Terminal Justice

by Alton L. Gansky

  “Okay,” Bauman said. “So they have a sophisticated computer system. So does IBM, but that doesn’t make them our bad guys.”

  “True, sir,” Stephanie jumped in. “But they have something else … or maybe I should say, someone else.”

  “That’s right,” Woody interrupted. “They have two people on their staff who have the knowledge to orchestrate the computer break-in: Eileen Corbin and Raymond Reynolds. Reynolds is a former Defense Department programmer. He wrote some of the programs that we use in the FBI and that you use every day here at Langley. But Eileen Corbin is the most interesting. In the computer world she is considered a peripherals goddess. Her great love is the fabrication of hardware. She was written up by all the computer magazines, and computer manufacturers were offering her six-figure salaries. At the height of her career, she was arrested for hacking into the computers of major businesses, stealing accounting files, and selling them to other businesses planning hostile takeovers. She made a fortune before an accomplice turned state’s evidence. She spent six months in a white-collar prison. After her release, she went to work for Barringston Relief and has been there ever since. She is fully capable of creating a device that can ram so many codes into our computer entrance and recognition protocols that it grants access.”

  Bauman rubbed his chin in thought and then looked at Padgett. “What do you think, Gus?”

  “Interesting, but do we have evidence?” he replied. “It’s one thing to know that she is capable, and another thing to prove she’s culpable.”

  “True,” Bauman replied. “Do you have enough evidence for an arrest?”

  Woody lowered his head before he answered. He had been dreading this question. “No sir, I do not.”

  “There’s more,” Stephanie interjected. “This goes beyond our own problems here at the CIA.”

  “How do you mean?” Bauman asked, furrowing his brow.

  “We know that Barringston, or one of his people, has the means, the motive, and opportunity to commit these intrusions,” Stephanie began. “We believe that such an act is in keeping with his method of operation. I told you that his group is active all over the world. Some of his people pop up in strange places. I spoke to some of our caseworkers overseas and discovered an interesting coincidence: Many disturbing events have happened when a Barringston Relief employee was around—a particular employee.”

  “Oh?” Bauman said.

  “One of our caseworkers in Cambodia saw and identified a man he had served with in the army rangers. He tried to speak to him, but the man refused to acknowledge his call. He disappeared into the crowd. Two days later, thirty political prisoners were aided in their escape from a Cambodian prison camp. Sixteen guards were killed in the escape.”

  “I remember that,” Bauman said.

  “According to witnesses, three Americans led the escape. Our agent thinks one of them was Roger Walczynske, his former army buddy.”

  “Roger Walcz …” Padgett struggled with the name.

  “Walczynske,” Stephanie offered. “I pulled his file. Exemplary service, including service in Somalia during the last famine. He was involved in the attempted capture of Mohammed Farah Aidid. He lost several friends in that operation. It made him bitter, and he left the army.”

  “It made many people bitter,” Bauman said sternly. “I assume there’s more.”

  “Yes, but being mindful of your schedule, let me say that this same man has been spotted two other times: at the killing of a drug lord in Colombia and at the attempted assassination of the leader of the Irish terrorist group the Silver Dawn. The last one failed.”

  “If I recall,” Bauman said, “no one has heard from the Silver Dawn for a while. They’re just now becoming active again.”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Stephanie agreed. “I should have said that the last one was only partially successful. The man was wounded severely, as were several of his lieutenants.”

  Bauman looked at his watch, “I have to meet the president shortly, and he’ll ask me about all this, so give me a quick summary. What should I tell him?”

  Stephanie didn’t hesitate. “Tell him that we believe that Barringston Relief is responsible for the intrusions into the CIA computers, and that they may be responsible for acts of terrorism against other countries.”

  “But you can’t prove that,” Padgett said quickly.

  “That’s why we would like to have permission to tap their phones and to recruit someone on the inside to gather information,” Woody said.

  Padgett shook his head. “That’s a tall order. What you have told us makes sense, but I doubt you can convince a judge to give you a warrant to tap their phones. As for an infiltration, well, that’s risky business.”

  “It’s all we have,” Woody said firmly.

  Padgett and Bauman looked at each other. “All right,” Bauman said. “For my part, I’ll try to find a judge to convince. And infiltration? Just be careful, very careful. If what you say is true, then our actions may have repercussions around the world.”

  “I know it’ll shake up the hill,” Bauman added. “The Barringstons have a great many friends. You had better make sure that you have all your ducks in a row, or this thing will blow up in our faces.”

  “Understood,” Woody and Stephanie said simultaneously.

  “Where did you get these?” Stephanie asked as she turned another page of the small sheaf of papers she held.

  “Some questions are best not asked and even better not answered,” Woody replied with a wry grin. “Actually we did nothing untoward. Barringston Relief is a large corporation and as such must file certain documents with the government. The list you have was compiled by the IRS. Like every business with employees, Barringston Relief must file W-2 forms on each of its employees. All we did was obtain court permission to access those files.”

