by Jack Bowie
Chu stood uncomfortably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I think I know,” she said quietly.
“You know? How?”
“I have a neighbor, Trudy. She’s a contracts manager at Lockheed Federal now. I called her when I saw the letter.”
“What did she say?”
“She didn’t want to get involved, Adam. I had to pull in some very old IOUs. You have to promise not to use her name, ever.”
“I promise, Karen, I promise. What did she say?”
“It came from their funding agency. The Pentagon. They dropped some hints that they didn’t like your name on the consultants list. It doesn’t take long for something like that to have an effect.”
The Pentagon. DoD. Carlson. Vision One. It was a chain that was trying to drag him into an abyss. His head dropped into his hands.
Chu stepped back into her office and silently closed the door behind her.
God, why does everything happen at once?
Chapter 58
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Thursday, 5:15 p.m.
Braxton had had enough. There was no way he was going to get anything more accomplished today. He picked up his briefcase and began collecting some papers, more out of habit than a belief he’d get any work done at home.
Finished stuffing the files inside, he closed the top of the case and saw a man standing in his office doorway.
“Jesus, Slattery! Can’t you just knock?”
“Sorry, Adam. But we have to talk. I saw your secretary leave, and came up. This is better than the parking garage isn’t it?”
Braxton latched his case and set it on the floor. “I guess you recognized my message after all. That is what this is about isn’t it?”
“The man with the albino eyes is the one that attacked you?”
“All business now, huh? Okay, we’ll make this short. I’m very tired, and I’m very angry. Yes, he had albino eyes. And he pointed a very big gun at me. Then he said, ‘tell your friend I’m back’ and stuck your card in my pocket.”
“My card? How did he . . .”
“He found it on my desk. Bad luck, I guess. That’s it. I presume you won’t tell me who he was, so I won’t ask. I’ve given you the message. Now I’m going home.”
He picked up his briefcase and walked indignantly past the agent.
“Lock up when you’re through.” On the way out the door he turned. “You know, Slattery, you’re no better than he is.”
* * *
“Braxton,” he groaned into the telephone. Looking over to his alarm clock he saw it was only 8:45 p.m. It felt like the middle of the night.
After the confrontation with Slattery, he had taken a taxi home. There was no way he could have faced Northern Virginia traffic in the state he had been in. He had taken a shower and collapsed into bed. All he had wanted was a good night’s sleep.
“Adam! Are you alright?”
The soft female voice was all too familiar. It was Susan Goddard. His stomach started to twist which only made his head hurt more.
“Oh. Hello, Susan.”
“I heard about the break-in on the TV. Is everything okay?” Her voice sounded dry and raspy.
“Yes. I’m fine. Just bruised up a bit. It was stupid trying to chase him.”
“Do you know who it was? What he wanted?”
“Ah, no. No idea at all. Probably just someone looking for some office equipment to steal.”
“Adam, I hate to ask, but you’re not mixed up in anything are you? I mean the incident in Amsterdam and now this.”
Leave it to Susan to cut to the bone. He had to change the subject.
“Nothing but a string of bad luck, Susan. How about you? You sound a little hoarse.”
“Just a touch of the flu. Probably working too hard.”
“You running everything on the Hill yet?”
“Not hardly. I can barely keep up with the Senator.”
“Tell him to take it easy on you,” Braxton said. “You deserve a break.”
“Senator Lexington’s really great, actually. He even invited me to the White House yesterday.”
Yesterday? No. It couldn’t be. “The White House? When, Susan?”
“For the intelligence agreement signing. I’m sure you heard about the bomb scare. Wasn’t it awful? Who would do something like that?”
“I . . . I really don’t know. I’m pretty tired, Susan. I think I better call it a night.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry, Adam. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m glad you called. But please take care of yourself. I hear there’s some really bad bugs out there.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s just one of those three-day things. Call me when you get feeling better, Adam. It would be nice to see you again.”
“Yeah. Me too, Susan. Good night.”
Braxton set the receiver back in the cradle. Why did she have to be there? He knew his discovery had been too late. He had heard it in Slattery’s voice.
Goddamit! He couldn’t let this happen to her. She had saved his life once. He had to try to save hers.
He reached for the phone.
* * *
He had started with D.C. Capitol Hill, Georgetown. They would be ideal for the gregarious Miss Walker. Lots of Sam’s. Lots of Steve’s. Even a Sarah or two. But no Sydney and no S. Walker.
Perhaps only Sydney Marino was outgoing. Not Sydney Walker. She had seemed much more subdued in his apartment. He picked up the phone and began relentless badgering of the Northern Virginia 411 operator.
There had been five S. Walkers in Fairfax County, and all had been misses. Two more in Arlington County and three in Alexandria County. Also misses. Frustrated, he moved on to the Maryland operator.
Listing number four in Bethesda was ringing.
“Hello.”
Pay dirt.
“Good evening, Sydney,” he said in his most upbeat tone. “It’s Adam.”
