The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  Slattery sat up against the headboard to pay better attention. “I guess I could stay awake for that. I hope he had something helpful. The damn FBI hasn’t found squat yet.”

  “To start out, I heard somebody put a real bee up Graves’ ass. He’s now got a team canvassing the apartment building and forensics is working over Adam’s alley. You wouldn’t know who that would be would you?”

  “Can’t imagine, Sam. What else?”

  Fowler paused before answering. “Do you have some super-secret DNA database the cops can’t access?”

  This time Slattery hesitated. Why would Fowler be asking a question like that? Slattery knew from experience that the ex-cop was way cleverer than he appeared. “Why would you ask that, Sam?”

  “Cut the crap, Roger. Is there such a database or not?”

  “Okay, take it easy. I have been told that other countries might hold certain results private. Like those on their undercover assets. These aren’t accessible without special procedures. So now. Why do you want to know?”

  “My friend at CPD is working with the lady from ChildSafe.”

  “What lady? You mean Kerry McAllister?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. A real friendly type. Adam introduced her to me. Anyway, my contact’s been giving her DNA samples from cold cases. A couple weeks later she comes back with the perp’s picture. Would you believe that shit? The department thinks Regan’s some kind of genius. She’s gotta have access to some hotshot DNA database. What aren’t you telling me, Roger?”

  Slattery nearly dropped the phone.

  Dammit. She’s already done it.

  “We didn’t think they were that far,” Slattery finally whispered.

  “What was ‘that far’? What is she doing, Roger?”

  Slattery was stuck. He had to explain, at least a little.

  “This is way in the black, Sam. It never gets repeated. You know we can tell if a DNA sample is from a male or female?”

  “Sure. We did that back in D.C. for a long time.”

  “So theoretically, it’s possible to determine other physical characteristics from a sample. The FBI has been working to get hair and eye color for example.”

  “Okay.” Slattery could feel the gears in Fowler’s head turning. “What else, Roger?”

  “It might be possible to go farther. More specific characteristics. But you’d need huge numbers of samples.”

  Fowler’s reaction was obvious even through the connection. “Are you telling me Omega can draw a picture of a perp from his DNA? You knew about this?”

  “We thought it might be possible. That’s one of the reasons we were so interested in the investment. We needed to control it. This has to be kept secret.”

  “Why? That would be a boon for law enforcement.”

  “Yeah, until it gets out. Then the only people it helps are the plastic surgeons. We’d be right back where we are now in six months.”

  “Shit. But why would McAllister be secretly helping a local cop? What’s in it for her?”

  Slattery recognized frustration in his friend’s voice. Fowler could be a real pain in the butt, but he cared deeply about fairness and the rule of law. They both had seen too many instances when these principles failed.

  “I don’t know, Sam. Maybe she wants some real-life test cases. Maybe something else.” Now it was Slattery’s gears that were spinning. “But this is something we can use. I owe you.”

  “That’s good, ‘cause I got more news. You know Omega’s operations guy?”

  “Frank Wilson. I met him once. Kind of a pompous jerk.” And, according to Braxton, the person behind Omega’s data breaches.

  “Well, he was killed in a hit-and-run in Arlington. Been dead for over a day.”

  Chapter 25

  Hotel Métropole, Geneva, Switzerland

  Sunday, 7:00 a.m.

  Braxton awoke, still stiff from the previous day’s adventure. He only had one objective for the day: get to Antiquites Scientifiques and see what Slattery wanted him to do.

  But he had no idea whether Maddock’s store was even open on a Sunday. And if so, when it would open. He had never bothered to look at the store’s hours of operation. Still, Antiquites Scientifiques seemed to be Maddock’s office, and if he was like any other spook Braxton had ever known, his job was a twenty-four seven operation. For all Braxton knew, the man lived there.

  He took a quick shower, dressed and headed out, his new bag hanging over his shoulder. The morning air was crisp and clear, unlike the typically sultry and smog-filled mornings in D.C., and helped relieve his aching muscles. After grabbing a pastry at a patisserie on Rue du Port, he arrived at Maddock’s shop to find that while it was open on Sunday, Braxton needed to wait until eight o’clock.

