by Ty Patterson
Isakson raked his fingers through his hair, a man who knew the enormity of the task at hand, maybe even its futility.
‘Task forces are clearing houses for information in the first instance, and that information goes to a lot of people. Unit Chiefs, Section Chiefs, Associate Directors, SACs – Special Agents-in-Charge, ASACs – Assistant Special Agents-in-Charge, Special Agents… a lot!’
‘Give me a number.’
Isakson said reluctantly, ‘Including the Field Agents and the SWAT teams who went on the busts, thirty on our side. The juice came to about ten of us and then got disseminated.’
‘These thirty have been on this investigation since the beginning?’
‘Since time began.’
Broker looked out of the window. That’s one hell of a number, and those thirty could have further spread the word, pillow talk, water cooler gossip, no way that could have been contained to just thirty.
He watched a bird fly past the window, forage its only concern.
‘You investigated all thirty.’ It was a statement, not a question, but Isakson nodded.
‘Turned them inside out, made them take polygraphs, aggressively interrogated them, all under the guise of routine internal investigations, not that they bought it. We didn’t stop at that. We dug into their phone records, financial records, mortgage statements, credit cards, cash transactions, linked accounts, put their children under the scanner, checked out their schools, put tails on all of them, tracked their Skype or messenger chats, followed their wives, went back to their birth records, parents’ records, girlfriends, partners, all of those in their immediate orbit. We put them through psych evaluations… I got to know those guys better than I know myself. If they stopped at a Walgreens, I knew about it and why. If they went to a strip club, I knew what they did there, who they talked to. If they argued with their wives or girlfriends, we knew about it! Got enough reports that if I had to print them and convert them back to trees, we would have a brand-new Amazon forest.’
‘All these in electronic form?’
‘Most of them, say ninety-percent, the rest, paper files in a secure storage only the Director and I know.’
He pushed a slip of paper at Broker containing names, titles, contact details and demographic details of all thirty agents. Broker skimmed through the list, swiftly noting the three married women and five single men, divorcés.
Isakson saw his pause, read the names upside down, and commented, ‘Yeah, I focused on those divorcés, seeing how they could fit a traitor profile, but they came clean too.’
‘Too clean? Any of them?’
‘Look.’ Isakson’s voice rose in frustration. ‘They came clean to me. However, I can’t keep second-guessing my investigation and its findings. There are quicker ways to insanity, if that’s where I want to go. Hence, I need a neutral pair of eyes, which is where you come in.’
He looked at Broker. ‘So?’
Broker shrugged. ‘Of all the gin joints and so on, why me? There must be a million other contractors out there who can help you, and who like you a damned sight more than I do.’
Isakson leaned forward. ‘You guys are trusted by Director Murphy, who has heard of you via Clare. The National Security Advisor likes you. Makes my job easier to work with someone my bosses trust. Your dislike for me has nothing to do with it.’
Broker got up and turned to leave. ‘I’ll give it some thought and get back to you. But if I was you, I wouldn’t be holding my breath.’
‘You would be doing your country a favor by helping us.’
Broker swung round at the door, and Isakson felt the full force of cold blue eyes. ‘Save it. My associates and I are the last people you should be using the patriotism card on. Your bosses know what we do, who we do it for, what motivates us. They wouldn’t hold us in such regard if we were your average Joe Mercenary. I’ll think about your request and get back to you.’
The two agents who followed Broker were hanging around outside Isakson’s office. Broker glanced at them as he brushed past them. ‘The next time you follow me, I’ll break your legs.’
Chapter 11
When in doubt, coffee, was Broker’s motto, and the Jura brewed him a hot black one when he reached his office. He leaned back in his chair and allowed the aroma to clear his mind. If he was honest with himself, he could help out Isakson. There wasn’t anything on his plate that his analysts couldn’t handle. He had already activated General Klouse’s project, but even that didn’t require his all-day attention. He’d let Isakson stew for a couple of days and then tell him he was on board.
