by Jack Bowie
Braxton shook his head and scuffed his shoes in the dirt. “No. Not yet.”
“Look,” Fowler spoke directly to the consultant, “I need to tell you this case is now out of my hands. The FBI has taken over, but they’re not going to do a damn thing with it. My advice for you is to just drop it. I don’t know whether your friend’s death is related or not. But there’s no reason to take any chances. This is too dangerous for a couple of amateurs.”
Braxton couldn’t believe what Fowler was saying. How could he lead him on then tell him to stop?
“You look, Detective,” he began angrily. “Maybe you don’t have a case, but I do. I know there’s something going on in those gateways and my job is to find out what it is. And whoever is behind it may have killed two people already. If you’re not interested in helping me, then that’s fine. We’ll find someone else who will.”
He stood up and looked over to Goddard. “Come on Susan, let’s get out of Detective Fowler’s way. He obviously has more important things to do.”
“Whoa, slow down, Braxton.” Fowler grabbed the consultant’s coat tail and pulled him back to the bench. “Don’t get all riled up. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. You’ve just got to realize this is serious.”
“We’re very aware this is serious, Detective,” Braxton said. “We’ve both had a friend killed.”
“Can you help us?” Goddard asked.
“Maybe. I’ve been doing some checking. I called a friend in the CIA.” Braxton and Goddard both raised their eyebrows. “No big deal, just a friend who owed me a favor. He couldn’t find any terrorist connection with Ramal’s death. Unexplained murder number one. The Cambridge police also don’t have anything on your friend’s murder. It looks like a simple burglary, but there are no prints, no forensics, and, according to you, no valuables taken. Very clean, very professional. But what were they doing in your apartment for over an hour?”
“They could have been waiting for me.”
“We don’t know that for sure. Nothing links the two murders. Except you. You’ve got to be careful. When do you expect to hear anything back from this computer guy?”
“Warren? He didn’t really say. Maybe later this week.”
“Okay, I’ll see what more I can get down here. Where will you be?”
Braxton looked over to Goddard wondering what her plans were. “I’m not sure. I want to make a stop at GW and check on something. But I’ll definitely be back in Boston mid-week.”
“Call me when you get home.” He glanced at Goddard and added, “And in the meantime, why don’t the two of you spend some time together? Go sightseeing. See a movie. Maybe you can keep each other out of trouble.”
“We appreciate your concern, Detective,” she replied. “We’ll try.”
The couple stood and Braxton took Goddard’s hand. “I’ll talk to you in a couple days, Detective,” he said.
“Yeah.” They had started to walk away when Fowler’s voice stopped them. “Ah, excuse me, Ms. Goddard. Something’s been bothering me ever since I talked to you last week. We haven’t met before have we?”
Goddard shook her head and laughed. “That’s a terrible line, Detective. I was hoping you could do better.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean . . .” Fowler fumbled.
“I’m kidding. I don’t think we’ve ever met, Detective. I haven’t been in D.C. for a very long time.”
“If you say so. Now get outa’ here and let me read my paper in peace.”
* * *
Fowler watched the couple stroll down the hill. Crazy kids. What have they gotten into?
There wasn’t much he could do to help them, except be around if things got too hot. His contact in Boston had said that the Cambridge cops had squat on the break-in. It would become just another unsolved case of urban crime.
Maybe he could squeeze Slattery a little more. The spook had definitely been holding something back. If he could get any corroboration of this network problem he might be able to get the case reopened.
Fowler pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
“Forty-two twelve,” said a distant mechanical voice. “No one is able to answer right now, would you like to leave a message?”
Damn. How could he get Slattery’s attention without setting off any alarms? What did Braxton call that thing?
“Yes,” he replied to the machine.
“Please leave your message after the tone.”
“Roger. It’s Sam. I’ve got some information on that rogue we were talking about. Give me a call.”
That should do it.
Chapter 36
The Russell Building, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 12:30 p.m.
“IS THE MAN in, Camille?” Nicholson asked. It had taken him all night and most of the morning to fix the problems his staff had created in the draft of the amendment. Why couldn’t they have just left it the way he wrote it? He had to get the document to Potterfield before the caucus meeting.
“Yes, Nick. He came back from the White House a few minutes ago. I think he’s expecting you.”
“Thanks.” He gave a perfunctory knock on the door and continued inside. His boss was sitting behind his disk staring into his PC. “David, I’ve prepared the amendment with the new technical requirements. We probably need to go over some of the highlights.”
Potterfield turned to his aide and attacked. “Screw the amendment, Nick! Another of those goddamn threats came in over the weekend.” Nicholson walked behind the desk and read the message over the Senator’s shoulder.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Senator Lynch
Senator Potterfield,
You continue to ignore our warnings. We know you fabricated the evidence that discredited Senator Lynch. We will release our proof to the media if you do not announce your resignation immediately.
You have been warned.
