The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  “I want everything in that file.”

  Heath’s eyes popped. “That’s going to take some time, sir. It must be huge.”

  “Is the project still active?”

  More typing. “No,” she replied. “It was canceled in 2009. No reasons given.”

  “Start with the last five years.” Slattery turned to go back to his office then stopped. “And Cassie. Great work.”

  His assistant’s smile could have illuminated RFK Stadium.

  * * *

  At 11:30, Braxton left his cubicle and took the elevator to the first floor. He walked to the lobby doors and stared out at the latest version of Boston weather. Wispy white clouds drifted across a clear light blue sky. A warm yellow sun floated overhead. It was good to see the sun again.

  Six minutes later, he saw a yellow taxi pull up to the entrance. A heavyset black man slowly emerged. He was dressed in a raincoat that could have passed for a tent and a rumpled Redskins cap. All six foot three inches, two-hundred-plus pounds of Samuel James Fowler, ex-Washington, D.C. detective, now part-time Cerberus investigator, walked to the entrance, his slight limp the result of the man’s attempt to rescue Braxton from a murderer—a debt the consultant could never repay.

  Fowler came through the doors and Braxton extended his hand. Fowler ignored it and encircled his friend in a crushing bear hug.

  “Sorry to get you involved in all this, Sam,” Braxton began after they had settled on one of the couches in the reception area. “I’ve got a bad feeling about last night.”

  “Roger was all secretive spook when he called,” Fowler replied. “The typical ‘get on an airplane, Sam.’ So here I am, why don’t you fill me in?”

  Braxton proceeded to describe his meeting with Slattery, what he had learned about Omega Genomics, and the events leading up to the attack. Throughout the recounting, Fowler scribbled in a small pocket notebook. “Old habit,” he had commented.

  “Let’s see the marks,” Fowler said after Braxton had completed the story.

  Braxton pulled down his collar.

  “Jesus! You weren’t kidding.” He leaned over to get a closer look at the three long scrapes on his friend’s neck. They looked like furrows from a farmer’s plow. “Deep, very regular spacing. Likely made at the same time. But no others. Just one swipe. Interesting.”

  “Always the detective, eh, Sam?”

  “Just trying to understand, Adam. Who else has seen these? Any cops?”

  “No, ah, I’m not sure. I was in Kerry McAllister’s office upstairs this morning. She saw them. Then this cop came in. I think his name was Graves. He wanted to talk with McAllister, so I left. I don’t know if he saw them or not.”

  “So he didn’t ask you any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” Fowler made a few more comments in his notebook. “Who’s that?” he suddenly asked, nodding to a young woman staring at them from across the reception area.

  Braxton looked up and saw Kerry McAllister awkwardly zipping and unzipping a shiny designer anorak.

  “Hello, Kerry!” Braxton called, putting on his most cheery voice. He waved her over.

  McAllister considered the offer, then, looking as if she had been caught cheating on a high school chemistry exam, walked over to the pair.

  “Dr. Kerry McAllister,” Braxton began, “this is Sam Fowler, a friend from D.C. Sam this is Dr. Kerry McAllister, Vice President of Development for Omega Genomics. Dr. McAllister is Devon McAllister’s daughter, the founder of Omega.”

  Fowler stood up, and offered his hand, towering over the diminutive scientist. “Dr. McAllister. A pleasure. Adam has told me so much about you.”

  McAllister’s face glowed crimson. She shot a withering look at Braxton, then turned back to Fowler.

  “Mr. Fowler, how nice to meet you. I wasn’t aware Mr. Braxton had any friends … in Boston.”

  “Just passing through, Kerry. Okay if I call you Kerry?”

  She took a step backward. “Well, I really must go. Mr. Fowler. Mr. Braxton.” She nodded and walked, a bit too rapidly, to the entrance door.

  “Are all of the folks you work for so friendly?” Fowler asked after they had watched McAllister enter a waiting cab.

  “Well, Kerry is perhaps a special case. But I never told you anything about her. Or even about this gig.”

