by P A Duncan
“Two thousand.”
“Give me an hour,” he said and hung up.
Mai occupied herself with more research until the phone rang, fifty-six minutes later.
“Okay,” Russell said, “I’m here.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. “You know, I can get in trouble for running plates for personal reasons.”
“Oh, this is strictly business.”
“Okay, what’s the number.”
Mai gave him the plate number, and after a minute or so, he said, “Registered to Avis, Washington National Airport. That it?”
“No. I’m going to put you on hold a moment. Stand by.” She put Russell on hold and switched to another line to call Grace Lydell in Analysis. “I need for you to get into rentals today for Avis at DCA. No, send me the list later. Hang on while I check with someone on the other line. Officer Russell, still with me?”
“It’s Dave.”
“Okay, Dave. Please stay on the line a while longer. I’ll be right back.” She switched back to Grace. “Anything yet? Read them to me. Wait. That last one. Reston Security Services. What kind of car did they rent?”
When she heard the make and model, Mai smiled.
“Excellent. Get their financials, employee roster, client list, etc. I’ll call you back in an hour.”
Mai hung up and switched back to Russell. “Officer… Sorry, Dave. What do you know about Reston Security Services?”
“They’re a good-sized private security and PI company in the area. Specialize in guarding against industrial espionage, computer security. They also do standard PI stuff, skip checks and the like. Some bail enforcement.”
“How deep on the police department’s radar are they?”
“They got several branch offices around the county. They’re good about calling us in when appropriate, but real cops always have a little heartburn with wannabes.”
“Have they ever crossed the line?”
“There have been a couple of investigations into reports of excessive force used in both fugitive recovery and executive protection.”
God, it was like pulling teeth, she thought. “Anything come of that?”
“Not much. Witnesses, you know, backed off the allegations.”
“Intimidation?”
“Likely, but we couldn’t prove it.”
Mai read between the lines of his stilted responses. RSS had hired goons but ones smart enough to know how far to go without attracting negative attention from law enforcement.
“Do you have access to those investigation files?”
Russell’s silence grew protracted, and his voice lowered even more. “You know, I can use the extra cash, but if I lose my job…”
“Say no more. I was being over-zealous. You’ve been very helpful.”
“Well, I hope you’re very generous.”
Mai caught the flirty tone and replied in kind, “I can be. Thanks for the help.”
“Wait. Don’t I get to ask why you needed this?”
“I didn’t think I needed to explain that. I have to leave you wondering.”
“Story of my life. Have a nice day.”
After Russell hung up, Mai went to RSS’s website. Not much, though it had more than the average businesses only just beginning to understand the internet’s potential. What Mai did get was a phone number. She made a bogus query call to them. That done, she called Grace, who transferred her to the analyst she’d assigned to gather the information.
“Domestic Analysis, Elizabeth Drake,” came the answer.
“It’s Mai Fisher. What do you have for me?”
“RSS has branches in Reston—that’s the main office—Herndon, and Fairfax in Virginia and one in Silver Spring, Maryland. They’re a sophisticated, high-tech security company, both personal, corporate, and computer security.”
“I got that much from the police.”
“I’ve got more, if you’d let me finish.”
An analyst who didn’t take her crap? That could be interesting. Mai said, “Go ahead.”
“They’re a subsidiary of Prentiss Software, another local company famous for its computer forensics software. Nathan Hempstead has a guy on the inside who bootlegs stuff for us. Their software has a unique niche, but they’re constantly strapped for cash. RSS’s income essentially keeps them in business. I’ve emailed you the employee list, but Nathan said they keep personnel records on a standalone. The client list was behind a couple of ridiculously porous firewalls, which I didn’t need Nathan’s shop to break. I emailed that, too.”
“Ops love it when analysts anticipate their requests,” Mai said, hoping to build a bridge.
No response for a moment, and Drake said, “I checked the PI licenses, and everything is in order. No lapses, no pulling their tickets for any offenses, no complaints with the Better Business Bureau or the state consumer protection office. I also checked for any official or unofficial connections with CIA, FBI, NSA, every spook acronym we know. A lot of their personnel are former military, but there were a couple of management employees who are former FBI. They were low-level guys, field agents. No Washington types.”
Mai was eager to get to the emails. “Thanks, Ms. Drake. I’ll be back in touch if I have questions, but that was thorough.”
The analyst hung up.
Mai reviewed the employee list first. No names rang a bell, but she highlighted a few to have background checks run. The client list was impressive, most of them legitimate companies that could afford the high fees RSS quoted Mai during her bogus call. Individual clients were few, but this time Mai did recognize some names: politicians, lawyers, judges, and one not very important person.
Hollis Fitzgerald had hired RSS within the past week. Granted, he may have hired them to see if his wife were cheating, but RSS was high-priced. Catching unfaithful spouses seemed beneath them. Perhaps the retired FBI types in RSS’s management chain had supplied Hollis’ connection.
