One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  Rolling over, he hit the light on his alarm clock. The bright blue electroluminescent back panel lit up the time. Five-fifteen. He decided to get up, and trudged into the bathroom. He would be dressed and out of the house in less than thirty minutes.

  Marty had taken only twenty minutes to get up and out. A short drive later he had waited more than fifteen minutes for a donut shop to open. Marty didn’t like coffee, but he sat staring at his third cup, and last bit of his third glazed donut. It was now six-thirty, and he had nowhere to go. Home wasn’t home anymore; it belonged to them. He belonged to them.

  There was no point in going to the office either. Arriving early would look suspicious. Security frowned on sudden behavior changes. That was assuming they would let him in at all. He had to wait. The waitress was nice enough. He gave her a smile, as she looked his way.

  “Would you like anything else?” She was young, and the other two waitresses looked even younger. About Christen’s age, he thought, although they could be high school kids.

  The acidic coffee was tearing up his stomach, making him tense and burning his throat. “Could I have a milk?”

  “Sure,” she responded, and headed for the refrigerator cabinet.

  He was going to sit there until a few minutes before seven. The pancake house would open then. Breakfast would kill some more time.

  The waitress came over with a tiny carton of milk and a glass. “Can I get something else for you?”

  “No, thanks.” Marty could tell she had seen guys like him before. Lonely and lost. The sign over the counter said, “No tipping.” He would tip her anyway.

  Chapter 28

  Robert dressed and left the bedroom after kissing Tracie’s outstretched hand. His mind was still filled with questions about Grady’s attack, and concerns for his own safety. Despite this, he noted that Tracie seeing him off to work was quickly becoming ancient history. He pulled up the collar on his overcoat in futile defiance of the cold, and cautiously opened the front door, checking for strange individuals, or cars in the street. Seeing none, he made a dash to get the newspapers. Bolting back to the house he locked the door, and reset the alarm. The slight panting of his breath abated as he collected his briefcase and went to the garage. After twice checking that the house alarm was properly set, he got into his car, and started the engine. Making sure the vehicle’s doors had locked he opened the garage door. The street seemed quiet. He backed out and watched the door slowly close.

  Driving a little slower than he normally did, Robert made several unnecessary turns, watching to see if he was followed. His hand frequently verified that his cell phone was in the cup holder, while his eyes scanned the mirrors, inspecting the occupants of cars passing by. Once Robert got to the freeway he calmed down a little. Traffic was light, and the sun rising made the cars easier to watch.

  He caught himself wondering if he was overreacting, but it only took a minute to remember that Chris’s death was very real, and significant—especially now that Grady had been attacked. Robert was fully aware that he could also be a target. Then he realized Tracie was home alone, and unaware of any of this.

  Robert had a home alarm, car alarms, a gun...everything but an attack dog. Still, he’d never actually expected to be assaulted. A home invasion or street attack in the places he frequented would be unusual. Sure, everyone worried about it, particularly in big cities, but the odds were pretty low. There was no ignoring that Robert’s risk had just risen to a higher level. Chris’s death and Grady’s attack could not be coincidental. Was he actually in danger? Was Tracie? And what about the boys and Alicia?

  Robert needed to focus. He did his clearest thinking in the morning, and the more he thought about this, the more pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

  Chris’s words flashed through his mind. “Someone is going to take control of the OPOV system,” Chris had said. Not trying to take control; “going to take control.” Robert realized that his approach to the investigation had assumed that the effort to take over OPOV was preventable. Now he wondered if a system was already in place, and how big the corruption might be.

  Robert felt his frustration building. Questions heavily outweighed any answers he got. Damn it! He felt blocked at every turn. Robert had to find some path to controlling this investigation.