  He sat down on the shop’s stone steps and opened his pastry bag. At least he could have a relaxing breakfast in the quiet of the empty street. The questions of the previous night still tugged at his thoughts, but he pushed them away, hoping an update from Slattery would provide the answers he needed.

  Looking up from his perch, he noticed a scarred wooden door in the ancient stone wall across the street. It had a rounded top and was hung on rusty cast iron hinges. He remembered that the wall separated the street from the Temple de la Madeleine. This must have been one of the ways parishioners had entered the church’s grounds.

  Interestingly, the officials of Geneva had decided to place a street sign directly above the door. Labeling the door with “Rue du Purgatorie” seemed monumentally stupid.

  Braxton heard a clicking and turned to see Maddock striding toward the shop, bowler on his head and an intricately carved walking stick tapping on the pavement.

  “Bonjour, Mr. Greystone!” he called. “I don’t often have clients waiting on my doorstep. Perhaps this is a sign business is improving.”

  Maddock unlocked the door and they entered the shop. “I presume you want to see if you have any messages,” he said. “Let’s go into my office.”

  He led Braxton to the rear of the shop and through a curtain hanging over a doorway. Maddock’s office was a small windowless room, hardly bigger than a walk-in closet. A cluttered bookcase covered the back wall. To the side, unseen from the doorway, a carved wood roll-top desk stood against the wall. Above the desk, an LCD monitor displayed images from four video surveillance cameras covering the exterior and interior of the shop. Apparently, Maddock hadn’t given up all vestiges of the modern world.

  Maddock sat down at his desk and opened a laptop. Braxton took the only other seat, a rickety stool behind Maddock next to the bookcase. As the Englishman pecked at the keyboard, Braxton studied the other occupants of the room. It appeared the office doubled as a staging area for new acquisitions. Besides catalogs and yellowed city directories, a variety of scales, calipers, sextants and even a shiny bronze bust of Sir Isaac Newton sat on the shelves. Each item had a small tag attached, probably describing its provenance and cost.

  “We do have a message,” Maddock announced without turning around.

  A few minutes later he slid back his chair and showed Braxton the laptop’s screen. “I believe this is for you.”

  Braxton rose and read the decrypted text on the screen.

  Get to the US Mission ASAP. You will be safe.

  Nigel can show you the way.

  “It appears you have been recalled,” Braddock said with a smile. “Just when we were getting to know each other. Do you have a map of Geneva?”

  “Ah, yes.” Braxton rummaged in his bag and pulled out the map he had gotten from the concierge. He handed it to Maddock who unfolded it across his desk.

  “The US Mission is here,” he pointed to a location in the northern part of Geneva, on the other side of the Rhone. “It’s just past the Palais de Nations, the headquarters of the United Nations in Geneva. Go back to Rond-Point-de-Reve and take the number five bus to Gare Cornavin. Then take the fifteen to the Nations. Can you remember that?”

  “Not a problem, Mr. Maddock.” Braxton
took back the map. “I appreciate all your assistance, but I think it’s time I went back home.” Braxton extended his hand and Maddock took it.

  “Good luck, Mr. Braxton.”

  Braxton nodded and walked back into the shop.

  “I do hope you keep the bag, Adam,” Maddock called as Braxton moved through the front door. “It suits you very well.”

  * * *

  Braxton paused outside Antiquites Scientifiques to take one last look at his Geneva safe house. He didn’t have all of his questions answered, but he was going home. The other questions could damn well wait.

  He headed back toward the Métropole to pick up the rest of his belongings. No point in leaving a perfectly good wardrobe behind.

  He was walking down Rue du Port when he heard a car pulling up behind him. As he turned to investigate, three things happened in rapid succession. First, a door slid open. Then a hood was pulled over his head. And finally, he was picked up and thrown like a sack of potatoes into the vehicle.

