The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  “She and a man named Adam Braxton killed Nick and broke into his house.”

  “She kept saying ‘we’. She must have meant this Braxton.”

  “Did Nick keep his records at home?”

  “I don’t know. Do you? It appears I didn’t know as much about him as I thought I did. What do we do about her? Nick thought he could stop her. If she really has all this we’re both in a lot of trouble. I assure you I won’t go down alone.”

  Greystone was overcome by the change in Potterfield. At first he was completely defeated, now he’s threatening. “I’ll take care of Lynch and Braxton. You just do your part with the Bill. In a couple of days things will be back to normal.”

  “Except Nick is gone.”

  “Just do your senatorial thing, Potterfield. Everything else will be taken care of. Think of me as your surrogate aide.” Greystone had done what he had come for. He turned and headed for the door.

  “Greystone,” Potterfield called. “Who is Chamberlain?”

  The executive froze. “What did you say?”

  “Lynch also said she had some kind of computer thing from someone named Chamberlain. She said it had more evidence. What was she talking about?”

  “I have no idea, Senator.” He continued out the door. “Just worry about your own responsibilities.”

  My God. What has Warren done now?

  Chapter 61

  Silver Spring, Maryland

  Sunday, 2:00 p.m.

  “FOWLER,” HE BARKED into the phone.

  The detective’s wife had gone to a church social and left him alone for what he had hoped was a peaceful afternoon with a new Richard Castle mystery. He had just settled onto his favorite sofa when his Sunday was interrupted by another telephone call. He was not happy.

  “Hey, Sam. How’re you doing?”

  It took a few seconds to recognize the gravelly voice. “Roger? Is that you?” He had hoped it was Braxton calling back. The consultant seemed to have lost all reason and Fowler needed to bring him in. Slattery, on the other hand, was just being a nuisance. “What the hell are you doing calling me on Sunday?”

  “That’s no way to greet an old friend, Sam. Especially after that nasty message you left me.”

  What message? Oh, yeah. Braxton’s imaginary rogue. That had been almost a week ago. “So what took you so long?”

  “I’ve been busy. And it sounds like you have too. I thought you were going to drop the Ramal thing.”

  “I did drop it,” Fowler countered. “What do you care?”

  “Well, your friend Braxton didn’t drop it. You’re pushing into things you don’t understand, Sam. Stay away.”

  Dammit, Slattery could be a real pain-in-the ass. “Don’t give me that spook shit, Roger. But you’re right; I don’t know what’s going on. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, my friend.”

  “Then why call me?”

  “Cause you’re always a wealth of information. Like who’s Susan Goddard?”

  Goddard! How did the Agency find out about her? I have to keep her out this. “Uh, she was a friend of Ramal’s. A student at Georgetown. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing much. Her name keeps coming up with Braxton’s. You don’t know why she would have visited Senator Potterfield’s office today do you?”

  Jesus. Potterfield again. “No, Roger, I don’t. Hey, what’s really going on?”

  “Can’t say, Sam. But it might help if you tell me where Braxton is.”

  “Don’t know that either, my friend.”

  “Too bad. Maybe we could help him.”

  How could the CIA help Braxton? Maybe Braxton had been right after all. And now the CIA, and likely their friends in Maryland, have him in their sights. “What did he find, Roger? Something you lost?”

  Slattery went silent. When he responded, his voice had lost its bravado. “Last time, Sam. Stay out. This is a national security issue. Way above me. They’ve been on it for a long time.”

  They? This was wider than the CIA. Maybe there was a problem on the Internet. Braxton had been telling the truth. But Fowler didn’t believe Slattery’s denials for a minute. “They need help, Roger. We ought to do something.”

  “Look, Sam. Sometimes folks get in over their heads. That’s when they need to leave it to the professionals. And you really don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

  “But Braxton and Goddard are?”

  “That was their call, right? You had nothing to do with it. It’s all under control.”

  This is going nowhere. Time to poke the bear one more time. “So there really is a rogue?”

  Another few seconds of silence. “Have a good day, Sam.”

  And the line went dead.

  Fowler stared at the silent phone as if it could somehow still reveal the answers he wanted.

  Christ. Braxton and Goddard were in deeper than even they knew.

  His friend Slattery certainly didn’t have all the answers yet. He wouldn’t have called otherwise. “Under control” bullshit. The spook was waiting for Braxton to crack the case for them. Unfortunately, neither he nor Goddard was likely to live long enough to get any of the credit.

  They needed help more than ever. And he was their only conduit to the outside. But could he afford to get any more involved?

  He grabbed the phone and punched in another number.

  “Who’s this? . . . Jefferson? This is Fowler, CID. Get a unit over to the Nicholson break-in. I want the place sealed tight until I get there. Do it now!”

  * * *

  Nicholson’s death had hit Potterfield hard. Apart from Mary Jane, Nick had been his best friend. The only one, in fact, with whom he could share his most private feelings about life and career. He looked upon their years together as a partnership, a time of mutual respect and reward.

