Noble Intent

by William Miller

  She struggled to her feet. Her ankle was swelling up like a balloon. “Can you walk? We need to get moving.”

  Duval sat for several seconds, filling his lungs with oxygen. Some of the color came back into his face. Then he remembered something, shrugged off his pack and ripped open the zipper. Socks and underwear went into the gutter, followed by a tin of biscuits and a package of Earl Grey. “No, no, no!” Duval muttered to himself. From the depths of the bag, he dug out a MacBook with a dented lid. A tortured moan rattled up from his throat. He opened the computer and tried to power it on. The machine refused to boot. “You destroyed my laptop,” he said. “All of my files. Everything. Gone!”

  Sam grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet. “That’s what you’re worried about? Your computer? We have to move. They’ll figure we jumped from the train when they get to the next stop and don’t see us. They’re probably on their way back here right now.”

  Duval started to repack his bag.

  “Leave it,” Sam ordered.

  They were in a corridor formed by low rise apartments. Sam led the way between buildings back to the main boulevard. Every step sent lances of pain up through her leg. She needed to deal with the ankle before it swelled so bad she couldn’t walk. Duval was no better. The rubber bullet had given him an identical limp. They hobbled along like a couple of eighty-year-olds helping each other down the corridors of a nursing home.

  Chapter Eight

  Ezra Cook and Gwendolyn Witwicky slouched in swivel chairs, facing opposite computers. They haunted a small work station on the first floor of Langley these days. The cubical was wedged in a corner, next to the bathrooms. The carpet was worn straight through in places and an air return at their feet made a constant rattling hum. The previous occupant must have been a cat lover; the stench of cat urine lingered and nothing they had tried managed to banish the smell.

  Neither analyst had seen much of the sun since Mexico and the fallout had left them radioactive. The last five months had them handling menial tasks. No department wanted to touch them after the firing of Deputy Director Foster. Currently, they were debugging lines of code from Langley’s surprisingly complex fire alarm and sprinkler system. It was thankless grunt work and not why they had joined the CIA, but they still had jobs and considered themselves lucky. Together, they had taken to calling themselves Team Pleb.

  There was one upside to being radioactive in Ezra’s mind; it had given him plenty of time with Gwen. They ate lunch together in the cafeteria and went for drinks after work most days. He hadn’t made a move yet but figured, sooner or later, it would sort of happen naturally, saving him the uncomfortable task of actually asking her out. And besides, he was counting drinks after work as dates and by that reckoning, they were practically going steady.

  Gwen stood up, stretched, arched her back. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Ill-fitting slacks rode low on skinny hips. Long hours working on code had carved ten pounds from her already slender frame.

  Ezra, meanwhile, had gained a paunch and soft jowls. He had made a half-hearted attempt at a workout regimen in January, but that was already over. Now, a bag of Gummy Bears lay open on his desk next to a twelve-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. He dug a mushy orange bear from the bag, popped it in his mouth and chewed. “I compiled the latest build. I think we’re ready for a test run.”

  “Let’s do it.” Gwen plopped back down into her chair.

  They initiated the debugged code and ran it through a virtual sequencer. While the sequencer looked for errors, they discussed the finer points of the latest Star Wars movie. Gwendolyn held to the view that the newest installment was simply a rehash of the first episode, while Ezra was convinced it was the best of the series. They had moved on to debating the recent trailer for the second movie when Timothy Coughlin appeared in their cubical. They both turned to their computers and tried to look busy.

  Gwen wanted to scream. Higher-ups always manage to catch computer techs waiting on code and it led to the assumption that techs didn’t do any real work.

  “First of all,” Coughlin said, “The new movie looks freaking amazing.”

  He held out a fist.

  Ezra bumped it. “Right on.”