Citizens for Responsible Government
“When do I get answers, Nick? We have to find out who this is and what they really have.”
The investigation was going too slowly. Nicholson had expected that a solid lead would come out of the staffers’ research. It hadn’t happened that way. “We checked out all the reporters who covered the story. They have all either died or left the area. I don’t believe any that are left are smart enough to pull this off. That just leaves the family.”
“So where are they?”
“I’m still working on that. No one seems to know where they went after the suicide. The mother may be dead, or in a home somewhere.”
“Your only suspect is a sixty-year-old woman? You’re letting me down, Nick. Call the IRS. Or Social Security. They know where everybody is.”
“We’ve got to be careful, David. I’m going to follow up with a friend of the family. It’ll take me a few more days but I can’t trust anyone else to do it.”
“Just remember, the Bill is up for a vote this week. We can’t have anything screwing that up.”
“Understood, David, but I don’t think you should worry about the Bill. I know you’ll be able to get it through. As for the email, I’ll send a reply this afternoon. We’ll find this bastard.” Somehow.
“I appreciate your confidence, Nick. I really do.” Potterfield sat back in his chair and rubbed a very tired pair of eyes. Then he leaned forward with renewed energy. “Enough of this email crap. Show me the new amendment that’s going to make us goddamn rich.”
* * *
Nicholson leaned over his desk reviewing the latest email from “Citizens for Responsible Government”. What a piece of crap! Who the hell were these people? And did they really have anything on his boss?
He shook his head to put such foolish questions aside. All that counted were facts and results. And he had always managed to discover ways to get the facts and create the results. Even if it sometimes required ascertaining just the right kind of motivation.
He would get the facts on thi
s blackmailer and the results would follow. It hadn’t been all that different when he had first met his future partners.
* * *
Potterfield had wanted Nick to go to the best school the Senator’s influence could buy. His choice was a law degree from Yale, but Nick’s grades weren’t quite up to it. He did well in math and science, however, and his SAT scores caught the attention of a local recruiter from MIT. She needed to fill her minority quota and nearly swooned when she heard Nick’s hard-times background. Nick convinced his mentor that MIT’s Sloan business program would meet their needs, and six months later he was on his way to Boston.
Nick’s experience in the law office had taught him how to work any system. It was easy to maneuver around the Institute’s standard rules and regulations, especially for someone with “special circumstances”. The rules were made for typical immature undergraduates who were happy to do whatever MIT told them. He, on the other hand, knew what he wanted and how he would get there. His college education was a time-consuming formality. He might learn some skills, although he really didn’t need to go to a university to get them. They could be just as easily developed by reading and study. What he could get, however, were the contacts that would be the stepping stones to the positions, and the power, he desired.
He meticulously mapped out his four years. He took as few courses as possible, getting MIT dispensations as frequently as he dared. The subjects he did enroll in, he selected as much for the stature of the professor as the content of the material. One such addition was a class taught by a John Donovan. Nick heard that he was a rising star, and the course had a strong following both in Electrical Engineering and Management. You have to be open to new opportunities, he mused, as he talked the registrar into adding the class to his schedule.
Unfortunately, the course was much harder than he expected. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but the work required significantly more time than he had planned, to the point that he had to drop one of his other classes. The term project was a particular time sink.
It was hell getting anything out of the other members of his project team. Nick was a couple of years older than most of his classmates and significantly more mature. He found he had to tone down his behavior to get some things done. Warren was a prime example. He was a quiet, introverted engineer; someone who let life lead him rather than the other way around. He was bright enough, worked hard, and could be counted on to do as Nick requested, as long as the request was prefaced with a “please”.
Bob was another matter altogether. Arrogant and ill-mannered, he was the perfect example of a spoiled preppy. It was all Nick could do to keep from popping him in the face. Bob contributed very little to their project, except providing the money for the late night pizza and beer. He couldn’t imagine why the Harvard student had even taken the class. But it was typical. Bob’s worst problem was getting in over his head, and the rest of them always had to get him out.
Nick never took another class with either of the pair. The trio had their own goals and set out on independent paths to their futures. Nick graduated and went into the Graduate Management Program at the Sloan School. Warren became obsessed with computers and spent the rest of his time in the Electrical Engineering department absorbing as much as he could. Bob had apparently had enough of real work and finished his academic experience in reading and contemplation behind the ivy-covered walls of Harvard.
They never released the unusual bond that had been formed, however, and kept in touch in uniquely high-tech ways. Nick talked one of his professors into giving him an account on MULTICS, the next generation time-sharing system MIT was developing for GE. He quickly deciphered the system’s internal operation and gave himself full system privileges. He created accounts for his friends, and they used their new-found power to solve problem sets, analyze economic models, and write elegant research papers.
Nick also discovered he could use his skills to make his life more comfortable. MIT had recently written a new computerized course scheduling system that ensured balanced student loads across the various recitation sections. With the old paper request system, early morning sections would be empty while afternoon ones were oversubscribed. It would take weeks to get new rooms allocated and the sections balanced. The new computer program automatically placed a student into a section based on the fit between his schedule and the overall distribution of other students in the class.
