The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  Wilson hacked the logs. Saw girl from Cambridge. What is going on?

  Maddock scanned the note, then carefully refolded it and put it in his coat pocket. “Very good, Mr. …”

  “Ah, Greystone. Robert Greystone.”

  “Yes, Mr. Greystone. I’ll see what I can do. Come back tomorrow and I can give you an update.”

  Maddock turned and walked over to his European customers.

  * * *

  Rockwell looked up in surprise as Penrose walked into his office.

  “It’s Samson, Colonel. He said he needs to speak with you.”

  “What’s wrong? It was a simple training exercise.”

  “He wouldn’t say, sir. He said he needs to speak with you personally.”

  Rockwell closed the folder on his desk. Samson had returned from Boston this morning so Rockwell had sent him on a simple pickup assignment. This was not the time for complications. “All right. Put the call through.”

  The desk phone rang and Rockwell clicked on the speaker. “Did something happen in the exercise, Samson?”

  “Nothing, sir. Nothing. Carlos says the operation went very smoothly.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” Rockwell snapped.

  There was a pause before Samson responded. “That consultant, Braxton, is in Geneva, sir. I just saw him.”

  Rockwell’s face betrayed nothing, but he couldn’t control his pulse.

  “Braxton? What the hell is he doing over here?”

  “I don’t know sir. I just saw him on the street when we were getting ready to return.”

  “Was he at the operation? Did he follow you?”

  “Carlos said he might have been at the traffic circle. He isn’t sure. I only saw him when everyone returned to the van.”

  “How did he recognize you? I thought you said he never saw your face.” Rockwell was becoming increasingly agitated. How had this happened?

  “He never saw me, sir. I don’t think he had any idea who I was. But I recognized him. And he could have seen Delta.”

  “Is he still in the area?”

  Rockwell noticed another hesitation. What the hell was the problem?

  “Ah, no sir. I thought it best to clear the team, then contact you.”

  “Very good. Proceed back. We’ll talk about this later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rockwell leaned back in his chair. This was a surprising development. And an interesting opportunity. He pressed the button on his intercom. “William, I need to see you.”

  Chapter 22

  CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

  Saturday, 8:30 a.m.

  Roger Slattery stared out his metallic-tinted windows at the morning sun rising over the Virginia countryside. The coating, designed to reduce electronic eavesdropping measures, shrouded the office in a blue haze, a color that matched his mood. Braxton was safe in Geneva, at least for the moment, and Slattery had sent alerts to all their consular agents to report on any sign of Rockwell.

  Of all the people to reappear after all these years. It had just been a fleeting conversation at a reception for a new CIA Director. Slattery was amazed he had even remembered.

  A shadow crossed the wall and Slattery looked up to see Lewis standing by his door. He turned back to his desk and waved her in.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said. “You looked so intent I didn’t want to knock.”

  Slattery let out a tired sigh. “Not a problem, Cassie. And thanks for coming in today. It’s a difficult time. What’s up?”

  “I understand, sir. The courier just delivered a package from Interpol.” Lewis set a large manila envelope on the desk. It said “Top Secret – Eyes Only” across the front. Slattery hesitated, then tore the package open and shook out the contents. A plain white envelope dropped on his desk. Slattery’s name was written longhand on the front. Slattery recognized the writing as that of Filip Gerrard, his counterpart at Interpol.

  “Would you like me to go, sir?”

  Slattery looked up. Lewis was standing uncomfortably, shifting from side to side, not sure what to do in the face of the communication. “Not necessary. I don’t think Filip is sending us any anthrax today,” Slattery said with a smile. “Let’s see what he did send us.”

  Slattery tore the end of the envelope and pulled out a sheet of stationery. Across the top was the ornate masthead for Interpol’s Counterterrorism Center. Nothing topped French formality. In stark contrast, across the sheet, in Gerrard’s unmistakable and barely legible scrawl, it said:

  Roger,

  Hope you can do something useful with these samples. They are low quality, primarily touch DNA, but the best we have.

  Do come visit if they ever let you out of Langley. I’ve a new case of Bordeaux you simply must experience.

  À la prochaine.

  Filip

  Slattery reached into the envelope and pulled out two small glassine envelopes. Inside the envelopes were plastic cylinders with sample swabs. Writing on the samples identified them as being taken from the sites of the assassinations.

  Slattery had only made the request yesterday. Gerrard must be feeling very cooperative. Or very overwhelmed.

  Now if he only knew what to do with the samples.

  Maybe it was time to call in the experts.

  “Get me on the next plane to Boston, Cassie.”

  * * *

  Five hours later Slattery was sitting in Kerry McAllister’s office.

  When he had arrived at Logan, he had received the encrypted email from Geneva. How the hell did Braxton manage to get himself in these situations? Slattery had sent off a terse reply that he hoped would keep the consultant safe. The message had added even more urgency to his meeting with McAllister. He had to unravel the connection between Omega and Rockwell.

  “Thank you for seeing me this afternoon, Kerry,” he began. Slattery had been personally escorted upstairs by the younger McAllister. They were now seated, rather uncomfortably, in the meeting area of her office.