  Coughlin was the acting head of Clandestine Operations while the Company looked for Foster’s replacement. A twitchy eye precluded him from field work, but he had a reputation for laying in successful missions and the field guys had a lot of respect for him. He was in his mid-forties and fit, with close-cropped hair. He’d be handsome without the facial tick. He leaned an elbow on the cubical wall and his left eye jerked. He said, “Second, what are you two computer ninjas up to?”

  “We’re waiting on some code, sir.” Gwen’s words came out in a nervous rush. “It’s takes a little while for the information to propagate through the system and it hogs down processing power, so there’s not much we can do but wait.”

  “Uh huh.” He obviously had no idea what she was talking about and didn’t care. “I heard you two were top-notch. I also heard you’ve been languishing down here since Mexico.”

  Ezra ducked his head. “That about sums it up.”

  Gwen pushed the glasses up the bridge of her nose. “It’s not so bad. It’s important work. Happy to be doing our part and all.”

  “How would you two like a chance to work on something a little more mission-critical?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  They both nodded in unison.

  He brought a pair of badges out of his pocket. “Put whatever this is on hold and follow me.”

  The new badges had their names and LEVEL B3 in large capitals at the bottom. Ezra and Gwen exchanged eager glances. They followed Coughlin to the elevator. He punched the button for the third-floor basement. For tech nerds, going down meant moving up. The bowels of Langley house some of the most secure databases and processors in the world.

  The elevator dinged and they stepped into a long room with a low ceiling lit by fluorescents. The smell of recycled air and overworked motherboards greeted them. Instead of cheap government carpeting, the floors here were linoleum with anti-static rubber mats under foot to prevent accidental discharges of electricity. Thick bundles of cables hung down from the ceiling, providing power to dozens of work terminals. Fake windows let in artificial light to make the denizens of the basement corridors feel less confined, not that it mattered to the computer ninjas working on B3. They preferred being indoors. The dress code down here was more relaxed. Half the people wore denim and T-shirts emblazoned with superheroes. The cubicles were decorated with plastic figurines and posters. Some wit had printed out a long banner that read, We Are Groot and hung it on the wall next to the elevator.

  Coughlin led the way to an unused work station in the back corner. “This will be your new home for the next few days.”

  Gwen looked around the terminals and nodded. They had six computers all to themselves and the smell of overworked processors was better than cat pee. She asked, “What are we working on, sir?”

  Coughlin sat in one of the unused chairs, propped his elbows on his knees and made a steeple with his fingertips. “This is a pilot program of sorts. Several weeks ago, we laid in a dummy operation codenamed medusa. Now we want to know if it’s possible to break into the system and erase all evidence the operation ever took place. That’s where you two come in.”

  Gwen said, “What was the operation, sir?”

  He waved a hand in the air. “Nothing. Just a dummy operation that our guys upstairs invented so you would have something to root out of the computer.”

  “Why?” Ezra asked.

  “Think of the ramifications,” Coughlin said. “If you can break in and erase an operation from our databanks, what’s to stop someone else from doing the exact same thing? Destroying all of our records even. Hell, we haven’t kept hard copies of our case logs in decades. Or worse, what if someone added logs for an operation that never took place?”

>   Ezra was nodding. “They could make the CIA look guilty of anything they wanted. Like overthrowing a democratically elected government or a nuclear meltdown.”

  Gwen said, “So the test is to see if we can erase all evidence of operation medusa?”

  “Make it like it never existed,” Coughlin said. “Is it possible?”

  Ezra took a seat, thought it over, nodded. “With enough time anything is possible.”

  “Then get started.” Coughlin stood up. “Remember, this is highly classified. You report only to me. Let me know if you run into any snags.”

  “Yes, sir.” They chorused.

  He started to leave, stopped, turned back. “I almost forgot. Crank this one out of the park and I’ll see what I can do about moving you down here on a more permanent basis.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Sail Pavilion is an open-air bar just south of the convention center in downtown Tampa. It’s the Bay’s only 360-degree waterfront bar, located smack in the middle of a large pedestrian concourse with a view of the causeway. Several ships coursed silently along the channel, churning up the water in their wake. The sun was a fiery disk hanging low on the horizon and a cool breeze came off the water. It was early February and Florida natives were bundled against the chill like it was the start of another Ice Age.

