“I told you he was one of us. So I said you were a former chief warrant officer helping Gilmore’s widow and you had found Chuck McNulty, who led you to him.”
Clark had actually found McNulty, but I understood his desire to keep a low profile. He was the one still subject to military discipline.
“Do you think he’ll talk straight?” I asked.
“You’ll have to judge for yourself, but he said to call him. If he wanted to evade questions, why agree to talk?”
“Why indeed?” And then I thought, unless he hopes to spin me a tale that brings the investigation to an erroneous conclusion.
“Thanks,” I said. “What’s his number?”
Nakayla jotted down the ten digits.
I picked up the phone. “I’m keeping you out of this, DeShaun.”
“Appreciate it, brother. But if a fellow officer was murdered, you do what you need to do to get justice for all of us.” He disconnected.
Nakayla handed me her notepad with Axelrod’s number. “You going to drive to Raleigh?”
“No. It’s twice as far as Charlotte, and I’ve got the meeting with Owen Sharp tomorrow. If I don’t like Axelrod’s answers, then I’ll show up on his doorstep Monday morning. Let’s call him on the office phone so we can record it.”
Our landline consoles had been modified to permit the call to be recorded on a small SD card. North Carolina law required only one party of a conversation to have knowledge of a recording, not both. Of course, this assumed both parties were in North Carolina at the time of the call. Raleigh, the state capital, certainly qualified.
“Hello?” The man’s voice was strong without a trace of an old-age warble.
“Is this Len Axelrod?”
“Yes. Is this who I think it is?”
“I hope so. Chief Warrant Officer DeShaun Clark gave me your number. My name’s Sam Blackman.”
“Is it true you found me through Chuck McNulty?”
“Yes, sir. I’m hoping you can shed some light on what happened to Eddie Gilmore.”
“What happened to him was he got murdered. Didn’t McNulty tell you?”
“Yes, sir. But we don’t know why. McNulty said Eddie Gilmore wanted to talk to you about his brother-in-law Frank DeMille. That ties back to the Apollo tracking station and our area. You might not have known, but the remains of Frank DeMille were discovered at the station the week before last.”
Silence. I waited him out.
“Cause of death?” The flat tone of his voice was suddenly infused with curiosity.
“Indications he was struck in the head with something like a shovel blade. He was buried on a wooded ridge above, and the skeleton was unearthed during an attempt to contain a recent forest fire. We’re working on behalf of Eddie’s widow, who is Frank DeMille’s sister. Our progress to date is that we suspect the investigation has generated two murders and an attempt on our lives.”
More silence. I let Axelrod’s cop brain assess the information and possible consequences.
“I understand you were a chief warrant officer in Iraq and now are a private detective.”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“So you know when we undertake an investigation, no one is immune from our questions, whether they’re a private or a general.”
“I’ve interviewed my share of both,” I said.
“So I have this radio phone conversation with Gilmore while I’m in a village outside of Saigon. He wants to know if I’d run a concern up the investigative chain regarding a potential leak at a NASA facility. Now NASA isn’t a military agency, but rocket development and support systems clearly overlap with the priorities of the Department of Defense. He said his brother-in-law was hesitant to raise the issue internally if there was the better option for someone from the outside to review the matter.”
“Did Eddie say what proof his brother-in-law might have had?” I asked.
“He’d created some kind of gateway that didn’t block access to his files but counted whenever the program was copied. Sort of a cyber turnstile. The problem was he didn’t have a way to know who had tapped the data. However, since the system was closed, it had to be someone on-site. He didn’t want to accuse his colleagues, but a duplication had to be internal. There was no reason to do that unless you were taking the data external. I guess back then, it could have been some sort of floppy disk.”
“Did you initiate any action after talking to Gilmore?”
“No. We were to meet in Saigon. Then he was murdered. I made sure I was assigned to the investigation, and when the Kit Carson Scout became the main suspect, I was encouraged to close the case.”
I thought I knew why. “Because of the embarrassment of a traitorous Kit Carson Scout. It tainted the whole program.”
“No. It wasn’t about the scout. It was about Dr. Jean Louis Caron. The Soviet agent had been on counterespionage’s watch list, and a public investigation into Nguyen Van Bao’s movements would have alerted Caron. The murder was folded into the espionage case, and I was taken off. I got to interrogate neither a private nor a general. I was shut out.”
“And no one followed up on Frank DeMille?”
“I tried, but by then, he’d vanished. I suspected the disappearance tied into the Soviets, and I passed that along. But Caron was their main target, and NASA wasn’t on their radar. It was all about the war.” He sighed. “The irony was computer hacks and cyber thefts have become the war.”
“And Dr. Caron?”
“They closed in on him. He put a bullet through his brain, blowing out all his secrets. No telling how much damage he’d done or how many spies he ran in addition to Nguyen Van Bao.”
“You know Bao’s defense minister of Vietnam.”
Axelrod’s intake of breath was audible. “That son of a bitch. Are you sure?”