  “An old detective ploy,” Fowler replied with a smile. “Never trust a cop bearing compliments. You should know that.” Braxton nodded. He did have very personal experience with that tactic. “She certainly seems uptight about something.”

  Braxton returned the grin. “Aside from hating the CIA, me, and anyone inquiring about ChildSafe, she’s a real pussycat. She’s hiding something, but I haven’t been able to figure out what. Yet.”

  * * *

  Cambridge Police Department Detective Martin Graves thumbed through the ME’s report on Colleen O’Connor. His desk was in the middle of a dusty squad room at 125 Sixth Street in East Cambridge. Despite headquarters’ edicts to the contrary, the room still smelled of stale tobacco and sweaty, nervous suspects. Graves’ desk was piled with a file cabinet’s worth of case files.

  This was an ugly crime. O’Connor had been brutally beaten, then strangled with hands that, according to the ME, could only be attached to a very strong and very large man.

  Graves had seen this before. This was not a random burglary gone bad. This was a violent, and personal, murder.

  He looked up and saw his partner, Charles Forest, walking toward his desk.

  “Got something, Martin,” he said, waving a page of notes in his hand. “The damn restaurant finally opened. I talked with the waitress. Name’s Patrice. O’Connor had dinner with a man. They seemed to be real cozy according to this Patrice.”

  “All very interesting Charlie, but that doesn’t help us. Could she describe the man?”

  Forest opened his mouth into a wide grin that showed a mouthful of yellow teeth. “Even better. Turns out he was a cheap bastard. Made her split the check. Patrice looked up the credit card receipt. His name is Adam Braxton. I’m running it now.”

  Now it was Graves’ turn to smile. “No need, Charlie. I know exactly where we can find Mr. Braxton.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, Slattery had two thick files on the top of his desk. The one on the left reported the final five years of Project THOROUGHBRED. It was the detailed, blow-by-blow description of the demise of a once-promising agent evaluation program.

  The attempt in 2001 to bring in new ideas with more diverse personnel had instead introduced a dogmatic Army officer who had redirected project resources to an apparent obsessive belief in the genetic determination of behavior. More specifically, behavior that he felt was compulsory for covert operatives and Agency assassins. Along the way, he had alienated everyone on the project, outraged CIA management, and eventually deep-sixed his own career.

  One of his demands had been the renaming of the project to LAND OF NOD. His cocktail party rantings on this subject had stuck in Slattery’s memory.

  The file on his right was the military record of that officer, Colonel Henry Rockwell. Rockwell had been born in New London, Connecticut. His father had served in Vietnam as an MP and had returned home to marry his high school sweetheart, an elementary school teacher. The son had done well in school, a member of the school’s championship wrestling team, and had been selected for West Point. After graduating, he had done two tours in Iraq during the Gulf War heading up a variety of intelligence teams. His CO’s reports claimed he was an effective, if sometimes unorthodox, leader. Slattery read that military euphemism as vindictive and ruthless. Continuing in intelligence, he had then been assigned to the Pentagon and had climbed his way up the Army ladder through a series of high-profile assignments, his promotions usually at the cost of some less-Machiavellian subordinate or colleague.

  His placement at the CIA, via the Defense Intelligence Agency, appeared to finally reveal a deeply-ingrained obsessive-compuls
ive complex, which, while not that unusual in senior staff, finally reached a sufficiently pathologic level for the Army shrinks to take action. He eventually retired—following some not-so-subtle interventions—disappearing from the Army’s radar. There were a few comments on his post-military life, but nothing that would suggest criminal or terrorist tendencies.

  The ever-vigilant military benefits gnomes had noted Rockwell had never requested health care and his pension checks were forwarded to a lawyer in Reno, Nevada. Slattery had put out a request for follow-up, but he was sure all the investigators would find was a strip-mall mail drop with an off-shore bank account number.

  As he slogged through this landscape of management incompetence and mental psychopathy, his private phone rang.

  “Slattery.”

  “Good afternoon, Roger.” The low raspy voice was unmistakable.

  “Hello, Sam. Make it to Boston safely?”