That decision made, he went over his analysts’ reports, looking for mentions of any out-of-the ordinary military hardware and didn’t find any. He checked Werner to see if the spiders were configured correctly, and saw that they were. He patted it. Of course patting it made it work harder! This was artificial intelligence, after all. He then pushed everything out of his mind and turned his thoughts to Isakson’s revelations.
His computer chimed softly. Isakson had sent him the dossiers of the thirty agents and the key surveillance summary sheets and findings. He shook his head at Isakson’s persistence and then smiled. Broker would have done the same in Isakson’s situation.
He opened the files and started reading them swiftly, keeping his mind blank, letting it make any associations unconsciously.
Seven hours and four refills later, Broker leaned back and stretched with a satisfying grunt. He could read nonstop, without moving, and had done so from the moment he clicked his mouse. The pad in front of him had scribbling on it – Venn diagrams, models, graphs crudely drawn – and in the center were nine names: Charlotte Adams, Becky Pisano, Emily Santiago, Kory Refus, Claude Beucamp, Rick Stonehaus, Eric Yarbrough, Floyd Wheat and Chris Slinkard.
Women didn’t fit the traitor profile, and that was precisely why Broker had jotted their names down. The next five names were the divorcés and the last, Chris Slinkard, a Special Agent in a strong marriage with two kids, was perfect material for FBI recruiting posters.
Broker had picked the women and Slinkard because they didn’t fit the profile, and the single men just had to be included. He would turn Werner loose on all thirty, but those nine would be his starting point. He would compare whatever Werner threw up against Isakson’s reports and look for anomalies, coincidences, patterns, spreading the net wider with each search.
Broker was rinsing his coffee mug when his mind turned to the FBI’s previous traitor.
Robert Hanssen, a veteran FBI agent, had been spying for twenty-five years for Russia before his arrest in 2001, and was the most destructive traitor the FBI had known. Hanssen’s betrayal had led to the execution of two KGB double agents, the imprisonment of a third, and thousands of pages of highly classified material to land in Russian hands. Hanssen’s betrayal still haunted the FBI, and the slightest whiff of a mole made the organization paranoid.
Broker had been in the intelligence business for a long time and knew that every intelligence or investigative agency in the world was susceptible to betrayal from within. All that the best agencies could do was constantly reinvent their security protocols, minimize the damage when a rat was discovered, and relearn and reshape themselves. He could imagine the suspicion hanging in the air in the FBI corridors and, for the briefest of moments, felt sympathy for Isakson. He shook his head, snorted, and polished his mug extra hard.
Being a double agent in an organization such as the FBI was not easy. It required leading a double life and layers to be maintained for many years. Successful double agents were able to make the life layers a habit, as ingrained as brushing teeth in the morning. Such agents got exposed because they either got betrayed by another double agent or in some cases got careless, or overconfident, and made mistakes. Robert Hanssen got exposed because the FBI tapped a former KGB agent who gave evidence that led to Hanssen’s arrest.
Isakson’s traitor was yet to make any mistakes, which meant that the traitor was so seasoned that the d
ouble life was his life. Or that Isakson had not picked up his mistakes. Or, and this was a possibility, that there was no traitor – that all that happened could be coincidences, even the messages at the warehouses. Broker would start his investigation fresh; he didn’t want to be contaminated by Isakson’s thinking, assumptions and judgment.
Broker also realized that there was no one who was beyond suspicion. With that in mind, he glanced at his watch and made a call. It was early, very early, but the person at the other end took calls at any time.
Broker met Clare in a drab office near City Hall the next day.
‘Keeping busy, Broker?’ Clare greeted him.
‘Can’t complain, ma’am. There’s enough wickedness in the world for me to earn a living,’ replied Broker.
Clare poured him a coffee and waved at him to continue.
‘I met Isakson yesterday–’
‘I heard,’ Clare interrupted him with a ghost of a smile.
