by Jack Bowie
“Thanks, Peter. Yeah, you could say that. Had a little trouble sleeping.”
The sun streamed through the windows in Markovsky’s office forcing Slattery to face the reality of the morning. He fidgeted in the too-soft easy chair. Somehow his body just didn’t fit with his boss’s definition of style. But then maybe that was the idea.
“Beth okay?” Markovsky asked.
“Sure thing. She said to say hello.”
“Great lady Beth. She wasn’t mad at my keeping you busy the last few days was she?”
“Oh, she’s gotten used to it by now,” Slattery replied halfheartedly. In fact, he had spent most of Wednesday evening apologizing, trying to make up for his virtual absence that night. Then, after the visit to Robinson, he had been worse company, staying up until 2:00 a.m. last night crystallizing his plan. A late request to Ikedo had gotten him the last piece.
“What’s your take on Yang?”
“Well, he certainly was a helluva cryptologist, as well as an incredible pain in NSA’s ass according to the file. It’s a wonder Robinson put up with him.”
“Knowing Garrett, I’m sure it drove him crazy, but he could hardly ignore the intel opportunity. Breaking AES was a dream come true.”
“From Robinson’s notes they were making some progress on getting Yang’s secret, but not fast enough. Now they’re dead in the water and they’re stuck with IMAGER as well.”
“We’re stuck,” Markovsky corrected.
“Okay. But how did they pull you into this mess?”
“It’s a long story, Roger. I owed Claude a favor. Now what’s your recommendation?”
Slattery recognized when his boss had passed the point of pleasantries. He hoped the plan he had concocted in the quiet darkness a few hours before still made sense in the light of day.
“We can’t approach Yang’s brother directly. It would be suicide professionally and politically. And could get the brother killed. The Chinese state police don’t bother with polite questions. We need a middle-man. Someone who can make contact without raising alarms.”
“How do we do that? Beijing isn’t exactly the most open environment.”
“Agreed. But I did some checking last night. There’s an international mathematical cryptology conference in Amsterdam next week. Yang’s brother is registered. I believe if we could place an asset at the conference, he could make the contact.”
“He’s bound to be watched constantly by the Chinese security. We can’t just drop anyone in. It would be too dangerous.”
“But if we found a bona fide scientist, with all the right credentials, who wasn’t connected to us . . .”
“And would do what we tell him to . . .” Markovsky added.
“We might have a chance.”
Markovsky paused and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I suppose you have a name to put with this superman?”
“Actually I do. Someone I, ah, worked with, a while ago.”
“You can talk this someone into this escapade? He could get himself arrested you know. Or worse.”
Slattery looked off into the lush green Virginia countryside. “I know. But with the right motivation . . .”
* * *
George Tracomb didn’t know what he was doing here. Why was he making useless telephone calls to people he didn’t even know?
It was all that new CEO Dennis Phillips’ fault. Ever since he had arrived at the National Culture Collection, all he had done was disrupt their well-practiced protocols. His latest fad was Quality, with a capital Q. He wanted to change NCC, make it a Quality organization. No one knew why he wanted to change, just that it was oh so necessary. Nothing but MBA bullshit.
It was not as if they were failing. The NCC was a world-renowned clinical laboratory. They stocked, catalogued, cultured, and distributed pure biological specimens to scientists around the world. From aabomyceticus Sieno to Zymophilis raffinosivora they had the definitive cultures. Over 90,000 of them. For diagnosis and therapy development. Everyone knew they were the best. At least everyone except Phillips.
He said it was all about Quality. Well, Tracomb knew about quality. He was a Ph.D. in Biochemistry. He knew everything about monoclonal antibodies, recombinant DNA probes, Elisa assays. That was all he needed to know.
But that wasn’t good enough for Phillips. He had decreed that every employee would serve on one of the uncountable Quality Teams— “QT”s Phillips called them—that had been created to improve NCC. Tracomb had been assigned to the Customer Satisfaction QT. He had gone to the first meeting and discovered this meant he would sit in a cramped, sweltering, converted closet for two hours every Friday morning and call NCC’s customers. Ask them if their sample arrived, was it what they had ordered, had they had any problems?
Who did Phillips think their customers were, homemakers looking for a new soap? They were scientists, researchers, some with Nobel Prizes. If anything had gone wrong, Phillips would have heard about it long before Tracomb ever made his call.
But here he was, losing valuable laboratory time, going down a stupid list of orders. He had tried appealing to his boss, but she had only shaken her head. Her QT was calling NCC’s suppliers asking what his company could do to help them. Insanity.
Tracomb ran his finger down the list and stopped after the last margin notation. He moved across to the column with the telephone number and dialed.
* * *
Her red hair tossed in the air like a burning match caught in a whirlwind. One final flare flashed before his eyes then she was quiet. With a satisfied sigh she relaxed, lowered herself to the bed, and wrapped her long body over his.
Robinson finally released the tension in his own muscles, relieved the performance was complete. He had never known such a driven woman; either at work or in bed. There could be little time to rest; at any moment she could spring from the lover’s nest and attack her next target.