“McNulty claims he saw him in some news footage a few years back. And he appeared to be best friends with one Vladimir Putin. I realize Putin would have been too young in 1971 to be involved. He didn’t join the KGB until 1975. But that sly fox probably knows all operatives and operations before, during, and after his intelligence days.”
“Blackman, do you still have cases that are crawling under your skin?”
“Yeah. Ones I couldn’t prove but knew the guilty party. Ones I couldn’t solve but I’m haunted by the victims. I’m afraid this case might fall into one of those two categories.”
“And you’ve brought Eddie Gilmore and Chuck McNulty back to me. I can still see McNulty in that hospital bed, the stump of his amputated leg wrapped in bloody bandages. His only concern was that I get who killed his friend. That’s one of the cases under my skin, so if I can do anything at all to help, you call on me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a favor, if you would be so kind. Let me know how I can get in touch with McNulty.”
“He’s in Charlotte. I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”
Nakayla scribbled out the phone number and address. I relayed the information.
“Thanks, Blackman. Good hunting.”
He hung up.
“What do you think?” Nakayla asked.
“I think we learned the military screwed up and left a potential mole at the tracking station. And he’s not only a spy, he’s a killer.”
Chapter 24
The noon sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Asheville tourists crammed underneath the awnings covering the sidewalk vendors as much to escape the direct rays as to peruse the handcrafted wares. I’d arrived at the designated rendezvous fifteen minutes early and stood on the corner of Page and Battery Park Avenues until the heat drove me to a nearby bench partially shaded by an anemic tree.
At precisely twelve o’clock, a tall man with curly black hair walked to the corner and waited beneath the street sign. He was neatly dressed in navy slacks and an open-neck white dress
shirt, but the real clue that he was NOAA executive Owen Sharp hung around his neck. The photo ID badge proclaimed he could access some restricted area the rest of us could not.
He saw me as I approached and offered his hand. “Mr. Blackman. I’m Owen.”
“Then I’m Sam. Thanks for taking the time on a Sunday to meet with me.”
He smiled. “Better Sunday than trying to squeeze in time during the week. Not that my job is so important. It’s just there’s never a day without weather.”
I laughed. “I can’t argue with that. And you were right about today. It’s a scorcher.”
His smiling face turned grim. “Better get used to it. Now, Hewitt said you had some questions. Is it about a case? Hewitt usually sends us a written request.”
“Not a specific case. Primarily some background questions. I thought Hewitt told you I’m pretty ignorant about how your operation works.”
“He did. That’s why I thought we’d meet here. Where things began.” He gestured toward the huge, five-story Grove Arcade. “Do you know much about the building?”
“Only that it was built by the same Grove who constructed the Grove Park Inn. And I think it was supposed to be bigger.”
Owen Sharp started walking toward one of the entrances. “That’s correct. It was supposed to be a five-story base and fourteen-story tower. Retail and residential. A visionary concept for the early 1920s. But Grove died in 1927. Only the base was finished when it opened in 1929. Then the market crash eliminated any chance that the original design would be completed.”
We stepped into the cavernous interior with shops flanking either side. “It was the center of commerce for thirteen years. Then in 1942, it was taken over by the federal government.”
“Why?”
“The war effort. The shops were vacated, the ground floor exterior windows were bricked up, and important records were housed, including weather data. The Western North Carolina mountains were considered to be unlikely bombing targets should the Nazis have gotten so far. The same way city hall and the Biltmore House were utilized.”
“City hall? I know the National Gallery sent priceless paintings for safekeeping at Biltmore, but why city hall?”
“During World War II, the entire Asheville city hall was leased to the U.S. Army. It was made the headquarters for its Weather Wing and Communications Services branch, the forerunner of the AF-Triple-C of today.”
I looked at him blankly.
“The Air Force Combat Climatology Center. No military operation happens without weather and climate assessment. A short history lesson. Back in the 1930s, a WPA project had collected weather data on paper punch cards that had been developed for the 1890 census. The cards were adapted to record the weather data, and in 1934, the project punched two million weather and climate observations from 1880 to 1933. Others followed, bringing the database constantly up to date. That data was made available to the military and became critical information during World War II. Military operations factored in climatological input. The forecasts for missions, landings, including D-Day itself depended upon this data. Even how runways were laid out or where bases were located.” He stopped walking. “I hope I’m not boring you.”
“Not at all.”
He gestured to a coffee shop beside us. “Good. Why don’t we sit down, or else I’ll have us lapping the building.”
We paused the discussion long enough for me to treat him to an iced tea while I ordered iced coffee. We found a small corner table separate from the other patrons.
“So to make a long story shorter, the collected data needed to be consolidated and stored somewhere. The government already owned Grove Arcade, so moving the records here would be an internal operation, drawing little external attention. In 1951, the National Weather Records Center was established here. Then it was known as the National Climatic Data Center and is now the part of NOAA called the National Centers for Environmental Information. Asheville’s still the headquarters, and all the information is digitized.”
