Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  “We need to call in the FBI’s digital forensics team,” Kit began. “They would be our best hope of finding any trail of the intrusion if someone did hack your systems.”

  “My captain thought a call from this office might be given a higher priority,” Royce replied. “He believes that the lack of a fingerprint match and the electronic hacking might be related. Hell, I was even considering wrapping my cell phone in tin foil at one point in time.”

  “Tin foil?”

  Royce smirked, “I know all the jokes, but it really does work. We caught a drug dealer a few years back, and his cell was wrapped in foil. He swore it kept any signals from coming in or out. Me and a couple of guys at the station decided to test it, just for shits and giggles. It actually worked.”

  “Interesting,” Kit warily responded, now wondering if Royce believed in UFOs and Sasquatch.

  “I know I probably sound like a nut job,” he sighed, “But there are a lot of dots here. When you start connecting them, you end up with a very, very troubling picture.” He then produced his cell phone, proving to his host that the device was indeed unprotected.

  Nodding in acknowledgment, Kit continued, “Yes, you’re probably right there.” She then returned her attention to the photograph of the suspect’s face. “I also have a few contacts that might help us identify your man. Can I have a copy of this?”

  “Those are all your copies, Ms. Carson. After the computer files vanished, I put a lot of miles on our department’s copying machine. I even have a folder stashed at my house,” Royce chuckled.

  “Thank you, Detective. I’ll be in touch this week,” Kit assured him, rising to show the man out.

  “Thank you, ma’am. As of right now, that rancher is going to be charged with capital murder unless we can fill in more blanks on our mystery man. Personally, I don’t think he deserves that rap. I think this guy in the hoodie, and maybe a group of like-minded assholes, purposely incited that riot and caused the gunfight. We lost a good cop; our rancher lost his son, and probably his freedom.”

  “The city still plans to prosecute him despite this evidence?”

  Royce looked troubled. “The street cops are blaming this Judge Kendall, the rancher, the press, and just about everybody but my Aunt Mary. They’re struggling to make sense of all this catch-and-release nonsense and are boiling over with payback. Somebody has got to pay for a murdered cop, ma’am. You know how that works. I don’t like it, but there’s no way this goes unanswered.”

  Kit nodded, “I get it, Detective. Yet, if the rancher is innocent, then justice isn’t being served.”

  “He did pull the trigger, Ms. Carson. Of that, there’s no doubt. All the rest of it, justified or not, doesn’t make a lot of difference to some. If we don’t nail the real person responsible, and soon, I can’t see this being one of the department’s finer moments.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Detective.”

  After Royce had left her office, Kit found it impossible to concentrate on her caseload. Besides, it was after 11, and she had an early day scheduled in court tomorrow.

  Given the late hour, one of the security men insisted on walking the federal prosecutor to her car despite her protests that the measure was unnecessary. “I’m a former FBI agent with a Glock in my purse,” she hissed once inside her sedan. “Not some frail, little thing that needs protection.”

  The entire episode made her think of Griffin and the day that the marshal had been assigned as her chauffeur. “I guess I shouldn’t be so harsh,” she continued, pulling onto the empty street. “I was glad he was there.”

  That thought brought her back to the ultra-weird meeting with Royce. Fishing her cell phone from the passenger seat, she dialed Griffin’s number.

  He answered on the second ring, despite a rasp that indicated he’d been asleep. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong. I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I’ll call you back in the morning.”

  “I’m already awake now. What’s up?”

  Kit thought about her own chances of sleep given Royce’s report. It then occurred to her that people capable of hacking a police computer database and messing with a government email system might also be able to monitor cell phone calls. The detective had, after all, insisted on meeting in person.

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone. I was going to offer to buy you a doughnut if you were still awake,” she teased.

  “I don’t do doughnuts and find that a politically incorrect stereotype of law enforcement personnel. Where are you anyway?”

  “Driving home. I just left the office,” Kit replied.

  A whistle of astonishment sounded over the airwaves, followed by, “Must be important. Come on by my place if you want. I’ve had a couple of beers and probably shouldn’t drive. I’ve heard the local prosecutors are brutal.”

  “I’m a Fed; I don’t prosecute DUI cases,” she retorted, trying to sound stern.

  “You are upset about something,” he laughed. “Who said I was talking about you? Come on by. I’ll rush around, hide all my dirty clothes, and throw out the boxes of moldy Chinese takeout from last week.”

  Kit had to chuckle, the image of her bachelor friend trying to prepare for an unscheduled visitor a welcome distraction. For a moment, she wondered about the proprieties of such a late meeting at the marshal’s apartment but quickly dismissed any concern. Both were single, consenting adults. They worked in separate departments. Besides, Griffin had always been the perfect gentleman. “All right,” she finally agreed. “I think you’ll find this interesting to say the least.”

  After a couple of turns, she was headed the right direction. Months ago, she had shoved a case file under his door. The address wasn’t all that far away from her own flat.

  Griffin answered her knock wearing blue jeans and a tee shirt. She was relieved to find his eyes clear. “Welcome,” he greeted, motioning her inside.