Mai called the testy analyst back and asked to see if she could connect RSS to any right-wing group Mai had researched. The return call an hour later indicated RSS had no known connection to the patriot movement. On the surface, that was disappointing, but Mai knew business connections could be hidden by layers of shadow companies. Linking Fitzgerald, via RSS, to an extremist group bent on overthrowing the government would have been icing.
And she knew just the person who could find out RSS’s secrets if they had any.
Without bothering to check the time, she called Dublin, Ireland.
When her private line rang, Roisin O’Saidh smiled. Only one person would call this time of night on that line, and Roisin would take that call anytime, anywhere. Some three decades later, she remained bitter the Fishers’ wills had not named her the guardian of five-year-old Maitland Fisher. Granted, Roisin was all of twenty-three at the time, but already called to the bar. She thought of herself as the only mother Mai had known. As such, she waited for the day when Mai would stop dallying with whatever she did for the United Nations, divorce the peasant she’d married, and take her rightful place as CEO of EuroEnterprises.
“Good evening, acushla,” Roisin answered.
“How are you, mo chara?” Mai asked.
“Making money hand over fist, as the Yanks say, and aren’t you glad?”
“It does make my life easier. Rosh, I’ve sent you some information by email. Could you take a look, please?”
Roisin turned to her computer and opened Mai’s email, skimming it quickly.
“Ah, yes,” she murmured. “Yes, indeed. Excellent prospectus, dear. What is it you’d like?”
“Buy them out.”
“I’ll need to burrow down, see who the parent company is. These American tech firms have convoluted structures.”
“I was hoping you’d do that. I’d like to know all its connections as well.”
“What else?”
“Fire everyone. Severance packages only for the admin staff. No golden parachutes for the management. Terminate all
professional licenses. Stone Security and Investigations will take over the operation.”
“Good suggestion. SSI needs to branch out. Hollywood perhaps.”
“I think you’ll see this is a large enough company to support an office in the Washington D.C. area and on the west coast. Personally, I’d put it in Beverley Hills.”
Roisin smiled. The business courses Roisin had insisted upon hadn’t been lost on the cailín after all.
“I should be able to get this done in a week.”
“A week? Roisin, you’re losing your touch.”
Roisin heard the tease in her voice.
“It’s the new tax laws. All the paperwork. I’ll come over personally to see to the transition.”
“Good. Come by for dinner.”
“Is himself still living high off your trough?”
Mai laughed and said, “So he is, and he won’t be going anywhere. Besides, you’ve never turned down his cooking. By the way, there’s one client SSI will sever relations with and not accept any new business from. His retainer is not to be refunded. The particulars are in a separate email.”
“Very good, love. I’ll see you in a week.”
After Mai hung up, Roisin smiled at her computer and rubbed her hands together in anticipation.
The action she’d taken would only buy Mai a little time, she knew. Fitzgerald could hire another firm, but given RSS’ pricey fees, it would be tough to manage even on a senior executive government salary.
SSI, her private security firm, had a respected reputation for protecting Europe’s royal and wealthy. They would put the word out to firms they subcontracted with not to deal with him.
She started to shut off the computer but decided she’d rub his nose in the clumsy attempt to intimidate her. She left Fitzgerald a message on his FBI voicemail:
“I thought you might like to know Reston Security Services, whom you hired to tail me, will soon be a wholly owned subsidiary of London-based Stone Security and Investigations, which happens to be owned by your favorite U.N. employee. If you hadn’t hired them and if I hadn’t spotted them, I never would have received such a lucrative business tip. Thanks much. By the way, no refunds.”
The note he found on the kitchen counter told Alexei Mai was out on the deck. He shooed Natalia to the laundry room with the sports bag of wet bathing suits and towels and told her when dinner would be ready.
He went to the deck, dropped himself in the chair beside Mai’s, and sighed.
“The next time she gets invited to a pool party by one of her friends, make certain it’s not on Olga’s day off. And why does one afternoon pool party require three bathing suits?”
Mai smiled and drank from her glass of Irish whiskey.
“One must make the appropriate impression on any boys present,” she said. “What’s wrong? Can’t Alexei the Super Spy keep up with a few pre-teens?”
“Give me KGB, Stasi. Them I could handle. This was too much. Two words I do not want to hear for a month: Marco and Polo. Judging from the twinkle in your eye, that’s not your first.”
Her smile faded. “No, it’s not, but it could be the last if there’s no criticism.”
“What’s up?”
“Why would anything have to be up?”
“You’re drinking whiskey before dinner.”
“On my run today, I was followed. One on foot. Two in a car.”
Alexei checked to see if she had the bottle with her. She did. He took her glass, finished what was in it, and refilled it, handing it back to her. “Was the FBI involved?” he asked, lips tight.
“No. It was a private security company hired by Fitzgerald. The company will soon belong to me, thanks to Roisin, the miracle worker. She’ll be here next week for dinner, so behave.”
“You’re buying the company? That’s good.”
“Did you think I left bodies?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“If I had, no one would find them. Alexei, sometimes, I worry about you. Surrounded all afternoon by nubile young women, and you come home complaining and thinking the worst.”