  Jake Noble sat at the bar, nursing a beer and watching highlights from last night’s hockey game—the Bolts had lost to the Bruins, three to zero. He was dressed in denims, a rumpled sports coat, and scuffed deck shoes, despite being a Florida native. A decade in Army Special Forces had taught him the real meaning of cold, and fifty-eight degrees didn’t qualify. He had been here two and a half hours already. His butt was numb. He was on beer number two and it was only half empty—no sense getting hammered. He pawed through a basket of cold shrimp tails, found one with a little meat left on it, and nibbled. With rebelliously long hair and a lean frame, he blended in nicely with the beach crowd.

  Foot traffic around the convention center was light. Two guys tossed a Frisbee back and forth, and a pair of lovers sat on a park bench near the bar. The bartender, a twenty-something blonde in a thick sweater and frilly pink earmuffs, favored Noble with a smile on her way past. “Anything I can get you, sweetie?”

  “Just a check,” Noble told her.

  She went to her register and came back with the bill. Noble dropped several greenbacks on the bar top and told her to keep the change. She thanked him with another bright smile.

  He was getting up to leave when Howard Lamb sauntered up from the direction of Channelside Drive. He was an aging hipster in his late forties, wearing skinny jeans, a top knot, and a wispy beard. He flashed a smile that showed off a mouth full of crooked teeth. “You leaving? I just got here.”

  “You were supposed to be here two hours ago,” Noble pointed out.

  “Yeah, man, sorry about that. I got hung up. You know how it goes.” Lamb plunked himself down on the stool next to Noble.

  “Sure,” said Noble.

  The waitress reappeared but Lamb waved her away. He leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You got something for me?”

  Noble took a plain white sheet of folded paper from his jacket pocket and laid it on the beer-stained bar. “Usernames and passwords for the entire staff at United Credit. You can access their entire customer database. Every customer’s private information at your fingertips.”

  Lamb reached for the page, but Noble kept his hand on it. “Let’s see the money first.”

  Lamb gave him a rueful grin and reached inside his coat. He pulled out a thick envelope stuffed with cash. “Fifty thousand. It’s all there.”

  “It better be,” Noble told him. “I spent six months collecting those passcodes.”

  “Count it if you don’t trust me,” said Lamb.

  Noble took the envelope, peeked inside, then slowly and deliberately ran a hand through his long hair. He said, “I trust you.”

  Lamb took the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and scanned the list of names and passcodes. A grin spread over his face. He nodded to himself. “This is beautiful, man. Really good work.”

  The moment Noble’s hand went to his hair, the Frisbee players let the blue disk drop in the grass and started over. At the same time, the lovers on the bench got up. The woman peeled back her coat to reveal a badge hooked on her belt. “TPD,” she announced. “Both of you keep your hands where we can see ‘em.”

  Howard Lamb sprang up from his stool so fast he turned it over. All eyes turned in their direction. The bartender put a hand to her mouth. Howard turned to run. He made it three whole strides before one of the Frisbee players tackled him. They landed with a heavy thud and the air went out of Lamb’s bird chest in a loud whoop. The officer pinned Lamb’s head to the ground and twisted one arm behind his back. “You’re under arrest.”

  Lamb sucked air and shouted, “Police brutality! Police brutality! Anyone getting this on video? Hey, I got rights, man.”

  Several people were, in fact, getting it on video. Everybody at the pavilion had their cellphones out, recording.

  Noble put his hands in the air. One of the undercover officers forced him face down on the bar top and said, “Get your head down, dirt bag, and don’t make a move.”