  It was the same white van he had seen the day before. They had come back.

  The door slammed shut and the van pulled away. He struggled to get free but was being held firm by more than one set of hands. He had flashbacks of that night in the Cambridge alley. He was helpless. But would he wake up from this encounter?

  The last thing he remembered was a sharp pinch in his neck. Then everything went black.

  * * *

  The first sensation Braxton felt was sound: the roar of the van’s engine, tires moving across coarse, rough terrain and an occasional squeak from the vehicle’s suspension.

  Guess I’m still alive.

  He was lying in the bed of the van, the hood still over his head. Deciding he could learn more by feigning unconsciousness than making a useless attempt at escape, he took a furtive survey of his physical condition. He could feel his toes, his legs, his arms and his hands, although his arms were pulled back uncomfortably and his wrists were bound together behind his back.

  The van made a sharp left turn, slowed, then eventually came to a stop. He heard doors open and he was pulled across the floor, supported by one of his abductors under each arm. His feet fell to the ground and they raked what felt like a gravel path. It was quiet, too quiet for the city. He was out in the country. The air smelled of pines and cut grass.

  He was dragged up a short flight of stairs, through a door—the men had to turn to get him through—and into a room. Light filtered through the hood.

  His abductors still hadn’t said a word, but he heard voices getting louder as he continued into the building.

  Then the men stopped and he heard a sharp voice. “Put him there.”

  There was another doorway and he was dropped into a chair, his arms slid behind the chair’s back. He slumped over, hoping to collect more information.

  “We have to get ready for the final stage.” It was the original voice. “William, see that Charlie is ready for the video. He’s the key.”

  Video? Are they going to be like ISIS and record killing someone?

  He heard shuffling as though people were moving around, then the hood was yanked off his head. The bright light shocked him and he jerked his head up.

  “Well, Mr. Braxton. You’re awake. Welcome to Nod.”

  The voice he had been hearing came from a man standing straight as a pole in front of Braxton’s chair. He had a lined, deeply tanned face, narrow set eyes, small nose and thin lips. The buzz cut on his silver hair and precisely creased camouflage fatigues completed the image of a soldier used to command. This was not a man Braxton wanted to be his interrogator.

  “My name is Colonel Henry Rockwell. I’m the commander of this operation.”

  Braxton was sitting in a small room, outfitted as some type of office. A massive wood desk dominated the area. Two gray metal file cabinets sat in one corner and the walls were covered in detailed topological maps. The maps seemed to be a mix of countries and cities. One map had been spread out on Rockwell’s desk. A single window behind the desk looked out onto a majestic view of mountains.

  From the wood trim on the doors and windows, carved chair rail and incongruous floral wallpaper, the room looked more like the dining room of a nineteenth-century farmhouse than the center of a para-military operation.

  “It was quite a surprise to hear that you were in Geneva,” his captor continued. “But I should have expected Mr. Slattery to do something like that.”

  Braxton’s eye’s popped. How did he know about Slattery?

  “Oh. I see you’re surprised I know your boss. You didn’t think it was just a coincidence that you were whisked off to Geneva, do you? You were the CIA’s stalking horse. Sacrificed for the good of the cause as they say. Too bad it isn’t going to end the way they planned.

  “I’m sorry we can’t talk more now, but we are rather busy at the moment. You’ll be our guest for a few days, then I’m sure we’ll have a nice long chat.” From the look on Rockwell’s face, Braxton knew this “chat” was not going to be a pleasant experience.

  Rockwell motioned to the two other men in the room.

  “Take him to the cellar, we’ll deal with him later.”

  The two men frog-marched him out of the room and back through the original door they had entered from the outside. As Braxton had guessed, the building was an old alpine farmhouse with natural wood siding and a steep slate roof. There were only two stories and a wide porch extended across the front side.

  They took him around the house and down a shallow slope, stopping at a rough wooden door below the main level. One of the men removed a heavy horizontal crossbar from its brackets and pulled the door open. The man walked behind Braxton, cut his constraints and shoved into the space behind the door. Braxton fell to a packed dirt floor.

