The Langley Profile

by Jack Bowie

  “That’s great work, Manny. Maybe I better pull you back to Langley. We can’t have you making the FBI look too good.”

  “Thanks, Roger. But I sort of like it here. Getting to know lots of agents, even sticking my nose into a few cases. I really appreciate the push you gave me. I owe you.”

  “Not necessary, Manny. You deserved the opportunity. And what about Mary Ellen? She treating you okay?” Slattery had to give him the poke.

  “Sure. Well, … All right, we had a little thing for a while, but she burned me out. No way I could keep up with her. We both moved on and, honestly, our professional relationship couldn’t be better. I’m even taking the lead on a couple of investigations. Like this one.”

  “Glad to hear it. But after today, I’m the one who owes you.”

  * * *

  Kerry McAllister had called Slattery at ten-thirty and said she had the results of the DNA analyses. Slattery had immediately stopped her and said further discussion had to be done face-to-face, blaming national security considerations. That hadn’t really been necessary, but he had another discussion in mind that definitely did need to be done in private.

  Slattery had then taken a cab to Omega Genomics headquarters. On the way over, Fowler had called with another update. It had been good news from CPD. And more ammunition for Slattery’s attack plan.

  He and the younger McAllister were now back in her office squared off across the low table in her sitting area.

  “What did you find, Kerry?” Slattery asked.

  “Actually, something very surprising. We found your kids. Samuel Durning, eleven years old, was reported missing two years ago in Midland, Michigan, and Jaelyn White, also eleven years old, was reported missing three years ago in Montgomery, Alabama. The local authorities had provided their names. Neither child was ever found. Do you really believe these children could be involved?”

  They had found them! It had been an impossible stretch to try ChildSafe, but it had panned out. Now he had to take the next step.

  “As you would say, Kerry, DNA doesn’t lie.”

  McAllister furled her forehead. “But how did these children get from here to Israel and Iraq?”

  “That’s the million dollar question. Not that it’s hard to travel, but there would need to be guardians, travel documents and other records. Unless of course they were smuggled.”

  “You mean like child trafficking? How awful.”

  “We don’t know that’s the case. We’ll go back to the authorities in Midland and Montgomery and see if they have any leads. I really do want to thank you.”

  “Not necessary.” She paused, as if considering her words, then continued. “You need to understand that we think of every child we have cataloged as ours. And despite what you may think of me, the safety of these children is paramount. Please bring them home. No matter what you think they may have done.”

  Slattery was momentarily speechless. This was hardly the cold, emotionless technocrat he had met over a negotiating table. Would this make his next request easier or harder?

  “I am in complete agreement, Kerry. So if I may, one more request. It’s come to our attention that these children may share some common genetic traits. It would be of great help if you could test this hypothesis for us. I have the details here.” Slattery pulled a memory stick from his pocket.

  McAllister’s face immediately changed. Her eyes narrowed like a cat on the prowl and her scowl returned. “I’ve now satisfied your very obtrusive request to my father, Mr. Slattery. I have absolutely no desire to continue with this fishing expedition by the CIA. Since you and your consultant have descended on my company, two of my people have been killed. Now that may be a coincidence, but—”

  “That may not be such a coincidence, Kerry.” It was time to crack McAllister’s self-righteous facade.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been reviewing Mr. Braxton’s notes from before he disappeared.” Slattery took on the tone of a professor lecturing to his students. “He had discovered that someone had been modifying your server logs, apparently to hide some type of covert analysis on the DNA records. The modifications coincided with when Mr. Wilson was covering the overnight shifts. It might be that he was killed to cover up these activities.” It was a slight exaggeration of the facts but from McAllister’s expression, it was effective. “Do you have any idea what he might have been doing?”

  McAllister’s surprise seemed real, but she continued on the attack.

  “Mr. Slattery, you can be assured that we will conduct our own investigation of this supposed breach, but we are a private company and I will not be threatened by a government organization known for its unscrupulous dealings. And I believe you are prohibited from operating on US soil. I doubt you have much standing in that you were the one that brought a murderer into our midst.” McAllister stood. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “Sit down, Dr. McAllister.” Slattery had had enough. It was time to begin the scientist’s conversion. He had been rehearsing this exchange all morning.

  Finding herself standing alone, McAllister grudgingly returned to her seat.

  “Okay, Kerry. Let’s start by putting the murder of Ms. O’Connor to rest. Here’s the evidence. First, none of Mr. Braxton’s fingerprints were found in Ms. O’Connor’s apartment, despite the evidence of a life and death struggle. Second, Cambridge Police investigators have found Mr. Braxton’s blood on a dumpster in the alley he described. Next,—”

  “All of which is circumstantial, Mr. Slattery. You can’t believe this is enough to exonerate Mr. Braxton.” McAllister leaned back in her chair, apparently savoring her insightful legal analysis. Her pleasure would be short-lived.

  “Of course not. But if I may proceed?” McAllister nodded.

  “I’m sure you remember Mr. Braxton describing his assailants. After interviewing the other residents of Ms. O’Connor’s apartment building, two reported seeing a very large, muscular white man with a young girl dressed in a Girl Scout uniform in the halls. No resident reported any contact with the pair and the local Girl Scout organization denied any active fund-raising activity.”