  Noble sat there, his face in sticky beer stain, while the officer wrenched his arms behind his back. He felt the metal cuffs lock onto his wrists and then the officer jerked him off the stool and started him across the park to an unmarked sedan. The other three cops were on Lamb. The woman read him Miranda rights while the other two hauled him up off the concrete. “Howard Lamb,” she said, “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud and identity theft. You have the right to remain silent…”

  Her voice trailed away as Noble reached the car. The officer leading him opened the back door and told him, “Watch your head.”

  Chapter Ten

  Two hours later, Jake was sitting in the downtown office of the Florida Deputy District Attorney. His eyes wandered over the room. A pair of diplomas graced the wall along with a photo of the Deputy shaking hands with the Governor. Picture windows looked out across the glittering lights of Tampa Bay.

  “You handled yourself incredibly well today, Mr. Noble,” the Deputy said as he sorted stacks of papers piled on his desk. Benjamin Paulson was a stout, middle-aged man, with a bad dye job trying to hide early grey. He wore a suit that probably fit impeccably well several years ago. Gold cufflinks flashed from an expensive blue silk oxford. He said, “With your help, we shut down a major identity theft ring. Lamb is already spilling his guts. With his info, the feds will be able to round up a long list of wanted fugitives. Not bad for a few days’ work.”

  Noble nodded. “Happy to be of service.”

  I’ll be more happy to deposit the check, Noble thought. His bank account needed a cash infusion pronto. It had been nearly two months since his last job. After paying for Mom’s assisted living facility, Noble’s funds were depleted. Devastated would be a better description. He’d be dining on ramen noodles until the check cleared.

  Deputy Paulson picked up a sheaf of papers, scanned them, and then leaned back and inspected Noble with the tired, appraising eyes of an experienced trial lawyer. Noble had the feeling another bit of work was coming his way and sat patiently while Paulson made up his mind. The Deputy District Attorney explored a molar with his tongue before saying, “I’ve taken the liberty of reaching out to our personnel department to inquire about job openings. The Attorney General is on board. We’d like to offer you a full-time position. The AG’s office can always use experienced investigators. We feel that with your… skills, you would make an excellent addition to our team. It wouldn’t be quite what you did in Special Forces. Mostly running down leads and checking on people’s alibis, but there’s a steady paycheck in it.”

  Noble sat in stunned silence. Chasing leads for the district attorney would be boring as hell, but a darn site better than babysitting celebrities who got a death threat in
the mail. Plus, it would keep him in the area, closer to Mom.

  “It’s not much,” Paulson went on, “We can start you at fifty-two thousand dollars a year, with benefits of course, and two week’s vacation time. What do you say, Mr. Noble?”

  “Where do I sign?”

  Paulson grinned and passed over the sheaf of papers. “In about twenty places, plus initials, a non-disclosure agreement, routine background check, then a four-week training that starts Monday morning. Can you handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Noble felt like he was walking on air. He had come in hoping for a quick payday and maybe a few more off-the-record jobs. Now he was looking at a full-time position, steady paychecks, plus medical insurance. The background check would expose him as a former CIA field officer, but that would only make his new position inside the District Attorney’s office more secure. If he could handle secrets for the Company, he could keep his lips tight for the criminal lawyers handling high-profile organized crime.

  He borrowed a pen from Paulson’s desk and flipped through the pages, signing and initialing on the X’s. When he finished, he passed the documents back and Paulson scrawled his signature on the last page. The sheaf of papers went into a desk drawer.

  Paulson stood up and stuck out his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Noble.”

  Noble pumped it.

  “Be here Monday morning at 8 a.m. sharp.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Noble’s 1967 Ford Fastback was parallel parked on East Kennedy. He climbed behind the steering wheel and turned the key. The engine came to life with an energetic rumble. The sun was down and the sky over Tampa Bay had turned a mottled blue shot with deep purples. Traffic in the business district on a Saturday evening is non-existent, but the sounds of music and life came from the direction of Amalie Arena only a few blocks south. Noble checked his watch. If he hurried, he could make it back across the bridge to the Wyndham Arms before lights out.