It had started as simply another of his many valuable contacts. Two aggressive federal executives sharing experiences and trying to squeeze some bauble of insider information from each other. He had sensed a mutual physical attraction and choreographed a careful seduction that had ended two months before here in her bed.
But to be honest, he was never sure who had seduced whom.
Neither held any simplistic romantic notions. They were much too devoted to themselves to harbor dreams of blissful happiness or white picket fences. Still, the relationship had its value; they achieved no small amount of sexual gratification with a high degree of safety—neither could afford to reveal they were sleeping with the enemy.
He heard a satisfied sigh and rolled onto his side, stretching his arm across her china-white chest.
“You continue to surprise me, Garrett,” she whispered. “Such emotion coming from a closet sociopath.”
“And I love you too, Mary Ellen. Anyone ever tell you you can be a bit blunt?”
She laughed and tossed her long hair to the side of the pillow. “Everyone. Most of the time. But I get the job done.”
He kissed her on the ear. “Can’t argue with that.”
She shot him one of her characteristic scowls and shoved him onto his back.
“Don’t get too pleased with yourself. I really am mad at you, you know. I could have used some support at that advisory group meeting.”
“You mean about that militia stuff? What was I supposed to do?”
“It was bad enough having to put up with that shit Markovsky, but I didn’t need to get nailed by your boss.”
“Okay, so Claude got a little carried away. I’ll talk to him. You know I’m on your side.” He rolled over and started to nibble on her ear.
“My side!” She pushed up and stared down at him. “Apparently not all the time. I saw you and Markovsky scheming after the meeting.”
Shit! He had to be more careful.
“I was just trying to find out if he really did have anything new on IMAGER. Don’t be so paranoid.”
“Wasn’t it J. Edgar who said ‘only the pa
ranoid survive’?”
“Actually,” Robinson countered, “I think it was Andy Grove of Intel. But who’s keeping track?”
Flynn stared across the bed and out her Watergate apartment window. “Garrett?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t think Markovsky could be making it all up do you?”
“What! Uh, I mean making what up?”
“All that IMAGER stuff. Sometimes I get the feeling there’s something phony going on in Langley. I’m sure he’s hiding something.”
Robinson attempted a carefree laugh. “You’ve thought the Agency was phony ever since you came to Washington, Mary Ellen. Markovsky may be a bit odd for your taste, but he’s a good intelligence officer. I’m sure he’s doing everything he can.”
“He damn well better be. If I catch him leading us on a wild goose-chase I’ll have his ass.”
“And I thought that was what I was for.”
Flynn paused for just a moment, then caught the barb and pounced onto her lover. She wasn’t finished with him yet.
* * *
Tracomb slammed the phone down in disgust. He had been talking with a whining post-doc at the University of Michigan who didn’t like the way his order had been packaged! The incompetent student had treated him like some mail clerk. What control did Tracomb have over the post office?
He put his initial by the entry in the log. Nothing worth reporting here.
* * *
Flynn hopped from the bed like a jackrabbit.
“Got meetings at the NCTC this afternoon,” she said, striding unabashedly naked toward the bathroom. “Trying to work out this militia problem.”
“How’s your report for Carlson going?” Robinson asked.
“Screw the report,” she called back over the running shower. “I’ve got an investigation to run. The hell with Killer Carlson and his damn advisory group.”
Robinson smiled at the sobriquet. It was a left-over from his Marine take-no-prisoners attitude. And something that was never said to his face—that would definitely be career-ending.
His partner seemed in a good mood. Time to see what she might let slip. “What are you working on?” he called as casually as he could.
“Oh, checking out all the cells around the arson sites. Some of them must be involved.” The shower turned off and she reappeared wrapped in a towel. “By the way, you know a CIA agent named Slattery?”
Slattery! What is she doing with him?
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” Robinson replied. “What does he do?”
“Counter-terrorism under Markovsky. The Director wants me to work with him on the militia strategy. I wondered if you had heard of him.”
“I may have heard the name from Claude. Don’t know anything about him, though. Sorry.”
“Just thought I’d ask. I’ll try to be polite. But he damn well better not get in my way.”
Shit. He just gave Slattery the whole IMAGER background. If the agent let anything slip, Flynn will have his head. Or some other indispensable bodily part.
“Another working lunch later this week?” she teased while wriggling into a skin-tight blue silk skirt.
“Sounds good to me.”
Robinson stretched out across the huge king-size bed, surveying the state of his soon-to-be middle-aged body. He sat up and six puffs of muscle appeared on his abdomen. Well, the assignation had at least one positive result: he was in better shape than he had been in years.
* * *
There were only ten minutes left on Tracomb’s shift. He might make it yet.
The closet smelled like a locker room. He had to get out of this assignment.
“Centers for Disease Control and Prevention,” the voice said with a slight southern accent. “Could you please hold?”
“No!” Tracomb screamed but the country-western background music had already started.
The voice returned after two full choruses of some twangy love song. “How may I help you?”
“This is George Tracomb from National Culture,” he began mechanically. “I would like to speak to . . .” he went back to the listing to check the contact column, “Dr. Weaver.”
