by Cliff Ryder
Playing her hunch, she brought up the last picture of al-Kharzi, a grainy airport shot taken about four years earlier, and tasked her computer to search for any matches to anyone entering the country within the past thirty days who resembled the photo. Even attached to the DHS mainframe, this would take hours to compile, so she tackled other paperwork while waiting for the scan to finish. With literally millions of faces to review and compare using the biometrics face-scanning software, she could be waiting for the rest of the day—if she was lucky.
With noon approaching, and no matches in sight, she stretched her arms above her head and contemplated taking her lunch break when her computer suddenly chimed. She leaned forward to see the notice.
“Biometric match on subject—sixty-six percent.”
She compared the data from the new picture—taken with a hidden camera at an unmanned border crossing near North Dakota three days ago. That familiar thrill of discovery fluttered in her stomach. Could this be him?
She studied the two photos side by side, magnifying them as much as she could without sending them over to the lab for refinement. It looks like him, but these damn camera angles make it so hard to see, she thought. If he was alive, he had certainly kept a low profile, since his name hadn’t come up on any recent watch lists. But how hard would they be looking for a dead man? Still, a man who resembled a suspected target was crossing the border illegally, and the program, which was twitchy on the best of days, had still managed a sixty-plus percentage of accuracy.
The call was hers to make, and she did, preparing an e-mail to the department heads at intelligence and analysis, the Domestic Nuclear Detection Office, U.S. Customs and Border Protection, the Transportation Security Administration, the Border Patrol office in El Paso and, as an afterthought, her immediate superior. She outlined the possibility that a known terrorist had not been killed in the Texas warehouse explosion, and had instead entered the United States approximately ninety-six hours ago, and may be intending to carry out an attack on infrastructure, possibly involving nuclear material. All DHS personnel should be on the lookout for Sepehr al-Kharzi or any of his known associates.
When she got to that point, however, Tracy brought herself up short. She had just put forth all of the evidence she had, and had based it on what? Two grainy photographs and a Border Patrol agent who’d gotten hold of an e-mail from a supposedly dead man. Was she about to cause an alert across all of the departments over these few scraps?
The issue with Gilliam was one matter, but was she willing to risk her career over a cobbled-together analysis based on incomplete data? Of course, the suspect had been in the U.S. for more than ninety-six hours, and if he was planning something, that was more than enough time to get started….
Although relatively young in the analysis field at thirty-one, Tracy had learned the first lesson of intelligence gathering—cover your ass. If she was going to buck the boss on this, she had damn well better have a good excuse for going over his head, and the window of entrance into the U.S. was it. If it was nothing, she could simply claim that his being here for so long undetected was cause for concern.
Her index finger poised over the enter key, Tracy weighed the consequences of sending the message, then stabbed down. “Screw it,” she muttered.
She stood up and nodded at Mark’s back. “I’m going to grab some lunch. If you hear a scream from Gilliam’s office, that’s probably my fault.”
“Tracy, what did you do?” Mark asked, but she was already on her way to the drafty cafeteria.
WHEN SHE RETURNED FROM lunch, Mark looked even more worried than usual. “Gilliam wants to see you now. ”
“Of course he does.” Tracy checked her makeup and made sure there were no crumbs on her suit jacket. She was sure he knew she was back at her desk. If she was going to be chewed out, she might as well make him as upset as possible. Who knew—maybe he’d do something that would be grounds for a lawsuit. “Mark, I may not be long for the department. If I’m escorted out, it’s been great working with you,” she said.
“Aw, Trace, you didn’t go and get yourself fired, did you?” Mark shook his head. “If you land a cushy private-sector job, remember your friends, ’kay?”
“If my fiancé had anything to say about it, I’d already be gone.” Her phone rang, and Tracy knew who was on the other end. She straightened up, ignoring the flashing light and insistent tone. “Here goes everything.”
She walked to her superior’s office and knocked.
“Come in.”
Feeling like a condemned prisoner about to face her own judge, jury and executioner, Tracy opened the door and strode in, planting herself squarely in front of Gilliam’s desk. “I received a message that you wished to see me, sir.”
Other bosses she had worked for got redder as they got angrier, but the more furious Gilliam was, the paler he turned. Judging by the pallor of his chubby face, Tracy figured he must have been about to explode. But when he spoke, his voice was calm, with only a hint of underlying tremor. “Do you like working at the Department of Homeland Security, Ms. Wentworth?”
In for a pound, in for a ton, she thought. “Sometimes,” she said slowly.
“Explain your answer.”
“I do not appreciate being deceived, sir,” she said.
His brow furrowed. “What are you referring to?”
Tracy kept her voice level with an effort. “Yesterday you claimed that my analysis wasn’t at a threat level sufficient enough to move forward with, yet this morning’s Post splashed it all over the front page. In this line of work, there’s no such thing as coincidence, sir. ”
“What, that? I got a request from the Health Affairs Department yesterday afternoon requesting information, then the public-affairs office sent some follow-up questions from the reporter on an article they were already doing.
You know how fast things move around here sometimes.”
