by Rex Fuller
…SHIT…
“Do you still deny that you did?”
“Absolutely.”
“If I were to advise you that we have investigative results, including recordings of your voice attempting to arrange sale of the information…”
…I knew I shouldn’t’ve used the phone…
“…would you want to revise your answer?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Mr. Wadell, is there anything else about these matters that you are aware of that I have not asked you about?”
…like, what am I going to do without a job…
“No.”
“All right. Now, this kind of interview can be an extremely traumatic experience.”
…more like “terminal” experience…
“I encourage you to seek counseling here at NSA or with private practitioners of your choosing.”
“Okay.”
“Please, do that, sir. That really concludes the interview for now. I’m turning off the recording.”
Fitzgerald punched the stop button on his recorder.
“Now. Mr. Wadell, in a sense I’m a fellow worker here at NSA, because I’m detailed here. I spend all of my time here. I know how difficult and stressful it is under normal circumstances. Please, for the good of yourself and your family, get some help. This is not the end of the world. No matter what you think now, no matter what the agency’s management decides to do, you and your family can enjoy a rich life. You absolutely must keep that in mind. All right?”
…yeah, sure…
“Okay. I will.”
“Good. I also want you to feel free to contact me at any time regarding this, or really anything, anything at all.”
“Then we’re finished?”
“Yes, for now. I’m sure someone will be in touch with you soon.”
…you bet your ass they will…
“Before the close of business?”
“Possibly. But as I said. This is far from the end of the world. Get help.”
Wadell left the interview room.
After he returned to his office Matt Pearlstein keyed the intercom for Fitzgerald.
“Fitzgerald.”
“Ted, Matt. I’ve been thinking. I believe we should get a standard wiretap on the Pierce family’s phone. Probable cause may be thin but it’s better than a foreign intelligence angle for their phone right now. If we can get it, we would be crazy not to. One, to check out the possibility Wadell is telling the truth and two, to have the evidence to counter his claim Pierce cooked it up.”
“I agree. If she was in fact guilty, her parents will almost certainly discuss circumstances that would corroborate it…her finances, plans she was making, surprising information they find in her papers. That way, we won’t even have to go the foreign intelligence court. I’ll go to work on it.”
Three days later, Wadell finished his evaluation with NSA psychologist, Dr. James Cochran. Cochran shook his head.
“What are you going to say, Doc?”
“As I told you, this evaluation is not for treatment. My report to management will indicate that you display Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Unless you are prepared to discuss the actions for which you were referred to me, we have come to the end.”
“This is not confidential is it?”
“As I previously advised you, no, it is not.”
…what matchbook cover school gave you a psychology degree, Cochran…?
Instead of returning to his work space, Wadell walked to the elevator, descended to the exit level, and left the building, four hours early, and drove directly home.
…nobody will be back for another three hours…
He punched the remote for the garage door opener, drove into the empty garage, closed the door, and sat with the engine running, and tears streaming down his cheeks.
…they’ll grieve…but they won’t be shamed by a trial…at least this way there’s insurance…it’s been in effect long enough to still pay off…
…all of the effort…all of the time…it all comes to this…
In five minutes, his head slumped forward.
In less than an hour, he was dead, as the engine continued to run.
4
ONE YEAR AFTER THE ACT.
…damn rock…must be forty poun’…
“Hurry up. Yo wanna be a ‘Stink’ or what?”
…mean bitches, Gimme and She-bo…
“I doin’ it. Right?”
…first part, sex, that was easy…
“Not doin’ it fast.”
…join or die… …Marsha, she died… …bein’ a “Stink” sure be BAD…
…second part, droppin’ this here rock on the Beltway… …no big deal… “Right here! Now!”
…get the damn thing up… …over the railing…
“Hoo-oo dawg! Right in the windshiel’!”
“You be a Stink now!”
Tom Hawkins checked the clock on the dash. 9:34.
…plenty of time…most of the traffic is gone…Kelly won’t be home until at least 10:00…
…something falling…
BRAP!
Shatter cracks spider-webbed the windshield.
Tom jerked in surprise, instinctively turning the steering wheel to the right and kicked for the brakes.
BAM.
His Beemer careened into a pillar support for the overpass. A sledge hammer blow to the left side of his head blotted out his mind.
The BMW rose as if to climb the pillar. Almost instantly, it was at ninety degrees then carom-twisted over and back onto the road surface.
Two cars followed behind. One of the drivers saw something on the overpass. Both drivers saw the BMW veer too far to the right. When it hit the pillar they stood on their brakes and steered to avoid it. When it caromed, they saw it coming back toward the center of the road.
One of them steered left and passed, never to be seen again, between the center barricade and the BMW as it landed on its top. The other tried to stop behind it and its driver saw a full circle and a half panorama sweep horizontally past his line of vision before striking the inverted car, trunk lid to trunk lid, banging his head on the headrest.