Unfortunately, this program wreaked havoc on Nick’s carefully designed calendar. He routinely double booked classes, knowing he wouldn’t attend many anyway, and set his schedule to accommodate other pressing matters, such as the Wellesley bus schedule. He and Warren had done some research, then made “improvements” to the scheduling algorithm. It was disgusting how inefficient the original had been. The new one worked much better.
Soon after the scheduler was corrected, Bob asked for some help. His parents had cut off his allowance for some trivial reason, and he needed to find a way to get some money. Someone had suggested that they could offer a custom scheduling “service” to other students. Nick thought it sounded like an interesting venture; he could use the extra cash as well. They made the appropriate modifications at Harvard and began an operation that provided all three ample spending money for the rest of their academic careers.
Warren had a tough junior year. His mother died just after Labor Day and he was having difficulty concentrating on his work. His grades slipped and he risked losing the scholarship that kept him at the Institute. They couldn’t allow the short-sighted rules of the Financial Aid Office to cost MIT one of its finest scholars. Nick found the academic records data base and made the necessary corrections. Warren soon straightened himself out and graduated with honors the following year.
That was the way it had started, using their knowledge of computer systems to help each other out. Over the ensuing years, those skills had been immensely valuable to both Nicholson and his boss. The campaign against Lynch had been only one example. Potterfield didn’t know about the occasional assists Nicholson received from his partners, and there was no reason to have him involved. Better that he attribute all those results to his exemplary Chief of Staff.
Chapter 37
George Washington University, Washington, D.C.
Monday, 2:00 p.m.
GODDARD DROVE BRAXTON back to George Washington University. He wanted to make one more request of Williams and didn’t want any written, or electronic, record. They stopped at the computer center and spoke with the SysOp about the Century gateway. He was busy with a software upgrade to one of their new IBM servers but managed to print out a process map for gwu-gate. The whole visit only took ten minutes.
“It’s probably good Williams was so busy,” Braxton commented when they got back to the BMW. “He didn’t have time to ask me why I wanted the map.”
“What does it show?”
“A process map is a listing of the processes, or software programs, that are running on a machine. Besides just their names, this one gives each program’s size, location in memory, and links to devices.”
“Does the listing help?” Goddard asked.
“It’s consistent with the maps I remember when we were developing the network software. There’s definitely more going on than just routing.”
“Can you tell what the programs are doing?”
“Not from this. There’s not enough detail. It’s just another piece of the puzzle.”
“What do we need to do next?”
“Getting this was easier than I thought. I still have to figure out how to get through the trapdoor. Then I can really find out what this mole is up to.”
“Mole? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“Paul came up with the name. It’s as good as any for now.” His voice lost its excitement at the reference to his friend.
“Well,” she continued rapidly, “while you were gone I got thinking about what Detective Fowler said.”
“About being careful?”
�
��No.” She playfully slapped his leg. “About sightseeing!”
“Sightseeing? I’m sorry Susan, but I’ve seen most all of D.C. already.”
“I don’t mean the District. A couple years ago I got sick of out-of-town friends always asking where to go and how to get there. So I wrote up a complete tour: Susan Goddard’s Guide to Historical Northern Virginia. I think it’s quite good. There’s a copy in the glove compartment, but you get a personal showing.”
“So you’re kidnapping me?”
“Absolutely!”
Braxton happily succumbed to her enthusiasm, leaned back in the BMW’s soft leather seat, and let his lovely chauffeur take over. It was irrelevant that he had seen most of the sights before. This time he was with a beautiful friend and he saw them anew through her eyes.
They headed south on Route 1 and stopped at Mount Vernon. Half an hour later he had learned more about George Washington and his home than he could ever remember. Then it was down through Lorton to see Gunston Hall, George Mason’s elegant Georgian estate.
Next Goddard headed east for Washington’s birthplace at Pope’s Creek Plantation, and Stratford Hall, the birthplace of Richard Henry Lee and Francis Lee, the only brothers to sign the Declaration of Independence. Turning west, they drove through Fredericksburg for the James Monroe Museum and the home of Mary Washington.
The afternoon turned cool as Goddard roared passed the Fredericksburg and Spotsylvania County National Military Park on their way to Charlottesville. The BMW spun into Monticello just as a golden sun was setting behind the Appalachian Mountains. They found a bench on the stately grounds and watched as the bright orange and red sky dissolved into deepening blue.
The tour had been frenetic but it was a pleasant respite from the horrors of the past week. For Braxton, it also marked the transition of a tentative friendship into something a lot more personal. He hoped Goddard felt the same.
“You could become a tour guide if politics don’t work out,” he said as they waited for dinner at a rural Virginia inn outside Culpeper. “Where did you learn all that?”