  McAllister was dressed informally, a light blue knit sweater and jeans. Her hair, as always, was pulled back into a ponytail. And the scowl was firmly in place.

  “Well, I didn’t have much choice. Father said you needed to speak to me. How did you find him?”

  “I have his private cell number,” Slattery explained. “I wouldn’t have bothered him if it wasn’t important.”

  “I hope it is. The meeting in Berlin is a major biotech investment conference. Maybe he’ll find an investor with less baggage than In-Q-Tel.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair. “So, what can we do for the CIA now? After all you’ve done for us lately.”

  Slattery had been verbally assaulted by some of the worst examples of mankind over the years, but McAllister’s tone was as cutting as any he had ever heard. He knew what it was like to lose a colleague and didn’t blame McAllister for her anger. He hoped he could move her beyond the murder. In some ways, she was his last hope.

  “First, please accept my sincerest condolences on the loss of your employee,” he began. “I know Ms. O’Connor was a very talented researcher and contributor to ChildSafe. Her death is a terrible loss.”

  “Her murder, Mr. Slattery. Let’s be honest with each other. I blame you for bringing this criminal into our company and for Colleen’s death. I can’t imagine why you would have the gall to show your face here.”

  Well, so much for the good-cop approach. Time to get to business.

  “Okay, let’s be honest, Kerry. I have an issue of national, no international, importance that I need to bring to you. No matter what personal feelings you have for me. Personally, I truly believe Mr. Braxton is innocent of this crime and he will be vindicated as the investigation proceeds. And I trust the authorities will determine who is responsible. But I do not have the luxury to wait until that happens.”

  “You’re playing that national security card, Mr. Slattery? Another of your precious secrets that you can’t tell me about. I nev
er supported Father’s interest in contacting In-Q-Tel because I didn’t want our company to become mired in the muck of the so-called intelligence community. We are scientists, doing important work. We don’t need your help. Yet now, here you are already asking for favors to support some secret conspiracy I’m sure you can’t tell me about.

  “Let me be clear. I will not permit you to use our children’s private files for some unfounded fishing expedition.”

  Slattery remained silent during the scientist’s onslaught. It was not the time to confront McAllister. Yet.

  “You’ve made your position regarding our investment quite clear on any number of occasions, Kerry. I would hope, however, that your distrust of the CIA does not inhibit your assistance of our country.

  “As I’m sure you are aware, the leaders of Saudi Arabia and Iraq have been assassinated in the past week. We believe these will not be the last such attacks. The media has not been reluctant in expressing their own predictions. I’m hoping you will be able to help us identify the perpetrators.”

  Slattery paused and directed his gaze onto the young scientist. He could not go forward without some yielding of her animosity.

  McAllister met his challenge and returned his glare in silence. Minutes passed with neither combatant retreating. Then she blinked and folded her hands in her lap.

  “You do have a flair for the dramatic, Mr. Slattery,” she finally responded. “I’ve certainly read about these assassinations but I can’t imagine how we could be of assistance. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt. For now. So what is it that you want?”

  Slattery took a deep breath that he hoped wasn’t too obvious. It was a small step but one that could have far-reaching implications. He hoped her acquiescence would hold out.

  “I’m not sure how much you have read,” he said, “but there is something that has been kept from the press reports. That is that both assassinations were performed by children.” McAllister’s face showed her surprise. “In the first, the IED disguised as a soccer ball was delivered by one of the school’s students. In the second, Prime Minister al-Jafar was exposed to a fatal dose of a hemorrhagic virus delivered by a child’s asthma inhaler. After the murders, both children disappeared. We hope you can help identify these assassins.”

  McAllister cocked her head to the side. “Assassins? Why blame the children? They were probably duped into playing a role.”

  “That is possible, although we have circumstantial evidence that that may not be the case. Whatever their motive, they are the only leads we have to the group that is behind the killings. We have to identify them. The security of the Middle East, and the safety of President Matthews, are at stake. So far, all of the investigating agencies have come up empty.”

  “All right, but how can I help?”

  Slattery leaned across the desk. “We have been able to obtain what we believe to be the DNA of the two children. The forensic circumstances were far from ideal, but we have isolated two samples. ChildSafe has the largest database of pre-adult DNA in the world. We are hoping you could compare the samples to see if any match your donors. That is all we ask. Nothing you wouldn’t do for any other lost child.”

  McAllister studied her hands. She was no longer combative, but he had no confidence she was going to be helpful either. He couldn’t force her to comply. ChildSafe was a private enterprise with extensive legal protections in place. He needed this done covertly.

  Finally, she looked up and met his eyes. “Your request is far outside our normal parameters, Mr. Slattery. I can’t imagine that these, suspects, could be in our repository, but any potentially lost child is a priority for us. However, this is a complicated process. Send us the samples and we’ll do our best to see if we have any matches.”

  The tough scientist had reappeared. This was not the time to let up.

  “I’ve already read your published protocols, Kerry. Also all the marketing materials. All quite professional. But as part of our due diligence, we also have had access to your internal working documents.” He reached into his pocket and handed McAllister an envelope. “Here are the samples. Call me with the results. Tomorrow. You have my number.”