His words sounded plausible, and yet Tracy knew enough about the man to know that he wasn’t telling the whole truth. “Why didn’t you have them contact me directly? I could have provided more depth to the analysis.”
“After reading your summary, there was no need. Really, Tracy, I cannot believe that you would let that cloud your judgment so much that you would send this—” he tossed a sheaf of papers that she recognized as her analysis of al-Kharzi’s movements “—around me to the major departments.”
“It wasn’t that at all, sir.” Tracy prided herself on how rational she sounded. “After I got the hit, and realizing that this terrorist had already been in the United States for more than ninety-six hours—”
Gilliam’s hand slammed down on his desk, making her jump. In her two years there, he had never shown that much emotion. “Ms. Wentworth, no matter what you think may be the proper course of action, I remind you that the only channel you are to follow in your analysis and reports is directly to me. I will determine what is to be followed up on and what isn’t. There is much more going on here— much more at stake—than you could possibly know.”
What, like your next raise? Maybe even your job? she thought. “Regardless, sir, I thought it appropriate to warn the pertinent departments as soon as possible, before more time elapsed and the subject would be able to launch whatever operation he has planned.” Now just try to sit there and tell me it wasn’t justified.
“Ms. Wentworth, that would have been fine, except that Sepehr al-Kharzi has been dead for the past nine months.”
“With all due respect, sir, the biometrics scan on the suspect entering illegally from Canada—”
“Is notoriously unreliable, and only came up with a sixty-six percent chance of a match—hardly what I could call a definite hit. Also, your corroborating evidence is a simple e-mail message from three months ago, from one of this deceased terrorist’s aliases?” Gilliam said.
“Along with a list of materials for constructing a nuclear weapon or dirty bomb, including plutonium—”
Gilliam held up his finger an
d Tracy fell silent. “And on that basis, and your—what would I call it? intuition, I suppose—you felt justified to alert our other departments, diverting them from other, more critical operations? Ms.
Wentworth, I’ve just spent the past hour recalling your so-called report from those departments. I told them it was a preliminary study only, and not meant to be disseminated at this time. I also told the other departments that in your exuberance, you had mistakenly sent the report before it was in final form. This is not the competency level I have come to expect from you, which is why it led me to believe this had to do with a more personal disagreement. Now that you’ve made the reason for this insubordination plain, I have a hard time believing that we’re even having this conversation in the first place.”
“If I overstepped my bounds, then I apologize.” Tracy bit off each word, staring at the wall behind him, not wanting to give this detestable man the satisfaction of seeing her anger. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“You’d better believe there is. I’ve shunted the kook file to your desktop alone. I want you to evaluate and forward every single threat that we’ve received before you go home tonight. Is that clear?”
“As crystal, sir.” Tracy turned on her heel and left the office, only exhaling once she was outside with the door closed behind her. She shook her head and trudged back to her desk where, as promised, her in-box was overflow-ing with what agents referred to internally as “the kook file.” Every immediately nonverifiable threat made against the U.S., the President, the government or any other landmark or public place was kept in the kook file until it could be assessed. Every threat was investigated, and either appended and filed or forwarded to the appropriate department for follow-up. Once the chuckles stopped from reading the fiftieth misspelled diatribe against the government, it turned into the monotonous, grueling work that it really was.
With a sigh, Tracy opened the first one and got to work, knowing she would have to call Paul and let him know she would be late—again.
Nate opened his eyes to the blaring alarm clock, its insistent buzz reverberating through his hungover brain. Reaching out a long arm, he smacked around the nightstand until he hit the snooze button, knocking over an empty Jack Daniel’s bottle in the process. The sudden silence, broken only by the rattle and hum of his window air conditioner, was almost as loud.
Raising himself up on his elbows, Nate rubbed the sleep out of his face, then looked twice as he noticed the sleeping woman lying next to him. He tried to remember where he had met her or, for that matter, what her name was, but came up blank on both accounts. His recollection of the previous night was a blur of whiskey and beer, beer and whiskey. And apparently he had brought home more than just a raging blackout yesterday evening. Holy shit, just how much did I have?
Slipping out of bed with an ease born of years of practice, Nate was unsurprised to find himself naked.
Besides his pounding head, his teeth felt furry. He padded to the bathroom, closed the door and leaned over the sink until the dizziness passed. Splashing cold water on his face, he squeezed the last of the toothpaste out of a rolled-up tube into his mouth, but couldn’t find his toothbrush, and settled for running a wet finger across his teeth.
Spitting, he rinsed with mouthwash next, the sting opening his eyes wide.
A knock at the front door made his tired eyes open even wider. Who the hell can that be? he wondered. He crept out of the bathroom, crossed the bedroom and walked through the living room into the kitchen. Snagging his jeans from the floor and his shirt from where it had ended up on the table, he cracked open the apartment door.
“Jesus, Nate, you look like warmed-up shit.”
“Good morning to you, too, Beth.”
“At least you know what time it is,” she said sarcastically.
