by Carl Rackman
As the traffic began to move again, he replayed the situation with Monica in the Brooklyn murder house. He realised her toughness made him forget she was the only woman on the operation, and that she may well have seen the situation differently. Her high-stress response to the perceived threat had been to shoot too soon; even her fear was another sign of anxiety that Brad should have picked up. Perhaps he should have relieved her there and then and sent her downstairs; on the other hand, he wondered if she might have seen that as a snub - the heavy-handed patronising of a male superior.
He pressed his lips together and felt the slight buzz of his own anxiety in the depths of his bowels.
Breecker suddenly broke the silence. “How about you, Barnes? You local?”
“Yeah. In fact I live right over there.” He pointed as the mouth of the tunnel began to open up and bright daylight flooded back into the car and bathed them in sunshine as they emerged.
Once again the traffic started backing up, so it was a good chance to talk – if that was what she really wanted.
She drew her shades back on, keeping her eyes fixed ahead as she talked. “What you got going on over there? The suburban dream?”
Brad paused before replying, “I got a duplex in The Heights on a government salary. I’m married to the job. No kids, no pets. I guess if I had an Xbox, I’d be living a teenager’s dream.”
She smiled ruefully. “Nobody else in the house?”
“I live on a street called Monastery Place. It’s pretty appropriate. I guess if my neighbours weren’t all cops I could expect the occasional burglar.”
That elicited a laugh.
He decided to try a spot of quid pro quo. “How about you? You live in New Haven?”
“Milford. I’m married to a middle school principal.”
“Nice. I guess they get paid better than FBI agents.” It was meant to be a throwaway line, but it sounded cutting – disloyal, even – in the current atmosphere. Brad cringed slightly. Digging wouldn’t help, so he kept quiet.
“She does okay.”
Brad felt a slight flush. Thank God he hadn’t walked into that one. He hoped that would score him a few points. Brad relaxed. Sexual tension was officially off the menu. But the higher-ups had clearly selected her to give Brad a proper workout in gender relations.
She put the spotlight back on Brad. “You sound pretty tight financially. Did your ex clean you out or something?” It was almost impudently direct. They both knew it wasn’t a leading question after the previous exchange, so she could afford to be brutal.
Brad didn’t flinch because he knew the answer would put her on the back foot; he decided not to make it too hard for her.
“My ex’s funeral was pretty expensive, but I guess I just chose to live cheaply since.”
Breecker remained staring straight ahead, the faux pas hanging, as they reached the toll barrier. The Charger had an electronic tag on the top of the windscreen, so the bar flipped up as they coasted towards it. Breecker hit the gas and they powered on to the New Jersey Turnpike without a word. He decided to help her out.
“Helen was my fiancée. She was in insurance, a corporate claims adjuster. We met in a bar in Greenwich Village – it just seemed to click for us.”
This wasn’t true. They met through their church, a lively but serious congregation who gathered in a converted music hall in Times Square, when Brad was still into that sort of thing. He didn’t want to admit that to Breecker even though he’d turned his back on God and the Church not long after 9/11.
“She worked for some company I’d never heard of on the ninety-sixth floor of Tower One, but after September eleventh I will never ever forget its name. Marsh & McLennan. They lost everybody, including Helen. We buried an empty casket.”
“That’s too bad, Barnes. I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I’ve done a lot to improve my memory of that day.”
“Sounds like you’ve had some more bad memories since then.”
Brad felt emotions rise. His memories were old, but they still hurt him. “Do you want to talk about that now or wait till we get back?”
“It’s okay, Barnes.” They were cruising out of Jersey City on the Turnpike, only fifteen minutes from the airport. “Leave it for now. Talk about something else.”
Brad couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Chapter Ten
Thursday, 8th September 2016
Newark Liberty International Airport
They walked through the concourse towards the Transportation Security Administration offices. Hundreds of people thronged the area with trolleys and bags. Groups, families and individuals waited wrapped in their own cocoons of time. Phones, laptops and tablets monopolised the attention of many, while others read, talked or drank coffee.
As in New York City, food service appeared to be the principal occupation of employees at the terminals. Innumerable delicious smells clashed as the two agents walked briskly past a dozen different food concessions.
They made it across the concourse, passing almost the full length of the avant-garde wall above the arrivals area.
It was from here that United Airlines Flight 93 had taken off on the morning of 9/11, only to crash into the Pennsylvania countryside ninety minutes later after a gallant attempt by crew and passengers to reclaim it from the men who had hijacked it.
Brad remembered their actions; others like Helen were probably still alive today because of those men and women who didn’t give up and fought back.
Breecker walked a step ahead of Brad. She carried her briefcase in her left hand and kept a fast pace with long, rhythmic strides with her ponytail swishing. He tried not to look, but she had really good legs. His discretion wasn’t emulated by the dozens of male passengers who watched her sashay by like a model. When they reached the door, she swiped her card and keyed in the PIN number. Brad could see she was way ahead of him on this job.
Just inside the door was a fifteen-by-fifteen vestibule with a small reception area. It was more of a checkpoint with a TSA guy behind glass who sat up straighter when he caught sight of Breecker. A couple of others stood by the detector arch and X-ray machine. The far side only held a heavy-looking door leading to the secure airside area.