  McAllister’s face turned scarlet. Before she could respond, Slattery pushed back his chair and stood up. “We have to identify these children if we are ever to stop these attacks, Dr. McAllister. Thank you for your help.”

  He turned and headed for the door, holding his breath and bracing for the inevitable explosion. But it never came. Maybe he had underestimated the boss’s daughter.

  “Mr. Slattery?” It was an order, not a request.

  He turned back to the scientist.

  “One question. Didn’t your Mr. Braxton say he was led into his supposed mugging by a child?”

  “Yes, he did, Kerry.”

  * * *

  Braxton sat at the desk in his room staring blankly into his laptop at a captivating image of Geneva he had found on Google.

  After the meeting with Maddock, he had rushed back to the Métropole, slammed the door and tried to relax after one of the most frightening days of his life. Whoever had attacked him in Cambridge, and killed O’Connor, now knew he was in Geneva. And had tried to kill him.

  Why is this happening?

  He had ordered dinner, a plain old American hamburger and french fries. Except when it had arrived, he hadn’t quite recognized it. Whoever fixed a hamburger with Bearnaise sauce? And what the hell was pommes frits?

  After a dinner on the road, he had always gone back to work. But he didn’t have any work. There was nothing he could do.

  He had to find out what was happening in Cambridge.

  What if Slattery was unable to clear him? If he couldn’t return home, where would he go? How would he live? What about Chu and his company?

  None of this made any sense.

  He got ready for bed and turned on CNN. Unlike the never-ending parade of inane stories about American politics he watched back home, CNN International actually talked about what was going on in other countries. The Middle East was back in turmoil after two assassinations, Russia was threatening Eastern Europe again and Scotland was preparing for the upcoming G20 summit. None of which made him feel any better.

  He turned off the TV and drifted into a fitful sleep, hoping the next day would provide some answers to his questions.

  Chapter 23

  Hyatt Regency Hotel, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Saturday, 5:00 p.m.

  Slattery arrived at the downstairs bar in the Hyatt Regency at five o’clock and took a seat on a soft sofa in the far corner—back to the wall, facing the entrance.

  Old habits die hard.

  The room was nearly empty. Most of the business travelers had left the previous day and tourist season was long past. That left visiting academics and traveling salesmen—neither Slattery’s idea of good company.

  The whole front wall of the lounge was glass overlooking Memorial Drive and the Charles. A heavy fog had settled over the city that afternoon and the Boston skyline was barely visible on the opposite side of the river. “Cloudy” definitely described both Slattery’s mood and the state of his case.

  A heavily made-up waitress with “Stephanie” embroidered on her blouse came over and Slattery ordered two Dos Equis. It wasn’t hard to know what his old friend wanted.

  The meeting with McAllister had gone about as well as he could have expected. She would do the identity checks and he’d have his answer. What would happen after that was anyone’s guess.

  The waitress brought the beers just as Fowler stepped through the doors. He glanced around the room, met Slattery’s eyes, then strode to the table.

  In many ways, his friend looked exactly the same as when they first met six years before—rumpled suit, wrinkled raincoat. The Redskins cap was a nice addition, though.

  Fowler had been a District of Columbia detective then, heading up an investigation into the murder of a Senate staffer. Fowler had uncovered a national security co
nnection and the Fibbies had promptly swept in and taken the case away. Slattery had had his own interest in the case and had contacted the cop as a source. The investigation had eventually led nowhere, at least as far as Fowler had been told, but after too many nights in Slattery’s favorite Mexican restaurant, and many too many bottles of Dos Equis, his contact had turned into a friend. The pair had kept in touch, eventually if only to try to keep their wayward consultant colleague out of too much trouble. It was that time again.

  Fowler dropped his massive frame onto a chair across the low table from Slattery and slapped his cap on the table’s glass top. Then he grabbed the beer bottle and tipped it to Slattery. “Good to see you again, Roger.”

  “And you, Sam.” Slattery clicked the neck of his bottle with Fowler’s.

  The detective took a swallow of his beer and looked around at the long polished bar, the precisely set bar stools and impressive vista. “Hell of a lot nicer than my place. Thanks for the invite.”

  “The perks of being a Fed, Sam.”

  “Right. So how is our friend?”

  “Safe and sound so far.” Slattery didn’t feel the need to inform Fowler of the latest complication. “Anything new from the CPD?”

  Fowler actually smiled. “Yeah. Apparently, somebody put a real bee up Graves’ ass. Suddenly he’s got a team canvassing O’Connor’s apartment building and forensics is working the alleys nearby.” He took another swig. “I also heard the Fibbies came in and grabbed the blood samples. Something about ‘national security.’ Now why would they do that, do you think?”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” Slattery said. “I just hope he’s still on our side.”

  Fowler nodded. “Never thought you were a religious man, Roger. But I guess even spooks need help sometimes.”

  Slattery debated whether to tell his friend about his latest meeting with McAllister. There were security issues involved and Fowler didn’t have the ever-present “need to know.” So that would be a discussion for a later time. If Slattery’s guess even panned out.

  “I’ll take all the help I can, Sam. Even if it’s divine.”