensors. A clasp sensor on one of his fingers measured his blood oxygenation. Several adhesive sensors planted on his chest conveyed electrical signals to the monitors next to his bed. The upper monitor beeped and displayed a healthy, steady heart rate of fifty-eight beats per minute, and a blood pressure of 112 over 74. The lower monitor showed his breathing rate at fourteen per minute, with 98 percent O2 sat.
The wall at his right was made entirely of glass and had a French door, which was wide open. He took a few minutes to observe the traffic in the hallway, and listen to the sounds—how distant they were and what kind. All was peaceful on that hospital floor, except the MP who guarded his room closely, leaning against the glass. However, that MP was bound to leave his post at some point.
Waiting for that to happen, he started checking out his own body. He lifted his head from the pillow and noted no dizziness. Great. He tensed the muscles in one leg, then the other, restoring a vigorous blood flow and waking those muscles up. He was ready, as ready as he was ever going to be.
The MP looked in his direction briefly, then walked slowly away. Smolin gave him a minute to disappear, then moved into action.
First, he leaned on his left side, reached out, and with a great deal of effort, grabbed the IV needle with his teeth, and pulled it out of his arm. Then he held his breath for as long as he could, sending one of the monitors into a beeping frenzy. After that, he started hyperventilating, and then held his breath again. This type of respiratory distress finally raised his heart rate above 120 beats per minute and spiked his blood pressure, causing the second monitor to join in the concert of beeps.
A nurse burst in his room and started checking his vitals on the monitors, as Smolin heaved, hyperventilated, and writhed on the bed, making it hard for the nurse to assess his condition. Vaguely, he heard a code call, and then the nurse’s voice, yelling from right next to him.
“Hey, you, come on in here and remove his handcuff, stat!”
The MP came in and did as instructed. The moment Smolin felt his hand go free, he grabbed the MP’s hand and jumped, headbutting him hard. The MP fell backward against the rack of monitors. The same second Smolin was on his feet, tearing his sensor wires away from his body, and kicking the fallen MP in the neck, sending him out cold.
He turned to deal with the nurse, who was leaping toward the exit. He grabbed her from behind and slammed her against the wall. She fell and lay senseless.
He leaned down, grabbed her ICU access card, and disappeared.
...74
...Wednesday, June 8
, 2:57PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Norfolk International Airport
...Norfolk, Virginia
Alex bypassed the line for the public TSA screening and went toward the gate reserved for flight crews and traveling law enforcement. That was her only option, if she wanted to travel anywhere with her weapon.
She presented her FBI credentials to the TSA officer, then she proceeded through the gate, and walked right out of there staring intently at the TSA officer who had just waved her through.
“Is there something wrong, miss?” the man asked, surprised by her intent gaze.
“N–no, nothing,” she said. She pulled her cell phone and dialed Weber’s number, walking away from the checkpoint.
“Miss? You forgot your bag.”
“Shit,” she mumbled, then grabbed it and walked away just as Weber picked up the call.
“Hey, Jeremy, it’s me.”
“Hey, you,” he replied. “Ready to go home?”
“Yeah. Just cleared TSA, which made me think we should ask them if they see sandwiches or any other food go by.”
“Right,” he said, “good point. I’ll get right on that. Safe travels, Ms. Hoffmann.”
“Thanks. Oh, and by the way, I hated working with you. So you know, Agent Weber,” she said, smiling widely. “You’re good people, Weber.”
“You, too. Hey, could you just hold on for a sec, I have another call coming in.”
He put her on hold before she could answer. There wasn’t really anything much left to be said, anyway.
“Hey, you still there?” Weber’s voice sounded grave and urgent as he picked up the call again.