  “There are hundreds of names here.” Stephanie sounded dismayed.

  “There are, and as you can see by the dates next to the names, most of them have been on the payroll for a long time.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Could be,” Woody replied. “There may be a loyalty factor to consider here. The longer employees stay in a firm like this, the more they feel they have invested. Retirement, medical, position, and so on. But we’ve found one person who might be persuaded to help us. He arrived less than three months ago, he holds an executive position, and he possesses one other factor that could prove important: He’s a minister.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We took a look at his previous tax forms. As you know, Form 1040 has a place for occupation.”

  “You’re thinking that he will be open to our questions because of a strong sense of morality?”

  “Exactly. It’s not a sure thing, but it couldn’t hurt.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Stephanie replied, shaking her head. “The few ministers I know are pretty independent thinkers. It’s possible that he may see all of this as bordering on deceit. If he does, then you’re sunk.”

  “We’ll convince him,” Woody said with confidence. “We have to; he’s our only chance for inside information.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “There’s one way to find out,” Woody said. “Let’s go see him.”

  “In San Diego?”

  “That’s where he lives,” Woody said. “I could ask an agent from the San Diego office to talk to him, but I think it would be better if we did it ourselves. We’re familiar with the problem; the San Diego office isn’t.”

  “I’ve always wanted to go to San Diego,” Stephanie said.

  “Then pack your bags. I’d like to get there as soon as possible.”

  20

  OCTOBER STROLLED QUIETLY INTO SAN DIEGO, AS IT did most years. The days became cooler and shorter, the nights cooler still and longer. David stood on the small walk that led to his front door, watering a lawn with too many brown spots and a ragged edge. Even before he had left for Africa, the lawn had bee
n a challenge. He spent many hours mowing it, trimming it, feeding it ammonium sulfate, spraying it for bugs, and watering it, but like an unruly child the lawn insisted on growing unevenly and yielding its green beauty miserly. Still, it was his lawn, and David felt the need to maintain it the best he could, if for no other reason than his neighbors’ sake.

  Unsuccessful as he was with growing a lawn that could grace the cover of Home and Garden magazine (or in this case House and Scrub magazine), he did enjoy the simple act of watering. Like most yards in his neighborhood, his was equipped with a sprinkler system, but David often watered by hand. There was something therapeutic about unwinding a hose, turning on the bibb, and watching water spray from the red plastic nozzle. One could not hurry through such a process but wait patiently as the spray fanned out and cascaded over the grass carpet.

  There was something magical about that inconsequential and routine act. For David at least, and he suspected for others, too, much more than water flowed from the hose. Anxiety and tension often were drawn out of his body in a stream that joined with that of the water. His wife had never understood this and had often accused him of wasting time at the end of the day. But David knew that he was far from wasting time, he was investing time, time that allowed him to visit with himself, an art lost in modern society.

  Now he had no wife to impugn his lawn-watering meditations. He could stand on the concrete walk all night and listen to the magnificent orchestration of water whistling out of a plastic nozzle. This evening the water music was especially endearing and was carrying his mind away to a peaceful place. He understood the power of being alone on an early October night.

  The sound of a car door slamming jarred him back to awareness. He directed his attention to a dark, nondescript sedan parked at the curb in front of his house. A man—young, relatively short but solidly built, with a thick dark mustache—stood by the driver’s door. He wore an expensive looking dark blue suit, a sharply pressed white shirt, and a red “power” tie. A woman exited from the passenger side. She was dressed in a fashionable gray pinstriped suit and had brown shoulder-length hair and a very pleasant face. She carried a small black purse slung over her shoulder. The man looked at David for a long moment, studying him as if he could pull thoughts right from David’s brain and suck them in through his eyes. A moment later the man smiled and gave a small wave. The two approached, being careful to remain on the walk and not step on the wet grass.

  “Can I help you?” David asked, hoping that the yuppie-looking couple were neither Jehovah’s Witnesses nor one of those Amway couples.

  “Mr. O’Neal?” the man asked. “Dr. David O’Neal?”

  “I’m David O’Neal,” he replied, suddenly aware that the two people walking toward him had nothing to do with cultic evangelism or soap. They had a special bearing about them that revealed an inbred pride that came from professional training. Which area of the government are they from? Police detectives? IRS? David thought it interesting that he felt a stronger apprehension of the latter over the former.

  “Great,” the man said. Reaching inside his coat, the man removed a small leather case, opened it, and displayed an identification card. “I’m Special Agent Woody Sullivan of the FBI and this is—”

  “Stephanie Cooper,” the attractive woman interrupted. “I’m with … another agency.”

  “FBI?” David exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No sir,” Woody assured him quickly. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. But don’t worry; you’re not in trouble.”

  “All the same,” David said seriously, “something must be up to bring you out here.”

  Woody glanced at Stephanie then back to David. “Could we talk inside, sir? I think you can help us with a rather touchy matter.”

  “Me? How?”

  “Inside would be better,” Woody insisted.