  “Sure did. I do so love being up all night packing and dragging my ass to Reagan National. Oh, and Pat says hello as well.”

  Slattery ignored the expected barbs. The ex-cop needed to keep up his tough guy persona, but Slattery knew he liked nothing better than being dumped into the middle of a good mystery.

  “Have you had a chance to talk with Adam?”

  “Way ahead of you. Talked with Adam a couple hours ago. Got the whole rundown. Quite a little mess you’ve gotten him into.”

  Well, that was expected.

  “Just finished having lunch with my friend at CPD. Apparently, this is the hottest thing in Cambridge since the MIT cop got shot by the Marathon bombers. Not a lot of details yet, but the lead detective, Martin Graves, is a real hard-ass. Always looking to get his name in the papers. He’s spending all his time on the crime scene. My guy says it was a real mess, but they did find tissue under the victim’s fingernails. And Adam had some god-awful scratches on his neck.”

  Fowler paused. When he continued, Slattery heard an unusual weariness in his friend’s voice. “There’s a helluva lot of coincidences, Roger. At least they haven’t questioned him yet, or taken any samples.”

  Slattery lowered his head. He was running out of time.

  “They don’t need to, Sam. Adam was in the Army.” All military personnel have blood samples taken to assist in identification of combat casualties. And thanks to legislation passed in 2002, those samples, and associated DNA profiles, were accessible to law enforcement.

  “Shit. I forgot.” The line became silent. “You gotta do something, Roger. You can’t let him get pulled into this. I know he didn’t do it, but after all he’s been through, the system will eat him up.”

  Fowler was right. Whoever set this up knew what they were doing. He had to come up with a way to deflect the investigation.

  “I know, Sam. Look, let me work on some angles. But I need you to keep up your CPD contacts. We have to know what they know.”

  “Sure, Roger. I’ll set up another meeting with my friend tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get some good news.”

  “Yeah, Sam. Maybe we will. Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Slattery wished he was as optimistic as he tried to sound.

  Chapter 13

  Central Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Thursday, 2:30 p.m.

  After meeting with Fowler, Braxton had returned to his cubicle. Another thumb drive had been on his desk, this one from someone named Stacy, with the Omega entry and exit logs for the past month. Apparently, Kennedy hadn’t forgotten his promise.

  Braxton had loaded the files on his laptop and considered how best to correlate the two logs but his mind struggled to focus. It had been comforting to see Fowler, but what could his friend actually accomplish? Find out how deep a hole he was in?

  And the shadow of the Cambridge detective hung over his head like Damocles’ sword. He had snapped his head around at every odd sound, expecting the cop to suddenly appear at his cubicle. How long would it take for them to discover his dinner with O’Connor? Had Kerry already told Graves about the scars?

  By four o’clock he had given up. He had packed away his laptop, grabbed his coat and backpack, and had headed across the river. He had hoped he could get more accomplished in the solitude of his hotel room.

  The clouds had darkened since lunchtime, casting a gray pall over the Cambridge sky that matched Braxton’s mood. The shores of the Charles were again deserted and there were few citizens accompanying him on the march up Western Avenue.

  A cold wind blew at his back and he tugged the coat tighter around him. Cambridge had turned into a cold, dark place.

  He had almost made it to the Square when his phone rang. He really didn’t need another interruption.

  The caller id showed “Unknown.” More by reflex than thoughtful action he swiped the face. “Hello?”

  “Where are you?”

  It was Slattery. His accusatory tone stopped Braxton in his tracks.

  “Uh, on the street going back to my hotel. Why?”

  “Adam. Listen very carefully. Don’t ask any questions.” The force of Slattery’s voice scared him. “You need to get out of Cambridge. Events are happening too fast. You were right. This was a very professional set up.”

  “But nothing has happened yet. I haven’t even—”

  “I said listen.”

  Slattery was the only man he knew who could make his voice more threatening by softening it. Braxton stepped off the sidewalk into a small alcove in front of a darkened restaurant.

  “The police will ask you to come in for some background,” Slattery continued. “Once that happens I can’t protect you.”