  “Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable,” the man said with derision.

  The door was slammed closed and Braxton heard the bar being replaced.

  He was in a small open area, maybe ten by ten feet. Two of the walls of the area were stacked stone, likely the foundation of the farmhouse. The other two walls were made of thick wood planks strung between the huge wooden columns that supported the floor above.

  The only light came from cracks in the entrance door. He walked to the door and peeked through the cracks. He saw what looked like a large open grass field. There was no one around, but off to one side, he saw a large metal structure. It looked like a farm silo, cut in half lengthwise and lying on the ground. He remembered seeing similar structures when he was a child in Ohio. It was called a Quonset hut, usually erected as a storage building for farm or military equipment. He wondered what type of equipment Rockwell was hoarding.

  Still shaky from whatever drug he had been given, Braxton shuffled across his cell, huddled in a corner and fell asleep.

  Chapter 26

  Hyatt Regency Hotel, Cambridge, Massachusetts

  Sunday, 9:45 a.m.

  Slattery’s buzzing phone gave him thankful respite from a perfectly awful western omelet. The eggs were soggy and the vegetables too soft to recognize. He should have known better than use room service.

  “Slattery.”

  “Hi, Roger. Manny Ikedo.”

  “Manny. Great to talk to you again.” After his call with Flynn the day before, Slattery had briefed Ikedo on the situation in Boston and requested an “intervention” by the FBI. He was hoping Quantico could come up with something to help Braxton.

  “Where are you?” Ikedo asked. “I checked with Langley and they said you were away for a few days.”

  “I’m in Boston. Trying to work through a few things.”

  “I imagine so. Thought you’d want to know what Quantico found ASAP.”

  Slattery held his breath. Going to the FBI had been a risk, but if anyone could find a hole in the blood evidence it would be Quantico. “Thanks. So is it good news or bad?”

  “I’ll let you decide.” Ikedo’s voice changed. It was deeper and more strident. He had turned back to his analyst
persona. It was not a good sign. “There is no doubt the blood is Mr. Braxton’s. Both the standard CODIS tests and additional SNP tests we performed confirmed it. Complete genetic match.”

  Slattery sighed. It had been too much of a reach. “Thanks, Manny. I had to try. Sorry it was—”

  “But wait, there’s more.” His friend suddenly returned. Slattery could imagine the broad grin. “Quantico did find trace amounts of polypropylene in the samples. Odd unless he’s been mainlining plastic bags.”

  Slattery’s forehead wrinkled. He knew this should mean something but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “What does that mean? Transfer?”

  “I called a friend in Scotland Yard.”

  “Scotland Yard?” Slattery blurted. “You have been getting around.”

  “Just had a hunch. And guess what? About a year ago, a London politico was up for reelection. Then his mistress was murdered. She had been beaten to death; blood scrapings under her fingernails. The boyfriend had three long scratches on his neck. DNA was a match.”

  Slattery’s pulse ticked up. “Sounds interesting. What happened?”

  “Turns out the guy was lucky. He got himself arrested for DUI right when the murder occurred. He couldn’t have done it.”

  “So the evidence had been planted?”

  “Yup. The politico had gotten into a fight earlier that night. Claimed a couple of guys jumped him in an alley. Sound familiar? They never found the real killer. My friend says it was likely a contract hit. He figures the killer used some kind of plastic scraper to get the tissue, then transferred them to the vic. They would have fried the guy if he hadn’t been picked up.”

  “Can we prove this is what happened to Braxton?” Slattery asked.

  “Well, when I told the story to the techs at Quantico they called the Cambridge ME. She confirmed that when she took the scrapings, the dried blood just fell off of the fingernails. There was little of the adhesion she normally sees. Didn’t think it was important enough to put in the report.”

  “Unbelievable. Put the details in the package that goes back to CPD. That should give them something to think about.” Another piece of the puzzle had dropped in place. He might be able to extract Braxton from this morass yet.