Why wouldn’t she? She’s head of the most secretive and well-informed Agency in the world, Broker thought and continued, ‘He wants my help in an investigation of his.’
‘I think I know which one.’
‘Do you think his theory has legs?’
‘I’m sure you know the answer to that one, Broker. The FBI has been traitor-free for several years now. Either that situation is too good to be true, or it is true. No organization is immune to rats. In any case, I heard that there is some evidence to back his theory, so he’s not shooting in the dark. Are you going to help him?’
Broker nodded. ‘Yes, after letting him swing in the air for a day or two more. Unless you have some assignment for me and the rest…’ He trailed off.
Clare shook her head. ‘Nothing right now. But even if something comes up, I’m sure you can multitask well. Besides, they’ – she nodded, referring to the FBI – ‘know I have dibs on you.’
‘I need to talk to Director Murphy,’ he told Clare.
Clare laughed. ‘Ah, that’s why you wanted to meet me. You want to know how Pat would react if you investigated him too?’
Broker spread his arms wide in acknowledgement.
‘He’s been in the investigation game for a long time. If you didn’t put him under the scanner, then he’d think you’re the wrong person for this. You aren’t. There’s no one more qualified to help the FBI than you guys. In some quarters, you are viewed as guns for hire, or rather my private army, but I know he’s aware – General Klouse, and a few select others as well – of the full extent of your skills. You don’t need to be worried about Pat. Go investigate, and see if you can crack this and identify the mole, if you think there’s one.’
‘Thank you, ma’am. That’s what I wanted to hear. Could you arrange for me to meet him?’
An eyebrow lifted up. ‘You don’t want Isakson to set that up for you?’
‘Nope. If I get involved in this, I want to do it my way. If they have a mole over there, he’ll get wind of Isakson setting up my meeting and might be able to figure out what my role is. My way – I’m just another meeting the Director of the FBI has.’
Clare nodded. ‘I’ll set it up. You’ll get a call from someone.
‘You’ll be looking at Isakson too?’ She knew what his answer would be.
Broker grinned. ‘That’s the bonus in all this.’ He paused. ‘You mentioned no agency is immune… you’ve had rats too?’
A small enigmatic smile came and disappeared quickly. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to answer that, Broker?’
Broker nodded in acceptance and understanding. In an agency that didn’t exist, any mole, suspected or the real article, had a short shelf life. As he was leaving, she asked, ‘How are you guys coping? I met Bear and Chloe sometime back, and they were holding up well.’
She was referring to Zeb.
Broker turned back to her, all the humor gone from his face. ‘There isn’t a day that we don’t miss him. But the pain is becoming manageable now.’
He smiled suddenly and fully, the smile that made many hearts skip a beat from Wall Street to Wushan. ‘He would give me the Zeb look if he heard that,’ he said and stepped out.
Clare – Director of the most powerful agency in the world, Keeper of Secrets, as many called her – sat staring at the door through which Broker had passed.
Zeb had been her protégé. His absence hurt her as much as it did Broker. She sighed deeply and made the call to Pat Murphy, Director of the FBI.
‘I’m in.’ Broker called Isakson a few days later.
‘Thank you. I’ll–’ started Isakson, only to be cut off by Broker.
‘Send me all the rest. I want everything, notes, scribbling, doodles… if anything was put to paper or on a computer, I want it,’ said Broker and hung up.
He waited, and his phone rang minutes later. Isakson. He let it ring a few times and then answered it.
‘Broker, we don’t work like that. I would like you to work out of a secure office I can set up for you–’
Broker interrupted him. ‘Deputy Director, I don’t work like that. Send your stuff to me, and I’ll come to you if and when I have something or I want something. If Clare comes up with an assignment for me and my team, I’ll drop everything I’m doing, including this investigation, and do that job. Those are my terms.’
He heard Isakson go quiet for a long while, and then he responded stiffly, ‘Very well. I’ll send everything we have, and get you security clearance, and fix up any meetings you need.’