  “But I can’t leave now. I found something. Deletions in the application logs. Someone is accessing the ChildSafe data off-hours. I haven’t figured out who, but it has to be senior management. I just need a little more time.”

  “You don’t have any time.” Slattery’s voice was a whisper. “They found your DNA on O’Connor.”

  “My DNA? How the hell …” He reached up and felt the scratches on his neck. “Shit.”

  “After they pick you up, you will be put in a room and questioned. I believe you are familiar with what happens next?”

  Braxton had once spent ten hours handcuffed to a chair in an FBI interrogation room. He had been accused of multiple murders including a congressional aide and DC police officer. They had nearly broken him. Had it not been for Slattery, and a secret National Security Finding, he would have spent the rest of his life in jail, or worse. He couldn’t let that happen again.

  He shook off the fear and the memories. He knew Slattery was right. “What do I need to do?”

  “Go to an ATM and get a few hundred dollars. Nothing that would set off alarms from the bank. Then throw your laptop and cell phone in an alley. Don’t bother to tear them apart. It’ll give the cops something to look for. Finally, take a cab. A real one, not goddamn Uber, to Hanscom Field in Bedford. You need to be there by seven o’clock. The driver won’t know this entrance so listen carefully.

  “Take Route 2 out of the city. Once you past I-95, take a right on Bedford Road. Then a right on 2A and a left onto Hanscom Drive. Now go left on Old Bedford Road and right on Virginia Road. Gate 7 is half a mile on the right. You got all that?”

  Braxton might be a physical wreck, but at least his memory was still intact. “Got it. Then what do I do?”

  “Just use the name Greystone.”

  “Greystone? Why Greystone?”

  “I figured it was a name you could remember.”

  Greystone was a name Braxton could never forget. Robert Greystone had been a family friend who had betrayed everyone who ever trusted him. He had been pure evil. “Is that all?”

  “No. Do not call anyone. Not Sam, not Karen. I’ll take care of that. Can you do this?”

  Braxton knew there was only one answer possible. He hoped he could pull it off. “Yes. Where am I going?”

  “Leave that to me. Get going. I don’t know how much time you have.” Th
e call ended.

  He had been right. The mugging had been a setup. And if Slattery couldn’t disprove it, it was a good one.

  An icy chill spread through his body. It had happened again. Why had he not listened to Chu?

  He didn’t have time for what ifs. Across the street was an ATM. It wasn’t his bank but he sure as hell wasn’t going to worry about ATM fees now.

  Braxton jaywalked across Mass Ave and withdrew three hundred dollars from the machine. Twenty feet down the street was an alley. He glanced around—the weather had eliminated most witnesses—then tossed his cell phone as far into the darkness as he could.

  He was opening his backpack to get rid of his laptop when he stopped. His laptop was his life. All of his contacts, all of his analysis tools. It also now had all the Omega files. Files that were somehow connected to his situation. He had to find out how.

  Slattery might be a brilliant spy but he was completely inept at computers. Braxton had once had to help him download a file from the web.

  He knew what the spook was trying to do. Slattery didn’t want any law enforcement agencies to be able to track his movements. But his laptop wasn’t a phone. As long as Braxton stayed off the web they couldn’t track him. And staying off the web included accessing the backups on his cloud servers. So he needed his machine.

  Braxton flipped the laptop’s WiFi switch to off and stuffed the laptop back in his bag. He was about to hail a cab when he saw a Santoro’s a block ahead. Slattery’s schemes never involved sufficient rest or food, so he made a quick stop.

  Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in the back of a Boston Yellow Cab, an Italian sausage sub on his lap, wondering what could possibly happen next.

  * * *

  “Cerberus Consulting.” It was Karen Chu’s mellow voice.

  “Hi, Karen, it’s Sam Fowler.”

  “Sam. Good to hear from you. I was just going to call you.”

  Oh, oh.

  “What’s up, Karen?”

  “Two things. First, Adam wanted to see if you guys could reschedule that dinner for Saturday.”

  “Ah, sure no problem.”