Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  “Hello?” he asked aloud, though there was no one around to hear it. The number the alert referenced was not associated with his current task, nor any that he could remember having recently worked. It took several minutes of scanning archived emails and case-related directories on his workstation before he found a match, though instead of satisfaction at finally making a connection, Brian only felt more confusion.

  The case file in question was thirteen years old, its most recent entry of any substance having been entered during the fall of 1992.

  “You’ve gotta be yanking me,” he said, gritting his teeth as he opened the case file. Of particular note was the fact that while it had lain dormant for more than a decade, the file was last updated near the end of 2004, flagged with a new instruction to apprise Deputy Director Nicholas McFarland should any new information come to light.

  Okay, so much for another boring day trapped in my hole. Assuming this new update amounted to anything, it was very possible that Brian might see actual daylight as he left the cubicle farm on this floor to go inform McFarland of what he had found.

  Using his mouse, Brian clicked on the alert-box and opened the file indicated by the message’s embedded link. A new screen opened on his monitor as fresh information was routed to his workstation, updating his copy of the affected file. According to the transaction log forwarded to him, a funds transfer had taken place within the hour, routing money from a bank in Switzerland, the account number for which was one of several listed in the case file. The transfer log displayed a list of several nodes and other banks through which the funds had been routed and rerouted, sometimes three or four times. Within a span of ten minutes, the money—more than one million dollars—had moved through banks in Europe and the United States.

  Then it vanished.

  “What the hell?” The question echoed off the walls of Brian’s cubicle as he pounded his keyboard, searching through the string of screens and pop-ups in a frantic attempt to backtrack to where he might have lost the trail. It took nearly twenty minutes before he realized he had been duped, and it had happened rather early in the transfer process, to boot. Somehow, whoever was behind the movement of money between banks and other financial institutions around the world also had launched a feint as a way of covering their tracks, as though they expected their activities to trigger alarms and summon scrutiny. The two sets of transactions had both separated and converged, racing alongside and even overlapping one another within the chaos formed by millions of other transactions taking place at the same time. From what Brian was able to tell in the short time he had invested to this point, the money actually had stopped moving after only the first few transfers, with the rest of the following transactions executed simply for show.

  McFarland’s gonna love this.

  “What the hell do you mean you lost it?” asked Nicholas McFarland, his eyes boring into Brian’s with such intensity that Brian thought he might just burst into flames.

  He now stood before the deputy director’s desk, his laptop cradled in the crook of his left arm, having indeed seen daylight thanks to the summons to report to McFarland’s office on the top floor. Glancing past the man himself and through the large windows that formed the office’s back wall, Brian noted the cloudless blue sky and the lush green forest surrounding the Agency complex. Right now, the idea of hiding himself amid the dense foliage seemed quite tempting.

  “To be honest, sir,” Brian said after taking a moment to force down the lump that had lodged in his throat, “I never actually had it.” As quickly as possible, he described the process by which the funds were removed from the Swiss bank account. “It took me some time to figure out, but what actually happened was that the electronic transfers were a wild goose chase. The money was actually withdrawn by someone with access to the account who physically visited the bank. Nearly one point five million dollars in a briefcase, just like that.”

  “What about the transfers?” McFarland asked, tapping the fingers of his right hand along the top of his large mahogany desk.

  Brian replied, “All a ruse, sir.” Holding up his laptop, he waited until the director nodded his approval before stepping closer to the desk and placing the portable computer atop its polished surface. “We’ve got some footage from the bank’s security cameras, but it’s not very helpful.” To save time, he already had set up the video playback software and advanced the clip of footage to the appropriate point. “It was a woman who made the withdrawal,” he said, pointing to the figure standing at the teller counter. “Watch how she keeps her face turned away from the camera. I only caught her for a few frames.” Freezing the image, he enhanced it so that McFarland could get a better look, but frowned when the director seemed to register no emotional reaction as he studied the woman’s face.

  “Anything else?” McFarland asked.

  Nodding, Brian advanced the video file until the image shifted to that displayed by another camera. “I tried to isolate footage of her entering and leaving the bank, but something weird happened there, too.” He said nothing more as he allowed the video to play. On the laptop’s monitor, the woman was walking toward the camera, but then the image seemed to jump forward to where she passed out of the frame.

  “Watch the time stamp, sir,” he added as he replayed the footage. “It doesn’t shift like you’d think it should. It stays steady, but she just seems to flash forward. I don’t get it.” He cast his eyes down toward the beige carpet of McFarland’s office. “Not that it really matters. She kept us chasing our tails while she walked out of there with the money. It’s like she knew we’d be watching when she went after it. Whoever she is, she’s good, sir. Damned good.”

  Maybe we’ll hire her. There’s bound to be an empty cube on my floor by lunchtime.