  The first thing she noted was the lack of decor. Plain curtains framed the windows, and she didn’t see a single picture, knickknack, or even a bowling trophy. Typical alpha male, she thought. What wasn’t typical was the fact that Griffin’s residence was neat as a pin. In fact, it was far tidier than her own place. Probably a leftover from being in the Marines, she considered.

  They settled at the smallish breakfast table after Kit had turned down his offer of a beer or something stronger. He was drinking coffee and didn’t even ask before pulling a cold bottle of water from the fridge and setting it down in front of her. “So, what has the fearless Kit Carson in such a dither?” he pestered, pulling back a chair.

  It took her only a few minutes to recount Royce’s information, Griffin sitting expressionless the entire time. When it was obvious she had finished, the marshal sighed and commented, “This sounds like a whole string of weird circumstances. No fingerprints on file? Rare, but not impossible. A professional riot inciter? Maybe, but a lot of protestors these days come prepared with everything from gas masks to body armor, and not all of them have an arrest record. Disappearing electronic files? Could be, but I’ve lost a lot of stuff that I’ve entered via a keyboard. Missing emails? Who knows what goes on with El Paso’s computer servers? Most cities are on a tight budget these days. They’re not exactly able to lure and hire the best and brightest technical minds.”

  Kit was disappointed in his reaction. Bowing up in preparation for a debate, she muttered, “You’re telling me that you think it’s all coincidence?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Griffin grinned. After swallowing a sip of his coffee, he continued, “Individually, they could each be explained. Together, they definitely warrant a deeper investigation. But then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  She relaxed, finally realizing he was toying with her. “Yours is a second opinion that I trust and is always welcome. I was thinking about the FBI’s new next generation identification system. It has facial recognition that is almost as accura
te as a fingerprint, plus a lot of other goodies.”

  Nodding in agreement, Griffin offered, “I have a contact that might get us moved to the front of the line. That system is new, and from what I’ve heard, there’s quite the waiting list. It might be better if the request came through the Marshal’s Service.”

  She flashed red for a moment, her temper much more difficult to control when she was this tired, “I suppose what you’re trying to tell me is that there are still some sour grapes at the Bureau over my leaving?”

  “Maybe,” he shrugged, not wanting to invoke that famous temper. Besides, he had already spotted the Glock in her purse. There was nothing worse than an exhausted, armed, scorned federal prosecutor.

  “Leave that picture with me, and I’ll get on it first thing in the morning,” he promised, trying to change the subject. “In the meantime, I think you should be watching your back. If Royce and his people’s paranoia is justified, we could be dealing with some very capable individuals. They may not like a federal attorney sticking her nose in their business.”

  Patting her purse and the weapon inside, her reply was short and firm. “I’m always careful.”

  She rose to leave and then paused with another thought. “Do you have any tin foil?”

  “Thinking of making a hat?” he joked, then sensed she hadn’t made the comment entirely in jest. “No worries. I’ll run that picture down to the FBI office first thing in the morning. The US marshals are the best manhunters in the world. I’m on it.”

  “Thank you,” she nodded, moving toward the door.

  Neither of them noticed her cell phone’s screen change its status, the small LED indicating an active microphone going dim.

  Sebastian Grome rubbed his temples, his steel-cold, grey eyes burning with exertion, dry from a lack of sleep. The Komitet, Russian for “committee,” had been busy. They were demanding, brilliant, men who would not be denied. He would never have considered working for anyone else.

  He reflected on the historical usage of the name for a moment, quickly concluding that the term was entirely deserved by the new group using it. Back in the dark days of the Soviet Union, the Committee for State Security, or KGB, had kept practically every citizen of the communist nation on edge. Many feared for their lives, some for good reason.

  The Soviet people referred to the KGB as the Komitet. It was widely believed that the Committee could eavesdrop on every conversation, having bugged practically every home, office, and factory. Supposedly, even taxis in Moscow were wired and tracked. Another widespread rumor claimed that hotel rooms, especially those allocated to foreigners, were monitored with both video and audio devices. There was no safe place to have a private conversation. There was no method of communication that the state couldn’t overhear.

  Some people even believed that the Komitet could read minds, but they probably also feared chemtrails and expected the illuminati to show up on their doorsteps.

  Years later, after the fall of the Communism, many of the exploits of the KGB came to light. In the end, the Komitet’s reputation was somewhat exaggerated but apparently well-earned. Most experts still believed that the Soviet organization was the most effective, efficient state security apparatus in history.

  The men who now employed Sebastian possessed capabilities far beyond the old Soviet Komitet. They could monitor all forms of communications. While they might not be able to read minds, their predictive algorithms, used to anticipate human behavior, were over 98% accurate. To them, telepathy was highly overrated and would have been redundant, after all, their analysis had already predicted most behavior before it ever happened.

  Rather than employing tens of thousands of agents to eavesdrop on the world, this new Komitet used silicon brains operating at the speed of light to do their bidding. Instead of trained analysts sitting behind endless rows of desks and poring over mountains of paper, the men who formed this new committee depended on artificial intelligence to process a trillion times more data in a fraction of the time. They called it Gravity Well – another appropriate handle.