He opened his eyes to see nothing but the headlights of three other oncoming cars, hoods low, skidding to stop in front of him.
His first thought was to call 911. He got the dial tone but no ring. He opened his door and unsteadily stepped out. The drivers of the cars facing his were getting out.
“Can anyone call 911?”
One of them answered, “Yeah,” and ducked back inside her car.
Another called back over his shoulder, “I’ve got a fire extinguisher…does anyone else?”
The third came up to the man, looking him up and down.
“Y’all hurt, man?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Yo man. D’uthuh car might blow ‘fo’ duh poh-leece git here.”
He looked back to the BMW and saw the rear wheels spinning above his own trunk, engine running, driving the wheels as though still bound for northern Virginia. The engine sputtered and would soon die.
He caught his balance and staggered, then leaned back against the roof line of his vehicle.
The woman who said she would call 911 came up to him carrying a small first aid kit.
“Sir, I’m a nurse. Help is on the way. Please sit down and tell me your name.”
“Jack. Bachman.”
“Yo, mama, d’ gas tank in duh air. Maht blow!”
She glanced up and saw that he was right, gravity would send gas through the line to the electric wires, even if the tank was not ruptured.
“Brother man, can you take a look inside it? Somebody could need help getting out.”
“Bitch, yo crazeh! Fire depahtmin’ comin’.”
Sirens began to come out of the distance.
“Fine. Just take this man to the side of the road…Know-whut-Ahm-sayin’…?”
“Mr. Bachman, please walk away wit
h this gentleman.”
The driver with the fire extinguisher, a pitiful thing capable of dousing grease flares in a back yard Weber, went past the group, to the BMW.
The nurse grabbed her first aid box and went with him. The first driver sprayed the crevices around the bottom of the engine. The nurse got down on her hands and knees at the passenger window housing, crushed to a width of eight inches, and looked in. The packed jumble in front of her was not decipherable in the poor light.
The sirens were getting closer. She got up and went around the front of the car to the driver’s window housing. It had not been crushed as much and she could just make out the driver’s back, probably male. She saw a hand pinched between the roof and steering column. She reached in and worked her fingers under the wrist feeling for a pulse.
She forced her own breathing to slow down and to concentrate on what she felt through her finger tips. There, just barely, probably a beat. She withdrew her hand and stood up to get a look for possible access points into the wreck. The sirens were dying down as the emergency vehicles stopped. The front door looked too crushed to be openable. She tried the rear door. It unlatched and opened about three inches. She was not strong enough to pull it farther open.
An emergency services technician rushed up to her.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I wasn’t involved. I’m a nurse. I got a pulse on the driver.”
“The fire suppressants and cutting tools are about thirty seconds behind me. You can do more with those other people off to the other side. Listen now, if we can get them out alive they’ll be cared for on Medstar. Help us with these other folks, okay?”
She moved away, holding her unopened first aid kit. She recognized the first symptoms of the adrenaline receding from her flagging limbs. She knew if she didn’t keep moving she would get too tired, too fast, and might not be able to drive home.
Behind her the technician radioed, “Calipers and jaws. Maybe a saw for the seats.”
She looked back to her car. Beyond it police were putting flares on the road and bringing all oncoming traffic to a stop. As she made her way back to the right side of the road the fire truck pulled up. Men and equipment came out like a colony of ants. The fourteen hours she had put in at Walter Reed were piling up on her. She had to keep moving.
The screech of bending and breaking metal came from the BMW. In the distance a helicopter whupp-whupped.
“Ma’am.”
She turned toward the officer.
“Ma’am, are you one of the drivers initially on scene?”
“Yes, I can get my ID. I know I’m a witness.”
“Ma’am, just very briefly, would you tell me what you saw?”
“Sure. The brake lights of the two cars in front of me came on and then I saw the wrecked car hit the pillar. One of the cars in front of me went between it and the median. The other one spun around and hit the car that wrecked. I got stopped and tried to help. I’m a nurse. The driver of the car that hit the overturned car, Jack Bachman is his name, asked me to call 911 and I did. One of the other drivers who stopped got his fire extinguisher and he and I checked Mr. Bachman and then went on to the over-turned car. There was a slight pulse on the only person I saw inside. Then the EMT guy showed up.”
“Did you see anything on the overpass?”
“No. Why?”
“That’s okay. Would you be kind enough to give your personal identifying information to the officer over there?”
“All right…” He was gone.
The officer turned away and walked several paces away from her. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw that she was indeed heading for her car, not trying to watch.
He drew the hand mic from his shirt and keyed it.
“Dispatch, five eight.”
“Go ahead, five eight.”
“Dispatch, operator of vehicle two, Bachman, B-A-C-H-M-A-N, relates observing juveniles throwing rocks from the overpass immediately prior to the incident. Other drivers in the vicinity do not confirm. Repeat, do not confirm. Witness Bachman is considered reliable. Continuing to gather witness identification and assessment. No indication of alcohol. Over.”