  To Brian’s surprise, McFarland did not offer any sort of denigrating retort. Instead, he merely nodded as he reached to open his desk’s center drawer. He extracted a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter, not of the disposable variety but instead one of those old-school stainless steel jobs with the flip-top and that needed fluid. Not a smoker himself, Brian felt an urge to remind the director of the building’s smoking policy, but discretion won out over righteous indignation as McFarland fired up his cigarette. Instead, Brian noted that the side of the lighter was emblazoned with the emblem of the United States Marine Corps, and remembered that the director had once served in that branch of the armed forces.

  Taking a drag from the cigarette, McFarland tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air above him. After a moment, he said, “She is good, Mr. Hicks. Very good. She may not have possessed the technical skill to accomplish what she did, but it’s obvious she still has access to resources and personnel to help her with this kind of thing.” He shook his head as he pulled again on the cigarette. “Damn.”

  Brian frowned again. “You know her, sir?” The smoke now had reached him, and though it stung his eyes he made a conscious effort to refrain from wiping them. He began to feel a tickle in his throat and fought the impulse to cough.

  Though he seemed to recognize the discomfort he was causing, McFarland said nothing, instead simply taking the partially smoked cigarette and snuffing it out in the ashtray near the corner of his desk. “Yes, I know her. She used to work for us, on a freelance basis, several years ago. The name she used at the bank in Switzerland is…was…an alias of hers in the early nineties. As for the account itself, it was one she used as a transfer point for money she received from us for…services rendered. The account’s been dormant for more than ten years, but it was never closed.”

  Brian said, “Sir, you updated the file with a notation to alert you should something like this happen. Prior to that, the case had been cold for more than a decade. You knew last year that someone would try to access that account, even though so much time had passed.” Frowning again, he asked, “What kind of work did she do?” Even as he spoke the words, Brian knew what answer he would receive.

  Shaking his head, McFarland
said, “That’s way above your pay grade, Hicks. For now, I want you to concentrate on monitoring the other accounts listed in that case file. If another nickel moves from any of them, I want to know about it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Brian said. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Just that you’re not to discuss any detail of this assignment with anyone. That includes your immediate supervisors. I’ll make sure they’re briefed appropriately, and that you’re given the latitude you need.” He paused, grunting in mild exasperation. “To be honest, Hicks, this is a long shot. The person we’re talking about was very—very— effective at staying off radar screens. My gut reaction to what you showed me is that she wanted us to see her pulling this money, just to show us that she could do it and get away clean. I don’t expect her to do it again anytime soon. If she holds to pattern, she’s lying low somewhere, for whatever reason. But, you were still on the ball enough today to catch her in real time. You keep up whatever computer voodoo it is you do down there, and you might get a bit luckier next time.”

  It was as close to a compliment as he was likely to get from the director, Brian knew. “Assuming there is a next time, sir.”

  McFarland nodded, and for the first time Brian noted the fatigue that seemed to cloud the other man’s eyes. “Something tells me we’d better hope there is.”

  TWELVE

  ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  IF THERE WAS a downside to a mild Sunday morning during any summer in northern Georgia, Frederick Morehouse was convinced that it had nothing at all to do with the merciful weather gods, and everything to do with the increased number of golfers on his favorite course. They always seemed to beat him to the best tee times.

  “I’m being punished for sins in a past life,” he said, casting a look of disgust over his shoulder toward his three companions and their caddies and shaking his head. They had been standing a respectful distance from the starting point of the first hole, waiting for the group ahead of them. Three of the four golfers in the other party already had teed off, but the final member of the quartet, a man Morehouse knew was a local district judge as well as a pompous jackass of the first order, apparently was making a career out of his first swing. Dressed in a pink pullover and white pin-striped slacks that matched the color of his well-coiffed hair, the judge appeared to be talking to his golf ball as he lowered the head of his club to the grass in slow, deliberate movements, only to raise the club in order to repeat the steps all over again.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and he’ll take a slice to the nuts.” Grunting in irritation, Morehouse turned toward his caddy, a teenager dressed in khaki shorts along with an orange T-shirt and matching cap. Nodding to his golf bag, Morehouse said, “Hand me one of those water bottles from that outer pocket, would you, son? I’m thinking we’re going to be here a while.”

  It was while the caddy was fumbling with the bag that Morehouse felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. Retrieving the phone, he studied its digital display and immediately recognized the calling number. Even if he did not know who was calling him, the 703 area code was clue enough: Virginia, probably Langley. Course etiquette usually frowned upon the use of cellular phones, and Morehouse observed that courtesy except in the most extreme or unusual of circumstances.

  Today, this call fell into that category.

  Flipping open the phone, he brought the compact unit to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Have you figured out how to hit it through that little windmill yet?” asked the voice of Nicholas McFarland, longtime friend and former co-worker.

  Chuckling in spite of himself, Morehouse replied, “Thanks for getting back to me, but that joke doesn’t get any funnier, no matter how many times you try it.”

  Since retiring from his position as a CIA deputy director nearly a decade ago, Morehouse’s contact with McFarland had been sporadic—holidays, get-togethers during vacations or when the occasional consulting job took him to Washington. Those infrequent exchanges and meetings had undergone considerable change during the last year, since McFarland had told him of Lona Callahan’s incredible return from supposed oblivion.