  Control, he thought. This was all about control. Control the voting system and you control the power. You’d have to control it nationwide, or the differences in vote counts between states and the final tally would be too obvious. Having that control, not through arms or violence, but through hidden influence, would be incredibly powerful. Even politicians being manipulated would have to endorse the validity of a system designed by the best computer minds in the world, and monitored by so much security. Any effort to publicly deride the system would be viewed as trying to crush public opinion. They’d be called ‘un-American’, “un-patriotic,” or even totalitarian. The more Robert thought about it, the more he realized how brilliant the plan to control OPOV was in its conception. But with every agency in the government watching the system operate, how could someone gain control? Robert had to find the flaw, the fatal security error that would allow control of the system without anyone knowing. The flaw that could change voting results over and over again.

  Grady must have gotten closer to the answers than he’d realized, Robert thought. But was it something Grady had found, or someone he’d talked to? That must be it, Robert thought. Grady triggered something, and that was why he was targeted.

  So, Robert theorized, he and his family weren’t in danger at this point.

  Robert pulled into his building’s parking area. He acknowledged the security guard, and headed to his office to wait.

  Chapter 29

  Marty pulled into the NSA parking lot. It was still very early. His tires made fresh tracks across the lightly drifted snow, blown down from the nearby trees. Marty paid no attention to these things, but he did feel the cold as he zipped up his leather jacket. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he forged ahead to the lobby.

  Over breakfast, he had watched the clock tick so slowly that it seemed to count backwards. He tried to kill time with a second stack of pancakes, but they sloshed in his upset stomach. He had wasted enough time over breakfast to not look suspiciously early when he showed up at work. The security guard checked his badge, and Marty moved through to the lockers to unload his pockets. Approaching the airlock, he put his hand to the scan plate. His blood pressure climbed as the thin red line scrolled across his palm. Inside the airlock his anxiety rose further, until his tongue seemed too big for his throat. He had never noticed how loud the scanning equipment hum was. Every muscle tightened. It all seemed to take much longer than usual. He could hardly stand still, waiting for the scan to be completed. When it finally stopped, and the inner lock opened, he almost ran out. He stopped, reminding himself to act as normal as possible. His head was spinning. What did he usually do? He went toward the coffee stand. God, I need more coffee like a hole in the head, he thought. He already had drunk five cups. Instead he went into the bathroom and locked himself in one of the stalls. Sausage was doing flip-flops in his stomach. He sat in the stall with his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands.

  Terri came driving in just before eight. She had been sitting at her desk wondering where Marty was when he finally showed up at his cubicle. It was eight-fifteen.

  “Where have you been? Out partying late?” Terri chided him as he quietly slunk into this cubicle.

  “Actually, I came in early. Is that all right with you?” He asked tartly.

  “Whoa! Sorry I asked.” She responded, looking offended.

  “Sorry, Terri,” Marty felt irritated and remorseful, all at once. He tried to cover his annoyance, and respond normally. “I don’t feel too good, and I didn’t sleep well. My stomach is upset. I got up early, ate too much, and drank too much coffee. That’s all.” Marty thought he was talking too much, and had better shut up.

&nb
sp; “Did you eat something different than usual? How come you got up early?” Terri was making idle chatter as she usually did in the morning.

  “I just woke up and felt like having a big breakfast. No mystery; no big deal.” His curt tone and sleep deprived eyes looked annoyed.

  “OK, I’ll catch you later.” Terri managed a hasty retreat and turned to her computer screen. “Man, what a grouch,” she mumbled not quite under her breath.

  Marty felt like a spotlight was burning into the back of his neck. He felt exposed. The cubicle opening was at his back, and his computer monitor was crammed into the corner. Anyone could walk up behind him and look over his shoulder. He pulled off the glare-reducing screen overlay, and set it to one side. The harsh fluorescent lights gave just enough light to make reflections. This way he would notice someone standing behind him.

  He worked deliberately, pulling up a complex spreadsheet before he signed onto the net, and accessed the file transfer protocol site. He also downloaded the image program and graphics plug-in he needed to pull the watermark out of the picture.