“Copy all. Crime scene and ballistics examiner to respond in…one three minutes. Over.”
Another late night.
…no mercy for the wicked…
Kelly Hawkins prepared yet another motion. It was 9:30 p.m. and the filing deadline was close of business tomorrow.
The phone rang.
…why now…?
“Hello, Kelly Hawkins.”
“Mrs. Hawkins, this is Sergeant Dillon with the Montgomery County Police…”
…they can’t serve the process…
“…your husband was in an accident on the Beltway, possibly caused by rock throwing. He is at…”
…no, he’s on his way back from Baltimore…
“…George Washington University Trauma Center…”
“HOW IS HE? ”
“…Ma’am, you should go to the hospital. They have more information…” Kelly did not hear the rest. She was out the door.
Kelly’s Volvo screeched to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance.
She threw the car into Park, lunged out, left the door open and ran inside.
She stopped the first nurse she saw.
“I’m Kelly Hawkins…Mr. Hawkins?”
“Ma’am, you should check at the information desk…”
Kelly ran down the corridor and skid-stopped in front of a desk.
“Mr. Hawkins? I’m his wife.”
The attendant checked her list and, without changing expression, replied.
“I’ll call his attending.”
She picked up the phone and punched an extension button.
“Mrs. Hawkins is here.”
She looked up at Kelly.
“The Doctor should be coming…here he is now.” She indicated back in the direction Kelly just came from, where a young Pakistani physician was approaching.
“Mrs. Hawkins…”
“HOW IS HE? ”
The next words seemed to draw out and echo in her brain, forever.
“We…did…all…that…we…could…do…The…trauma…to…the…head…was… uncontrollably…devastating…”
Four days later Kelly remembered little.
It was raining. The open grave yawned awkwardly in her blurred vision. The others, the many, had departed the cemetery, the last over an hour ago.
The agony, the wrenching, sick void, the pain, the implacable pain, built and built.
Tom, I miss you so.
5
ONE YEAR AND TWO MONTHS AFTER THE ACT.
The man sat at the bus stop in front of the Exxon station at the intersection of Branch and Locust in Columbia, Maryland.
He checked his watch. A minute later he checked it again. Appearing frustrated by the bus’s absence he rose, and casually walked to the corner, slapping the street side of the lamp post with his left hand as he passed.
A small, circular piece of adhesive tape remained where he slapped.
The next day, the man awaited the bus again. It seemed to be late again and he walked to the corner, passing on the street side of the post. The tape was gone when he glanced at where he put it.
He proceeded to his car parked six blocks into the adjacent residential neighborhood. He pulled away from the curb and drove for an hour and a half to the Court House in Manassas, Virginia. It was evening and well past the presence of remaining occupants. He drove up the street and parked in front of an antiques store.
He walked back to the Court House and rounded the annex. In the rear, midway along the building, the steel cover over the access to the water service pipe rested. He lifted the plate, reached into his trench coat pocket, removed the wrapped and sealed water tight packet, and placed it in the access bay.
He returned to his car and drove away.
One hour later another man arrived. He removed the pa
cket, put it in his briefcase, and returned to his car. The other man drove twenty five minutes to the satellite parking facility at Dulles International Airport. He parked, took the shuttle bus to the terminal and in an hour and twenty minutes boarded a direct flight to LAX.
Two days later, General Zhou Guo, deputy to the Director of Intelligence for the People’s Republic of China, entered the office of the Director, Jiang Lin.
“Do you have news, General?”
“Excellent news. Will you walk with me in the garden?”
The Director’s face brightened. When the General requested they escape the ubiquitous ears of the NSA and its infernal listening system, the news was always excellent.
As they strolled the center courtyard, the General politely awaited an invitation to deliver the news.
“What do you have, my friend?”
“Our personnel at Long Beach have sent us a package from our asset in the NSA.”
The Director was extremely pleased and appreciated the tease.
“Our NSA friend is indeed productive. What has he sent us now.”
“A device, Director. The most devilish device perhaps ever manufactured. It consists of essentially a miniature version of an entire receiver and transmitter of the capability of an Echelon satellite.”
“Is that not the same thing as standard interception devices that any school boy can build and install on his parent’s telephone?”
“No, Director. This device is far more powerful. It monitors up to fifty thousand circuits, and transmits the intercepted data directly to the Echelon satellite. It is the size of your belt buckle and thus can be implanted in any computer, telephone switch, or even a building and intercept the conversations such as we are having now, that occur within fifty feet. It can also intercept the signals from the computer or telephone switch, fifty thousand of them. It transmits the information wherever it is directed to send them.”
The Director was beginning to understand the potential.
“How soon can we make such a device?”
“Our engineers now estimate it will take some months to duplicate it if they work around the clock. After that, they will be able to produce many.”