“Just a moment.”
Tracomb waited, rapidly tapping the end of his pencil on the desk. At least she didn’t put him on hold.
“I’m sorry, I have no listing for a Dr. Weaver. Do you have a department name?”
“No.” There was no other affiliation on the printout.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Just a minute.” Tracomb went back to the listing and read across. “Dr. Randolph Weaver, one vial biologicals, DZ252M.” Nothing unusual, standard laboratory fair. He was surprised the CDC didn’t have enough of their own.
“I’m sorry, sir. But we have no Dr. Randolph Weaver.”
“Okay. Thanks. I guess I’ve got a bad name.”
“Sorry we couldn’t help, sir.”
“Yeah, good bye.”
Tracomb shook his head. Another screw-up on the list. Probably the damn computers. He scribbled a question mark in the margin and moved down to the next entry.
Only five minutes left.
Chapter 17
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Friday, 11:30 a.m.
“Mr. Smith is here to see you, Adam.”
Karen Chu’s mellow voice came over the intercom. Braxton remembered her message from earlier in the day. A Mr. J. Smith from MITRE had called requesting a meeting. He was very insistent, impolite was Karen’s word, and she had set up an appointment for 11:30. Just barely time before he had to leave for a client visit in Crystal City.
MITRE Corporation was a major government contractor with projects reaching into nearly every federal agency. Their DoD work was based in Bedford, Massachusetts, outside of Boston, while the civilian efforts were led from down the street in McLean. Braxton didn’t know who had gotten him the meeting, but an entry into MITRE could be a gold mine.
“Show him in, Karen,” he responded into the box.
DoD, Braxton concluded as the man marched into his office. Smith strode in head high and shoulders back with a leather briefcase hanging at his side like it was glued to his arm. He was heavyset but not fat, with short gray hair and gold-rimmed aviator glasses. He looked like a retired general in a business suit, which was probably close. MITRE was a popular landing strip for military retirees.
“Mr. Braxton,” the visitor said as he offered his hand.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” Braxton motioned to the chair placed at the corner of his desk. “How can I help you?”
His visitor took the offered chair, sat down, and immediately opened his briefcase. He fumbled with its contents for a minute or so, then, without ever withdrawing anything, closed it and set the case on the floor at his side. He seemed to relax after this ritual and smiled broadly.
“I’m afraid I’m not from MITRE, Mr. Braxton,” Smith began. “That was a bit of a fabrication to get an appointment without causing too much attention. Actually, I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency. We would like to ask for your help.”
Flares exploded in Braxton’s head. The CIA! What the hell did they want? Did Mr. Smith—Braxton was sure that wasn’t his real name—know anything about his role in the Incident?
“I can’t imagine how I could be of any help to the CIA, Mr. Smith,” Braxton replied as directly as he could.
“You’re aware of the International Cryptography Meeting in Amsterdam next week?”
“Yes. I remember the announcement.”
“Are you planning on attending?”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve got a lot of business to complete and I don’t have the time this year. Why?”
“Nothing nefarious, you can be sure.” The mechanical smile grew even wider making Braxton even more uneasy. “As I’m sure you’re aware, we frequently talk with scientists and business people attending international meetings. Their insights are extremely valuable as we develop intell
igence assessments. A simple hallway conversation, a chance meeting with a colleague, all these may be unimportant to you, but could be a critical piece of a larger puzzle.
“Our job is to collect these pieces and construct the mosaic. These conversations are, of course, kept in strictest confidence. For some we can provide a small remuneration, but honestly most simply do it as a way to give something back to their country.”
Braxton was sure the motives were hardly so patriotic. He had once thought about such encounters as exciting and romantic, but he now had enough cloak-and-dagger for a lifetime.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith. But as I said, I’m not planning to attend. And to be honest, I’m not really interested in working for the CIA.”
“You wouldn’t be working for us. We would never ask you to do anything you wouldn’t normally do. Think of it as simply a patriotic contribution. We are quite anxious to get your opinion on some of the recent cryptographic developments, especially in China.”
China? They never speak publically about their cryptography programs. How could I have an opinion?
“I hardly think I would be able to help you, Mr. Smith,” Braxton continued. “Cryptography isn’t my area of expertise.”
“Come now, Mr. Braxton. You are very well-known in the community.” Smith paused, then said, “One might say even a celebrity after the Incident.”
Braxton’s heart skipped a beat. So he did know! He tried to read through the pleasant facade on the agent’s face, but it was impenetrable. How involved had Smith been in the efforts to trace the Internet mole? How much did he really know?
This man was making him very uncomfortable. Braxton’s hands were clammy and his heart pounded all the way to his toes. He had to end this meeting.
“That’s history, Mr. Smith, or whatever your real name is. As I said, I really can’t help you. Actually, I don’t want to help you. Now, if you don’t mind . . .” Braxton stood up and moved around the desk.
“Of course, Mr. Braxton.” Smith rose and reached in his pocket. Braxton froze in mid-step before seeing the hand reappear with a business card. “Please do think about my offer. You would be doing a great service to your country. Here’s my card. Feel free to call me at any time.”