  “But what about the DNA?” McAllister wasn’t going to give up easily.

  “Ah, yes. The faultless DNA sample. Forensic analysis of the blood found under Ms. O’Connor’s fingernails, while matching Mr. Braxton’s DNA, also shows the existence of microscopic polypropylene particles. I’m sure you are aware this is not a normal result. Last year in London, a political leader was accused of the murder of his mistress based on similar fingernail evidence. His alibi, however, was foolproof and Scotland Yard subsequently determined that a plastic claw was used to scrape the intended suspect’s neck and the blood residue transferred to his victim’s body. Reanalysis of the blood sample on Ms. O’Connor showed trace amounts of the scraper’s material and inconsistencies in the nail residue.”

  McAllister’s smug visage had slowly dissolved as Slattery played out each of his points. Her face now showed only resignation to the facts. It was a technique he had taught in interrogation classes at the Farm.

  “The warrant for Mr. Braxton’s arrest will be publicly rescinded at an appropriate time, but the local investigation has concluded. The deaths of Ms. O’Connor, and now Mr. Wilson, are now deemed to be an act of terrorism.”

  It was now time to play his next card.

  “It’s time to return to a previous discussion, Kerry. I’m pretty sure I know what you are doing, but I can’t understand why. Would you like to tell me?”

  “Mr. Slattery. I don’t think you have any idea of what we are doing here and I know you have no business in my private activities. I think it is time for you—”

  Slattery cultivated his reticent persona for just this moment. He suddenly slammed his fist on the table. The table creaked and the sound reverberated through the room, shaking everything on the bookcases. McAllister jumped in her seat.

  “Dr. McAllister. I know exactly what you are doing. You are cre
ating individual phenotype projections based on DNA sequences. I really don’t care how you are doing it, but I need to know why. I’m sure the contributors to ChildSafe would be very interested in learning that you have been using their private genetic material in a research project to assist Detective Fitzgerald in solving cases. Likely the press, your investors and the Nobel committee would find it quite enlightening. Or is this something we should discuss with your father?”

  McAllister’s face turned white. Her face contorted into an expression Slattery recognized as abject fear. He hadn’t known whether the older McAllister was involved but now he felt certain he was not. This was all the daughter’s doing. That would be useful knowledge in the future, but he had a different imperative today. The self-righteous scientist was gone, at least for the moment, and it was time to move forward.

  “This whole incident is now a national security issue. Two international leaders have been killed. Two of your employees are implicated with the terrorists. The continued existence of Omega Genomics depends on your complete honesty. Right now. If not, I will have no recourse but to shut you, and your father, down.”

  Slattery sat back and crossed his hands in his lap. Unwavering eyes bored into McAllister as she decided her next step. Slattery knew what she was doing: going through options, playing out scenarios. Everyone in her position went through the same steps. It was the twelve step program for the accused. The only variable was how long it would take.

  She was a scientist. It didn’t take long.

  “If I cooperate, this will be kept out of the press? There will be no damage to Father?”

  Barter. That was a good sign. “I will do everything I can to keep this confidential. And any cooperation will be seen favorably.”

  McAllister’s face relaxed and her eyes drifted to the ceiling. “My mother was killed in an automobile accident when I was three. The bastard that hit her left her to die in a ditch. And he had been there. He had been with her. He cut his finger on the car’s broken window. There’s a sample of his blood in an evidence box buried somewhere at the State Police archives.”

  The story came pouring out like water from a broken levee. She needed to tell it.

  “I have dedicated my whole life to finding this murderer. Every test, every class, every decision. All to uncover the truth. You can’t stop me. I’m damn well going to find out who killed my mother.”

  Slattery’s face didn’t twitch, but inside he felt a rush of adrenaline as if he’d just won the lottery. He had needed a way to bring McAllister to his side and now he had it.

  The challenge was not unlike that of turning an enemy into an asset. How do you make someone betray his country? Money is the most obvious inducement, but after years in the field, he had learned it was also the most unreliable. You could always be outbid.

  Better was power or sex, levers with a strong emotional component. Other times it was simply recognition for a long-struggling bureaucrat, or even just friendship for a lonely, unappreciated office drone. Everyone was different. McAllister’s lever had surprised him, but it was one of the most powerful and basic: revenge.

  He would make the offer quickly, without emotion. McAllister was a scientist first. She would listen, evaluate and respond. But he had no doubts as to her final decision.

  “Let me make you an offer,” he began, leaning forward and keeping his eyes focused on the potential asset across the table. “You help me find out who’s been accessing your data and I promise I’ll get you that blood sample.” He leaned back in the chair and waited.

  It took her no longer than three seconds.

  “Then I guess we have a deal, Mr. Slattery. I hope to God I don’t regret it.”

  * * *

  “Get up asshole.”

  Braxton struggled to clear his head when he felt a heavy boot punch him in the side.

  “I said get up.”

  He rose up on his hands and knees only to be kicked back down to the dirt.

  “Stand up prisoner. Show some respect.”