  “Certainly.” David quickly cranked the nozzle off and put the hose away. “Come in,” he said, shaking the water from his hands. Inside, he motioned to the couch, and his guests sat down. He offered them coffee, which they accepted. David disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a few moments later with a pot and three ceramic mugs. “I started the pot about half an hour ago, so it should be fresh. I brought some sweetener and milk if you want it.” David took a seat in the lounge chair next to the sofa.

  “Thank you,” Woody said. “I hope we haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good,” Woody replied with a smile. He sipped his coffee. “This is very good. This isn’t your basic store brand, is it?”

  David understood immediately what the agent was doing. He was attempting to establish common ground by chatting amicably about a shared interest.

  “It’s a new brand I’m trying,” David said, playing his part. “The beans are from Central Africa. I bought them at a local coffee shop.” Before Woody could reply with another question, David interjected, “But I don’t think you’re all that interested in coffee. What can I do for you?”

  “Right to the point, eh? I like that.” Woody put his cup down. “All right then, let’s get to it. I, that is, we need your help.”

  “My help?”

  “Yes. From time to time law-enforcement agencies enlist the help of private citizens in the investigation of certain crimes. Sometimes those citizens have information that is helpful or they are somehow related to an investigation. We believe that about you.”

  “You want my help in solving a crime?” David leaned back in his chair and slowly took a sip of his coffee. Something wasn’t right here, but he didn’t know what. The two people appeared sincere, but it was too early to tell. “I really should have done this before, but could I have a closer look at your identification?”

  “Certainly,” Woody said. “Take all the time you need.” David took the leather folder and studied the picture-identification card. It looked authentic, but David wouldn’t have been able to recognize a forgery anyway. He was buying time, attempting to learn as much as he could while simultaneously gathering his wits. A moment later he handed the ID back.

  “Ms. Cooper?” David looked at her and waited. She seemed fidgety at first, reluctant to comply yet unwilling to refuse. She reached into the small purse and removed a similar folder. David felt the blood drain from his face. It was one thing to have the FBI sitting on your couch, a big thing, but to have the CIA in your living room smacked too much of the Cold-War spy movies that Hollywood had been so fond of producing in the seventies.

  “Unreal!” David said with a nervous chortle. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  Stephanie smiled sweetly. “I’m not joking. The identification is real, and so am I.”

  “But the CIA!” David struggled to believe what his eyes were telling him. “What … I mean who … that is, how …” He took a deep breath. “Let’s start from the beginning. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here and how it is you think I can help you.”

  “Fair enough,” Woody replied lightly. “We’ve been working on a case that has at its heart our nation’s interest and our nation’s security. I know that sounds a little hackneyed, but it’s true. What I’m about to tell you should remain confidential. Since you are a former minister, I feel that you understand the importance of things spoken in confidence. Is that true?”

  “I’ve kept my share of secrets,” David acknowledged, wondering how they knew he was a minister.

  “I take it, then, that we can count on your understanding and confidence.”

  David made no commitment and said, “I’ll keep your confidence unless I feel that to do so violates my conscience.”

  “Let me cut to the quick of the matter. Someone has been electronically breaking into a certain computer system in the CIA and taking classified material. Their approach is efficient and effectively elusive. We haven’t been able to catch them in the act or get a fix on the perpetrator, but we have been able to narrow our suspicions to one primary suspect.”

>   David began shaking his head. “I know only the basics of computers. I can use a word processor, make my way around a decent database, but that’s where it ends.”

  “We don’t suspect you,” Stephanie said. “We suspect someone you know.”

  “Who?” David asked pointedly. “I don’t know anyone who could do such a thing.”

  “Very few criminals,” Woody said, “especially criminals involved in technical crimes, tell their acquaintances what they’ve been up to. You definitely know him, and know him well.” Woody paused to judge David’s response, but David sat still, his eyes fixed on the FBI man. “You recently went to work for Barringston Relief, is that correct?”

  “It is, as you know,” David replied cautiously.

  “Barringston Relief is a large organization, and one that makes extensive use of technology.” David immediately thought of the research labs and the advanced satellite communications. “We know that some of the top computer systems people in the country work for Barringston Relief, including Eileen Corbin and Raymond Reynolds. Are you aware of these people?”

  “If by aware you mean have I met them, the answer is yes,” David commented evenly. “I met Mr. Reynolds when I first went to work. He set up the computer in my office and gave me a brief introduction to the network. I met Eileen Corbin at a fund-raising dinner. That’s all I know. I’ve never spent any time with them or had any discussion with them. In fact, I’ve never been in their offices.”

  “That’s fine,” Woody said, picking up his coffee mug and sipping the dark liquid. “We didn’t think you had. To be perfectly honest, we’re more interested in Mr. Barringston himself.”

  “A.J.?”

  “Yes, A.J.”

  David furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. Why would they be interested in A.J.? “Let me get this right,” David said, raising his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He spoke in measured tones. “You think that A.J. Barringston is somehow connected with the computer piracy of CIA files. Is that what you’re implying?”