  “What have you found?” McFarland asked, dispensing with the jocularity and getting down to business.

  Morehouse grunted, stepping away from his friends and keeping his voice low. “Nothing. Everyone I’ve got on the case has come up dry,” he replied. Since hearing from McFarland about Callahan’s brazen visit to one of the banks she once had used as a transfer point for the Agency funds she received, Morehouse had contacted several government and private sector associates, gaining access to a small pool of talented computer specialists who could be relied upon to carry out discreet investigations for a handsome freelancer’s fee. The efforts of those individuals had yielded only slightly more information than McFarland already knew, essentially confirming that Callahan had to have employed her own computer gurus in order to cover her tracks with such skill. While Morehouse’s people were able to determine the starting point for the string of faked money transfers, it only had angered McFarland to learn that she or her accomplices apparently initiated the diversion from somewhere inside the bank, utilizing the building’s own local area network.

  “There’s been nothing new for weeks,” McFarland’s voice growled through the phone. “On one hand, it’s like it always was, but considering everything that’s happened since we started this up again, I don’t like it.”

  Morehouse nodded in understanding, knowing that no verbal acknowledgment was required. Old habits had taken over during these increasingly frequent conversations, with both men leaving out specific references to Callahan or her activities as they talked over the open phone line. After all, one never knew who might be eavesdropping. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I’ve already got my people going through every file we have,” McFarland replied, “looking for anything we might have overlooked or forgotten. I don’t expect to have much luck, though. You remember how this used to work.”

  Indeed, Morehouse thought. Lona Callahan always had been disciplined and effective at maintaining her anonymity, to the point that it used to be a point of debate about whether she ever had provided her real identity to her employers. For years, Morehouse was convinced she had, refusing to believe that even her formidable talents were a match for the Agency’s all but unlimited resources.

  Now, however, he had to wonder.

  “I’ll have my people keep digging,” Morehouse said, reaching up to wipe the first beads of sweat from his forehead. The pleasant temperatures of the morning were giving way to the more traditional heat and humidity characteristic of Georgia summers. “We might still get lucky.” Even as he spoke the words, he felt a tinge of doubt that irritated him. Computer technology and its usefulness to law enforcement and intelligence agencies had increased a hundredfold during the twelve years that Lona Callahan had been away. “Sooner or later, our people will find something, or someone.”

  “You think there may be others?” McFarland asked.

  “Absolutely.” While Morehouse found it unlikely that Callahan could have closed her learning gap in such a short time to the point where she could stand toe-to-toe with the best experts employed by the Agency, it was obvious that she still commanded formidable resources despite her long absence. This suggested close friends or partners for whom time would not have been a factor with regard to loyalty, and it was a thought that troubled Morehouse.

  Behind him, he heard the sound of someone clearing his throat, and Morehouse turned to see his friend, Geoffrey Thorne, pointing to his watch and then toward the tee-off for the first hole. The other group had finally moved off, making their way down the fairway at a modest pace.

  Thank Christ for small favors, he mused, looking at his own watch and realizing that it had taken the judge almost five minutes to tee off. Arrogant prick.

  “I’ve got to go, Nick,” Morehouse said, “but I’ll call you later this afternoon, or sooner if something turns up.” There would be
plenty of time later to worry about Lona Callahan.

  McFarland replied, “Sounds good, Fred. Good talking to you. Wish it could be more often, and under better circumstances. Try not to hit any innocent bystanders.”

  Ending the call, Morehouse returned the cell phone to his pocket before turning back to the rest of his group. “Okay,” he said, smiling as he clapped his hands together and rubbed them in a gesture of anticipation. “Who’s first?”

  “That would be you, old man,” Thorne replied. The muscled African-American man smiled as he stepped closer and clapped Morehouse on the shoulder. “And I don’t want any excuses out of you when we kick your ass all over this course.”

  Morehouse laughed, pulling a white leather golf glove onto his left hand before selecting his club. “Promises, promises,” he said, grabbing a ball and tee from his bag.

  “Sounds like we still have time to up the bet,” said his friend and partner for this game, Allyn Gibson, offering his trademark leering grin which almost always assured some manner of mischief. “What do you think, Fred?” To the rest of the group, he asked, “Any takers?”

  Thorne’s partner, Bill Leisner, nodded in agreement. “Okay, Mouth. Double it,” he said, smiling like a college freshman invited to his first sorority party. “But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  “Works for me,” Morehouse said, offering a good-natured wave as he placed his ball on its tee and adjusted his grip on his club, setting his feet in preparation for his swing. “Just be sure to remember where you hid your wallets when we get back to the clubhouse.”

  Morehouse flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders, straightening his posture to stretch the muscles in his back before settling into his stance. He raised his head, closing his eyes and enjoying the warmth of the morning sun on his face.

  Through the crosshairs of her rifle scope, Lona Callahan observed the better portion of Frederick Morehouse’s head disappear. The sound of the lone rifle shot echoed across the well-manicured golf course as Morehouse’s limp body fell to the grass.