The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  McAllister obviously wasn’t used to being talked to in this matter, especially in her father’s company. Her face went from pink to scarlet and she twisted her mouth into an even harsher scowl. It had to hurt.

  Braxton’s outburst, which carried without diminution across the open room, silenced all other sounds.

  They stood glaring at each other for what felt like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. Glancing around, Braxton suddenly noticed the tops of heads poking over the cubicle walls. This was not the way to begin a new assignment.

  “Kerry,” he began slowly, ratcheting his voice’s volume down a notch. “I understand what you’re feeling. I’ve been in the same position. Some consultant you’ve never heard of invades your territory and makes a bunch of demands. It’s not how you wanted to spend your day. But I’m not the enemy. I’m not here to tell you what to do. This is just a review of your procedures. I promise to be thorough and honest. When I’m done, I’ll be gone and you’ll never see me again. Can we make a fresh start?”

  McAllister’s face didn’t change. But her shoulders dropped just a touch and she seemed to relax.

  “For some reason, Mr. Braxton, my father has a lot of confidence in you. I’ll do what I can to help, but we do have other work to accomplish here. Is that sufficient?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Can we get together tomorrow?”

  “If we must.” McAllister spun on her heels and disappeared into the maze.

  * * *

  “Quite a piece of work, isn’t she?”

  Braxton looked up from the two-inch thick binder of Omega Genomics’ personnel policies and saw a tall, slender young woman standing outside his cubicle.

  “Hello, Miss …”

  “Colleen. Colleen O’Connor. And who might you be? You’re cute!”

  Braxton decided that it was O’Connor that was cute. She was wearing a navy blue sweater and black slacks, both of which highlighted quite a statuesque figure. Dark red hair hung loosely on her shoulders and surrounded a freckled face with big brown eyes and an even bigger crimson mouth. Which currently was spread into a very appealing smile.

  “Adam Braxton,” he answered, returning the grin. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  It had been a long time since Braxton had even thought about being cute to the opposite sex. Building his business had taken all of his energy over the past few years, and, with the exception of an on-again, off-again relationship with a Congressional staffer, women had not been part of his life. He wasn’t unattractive: just under six feet tall with a full head of short sandy-brown hair and clear green eyes. Regular exercise at the Tyson’s gym kept him reasonably fit, although he did miss past rock-climbing excursions with his Cambridge friends. Chu was always pestering him about getting out, but there never seemed to be time.

  “I didn’t know we had any new employees,” O’Connor continued. “Are you a software guy?”

  “Sort of. I’m a security consultant. Dr. McAllister, ah, Devon, asked me to do a security audit. Just standard stuff.”

  Braxton had learned early in his career that sometimes employers didn’t want their employees to know exactly what he was doing in their offices and why. McAllister hadn’t given him any direction so he had decided to be as circumspect as possible. Probably a very good idea since his real boss was the CIA.

  “What do you do?” he continued.

  “I’m an artist. And software geek wannabe.” Her eyes twinkled when she talked. Quite a change from his previous visitor.

  “That’s very impressive. But why does Omega need an artist?”

  “Me? I work on the ChildSafe side of the business. I make age-corrected identity pictures when kids get lost. It’s really satisfying when I can help find them.”

  “Even more impressive. You get to help out when kids are in danger. Sure beats reading policy manuals all day.” He motioned to the manuals piled on the desktop.

  “It keeps me busy. You must be the spook I heard about at the coffee machine. Are we all really in your files?”

  So much for circumspect. He should have realized there are no secrets when it comes to office gossip.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a tired consultant trying to help out Dr. McAllister.”

  “If you say so. But you don’t look tired to me. How long will you be with us?” That twinkle was really getting to him.

  “Probably a couple of days. Do you work down here?”

  “No. My office is up on two with the lab guys. But a lot of my friends are software engineers. I’m down here pretty often. It would be nice to see you again. Okay if I stop by?”

  Braxton hesitated. He was here to do a job, not flirt with the employees. But it might help to know an insider who didn’t hold a grudge against him. He needed as much information on Omega as he could get. “Absolutely. As long as you let me get my job done.” He did his best to punctuate the comment with his most engaging smile.

  “Fair enough. See ya.” She gave a quick flick of her hand and headed down the aisle.

  Braxton remembered Devon McAllister’s comment about aging software. That made sense, but there must be lots of those applications available already. Why did Omega need an artist to help build another one? Seems a bit astray from their corporate focus.

  I guess I do have a lot to learn about this business.

  * * *

  Frank Wilson shut the door to his office and collapsed back in his chair. His hands were shaking and his pulse pounded in his ears like cannon shots.

  At least he had an office: four real walls and a door that actually opened and closed. Not like the hive of drones in their plastic cubicles filling the rest of the floor. It didn’t have soft carpet, polished woods and fancy diplomas like those upstairs, but it was his. He had worked his butt off for four long years to get this far. Doing everything they had asked. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let some damn consultant take it from him.

  He glanced around his desk. To the stack of unread security alerts and the list of reference books he’d never read. To the server logs and corporate memos he had to review. But none of that was important now. What should he do?

  Take it easy. You can handle this.