“Adam? . . . Oh! Adam. The newscast. I heard . . .”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. They missed again. We need to talk. Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
* * *
The Legal Sea Foods in Tyson’s Galleria was busy but sedate at 9:30 p.m. The twenty-somethings had departed to more social surroundings leaving the restaurant to the serious diners. The couple had started with a round of drinks: Walker opted for a glass of Chardonnay while Braxton ordered a double Talisker.
“It’s good to see you again, Adam. I hated the way we left it.”
He still couldn’t decide whether he could believe anything the woman said. But he was running out of options. He had to take the chance.
“I need to know something,” he asked abruptly.
“Okay, what?”
“Do you know what happened at the White House?”
“The White House? What do you mean? When?”
“At the signing.”
“Oh. You mean the bomb scare. Who could have done such an awful thing? Thank God it was only a hoax.”
He watched her face. The huge dark eyes, the gentle curve of her nose, the smooth, sensuous lines of her lips. God, she was good. Would he even know if she was lying?
“It wasn’t a hoax, Sydney. It was real. Someone released the Chlamydia during the ceremony.”
“What!” Her voice leapt above the casual dinner conversation. She glanced quickly around, then lowered her tone to a whisper. “Who . . . who would do such a thing?”
“Are you ready to order?”
Their heads snapped up to see a young, well-scrubbed waiter standing alongside the table.
“Ah, yes,” Braxton replied. “Sydney?”
Walker ordered a Seafood Caesar Salad and Braxton seconded the choice. He wasn’t up to making any more decisions tonight.
“No one knows who’s responsible,” the consultant continued after their waiter was safely out of earshot. “The FBI and CIA ar
e trying to make a connection to those militia attacks. They think the bacteria was cultured on a farm in Georgia.”
“But Amsterdam, we saw . . .”
“Yes. That’s what keeps bothering me.”
“It could just be a coincidence,” she said. Her voice had changed. It was calm, analytical. “It might have nothing to do with Vision One.”
“Maybe. But I’m not convinced. Do your bosses know about the exposure?”
“I don’t know. I told you, I’m not on anybody’s most-likely-to-succeed list right now. But I haven’t heard any rumors either.”
“Then nobody is talking to anyone else.” His voice was getting louder, but he couldn’t stop himself. “DoD is so spooked over our little escapade that they’re stone-walling everybody else. And the CIA and FBI are so obsessed with the militia threat they’re blind to Vision One.”
Walker slowly set her knife and fork on the side of her plate. When she looked up, Braxton knew he was about to be interrogated.
“Why the concern now, Adam? You knew about all this last week and you didn’t give a damn. Or so you said. I doubt this is some abiding concern over the people in the current administration.”
“Actually you’re wrong. This is about people.” Or at least one person. “I don’t care if nobody else wants to do anything. I’m not going to just sit around when I can do something.”
“But what, Adam? What can you do?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’m sick of all this political bullshit, Sydney. I’m sick of nobody caring why Megan was murdered, I’m sick of being chewed out by Carlson, and I’m really sick of your bosses trying to ruin my business.”
“What!”
“DoD is telling all their contractors to quit doing business with me. This is now very personal. I’m going to find out who killed Megan, and I’m going to find out what happened to that Chlamydia antibiotic.”
He could feel the blood rushing to his face. Attacking Walker wouldn’t get him anywhere. He paused and took a deep breath.
“But I need your help.”
His companion considered the request with a calculating calm. It seemed like an eternity.
“Well, it’s not like I’ve got a lot of other things I’m working on,” Walker replied with a smile. “What do you want me to do?”
* * *
“Would you like anything else, sir?”
The young waitress stood before him, impatiently tapping her pencil on the order pad. His hazel eyes looked up at her, noticing her attention dart across the aisle. She had already written off the tip from this overworked businessman and was sizing up the opportunities elsewhere. His was not a face she would remember.
“No, thank you,” Gary replied. “Just leave the check please.”
She dropped the slip on the table and moved promptly to a well-dressed quartet on his right. As always, contact lenses made him invisible.
The consultant certainly did get around. Gary had followed him over the past twenty-four hours: the chaos at his office, his trip home, and now a late night rendezvous with this woman. A friend, but not a close one. There was caution in both their demeanors. It could have been a first date, but they were much too serious. The conversation was subdued, accusatory, not meant to impress or console.
A business colleague perhaps? Or something more ominous? Someone with whom to share information?
He had only been asked to search for information. Somehow the consultant may have gotten access to background on C. Pneumoniae. There had been nothing in his apartment or office, although he had to admit Braxton’s arrival was ill-timed. He had not had time to cover his presence. The shot had been simply a warning, something to distance him from the nosy consultant.
But where had the cavalry come from? He had had barely enough time to exit through the service entrance before the cops and FBI arrived. Who could have called them? And what was the FBI doing at a simple breaking-and-entering? You’d think he had broken into the White House.
Then there was the card. How could he be connected to this consultant? But then he had been there. Gary had seen his face.
He shook his head to knock the image out of his mind. He had waited so long. Maybe it was time to repay the old debts.