‘The first two, yes. I’ll fix my own meetings,’ responded Broker and hung up on Isakson.
The other call came minutes later.
Chapter 12
Director Pat Murphy was a pugnacious Irish-American who had grown up in the Bronx back in the days when its streets were mean. After law school, he had started his career working in the corporate sector and then had moved to public service and risen to be the Attorney General of the United States before being appointed as the Director of the FBI.
Director Murphy was fiercely protective of the FBI and was determined to weed out the mole, if one existed, and restore the pride of the agency. When Isakson had reached a dead end in his investigation, he had listened to General Klouse and Clare and suggested that Isakson seek outside help.
Isakson had heard of Clare’s team several times, but hadn’t met any of them previously. He had readily agreed to meet Broker when Clare had called him since he wanted to assess him personally.
Broker breathed deeply as he walked to the J. Edgar Hoover Building on the most famous avenue in the world. Spring in D.C was good, but he was a New Yorker and refused to accept that any other city was superior in any way to NYC. He noticed that there weren’t as many people doing stuff on their phones while walking – street pizza-meat he called them – as in New York, but he resolutely pushed away such traitorous thoughts.
Director Murphy studied him as Broker was ushered in the room. Showboat, he thought and then erased that from his mind. He hadn’t risen to his role by making snap judgments. He gestured for Broker to seat himself and rasped, ‘So, mister, I hear you’re going to find our mole?’
Broker grinned. ‘Are you sure you have a mole, sir?’
‘That’s what everyone tells me. You telling me something else?’ Murphy’s eyes narrowed.
‘Nope. I don’t know enough to tell you anything at this stage. All I’m saying is that it’s easy to get sucked into a mole hunt when in reality all that happened was just random chance.’
‘Isakson’s a good agent, mister, which is why I’ve made him the Deputy Director. He’s not the kind to go after windmills. I know you don’t have the highest regard for him, but I do. And if he says there’s a mole, I’ve no reason to disbelieve him. I can go with random luck to an extent, but that doesn’t explain the warehouse messages.’
Broker nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the one thing that makes the case for a traitor. Only, I wonder why a traitor would be so stupid as to leave messages like that.’
Director Murphy waved his hand impatiently and growled, ‘Don’t you think we haven’t considered that? We think it’s not the traitor, but some stupid punk in those gangs that left those messages. Agreed, it’s a weak theory, but nothing else makes sense. Now, you tell me how you’re going to help us. You are, aren’t you? You didn’t come all the way here to show your mug, I hope?’
‘I’m in, sir. I mentioned that to Isakson. I wanted to meet you to get your views on this and–’
Murphy held up a hand, interrupting him. ‘Isakson’s views are my views. The two of us are on the same page.’
Broker inclined his head in acknowledgment. ‘I also wanted to manage your expectations. These hunts can take months and even years. If this mole is really good, he’ll be buried so deep, covered so well, that only a mistake or a betrayal will expose him. It doesn’t look like he’s made a mistake yet.’
‘I know how long this can go. I’ve been involved in a few hunts and cleanups myself,’ Director Murphy said brusquely.
Broker leaned forward. ‘Sir, how’re you protecting operations till such time as we find this bastard?’
Murphy broke eye contact for the first time, looked away and back again. ‘Mister, there isn’t much we can do on that front. We can’t cut back on operations. Isakson and a select team reviewed our policies, and we have implemented all the recommendations from that review. Our most sensitive operations are handled by agents handpicked by me – agents who are thoroughly and rigorously vetted regularly. Our information is always on the strictest need-to-know basis and our systems and policies have come a long way from the days of Hanssen. I am proud that we run the tightest investigative agency in the country.’
His voice hardened. ‘Which is why it burns me to think of some bastard sitting in some office of mine, wrecking yet another operation as we sit here. Mister, find me that bastard. I want to rip his balls off, pickle them, and display them in a jar on my mantelpiece.’