  “They selected the perfect name,” he announced, having trouble stifling a yawn. “But who would expect anything different from such men,” he continued, finally deciding to stand and stretch to counteract fatigue.

  Sebastian’s exhaustion meant nothing to him, that physical state more of a norm than any other he’d experienced in his 63 years on this earth. Nor was the lack of sleep all that troublesome. While his stamina had diminished somewhat with age, he could still outwork any other man he knew.

  Still, he had determined almost a year ago that this was his last assignment. Gravity Well had predicted that this project would take just over five years. The fact that he would be 68 when the timeline ended had nothing to do with his retirement decision. No, what had driven that choice was that after this endeavor, nothing else would ever be a challenge. This was Everest. Once he’d climbed this mountain, there were no higher peaks.

  It wasn’t the money that drove him 20 hours a day. He had enjoyed an abundance of wealth since middle age, having accumulated far more millions than he could ever spend. Nor was it some psychological need for the adrenaline rush. Sebastian wasn’t a daredevil, had never experienced anything approaching a death wish.

  No, what he craved more than anything was the well-earned victory. Winning was everything. Defying the odds pegged his gratification meter like nothing else. Beating the best was his game. Triumph was his favorite word, conquest his primary goal. He had never tasted defeat and had no intention of doing so.

  Born to a French-Canadian father and German mother in Quebec, Sebastian’s competitive personality was hard-wired into his DNA. His grandfather had been a prolific bootlegger during the prohibition era. His father had continued the family trade, smuggling cigarettes, ivory, and even humans who wanted to enter Canada in secret.

  The young Grome had been 19 when the Royal Canadian Mounted Police had finally closed in on his dad. Already a cog in the family’s illicit machine, Sebastian had fled Canada and headed for France, sure the authorities were hot on his trail. Two months later, broke, friendless, and near starvation, he’d signed up for the Foreign Legion.

  Eight years in the service of the Legion honed Sebastian’s mind and body, setting free the competitive beast that resided within while exposing the young Canuck to some of the world’s darker realities.

  Dealing small arms was his first civilian endeavor, but he quickly realized that selling cases of Kalashnikovs to the rebel movement du jour wasn’t a long-term career path. Sometimes, guerilla organizations didn’t want to pay. This led to violence, which always brought the unwanted attention of the authorities. Fate, however, always seemed to be on Sebastian’s side; each harrowing escape, violent encounter, and deadly firefight serving to steel his resolve and elevating his determination to new heights.

  At that time, military hardware was in the initial stages of going digital. Computer chips were showing up in just about every type of weapon, ordnance, and platform. Sebastian, frustrated with his Rolodex of unprofessional clients and undependable suppliers, decided to get in on the ground floor of this new trend. Like everything else in his life, he embraced the opportunity with gusto, uncompromising ruthlessness, and relentless determination.

  Over the years, the deals grew in sophistication, scope, and profit. Before long, he was Mr. Grome, selling to governments, participating in “black” programs, and dealing directly with factories in Russia, China, Germany, and of course, the candy store of weaponry – the United States.

  Those entrepreneurial voyages expanded Sebastian’s reputation and business acumen while exposing him to the movers and shakers of the technical revolution that was gripping the planet. He quickly became known as a man who conducted himself as a professional yet wasn’t afraid to travel the low road if confrontation were required. Most importantly, he could keep his mouth shut.

  There were times when even billionaires needed a capa
ble man who was no stranger to violence and could hold his tongue. After businessman Ross Perot hired private military contractors to rescue his company’s employees from a hostile Iranian government in 1978, wealthy men who owned corporations around the world stood up and took notice. If collections were an issue, there was an alternative route. Intellectual property theft, hijacked inventory, and a multitude of other business problems could not be addressed effectively in places where the courts or government were corrupt. Sebastian wasn’t cheap, but he produced results and didn’t talk to the press, or the authorities, about his deeds.

  When Gravity Well and its AI brethren produced their doomsday results, Mr. Grome was the first and only person the elite billionaires called after forming their Komitet.

  Turning from the bank of computer monitors lining his office wall, Sebastian focused on the view beyond the floor to ceiling windows.

  The waters of the Caribbean were a shade of royal blue that normally relaxed him, but not so today. Even the pastel buildings dotting the Santa Domingo skyline, home to several of the Western Hemisphere’s oldest structures, failed to impress or distract.

  With an expression that indicated he’d finally reached a distasteful decision, Sebastian pivoted back to his desk and pulled open the top drawer. He fished around for a moment, eventually producing a package containing a new throw-away cell phone. He then reached for the keyboard residing on the desktop, his rapid staccato of typing interrupted only by the occasional glance at the mobile phone’s label. A minute later, an encrypted email was on its way.

  Once satisfied that his communication had been sent, Grome removed a gold-handled letter opener from its carved, mahogany holder and uncased the cell’s plastic packaging. He turned on the phone, checked the display’s status, and then shoved the device into his jacket pocket.

  Next, he punched the intercom button on his desk’s phone. “Yes, Mr. Grome,” answered a female voice.