Fortunately, I’d become familiar with these more recent incarnations and could act like I threw those titles around every day. But Owen Sharp’s mini lecture had revealed a new aspect that rose above the plethora of names and acronyms.
“Are you still providing military information?” I asked.
“The army and navy now have their own data centers, but the air force, through AF-Triple-C, shares our data stream.” Sharp took a sip of tea and set the glass on the table. “We’re a civilian agency, not a military one, but AF-Triple-C has a presence in the Federal Building with us.”
“How secure is that data?”
Sharp began to rotate the glass as he thought about my question. “Is this what Hewitt’s going for? Is he concerned someone could impeach our data if used in court?”
I shrugged. “Hacking has been the weapon of assault in the twenty-first century.”
Sharp nodded. “I don’t disagree. But we call our core data our golden data. It’s highly, highly secured.”
“How can people access it then?”
He laughed. “Like everything else. Go to our website. Specifically, our Climate Data Online page.”
“Anybody?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice.
“It’s historical data. It’s free unless there are retrieval costs like certified hard copies to be sealed for court.”
“And you’re confident that this data couldn’t be altered or manipulated?”
Sharp threw up his hands. “We can’t control what happens to the data after a customer receives it. But for our part, it’s as secure as possible, backed up in case of catastrophic failure and matched up against other data through publications like the State of the Climate report put out by the Bulletin of the American Meteorological Society that can be verified by other groups.”
“And you’ve never been hacked?”
“There are attempts daily, but so far so good.”
“And the data accessed by the air force?”
“They have their own encrypted pathway.”
I kept pressing for what I sensed was just a question or two away. “And the data can’t be altered, but if you’re inside the firewall, would you know what data was being requested?”
“Yes. Though the searches would give us that information up front.”
“Not if the request came from the military.”
My statement seemed to startle him. “You’re asking if we could monitor what data was mined through the military channel?”
“Yes. You said it was the same data stream.”
He took the last swallow of tea and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “That’s not specifically built into the protocols, but I guess it could be reported out. It’s shared data.”
“And is it possible that the data could be secure but a false trail created to make it look like the protective firewall had been breached?”
Sharp shook his head. “I don’t know. That’s a question for our computer techs. What would be the purpose?”
“To throw suspicion on the integrity of the data. In the climate change debate, for example. The breach wouldn’t actually have had to occur, only the suspicion of a breach.”
Sharp smiled. “You certainly ask some thought-provoking questions, Sam. I’d like the answers myself.”
“Before you ask them, would a day or two delay matter? I’m handling a sensitive case for Hewitt, and I don’t want to raise any doubts about what is probably only my hypothetical musings.”
“Fair enough. But I might do some preliminary digging without mentioning your name. Say later in the week?”
“Agreed.”
We stood and walked back through the center of the arcade. I wondered what it was like when it was filled with punch cards.
“You’re constantly backing up your data, I trust.”
&
nbsp; “Yes,” Sharp confirmed. “On- and off-site.”
“I was out at PARI the other day. Looks like they’re planning to be a repository of secure data themselves.”
Sharp eyed me curiously. “We’re using them. But I have an idea you knew that already.”
We stepped out into the blazing sunlight and walked toward Otis Street and his building. “A day for the record books,” I said.
Sharp shook my hand. “Yes. And the records are only going to be broken more frequently.” He reached in his breast pocket and handed me a business card. “If you have any more questions, feel free to call any time.”
I waited, watching him cross to return to his office. Again, the sentence ran through my mind. Disinformation creates doubt, chaos breeds confusion. From what I’d learned from Sharp, we weren’t just talking about disrupting and corrupting data supporting climate change, we were talking about the accuracy of data used by the United States military. The air force still depended upon that data.
A new thought flashed through my mind. Not only would climate data serve to inform long-term military strategies like where to build bases and how to lay out runways, but the very act of drawing upon that data was information unto itself. If someone could learn where and when the air force was retrieving critical weather data, was that not a tip-off as to where an operation might be targeted? Where drones might be deployed? Where air support might be planned for troop advancements? From Hewitt’s courtroom to strategic and tactical global warfare, weather data played a critical role in ways I’d never imagined.
I turned to cross to the Otis parking deck where I’d left my car. I saw them before they saw me. Joseph Gordowski and Theo Brecht strolled down the other side of Otis, apparently engaged in deep conversation. Had either of them seen me with Sharp? If so, they gave no indication.
I let them get half a block ahead before I followed. They turned onto Wall Street, the short, narrow lane that ran parallel to Patton Avenue and provided street side entrances for the lower street’s second-story buildings. As I trailed them, I realized Rat Alley lay directly beneath me.
The two men stopped at the Laughing Seed Café. I remembered the barman at the Battery Park Book Exchange saying Theo Brecht usually ate there because he was a vegetarian. The two friends disappeared into the restaurant for what I assumed would be Sunday brunch.
Murder in Rat Alley Page 21