He smiled; she’d had enough whiskey for the Irish to bleed into her voice: “complainin’ and tinkin’.” “Nubile women no longer appeal to me,” he said.
She gave a snort of a laugh. “Since when?”
“I prefer mature women. One in particular.”
“Tell me later who that is.”
“Better yet, I’ll show you. You were off on your run when we left, and I didn’t have a chance to tell you to look at your email.”
“I was busy instigating a hostile takeover. Why?”
“Your DoD file is there.”
“Did the cyber staples pop on this one?”
“Yes, I gave a quick peek. Mr. John Thomas Carroll’s military record is short but impressive. Gulf War. Bronze Star. Selected for special forces training but dropped out on day two. Blisters.”
“Blisters?”
“New boots, four-mile hike, forty-five-pound pack, blisters, resignation.”
“Forty-five pounds? I’d resign after that, too.”
“We walked fifty miles into Romania once with packs heavier than that,” he said. He took the glass again and drank more of her whiskey, making a face. “So what’s the approach to him?”
“Let me read the package first, but I’d say if we can match him up to any of the groups we’ve been looking at that would drive the approach. For now, some covert surveillance. Later, a carefully staged meet.”
He considered and found nothing wanting. “You or me?”
“Me. That accent of yours would only fuel paranoia about the impending U.N. invasion using the former Soviet Army.”
“And yours wouldn’t?’
“No need to get testy. Mine is quite acceptable, thank you.” She dropped all the way into a harsh Ulster accent. “But I think he’ll be meeting Siobhan the IRA woman, another paranoiac he can relate to.”
“Assuming he’s one of them.”
“He was at Killeen. You saw the bumper stickers. He’s one of them.”
“The famous intuition.”
“You sound uncertain.”
“I’m an empiricist. Review his file—after dinner, by the way, which is in an hour—and we’ll compare notes.”
He stood, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head, knowing she’d go into the office right away to read the file.
“Dinner. One hour,” he said, and went back inside the house.
34
The Model Soldier
Alexei didn’t bother waiting dinner for Mai; he’d known with John Carroll’s military personnel file awaiting her, she’d be lost for the evening.
After he sent Natalia to bed, he entered the office, closing and locking the door behind him.
She looked up and rubbed her eyes. Her smile was thin. “I missed dinner?” she said.
“By several hours.”
Her apologetic expression was at least sincere. “I got a bit caught up in the reading.”
“Indeed you did. It’s fortunate our highly intelligent granddaughter understands you’re a workaholic.”
“Not so fortunate, perhaps. Am I to suffer the loss of my dinner?”
“I saved some dessert for you.”
“Ah, you wouldn’t have mentioned dessert unless it involves chocolate.”
Her eyes glittered akin to arousal when he brought the dish from behind his back, a generous serving of chocolate mousse with an equally generous dollop of real whipped cream. “And since I missed dinner,” she said, “I won’t have to share.”
He pretended to hold it out of her reach. “Only if you fill me in on your reading while you eat.” He passed the dessert before her eyes. “A fair exchange,” he said.
“Withholding chocolate from a starving woman must be against the Geneva Accords.”
Alexei motioned to the sofa, and Mai joined him there. He handed off the mousse, and after several heaping spoonfuls of it, she said, “This
is absolutely decadent. Rather like its creator.”
“Rather. All right, madam. I dished chocolate. Your turn.”
“Our subject joined the Army in the spring of 1988 in a recruiting office not far from where he grew up. The enlistment report contains copies of his high school diploma, a report card from a business college—good grades, by the way—and a social security card.
“That should get us information from numerous sources.”
“I already got Analysis started on it, and they found something right away. A connection to The Directorate. Someone from his old Army unit is in training with us right now. Recruited a couple of months ago by one of our European offices. I’ve sent a query to the instructors to see if he remembers Carroll. If he does, I’m going to The Farm to interview him. Carroll’s file got me through basic training with a lot of detail. It’s scant after that, merely a listing of his training, promotions, and so on. Nothing about his personality.”
Alexei nodded; in basic a recruit would be under constant scrutiny by his drill sergeant, officers, psychologists, chaplains, all of whom would comment on a recruit’s progress. Once basic was over, the personnel file would reflect routine, almost mundane events, unless…
“Any hint of disciplinary action?” he asked.
“None.”
“All right, sum up basic training for me.”
“In the file was a copy of the interview checklist the recruiter used. I thought the questions were innocuous.”
Alexei shook his head. “They’re a subtle psychological assessment. It helps the recruiter eliminate unsuitable people before the Army expends resources on them.”
“Since he ended up in the Army, nothing must have raised a red flag,” Mai said.
“Perhaps, but with recruiting competition being what it is, maybe a lonely recruiter in a small-town office saw a young, clean-cut specimen and thought his dreams had come true. Recruiters have to meet their monthly quotas or go back to active duty. Maybe he didn’t ask the hard questions.”
“You’re such a cynic. According to a resume included with the enlistment report, here was an honor student in high school, someone who’d shown past job responsibility at a young age, and who enlisted at the more mature age of almost twenty-one.”