  Braxton clawed his hands up the stone wall and managed to get to his feet. Light shone through the open door outlining a figure he remembered. “You’re the driver from Geneva.”

  “Yeah. Thought you were cute with that move over the hood of the van, didn’t you? You don’t look so cute now.”

  The man was about Braxton’s height, but every other dimension paled in comparison. He had black slicked-back hair and swarthy skin, probably a Mediterranean heritage. His voice had a slight Spanish accent. He wore jeans and flannel shirt that were barely able to contain heavily-muscled arms and legs. His neck looked bigger than Braxton’s thigh.

  “They call me Samson. But we have met before.” Suddenly the man threw his arms around Braxton, pinning his arms to his sides, and squeezed. Air exploded from Braxton’s lungs and he heard a crack in his chest. He tried to scream but nothing happened. Samson leaned back and lifted Braxton off the floor with apparent ease.

  Their faces were only a few inches apart and Braxton smelled onions and stale cigarette smoke. He would have gagged if he could.

  “Remember now?” Samson asked.

  Braxton struggled to nod. He felt more ribs cracking.

  Just as he was about to pass out, Samson released his hold and Braxton fell to the floor.

  “We should have killed you in Cambridge. The Colonel won’t make that mistake again.” His lips curled into an ugly expression the man probably thought of as a smile.

  “Here’s some dinner.” Samson pulled something from one of his pockets and threw it on the ground. “We wouldn’t want you dying of starvation. The Colonel has other plans for you.”

  Then he reached into a different pocket and came out with a plastic bottle of water inside a styrofoam cup. “Hold this,” he ordered, pushing the cup at his prisoner.

  Braxton took the cup and held it out.

  Samson opened the bottle and poured the water into the cup, spilling most of it over the side. “Oops.”

  He recapped the bottle and stuck it in his pocket. “I’ll just keep this. Wouldn’t want you to cut yourself. But don’t worry. We’re going to return you to your friend Slattery and the CIA.”

  Samson turned and walked to the door. As he walked through, he looked back. “In pieces.”

  The door slammed and Braxton heard the bar fall into its hooks. He looked at the cup in his hands and took a swallow. A sharp pain shot through his chest. Samson had definitely left his mark.

  He carefully set the cup on the ground and searched for the object Samson had thrown. It was two pieces of moldy dark bread with a slice of cheese in between. Braxton hesitated then took a bite. He needed all the nourishment he could get.

  When he had finished the sandwich, Braxton sat back and tried to come up with a plan. No one knew where he was. There wasn’t going to be any white knight magically appearing to free him. Not even Slattery. He was on his own.

  Trying to escape was a huge risk but he refused to just sit here and wither away.

  First, he needed a weapon.

  Chapter 27

  Outside of Geneva, Switzerland

  Monday, 6:30 a.m.

  Darkness had descended soon after Samson’s visit the previous evening. Despite having no light, Braxton had run his hands over every accessible square inch of his cell looking for anything to use as a weapon—a sliver of rock, a loose board, a piece of glass. But there had been nothing.

  Then he had crawled over the floor, in the dark, searching for anything that might have been left in the dirt. He now knew he could navigate the area blind if needed, but he still had no idea how to escape.

  He had crawled back to his corner, huddled under his coat and gone to sleep. He would have sworn he had heard crying somewhere nearby during the night but had ultimately decided it had been a nightmare.

  This morning, he had been awakened by shouts. Going to the door, he was able to see a group of about ten children standing outside the Quonset hut. It had to be the same gro
up he had seen in Geneva. They were standing in formation, like tiny soldiers, in the morning chill, while an adult yelled at them. Then they broke ranks and followed the man in a run across the field and into the surrounding woods.

  What the hell was this place?

  He didn’t know when, or if, his captors would return, so he decided to return to his search. Light pushed through the slits in the door illuminating stripes across the dirt floor. Perhaps they would reveal something he could use.

  He started back at the floor, this time carefully checking around each of the vertical beams. After an hour of crawling in the dirt, he felt something. It was sharp, about half an inch below the ground. He dug further and found the head of a nail sticking out maybe an inch from the beam. But how many inches were still embedded in the old wood?

  Only one way to find out.

  He wrapped his legs around the beam and dug in his heels. Grabbing the nail with both hands, he tried to wiggle the head. Not much movement. He pulled. Nothing.

  This was going to take a lot longer. But it’s not like he had anything else to do.

  Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.

  Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.

  * * *

  Slattery woke in a sweat at the break of dawn and, seeing no messages from Geneva, rapidly sent out encrypted texts to both the CIA Chief of Station at the UN Mission and Maddock asking for immediate updates.

  What the hell could have happened to Braxton?

  Half an hour later he had responses from both.

  Terrence Jacobs, the Chief of Station, reported that the Mission had had no contact with anyone giving the name Greystone.

  Maddock was more expressive, saying he had given Braxton directions the previous day then sent him off. He said he would investigate and get back later in the day.

  So Slattery had paced a rut in his room’s carpet waiting. He had had no interest in breakfast. The bile churning in his stomach made the idea of eating revolting.