  Now, after all he had given the poor street kid: a decent home, the best education, a powerful position, he finds out the bastard had been holding out on him. Nick played him for a sucker. Using him, and others too it appeared. Maybe it was good that asshole Greystone had burst in. The time to mourn Nick was over.

  Greystone can go ahead and take care of Lynch. And Chamberlain too, whoever the hell he is. Greystone hadn’t expected him to know that name. A little research will make the connection. The executive could turn into a more valuable asset than he had thought.

  “Camille,” he called into the intercom. “Get my PR staff in here! Then call legal. I want them here in fifteen minutes. Then call transportation and get my limo ready. We’re all going on a little expedition.”

  * * *

  The meeting had left Greystone both energized and confused. He again paced the Bokara and reviewed the morning. The Senator was a more complicated man than he had thought. He would have to be careful not to underestimate him.

  Things were finally getting back on track. Potterfield would push the Bill through. That would get Hajima to consummate the deal. Soon Greystone would be running Theater and have a Senator in his pocket to boot. It was a good start.

  But first, he had to make arrangements for Braxton and Goddard. He called Harding’s contact line, got the expected greeting, and left a message. The call initiated a sequence of message drops that would culminate in a prearranged face-to-face meeting the next day. Unless Harding was out of the country, in which case Greystone would receive a return call in a few hours. That message would give an alternative time that would delay the meeting for days. He cursed the contractor for his ridiculous procedure. Perhaps it was time to cultivate some additional resources.

  Now, how was he going to find them? They’ll never go back to her apartment. That’s how Nick had located them. Who would they contact?

  Fowler! The old detective was their only choice. Greystone had suspected Braxton was getting inside information from somewhere. It must have been from the detective. He couldn’t tap the cop’s phone—the FBI might already have—but he could do them all one better.

  He went to hi
s desk and opened his laptop. The on-line telephone directory quickly gave him Fowler’s home number. He reasoned they were more likely to call there than into District headquarters. The computer dialed the number and he got lucky, Fowler’s answering machine picked up. He hung up and went to work writing a special script for his communication program. Fifteen minutes later he was ready.

  His system dialed Fowler’s number. When the recorded announcement started, the program redirected the audio to the digitizer on his multimedia card. Fowler’s greeting was now recorded on Greystone’s disk. The script linked this audio file to the computerized announcement on one of Greystone’s spare telephone lines. When anyone called that number they would get Fowler’s greeting.

  So far, the job had been easy. For the next step, Greystone went back to his TAP documentation. He programmed the call-forward number sequences into another script, added the sequence for caller recognition, and had the system dial Verizon’s secure access line. The program did everything else.

  As he relaxed back in his chair, he noticed a blinking icon in the corner of his screen. He had been so focused on the Fowler effort he had missed its urgent call. Clicking the icon open, the log report scrolled onto the screen:

  Warning:

  Unauthorized access; saracen@rdvax.gw.edu

  The alert had been in place for weeks and he had forgotten to remove it after the accident. His adversary was indeed clever to have picked this avenue to reconnect. The accesses appeared to be from a local connection.

  Braxton couldn’t be allowed to get away this time. At least now he wouldn’t have to rely on Harding. Without another alternative, Greystone reached for the phone.

  Chapter 62

  George Washington University, Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, 2:15 p.m.

  BY NOON THE laboratories had been filled, students milling in the hallway waiting to catch a seat should any of the current squatters complete their assignments. Conversations had ranged from discussions of weekend escapades to complaints of grading curves used by the Comp Sci professors. So far, no one had bothered the slightly older colleague working intensely in the corner.

  Braxton transferred the last files from his CERT/CC and personal cloud directories to Ramal’s account at GW. By the time anyone tried to trace the alarms he was sure he had set off, he would be long gone. Who would be looking for a break-in on Sunday morning?

  He stuck a flash drive he had found lying on a table into the PC and copied the files he needed. Then he started to run the decryption codes. Failure messages scrolled off the top of the screen faster than he could follow. This was a waste of time. He didn’t have enough data on Chamberlain or Nicholson to attempt to guess their key phrases. As he watched the last attempts report their results, a movement in the hall caught his eye.

  Two men had entered the main corridor and were peering into the labs. Braxton instantly hunched over his workstation, trying to hide his face the best he could, but still watching as the intruders took visual note of the users, then turned back into the hallway.

  They were dressed in neatly pressed suits, not an uncommon attire for the streets of D.C., but flashing beacons in the midst of the jeans and sweatshirts of the Resource Center. The taller man wore a trim blue suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and long legs. The shorter man had on a light gray and was similarly well proportioned. They could have been computer salesmen except that this was Sunday and none of the salesmen Braxton knew wore dark glasses and crepe-soled shoes. They had to be FBI.

  Passing the labs, the pair marched solemnly to the end of the hall and disappeared into a room marked “SEAS Library”. Braxton guessed he had only a few minutes to pack up and get out of the building. He sent the decryption log to the printer and signed off the system. Then he added the log to a stack of other listings and stuffed them all into a notebook an earlier student had left behind. The flash drive was already safely in his pocket.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and headed for the door. When he was halfway across the room he heard the clank of a metal door. He looked up and saw the two agents coming down the hall directly toward him. There was no way he could force his way past them in his current state. He fought off the terrified voice that was screaming for him to run and walked as calmly as possible toward the exit.