  He had watched the activity in the cubicles all afternoon. The consultant’s area had been in constant motion. First Kerry, then some programmers and finally that bitch O’Connor. They should have shut Braxton up in a conference room and locked the door. What the hell was the man doing?

  I have to tell someone. There are procedures.

  His hand still shook as he reached into his pocket for his cell phone and punched in a number.

  “Good afternoon,” said the friendly female voice.

  “Commonwealth,” Wilson replied.

  Silence, then a few nearly inaudible clicks. Sending him where? He sure as hell didn’t know.

  “What’s the problem?” Now a harsh male voice.

  “It’s that consultant. He’s poking into all our systems.”

  “The security audit? It’s a review of policies and procedures. Why are you calling about that?”

  “He’s doing more than reading manuals. He wants to look at the actual logs. And he’s asking questions. Including about what all the programmers are doing.”

  “I see.” Silence again. “The logs are clean, aren’t they? You followed our orders?”

  “Yes, dammit! But who knows what he’s looking for. You’ve got to get rid of him.” The shaking was getting worse. He had to hide his fear. He couldn’t let them think he wasn’t in control. “The logs won’t be a problem. But I can’t control who he talks to. O’Connor has already approached him. She’s a screwball and always looking for a new conquest. Who knows what she might tell him?”

  “Calm down. Eliminating him would look a bit suspicious don’t you think? And they’d just send another investigator.”

  The voice was softer. Maybe they were listening.

  “What’s his name?”

  Wilson glanced down at the paper
s the consultant had left. “Braxton. Adam Braxton. Cerberus Consulting. From D.C.”

  “Okay. We’ll get back to you.”

  “All right, but you’d better …” The line went dead.

  Wilson dropped his head into his hands. If the consultant found out what was really going on, his office wouldn’t be the only thing he’d lose.

  * * *

  It was only 4:30, but Braxton’s eyes were already tearing from the unending bureaucratese of the manuals. He swore he could have conveyed the same information in one-tenth the space. But then think of all the lawyers that would be out of jobs.

  He needed a break and decided his room at the Square would be infinitely more comfortable than this cubicle. As he gathered up the last of the policy tomes still to be read, he realized there was one more task to be performed. And he ignored it at his peril.

  “Cerberus Consulting.”

  “Hi, Karen, It’s Adam. “What’s up?”

  “Hi, boss. I was wondering if you were going to check in.” Ouch. Only a small barb on that arrow. “Things here are fine. The Lockheed Martin contract came through and CDC called for a follow-up on their supplier audit. They’re still pretty touchy about that National Culture Collection incident. Oh, and Sam called. Asked about dinner.”

  Sam Fowler was a friend and crusty ex-D.C. detective to whom Braxton had already entrusted his life more than once. Since retiring, Fowler augmented his pension with gigs as a private investigator, often for Cerberus Consulting.

  “Thanks. Doesn’t sound like anything urgent. Could you call Sam back and tell him Saturday should work? Hopefully, I’ll be done up here by then.”

  “Will do. Things going okay? No spies? Secretive Mata-Haris? People shooting at you?”

  Braxton smiled and shook his head. But was she really serious? “No, Karen. I’m the only spy here today. Everything is normal. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “You better. Bye.”

  Sufficiently chastised by his office-wife, Braxton stuffed the pile of notebooks into his backpack and headed for the exit. It was going to be a long evening.

  Chapter 6

  Harvard Square Hotel, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Tuesday, 11:00 p.m.

  The trip to Cambridge hadn’t been as stressful as he had feared. By the time he had left Omega, the skies had cleared and a bright sun had shone over the Charles. Students had lazed along the grassy shores and a few individual shells had coursed their way down the river; the collegiate crews were generally only seen early in the morning. He had crossed the bridge, headed up Western Avenue to Central Square and turned left on Mass Ave to Harvard.

  Harvard Square had changed little since he left. Residents and students of all sizes, shapes and colors walked the sidewalks carrying grocery sacks or backpacks loaded with textbooks. He had been taken by the energy and youth of Cambridge when he had first come to the Boston area. Harvard Square especially was intellectually electric, an eternal power source constantly recharged by an influx of students, professors, and business people. It had fit the style Braxton had envisioned for himself. He would probably still be living here had it not been for the Incident and its consequences.

  He had checked in to the Harvard Square Hotel and gone through his standard road warrior procedure: turn the TV to CNN and set the volume on low to mask extraneous hotel noises. They had been broadcasting unending “breaking news” on the Saudi Crown Prince assassination, so at six o’clock he had switched to WBZ for some local news. He had always liked listening to their anchors. But instead of the familiar faces he had known when he lived in Cambridge, the screen showed two young, fresh-faced reporters enthusiastically reporting the discovery of a meth lab in Gloucester.

  He had ordered room service and gone back to the Omega Genomics’ manuals, ignoring any further interruptions by the ‘BZ commentators and inane sitcoms.

  It was now 11:00, past time to go to sleep, but the kitchen’s Meaty Supreme Pizza still lay leaden in his stomach. Lying down now wasn’t a good idea.