“Special Agent Breecker and Special Agent Barnes, FBI.” She held up her ID, as did Brad.
The TSA guy looked carefully at both and waved them through the arch. They didn’t have to check their weapons, of course.
The other TSA guy swiped the airside door and led them down another narrow white and grey corridor.
Then they were walked to the back end of the secondary checking suite and handed over to the CBP shift commander, a youngish but efficient-looking blond man with a whitewall haircut. He didn’t introduce himself or offer his hand but got straight to business and spoke briskly.
“Good afternoon, Agents. Our man is just behind me in detention. We’ve verified his identity and have placed him under arrest.”
Breecker bristled. “Officer, we were supposed to take him into custody. The intel came through our office.”
The CBP guy was unapologetic. “We printed him and conducted a low-level search and interrogation. He seemed evasive when asked about the SD card and has refused to speak a single word since. But the clincher would be this…”
He presented a sealed evidence bag, which seemed empty at first glance. Brad looked closely and saw a tiny memory chip nestled in the corner of the clear plastic, the sides of the bag clinging to it.
“It was well hidden inside the stitching of his bag strap. We almost didn’t find it at all, but we knew what to look for thanks to your intel.”
“On what evidence did you arrest him? You couldn’t match his ID with the intel if you didn’t have his name?” Breecker was not happy.
“Look, Agent, we received the intel from your New York office. It specified the suspect’s name on the file.”
“That information was not meant to be released! Who authorised it?
” Breecker looked really angry.
“It came from a senior agent-in-charge at the New York Field Office. Special Agent Ferguson.”
“Goddammit! Have you looked at the data content at all?”
The CBP officer, not used to a six-foot woman berating him with such force, was conciliatory. “No, of course not. Look, I’m sorry, Agent. Come on back, and we’ll formalise the handover.”
Breecker seemed placated and nodded.
He led them into a wide office with about a half-dozen admin staff. On the right side a glazed partition wall looked out on to CBP officers at a row of kiosks facing the hapless souls caught in Secondary Checking.
They were swiped through to another corridor lit by fluorescent bulbs and eventually led through one of the grey doors where their man sat quietly. Brad noted with a hint of envy that the guy was about his own age but seemed to have many fewer miles on him.
The pilot looked up at them but didn’t move. His hands were cuffed in front of him to a steel loop on the table. His unselfconscious gaze moved up and down Breecker’s figure, pausing at the more diverting features, but then flicked across to rest on Brad’s eyes before falling to the table.
Brad was happy to let Breecker take the lead. She placed her briefcase down and sat at the table. Brad took the seat next to her while the CBP guy stood behind them. The pilot looked at Breecker once, then his gaze fell again without giving Brad a glance.
“We are special agents of the FBI. You are under arrest on suspicion of espionage. We are taking you into custody. Do you understand?”
The man looked up at her again. He nodded but said nothing.
She looked hard at him, but he just looked away. Breecker turned to the CBP guy. “We need all his gear bagged and labelled. Ship it today to the New York Field Office. We’ll take him in the car. Can you drive us round to the parking lot?”
“You’re taking our collar and now you want a lift?”
Brad braced himself for the fireworks bristling again as Breecker rose.
Matt listened carefully to the agents bickering among themselves. It wasn’t exactly an argument, but the strained bartering revealed more than he’d assumed before. He learned how they had come to expect him, and it was very disquieting. Not only had his phone communications been disrupted, somehow giving him false instructions to turn up without a passport, but at some point his entire mission had been blown to the FBI and now he was being treated as a spy. This was a major breakdown in communication.
He guessed there would be a good cop/bad cop routine going on, and it wasn’t hard to guess who would be taking which role. The woman was bad cop all over. She had come in looking like Barbie on steroids, but the hardness in her blue eyes made Matt immediately recoil. The guy was different – he seemed more measured, almost friendly. Matt already decided that if the time came to speak, he would speak to the Kevin James lookalike, not Iron-Pumping Barbie.
His main fallback was that his unofficial employer would be pulling the necessary diplomatic strings to get him out, so he was determined to keep quiet until that happened. They’d have figured out by now that something had gone wrong when he hadn’t appeared for the last two hours. And from what the agents had discussed in front of him, it had gone very badly wrong indeed.
He watched as they packed his phone, bag and other loose articles into the array of evidence bags. He sat impassively as his chained cuffs were unlocked and replaced by the uncomfortable quick cuffs Kevin James produced.
After another bunch of dire warnings from Iron Barbie on how they were going to shoot him for pretty much any infraction, he was escorted away from Buzz Cut and his friends. Matt knew he wouldn’t be missing the smart-arse border agent who had so easily rumbled him. He knew most of what he felt at that moment was shame rather than trepidation, but it wasn’t blowing a simple question that had rumbled him – somebody had betrayed him. He was sure the guys back in London were on it.
Twenty minutes later, Matt was in the back of a black Dodge Charger. They were growling towards the Holland Tunnel on their way to New York. Matt was planning to visit Manhattan on his day off, but this wasn’t part of his plan.