Braxton and his companion rose to leave. Gary folded a small stack of bills, placed them over the check, and picked up his coat. He doubted there would be any late-night liaison between this pair. It was time to drop the consultant and investigate more interesting possibilities.
Chapter 59
National Counterterrorism Center, McLean, Virginia
Friday, 10:00 a.m.
“Thank you all for coming,” Carlson began, standing at the front of the conference table. “I apologize for the hastily called meeting, but events have out-stepped our ability to adequately communicate plans and strategies. It is critically important that we continue to coordinate our activities and not duplicate efforts. Mary Ellen, would you please begin with a summary of the FBI’s investigation?”
Slattery watched Flynn confidently stride to the front of the room. Amid the escalating crises, Carlson seemed to have forgotten about the punitive deadline he had forced on the Special Assistant.
“In the week since the raid on the Tyler farm,” Flynn began, “we have traced connections to twenty-five other militia cells in ten states.” The map behind the Special Assistant revealed the locations in glowing red circles. “In fifteen cases we discovered evidence that linked the cell to one of the militia attacks. We are continuing to investigate additional cells, but personally, I believe we have identified all of the cells that participated in the assaults.”
“Was there any commonality in the cells, Mary Ellen?” asked Garcia.
“Some, Jerry. All the cells were small, and relatively isolated in the overall militia movement. Their views were extreme and had a history of violence against authority, principally the Federal Government. It was clear they were selected only after a very thorough analysis.”
“What about this Gary?” Carlson asked. “Was he involved with all the cells?”
“At first we didn’t think so. Their contacts all had different names. Terry, Mike, Oren. And never a last name. But then we started building a profile. It was always the same man. He used different names, but it was always the same man. The coordinator is our Gary.”
Something finally clicked in Slattery’s head. He looked over to the map then down to his notes. Could he have missed the connection?
“Is there any progress on identifying him?” Stroller asked.
“Nothing yet. We’re still cross checking fingerprints from his various motels, but all we have are undifferentiated partials at best. The profile has been sent to every law enforcement agency in the country, as well as Interpol. He won't escape, and we’ve completely disconnected him from his cells.”
“The cells you know about,” Stroller added.
“All of his cells, Claude,” Flynn responded firmly. “He’s impotent. It’s only a matter of time until we locate him.” She reached into the folder in front of her and pulled out a sheet of paper. “We just completed a new sketch of Gary. Tony will pass copies around. It’s already on the wire to every field office in the country.”
“What about the bomb threat at the White House, Mary Ellen?” Delacroix asked. “Is there any connection?”
Slattery glanced over at Carlson. He was stone-faced. Maybe he had been able to put a lid on the C. Pneumoniae attack.
“Not that we can determine at this time, Admiral. The evidence on the source of the scare is so sketchy we have no reason to believe the events are connected. If there are no further questions,” Flynn said picking up her papers, “that’s all I have at the moment. I will be sure to update all of you with any breaking news.”
“Thank you very much, Mary Ellen,” Carlson said. His demeanor was uncharacteristically cordial. “Unfortunately, until we catch this Gary, I’m afraid that many of our questions will remain unanswered. Jerry, could you update u
s on Homeland activity?”
“Of course, General,” Garcia responded.
Slattery only half-listened to the succeeding updates from Garcia and Delacroix, instead staring intensely at the artist’s sketch of their nemesis. He felt sick to his stomach. It wasn’t the taut, young face he remembered but it had been seven years. He dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his eyes until they screamed for relief.
Flynn had provided two tantalizing clues. But it was only circumstantial. He’d have to address the one discrepancy personally.
“If there are no other updates,” Carlson’s voice broke through Slattery’s concentration. “Despite Mary Ellen’s reservations, I’d like to stress the importance of determining the linkage, if there is any, between the militia attacks and the White House bomb threat. I expect all of you to report any progress to my office and the other group members. We will be on emergency schedule until you are notified otherwise. Thank you.”
There were a few glances around the table, but Carlson made a prompt exit, and the other members slowly filed out. Slattery held back, waiting until Flynn had sent her entourage on their way. It seemed she wanted to talk as well.
“What’s up, Roger?” Flynn asked. “You’ve been watching me all morning. I will assume it’s not my new outfit.”
Slattery quickly checked out the Special Assistant’s dark blue pinstripe suit. Trim, and packed in all the right places. His reaction, or lack of one, was simply another sign of his impending senility.
“Sorry, Mary Ellen,” the agent replied, “It’s a lovely suit. But a couple of things you said hit a nerve. Where did Gary use those aliases?”
“Let’s see, Terry in Chattanooga, Oren in Eugene, Mike in Grand Rapids, . . .”
“So it was Gary in Georgia, Terry in Tennessee, Oren in Oregon, and Mike in Michigan?”
“Well, yes. That is rather interesting isn’t it? I thought he was just using Senator’s first names.”
A shiver went up Slattery’s spine. He had to find out.
“I noticed you didn’t give Gary’s eye color. No one remembered?”
“Certainly they did. There were a few discrepancies, but we’re sure his eyes were colorless. Some kind of crazy albino mutation.”