His ex-wife stood with her arms crossed, her foot tapping and her black eyes flashing. Her dark Cherokee features glowered at him, but to Nate she looked just as beautiful as the day they had met. “I kept getting your voice mail, so I thought I’d stop by. Are you going to let me in?”
Nate glanced over his shoulder at the disheveled apartment. “You see how bad I look? Well, the apartment looks worse.”
“Why am I not surprised? You drink yourself out of a job yet? That’s supposed to come from my side of the family, you know.”
“They’re still keepin’ me on for now. Speaking of, I should be gettin’ on back there, so what can I do for you?”
She held up a printed form. “The alimony is screwed up again. I need another hundred.”
“Sure, sure, just a minute.” Closing the door, he rooted around on the table until he found his checkbook.
“Baby? Who’s there?”
His head snapped up, and the checkbook flew from his suddenly fumbling fingers. He trotted back to the bedroom, where the sleepy-eyed blonde’s head was poking out of the sheets. “Someone at the door?”
“Yeah, just a deliveryman. He’ll be gone in a moment.
Stay here for a bit, okay? You can grab a shower if you want.”
“Hmm.” She disappeared under the sheets, just as Beth banged on the door again.
“How do I get myself into this shit?” Nate muttered as he ran back to the table, his bare feet skidding on the dusty linoleum. He scribbled out a check for $150, leaving him twenty-seven until his next payday. Jesus, I hope I didn’t drink the rest away last night. Going to the door, he opened it again.
“Is someone in there with you?” Beth asked.
“Just me and the TV.” He handed her the check.
Beth’s eyes narrowed, and for a second Nate thought he was busted, as she had a pretty good bullshit detector. She took the slip of paper, and her face softened. “You eaten anything solid in the past few days?”
“Yeah, I do all right. I’m still seeing Bobby this weekend, right?”
“If you’re not called in, yes.” Beth’s eyes clouded even more. “He sure misses you.”
“Yeah, I miss him, too. Tell him we’re going fishing Saturday, so make sure he has his gear.”
“All right.” She stepped in close and kissed his stubbled cheek. “Try not to get yourself killed between now and then, all right?” she asked.
The corner of his mouth crooked up at their private joke, which had started when they were newlyweds, and had grown progressively less humorous over the years.
“You doin’ all right?”
“I get by. Take care of yourself now.” She strode down the apartment hallway, her hips swaying as she went. Nate shook his head as he watched the best thing that had ever happened to him walk away again.
As he closed the door, he heard the shower going, and trotted back to the bedroom, looking for clues. He picked up the woman’s purse and expertly rifled through it until he found her identification, replacing it as the water shut off. Nate started to clean up the bedroom, but realized he didn’t know where he’d begin, and settled for lighting a cheroot and waiting for her to come back in. A few minutes later, she came out, dressed and drying her hair with a towel.
“You, uh, want to get something to eat?” Nate shifted on the bed, never comfortable with this part of the dance.
His one-night stand looked older in the afternoon light, he mused—with crow’s feet and laugh lines that had been artfully disguised the previous evening. Maybe five years younger than his own forty-four years, she was thicker in the hips and legs than he’d remembered, too. But she wasn’t embarrassed, just gave him a weary smile.
“Shoot, honey, I got just enough time to get back home and cleaned up before I go back to work.”
Jesus, did I pick up a waitress? Nate wasn’t sure to whether to laugh or blush. “Well, it was quite an evening, Sharon.”
“Oh, you remember? I’m flattered, Nate. Make that impressed, after everything you put away last night.”
“Um, yeah, well, yesterday wasn’t the best of days for me, at least till I met you.”
“That’s what got me here, you
silver-tongued devil. I gotta run.” She walked over and patted him on the cheek.
“If you ever get shot, have them bring you to Providence Memorial—I work the night shift there.”
Ah, a nurse, he realized. “I’ll keep that in mind, but why do you think I’ll be shot?”
“You’re Border Patrol—at least, that was what you said last night—so it’ll probably only be a matter of time. I’ll let myself out. See you around, Nate.”
When she was gone, he locked up and took a shower, then got dressed again and grabbed some water bottles and a bag of beef jerky and headed out to his Bronco. Getting in, he headed south out of town, keeping an ear on his scanner for border chatter.
He stopped about two miles from his destination. Pulling a pair of binoculars from the backseat, he walked out into the scrub and found a good vantage point on a small rise. Making sure the setting sun wasn’t reflecting off his field glasses, he raised them and scanned the area to the south, looking over the cordoned-off crime scene where the Mexicans and the border agents had been killed. He watched Billy Travis strutting around as if he owned the place, barking out orders.
After watching the scene for a few minutes, he panned right and left, searching the horizon for anything out of the ordinary, but he was too far away. I can either cool my heels in the desert, or I can go piss Travis off some more, he thought. That was no choice at all. He walked back to his Bronco and drove over to the crime site, pulling up near the crime-lab van. Grabbing a cold bottle of water from his cooler, he walked up behind the van, keeping out of sight of Travis for the moment. “You look thirsty, Kottke,” he said.