  When he reached the lab’s door, he glanced around the suite of rooms to gauge his position. Looking in the direction of the stairway, he saw another blue suit standing at the base of the stairs. He was still trying to decide what to do when he ran directly into the taller agent.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “In a hurry to get somewhere?”

  Braxton looked up only to see the reflection of his own face in the agent’s mirrored lenses. He had come too far to be bullied now. “Yes, I have a seminar to give in five minutes.”

  “On Sunday?”

  “Of course,” he responded with fear-induced bravado. “It never conflicts with another class. Why? Who are you?”

  “Special Agent Brooks, from the FBI. And you are?”

  “Uh, Professor Wilson Lexington. May I go now?” Braxton tried to move forward but the agent stopped him with his hand.

  “This will just take a moment. Have you been on these systems long?”

  “Just a few minutes.”

  “Did you see anyone unusual while you were here? Anyone that looked like he didn’t belong?”

  Braxton and the man were blocking the door to the hallway. A couple of students had left their PCs and were waiting to get past them. “I have been busy, ah, sir, and did not notice anyone else. You are the only one I see that doesn’t belong.” He heard a positive reaction from the students behind him and raised his voice. “I would like to get to my class if I may.” He tried to push between the agent and door frame.

  “I said in a minute,” the agent replied as he narrowed the gap through which Braxton was trying to escape. “What is it you were doing with the computer?”

  Jesus, what an asshole. Braxton was tempted to say something about having on-line sex but thought better of it. He needed a plausible cover story fast. The students behind him were getting impatient and one gave him a shove.

  “I am studying the etymology of early Christian chants,” he began. “They have a very unique vocabulary and pattern of rhyme. I use the computer to correlate and categorize the various ethnic varieties of chant and relate them to religious events of the period.”

  The agent stared back in silence. Braxton stood his ground and waited, cold sweat streaming down his side under his shirt. Strangely, his only thoughts were of Goddard. What would happen to her if he were caught? Would he ever see her again?

  “I think we’d better . . .”

  One of the students suddenly pushed between the two older men. “Hey Professor, you’re teaching a course on chants? I got this cool CD of Gregorian chants for Christmas. Is that the kinda stuff you’re working on?”

  Braxton immediately turned to the youth. “Why yes. Gregorian chants are an eclectic variation of standard Christian chants. They actually evolved from some of the early folk songs of the Arthurian era.” He reached out and pulled the student forward through the crowd. “There was, of course, a significant Druid influence . . .”

  The taller agent shook his head and nodded to his colleague at the end of the corridor. Braxton and the student continued unchallenged through the entrance and up the stairs. By the time they had passed the last ring of agents outside the building, Braxton had given the student an ornately fabricated lecture in chant-ology. The new acolyte pledged to sign up for the course the next semester.

  * * *

  Braxton arrived back at the motel at 3:30. After the confrontation at GW, he had collapsed of exhaustion in his Metro seat and slept all the way to Vienna. A shower and change of clothes improved his state, at least his pulse had returned to normal, and he had regained enough presence of mind to begin to worry about Goddard. There was no reason to be concerned, he tried to convince himself; it was
still early and Fairfax County traffic was heavy, even on a Sunday afternoon.

  To pass the time while he waited, he made some notes on a pad of paper he found by their telephone:

  Chamberlain

  Nicholson

  What connected these men? What would cause two well-educated professionals, extremely successful by anyone’s standards, to engage in deceit and murder? Money? Power? What had they been up to?

  He added a few more lines to the list:

  Potterfield

  Lynch

  Goddard

  Braxton

  computer

  router

  gateway

  Century

  Concord

  message

  cash

  He’d need to add birthdays, spouses, pets and anything else relevant from Goddard’s notes, but somewhere in these words lay the key to Chamberlain’s disk, and his and Goddard’s future as well. Would he be smart enough to figure out where?

  There was a knock on the door and Braxton leapt up, praying it was Goddard. He checked the security fisheye, let out a sigh, and opened the door for his accomplice.

  She marched right past him, two large shopping bags hanging from her arms.

  “Your computer is in the car,” Goddard announced, dropping the bags on the floor. “I’m exhausted and going to take a shower.”

  She slammed the bathroom door behind her. The click of the lock echoed through the motel room.

  Braxton considered trying to talk to her about it, but decided this was probably not the time. She’d come out when she was ready and they could discuss things then.

  And he could use the time to work on Chamberlain’s file.

  He pulled the four cardboard boxes from the rental and piled them on the bed. Then he went back out and moved the car out of sight behind the motel. He didn’t know who might be looking for them but there was no sense in taking any chances.

  Back inside, he spread the equipment cartons on the bed. As he extracted the various components, he tossed the abundant packing material into a pile in the corner of the room.