  While it downloaded, he hit the ALT TAB keys to switch to the inconspicuous spreadsheet screen filled with numbers. He acted busy as the computer calmly worked in the background. It only took a minute or two before the virus scan cleared the new files and his security code authorized the file save. He added the plug-in to his graphics package, and pulled out the watermark. No one would notice this activity. Some people played solitaire, pinball, or shoot-everything-in-sight games on their computers. Others surfed the net, or played network chess with fellow employees. IT had approved the sites, with pre-checks, no cookies, no flash, java, mocha, etc., and required personal verification before anyone could access them. Most people were surprised that the boss didn’t object, but the long hours of programming were marked with only occasional sparks of intuition and brilliance. These periodic non-businesslike breaks in the monotony actually helped productivity, and went unchecked. There were Foosball and Ping-Pong tables in the break room for the same purpose. Once in a while Marty would mess around with a three dimensional graphics package he had, or clean up photographs he had downloaded from his digital camera. Those guys that came to his house probably knew about that. Hell, they must have known. They knew everything else.

  Once he had the image work done, his security clearance allowed him to access the OPOV control file and add the HEX code polynomial in a remark line. Marty noted how the combination of characters looked almost like a mnemonic he might actually use as a comment.

  “These guys are good,” Marty thought again. He knew someone would eventually catch the adjustment. When they found it, they would come to him. Then what would happen to Christen?

  He saved the file. The automatic log system noted his code as the last person to edit the file, and the screen closed. Done, he thought. Now what? How could he go on with business as usual?

  Terri looked over the wall. “Hey, you ready?”

  “What?” Marty jumped, panicked for a split second. He checked quickly to make sure nothing incriminating was on his monitor.

  “Are you ready for the meeting? You know, the staff meeting? They talk; you listen?” Terri laughed.

  Marty generally hated meetings, but this one he welcomed. Today he needed the distraction. “Sure, let’s go.”

  “Are you okay?” Terri asked as they walked down the hall.

  “Oh, I’m just tired.” Marty forgot that he’d already said that.

  “Yeah, so you said. You look like hell, but I figure that’s old age setting in.” Terri teased him.

  “Nice...remind me to bake your next birthday cake. Black icing, licorice flavored—maybe with razor blades.” Marty tried to respond in kind.

  Terri pushed lightly on his shoulder. “What, no arsenic?”

  “How about chocolate Ex-Lax; you’re getting older, too.”

  “Thanks, a lot.” Terri pushed his shoulder a little harder for that one.

  They went into the meeting and Marty gratefully let his mind lapse into focusing on his boss’ presentation. He was sedated into safe oblivion, if only for a short while.

  Chapter 30

  Robert sat in his office. He’d arrived before Lorraine, probably for the first time since he’d worked in the office. The coffee he’d made sat lukewarm in the cup. It was awful. Pale and bitter. Maybe it was supposed to be eight scoops, not four, he thought.

  He was still reaching for answers on how to handle the OPOV problem, but he had come up empty handed. His lawyer’s mind went through his trained steps one more time. Motive: everyone in Washington wanted power, money, and votes. So motive was easy to come by, and useless to consider. Opportunity: difficult; the whole OPOV system was under multiple microscopes. Unless you were an insider, or controlled an insider, it would be tough to break in. Even then, the manipulation would have to be hidden. Anything noticeable would be investigated. Means: in this case, how was that different from opportunity? It would have to be someone with access and knowledge about how the system worked.

  What Robert had none of, and needed the most, was evidence. Chris’s death and Grady’s attack weren’t evidence, even if they could be linked. The events weren’t proof of anything, except that evidence was going to be hard to get, and that staying alive could be a problem.

  Robert’s chin rested on the heels of his two hands. His elbows pressed into the desk as his middle fingers rubbed his temples. The effort had no beneficial effect, and he found that he was making his temples sore.

  Could terrorists be the culprits? They never needed much motivation, just a cause. Their attacks and goals often seemed unrelated, but generally were designed to create chaos. Was there significance to this time and place? The upcoming vote was minor and influenced no election, no foreign policy, and not even much money. Perhaps this was a preamble; a test in preparation for something bigger. But wouldn’t that risk showing the hand that wielded the power? That would be a bad idea if they intended to remain a hidden force, or use the system multiple times.