  Halfway through Security Training Procedures for New Hires, something broke his concentration and he looked up. What he saw was the strained face of Dr. Devon McAllister. He turned up the volume.

  “… It will, of course, be a great honor to receive the Nobel Prize in Stockholm.”

  The camera pulled back revealing a wall of photographs and awards. It was McAllister’s office. Sitting across from the scientist was a thin, well-coiffed reporter. Auburn hair framed a tight, intense face with high cheekbones and thin lips. Her aqua silk suit showed a shadow of cleavage and a skirt pulled seductively above her knee, just enough to create a useful distraction for her interviewees.

  Braxton recognized her as Pam Pryor. Pryor was a relentless investigative reporter on WBZ known for her rapid-fire questions and penchant for public eviscerations of well-to-do Boston politicians and business people. He was surprised McAllister had agreed to the interview, despite the potential positive publicity for Omega.

  “But what about all the money that you have gained from your discoveries, Dr. McAllister?” Pryor continued. “Don’t you feel a bit embarrassed to receive this award because of your wealth?”

  “As I’m sure you are aware, Ms. Pryor,” McAllister began slowly, “the Nobel Prize is given in recognition of accomplishments in basic science. Sometimes these accomplishments result in commercial success, other times not. But they always represent significant advancements for the benefit of mankind. I am honored that my work has been so recognized by my peers in the scientific community.”

  “I see. Do you think the creation of your charity assisted in the Committee’s recognition of this benefit to mankind?”

  Braxton doubted any viewer missed the sarcasm in Pryor’s question.

  McAllister didn’t say a word and looked straight into the camera. He held this pose for fifteen seconds, breaking Pryor’s cadence and drawing the full attention of the audience. He had been trained well.

  “I am very proud of the ChildSafe Foundation, Ms. Pryor. My work with ChildSafe is just one way for me to thank this country and its citizens for their help in reaching those achievements. It is not a charity, but a foundation dedicated to assisting parents locate lost or stolen children. As a father, I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child. The availability of a genetic sample can be of significant assistance in rapidly identifying a lost child. ”

  “If a dead child is found you mean?”

  McAllister’s face froze. His eyes bore into the camera. “That would be one possibility, unfortunately. But there are many other reasons a child may be unable to identify himself. An injury, for example, or the trauma of an assault or kidnapping. Rapid and accurate identification in these cases can alleviate further harm and even be lifesaving. If we look at the case of …”

  “Yes, Dr. McAllister. We see,” Pryor interrupted. “But there are some who say the collection of this information is a serious breach of confidentiality. And will lead to genetic profiling. Do you have a response to these claims?”

  “I’ve heard all these before, Ms. Pryor, and they are all quite false.” McAllister adjusted his body in the chair and leaned toward the interviewer. “Every sample we collect is completely anonymous. We do not know the identity of the children. This means there is no way to correlate, or profile as you called it, individuals.”

  “But you are collecting a sample of each child’s DNA?”

  “Yes, Ms. Pryor. We have volunteers all over the country who hold registration events. We do take a small sample of cells from the child’s cheek. There is no cost for the registration and we catalog and hold the samples, anonymously, in case of emergencies.”

  “So you can’t identify a recovered child?”

  “No. Not directly. After the authorities notify us of a missing child, using a unique code they receive from the child’s parents, we retrieve the child’s information from our database. When a child is subsequently located, we can then compare its DNA with those that hav
e been identified as lost. We currently have the sequences of over five million children in our databases. It would be virtually impossible to compare a single child against all of them.”

  Pryor’s eyes glanced up. She was getting orders over her earpiece. “Ah, that’s all the time we have today. Thank you, Dr. McAllister. This is Pam Pryor, WBZ News.”

  Braxton remained transfixed on the screen even after the young talking heads reappeared. It was something McAllister had said. Braxton had assumed that ChildSafe was simply a repository for DNA samples. But McAllister had said they had “the sequences of over five million children.” Not the samples, but the sequences. Did ChildSafe, likely assisted by Omega Genomics, have a database of five million DNA genome sequences? If they did, that could explain the sea of programmers he had seen. And the intense interest of the CIA. The value of such a repository would be incalculable. What could be learned from all that data?

  He now had a lot more questions for the staff at Omega Genomics.

  * * *

  Rockwell sat pensively at his desk, reviewing the plans for the upcoming operation. The sun had long ago disappeared behind the mountains, plunging the farm into that unique blackness known only to those in rural areas. A lone table lamp illuminated the scarred wooden desk. For him, the darkness brought a tranquility that was impossible in the light of day. This was when he could truly think and evaluate his plans.

  His vision was finally coming to fruition. It had taken so long, and had had its personal costs, but soon they would all see the brilliance of the plan. Especially all the doubters.

  Rockwell knew his team was ready. They had been preparing for something like this for years. But every commander knew that preparation was never enough. There were too many variables. He needed luck as well. Would she smile on him one more time?

  “Sir?”

  He looked up to see Penrose standing in the doorway. “Yes, William?”

  “We’ve had contact from Omega, sir.”

  Rockwell frowned. Why the hell would they be breaking silence? He didn’t need any complications at this point in the operation. “Who was it?”