Iron Barbie was clearly in charge of the operation. The two agents barely conversed at all; it seemed they had little in common. Matt sensed a slight animosity.
They eventually broke out of the tunnel into the afternoon sunlight back on the Manhattan side. The streets were already shadowed by the height of the skyscrapers running along the spine of the island to the financial district. The woman seemed to ignore the GPS directions as she drove an elongated route along Canal Street.
The other agent looked pissed off when they stopped in heavy traffic around Broadway. He leaned his elbow against the window as they pulled up to a long traffic queue leading up to the intersection of Canal Street and Broadway.
Matt was idly looking through the window when he saw a homeless man step away from the subway entrance. He then approached the car gesticulating for them to roll down the window. Barbie immediately hit the button to engage the door locks. Kevin James waved him away when the man lurched closer. Matt couldn’t help but feel that something was up and began to tense himself.
He drew up his feet so he could boost himself up quickly if needed; he couldn’t use his hands as they were tightly cuffed on his lap. He shuffled them across towards the seat belt release. Just in case.
The bum was about to knock on the window; the traffic hadn’t moved. The tension Matt felt drowned out the chorus of car horns blaring as New Yorkers gave their customary salute to the driving skills of their neighbours. Kevin James pulled out his badge and pressed it against the window. The guy just nodded, and that was when Matt noticed something odd. The guy’s hands were too clean.
“Beat it, jackoff!” the woman yelled through the closed windows. She blipped the siren twice.
The guy merely smiled, and Matt saw his teeth. Not shiny white, but still well kept.
Kevin James saw it as well in the same instant. He dropped his badge and began to reach around for his gun, but the seatbelt impeded him.
The homeless guy held up his hand. He had a small electronic device and pressed a button. The door locks flipped open, and he suddenly moved with lightning speed to whip open the passenger door.
Kevin James yelled, “Drive!” He was still trying to reach his gun awkwardly set behind his hip after releasing the seatbelt.
Barbie stomped down savagely on the accelerator, spinning the steering wheel, but Homeless Guy had already thrown something in the front. There was now a hissing canister on Kevin James’s lap. The car instantly filled with thick, chalky smoke, and then there was a loud crash and impact as the flying Charger smashed into something, hard. The airbags blew open with a bang. Barbie gave a snarl of anger.
Suddenly Matt felt a draught and noise as his door flew open making the cloud of gagging smoke dissipate for a second.
A strong grip took hold of his jacket and shirt near his collar and he was yanked from the car – his seatbelt slipped off so easily, the intruder must have cut it – a second later he was outside, stumbling in the sunlight and being dragged headlong from the scene by Homeless Guy.
Matt staggered, trying to keep his balance while his hands flapped helplessly in front of him.
The man shouted, “Take small steps, keep leaning forward, quickly now!” Homeless Guy’s voice was distinctly British.
He let go and Matt did what he was told, running close behind him and taking smaller, rapid steps as he ran. It worked; he stopped overbalancing. He noticed the man had grabbed Barbie’s briefcase and it was tucked under his arm.
Just as they turned left off Canal Street at the next block, Matt heard Barbie’s distant voice shout clearly across the traffic noise, “Federal Agents! Stop!”
Homeless Guy wasn’t going to comply. “Don’t look back! Keep running!” He turned immediately right, running straight across the street. Opposite was a mail depot with a large parking garage. US Postal
Service mail vans clustered under its raised roller doors.
Homeless Guy dragged Matt into the rear of an open van by the roadside. He put a finger to his lips and motioned Matt to hold still. Matt’s breath heaved in and out with exertion, but the shock drove his hammering heart.
There were distant sirens, not unusual at all in New York City, but Matt could hear a lot of them.
Homeless Guy cautiously raised his head to peer out through the windscreen. He shrugged off his coat and threw it in the back where Matt was lying. Under the coat he was wearing a blue USPS work shirt. He turned his cap inside out to reveal a USPS logo and climbed into the driver’s seat – the keys were just sitting in the ignition. He pulled out as easily as possible and turned back onto Sixth Avenue.
They put several miles between themselves and the growing blare of sirens as well as the fearsome FBI woman, much to Matt’s relief.
Homeless Guy, or as he was now, Mailman, began talking. “We can’t go very far. We just have to get somewhere quiet to get the cuffs off, then we’ll take the subway to our safe house in Queens. We can get you back to the UK in the next week or so, but your life is going to change, mate. You’re going to have to get a new job because you won’t be coming back to America again.”
Matt’s heart sank. He was free, but there was going to be a heavy cost.
“What happened?”
Mailman shrugged. “Someone spoofed the phones. They must have cloned them and given you duff gen. It was only when you got to the States that normal comms were restored. Whoever it was, they wanted this chip very badly.”
Matt added what he knew. “I heard the agents arguing. They said they received advance intel that I was coming. They knew about the chip and knew my name. Someone told them, mate. It must have come from inside the Department.”
Mailman shook his head. “As soon as we got your first text we knew something was compromised. We think someone in the FBI is dirty.” He paused to think for a few moments. “Listen, Matt - we tracked you from the airport using your RFID chip.”