  Whoever was to blame, a hidden timetable seemed to be pushing them into action. That would explain why Chris was dead, and why Grady was lucky to be alive. Chris and Grady had threatened that timetable somehow.

  The phone’s electronic ring jerked his brain back into the office. Thinking that Lorraine probably wasn’t in the office yet, he grabbed the receiver.

  “Yes?” His curt greeting was out of character, but then, so was answering his own phone. He felt disoriented.

  “Mr. Carlton?” A girl with a Texas accent was on the line.

  “Yes, who’s calling?” Robert tried to regain his composure.

  “I’m calling for Mr. Hunt. He was hoping to arrange a meeting.”

  “I’m sorry,” Robert answered automatically, “my schedule is very full. My secretary will be glad to...”

  “Sir.” Her tone changed. The friendly lilt left her voice, and a tight-jawed hardness replaced it. “Mr. Hunt will be taking pictures of the Washington Monument at eight-thirty, on the hill above the stone tourist kiosk, east of the monument. He suggests you be there.” She placed emphasis on the word “suggests,” as though politeness was thinly disguising an order.

  “What’s this about?” Robert demanded. Hunt’s name had kicked Robert’s brain into gear. He didn’t like this guy calling the shots. He wanted some answers.

  “Mr. Hunt said you haven’t returned his calls,” the girl answered, sounding as though she was admonishing a small schoolboy. She continued, “Mr. Hunt said that it’s time to ‘stoke some barley.’ He said you’d understand.” Her light tone returned. “May I tell him you’re coming?”

  Robert felt jolted. It seemed absurd, but the girl was clearly referring to Chris Stoker and Grady Barlow with her juvenile play on words. So Hunt was part of this mess? What the hell was going on?

  Robert began, “I’ll be there, but you tell Hunt that...”

  “Eight-thirty.” The girl interrupted, confirming the time as if
he hadn’t spoken. “Thank you, Sir. Have a nice day.” She hung up before he could say anything more. Furiously he checked and found that the Caller ID had been blocked. He would have been shocked if it hadn’t been, but it was still frustrating.

  “Have a nice day yourself.” Robert punched the button for security. After Chris’s death and Grady’s attack there was no way he was meeting this guy alone. “Get me the JPSO, immediately.” He hung up and hit the intercom. “Lorraine, are you there?”

  “Yes, Sir. Good m...”

  Robert cut her off. “Lorraine, get me Phil Davidson at the Treasury Department.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Lorraine was on the phone with Phil as Agent Carey came briskly through the main door. He did not wait for Lorraine’s approval, or acknowledgement, moving straight into Robert’s office.

  Robert was a little stunned by the fast response. He recognized the agent immediately, and was surprised. “Thank you for getting here so quickly, Agent Carey.” Robert had met Carey when he’d been assigned to Ed Bradley. It wasn’t commonplace for the Secret Service to respond to Justice Protective Service Officer calls. Robert processed this, and assumed that Carey had been setting up Jack’s security with the JPSO, now that he was confirmed as AG. They must have decided to send him to see what Robert was calling about. It seemed a little unusual to Robert, but thinking about it, he figured that the Secret Service might have the equipment necessary for monitoring this meeting.

  “Sir. What can I do for you?” Carey responded, getting straight to the point.

  Robert reached for the intercom button but it chimed before he hit it. “Mr. Davidson is on line one.” Lorraine told him.

  Robert hit the speakerphone button. “Phil?”

  “Mr. Carlton, nice to hear...”

  “No time for that.” Robert cut him off. “Phil Davidson, Treasury Department, meet Agent Carey, Secret Service. I am having a meeting on the mall at eight-thirty. I need surveillance. I need it recorded and I want two points of reception and documentation. Can you do it, Phil?”