She stood stiffly. Ivy rarely became angry. She could argue heatedly, but real anger was something else. When it hit, it was immediate, white-hot and impossible to control. The agent was pushing her too far.
“I have stuck my neck out sharing as much as I have. No way can I go back to the banks and ask for more data. It would create all sorts of concerns. You must realize that.”
“Then I’ll go for another court order and we’ll come back.”
“You do that.”
Ivy glared at him, marched over and stood next to Steve where he sat at the head of the meeting table. “I may not be some high-powered FBI attorney, Agent Nielsen, however I do not believe any judge can or will force a service organization like this one to ask a client to supply more data.”
It was then that Steve broke into a big grin, turning his severe face into that of an impudent boy. “Got you!” he said, breaking out in laughter.
Right then Ivy was too tired and too fired up to be the butt of a joke. She turned on her heel and marched out of the room. She stomped down the hall, took the elevator to ground level and went out the front door, seeking fresh air to get her temper to settle back down. That big agent was totally exasperating. She marched down the street and around the block, annoyed at herself for having lost her cool, irritated with Steve for embarrassing her in front of the other agents and particularly aggravated that he had gotten the better of her. She kept moving for a few blocks, stopped, breathed in and out about twenty times to bring herself back together, turned and walked back. Once on her floor, she saw the damned big agent in the reception area to her offices. Ivy gritted her teeth and lectured herself to keep calm. She was 62 and this man had her acting like a crazy person. He waited until she walked up, looked at her contritely and held the door open to their office suite.
“Bad timing on my part,” he said quietly by way of apology.
She nodded stiffly, knowing she should laugh it off but she wasn’t quite back in command of herself. He walked closely behind her to her office, watched her go to her desk, and then turned back to the meeting room.
Two hours later, the three agents filed in to Ivy’s office as she finished a conference call. She forced a smile, doing her best to appear like her usual self. Steve hovered near the doorway.
Brian said quietly. “We left our working models on your server. Please have them archived along with the data.”
Moll joined in, “And we checked each other’s laptops to be sure we didn’t have any copies or residual files. Be seeing you. Uh, you’ve been great, helping us. Thank Terry for me – he’s like my brain-twinner.”
Brian smiled his sweet smile. “Thank you. Ivy, you’re the best.”
“Glad to be of help. Call me if either of you are back in Portland. Should you need anything more, you have my business card.”
The two agents filed out. Steve walked into her office to stand staring out the window. He turned to face her. “Mt. Hood is unbelievable, isn’t it? Almost like a fantasy mountain.”
“Even to those of us who see the mountain every day, well every day she is out, the view provides inspiration.”
“She?”
“Yes, that is the way us locals refer to the Mountain. Not sure why. Perhaps because she is so graceful. Or perhaps because somewhere underneath that beauty lies a powerful earth force that could erupt without warning, the way Mt. St. Helens did.”
“Reminds me of someone I recently met – elegantly attractive but potentially volatile.”
“I assume you mean me. Well, I’ll take part of it as a compliment,” Ivy said with a smile, back in command of her temper.
Steve walked closer to her. “Thank you, Ms. Littleton. Your cooperation has given us a place to start digging, which is far more than we had before. It also has given us some indicators on how large this operation might be.”
Despite her annoyance with him, Ivy could not help asking, “How do you know that? Apply experience?”
“Guesses. Never handled a matter quite like this one. Just in case I need to follow-up on something in a hurry, could I have your home phone and personal cell?”
“Seems like I am always working or checking my work cell,” she said grudgingly. “Oh well, you probably can find them out anyway.”
She pulled out another business card and wrote down the two numbers, then added her personal email. “Let me know how the case turns out.”
Surprised by her request, Steve nodded and moved towards the door, then stopped and turned back.
“Goodbye Ivy. You really are the best,” he said softly.
Chapter 3
While he waited for takeoff on the FBI plane, nicknamed the “Bubird” at the Bureau that Friday afternoon, Steve realized it was his birthday -- October 5th, 1952. He turned 60 that day almost without realizing it. They were heading to New York to drop off Brian and Moll who worked out of that office, and then he would take the short hop down to D.C. where he was based. Using the Bubird allowed them to work in privacy and reduced their travel time. The complex cases they handled meant that dedication and long hours were critical to their success, and they were always successful, no matter how long it took. He smiled a bit dourly to himself at their failure in Manzanillo, yet he was proud of their overall record. They would apprehend that evasive drug lord who eluded them in Mexico and they sure as hell were going to nail this child trafficking perp.
Putting his laptop aside, Steve leaned his head back and thought about the importance of this milestone birthday. Sixty years of his life were now behind him, along with most of his career. He wondered how long he could hold on with the Bureau. For sure as long as the Chief stayed, although the President was overdue on appointing a replacement. The Chief, Robert Mueller (or Mule as Steve sometimes called him), had been appointed by George W. Bush and had stayed on under President Obama. Sooner or later when that changed, Steve would likely be forced to retire. Every year their Human Resources folks reviewed agents over 57, the mandatory retirement age for those in field work. Every year the Chief stepped in and extended him. While the FBI had been his home for Steve’s adult life, age was catching up with him. Without the Bureau, how would he spend the next 10, 20, or even 30 years?
When his career was over, Steve worried that he would be empty, bereft and alone, with nothing to occupy his days, challenge his mind or get his adrenaline running. Without the Bureau, how would his life have value? For the last few years, he had been searching for more inside himself, trying to find additional facets of his personality and character. To enrich his mind, search for his heart and reach out towards his soul, he had read the classics and more contemporary literature. He pondered the precepts of Confucius and Buddha. Still he wondered, how does a man find his heart, much less his soul?
His mind drifted back to his boyhood when each day seemed to glisten with promise. He saw himself with his Dad early on a Saturday morning fishing in a nearby stream. They never caught much other than some sunnies. Being out there together was the important part. His Dad, tall with thinning blonde hair, had been a serious man, somewhat strict, yet always supportive. When he spoke, he carried a lilting Norwegian accent. A small-town lawyer by trade, his Dad inspired confidence and dedicated himself to making things right for people. One day Steve wanted to learn more about the Norwegian life philosophy that formed his parents' thinking and contributed to his own.
Steve thought about a quote he had seen recently, "In the end these things matter most: How well did you love? How fully did you live? How deeply did you learn to let go?" He knew he lacked good responses to those questions of the heart. Inside he had a great emptiness. While he believed he could find the depth to answer each question within himself, his life thus far had been emotionally shallow and not overly broad. He assumed he was capable of deep feelings, even though he had never fully tested that belief, making him keenly aware of his narrowness as a man. What happened to that boy out catching sunnies with his Dad, back when life seemed as dazzling as the sun spa
rkling on the currents in the stream? He closed his eyes and pictured the stream as it wove through farmland and into the woods where dappled light played on the rippling water and the time-rounded stones. He could still remember the fresh morning breeze ruffling his shirt and the scent of newly mown timothy in the nearby field with its sweet, yet pungent tang.
Reluctantly he picked up his laptop, postponing once again dwelling on his solitary personal life, thus deferring a confrontation with his inner barrenness. For now his focus had to be on the child trafficking case. He preferred to pursue one active case at a time and go after it with single-minded intensity, even though he was skilled at juggling multiple cases. For the next few weeks this critical humanitarian case would be their primary focus. He had started some agents in the D. C. office examining email traffic in and out of Sofia, as well as pursuing more information about the company identified in the bank transfers. They would work through the weekend, updating him on progress a couple of times each day.
Although Moll was looking exhausted from his night at the office, he was busily checking emails. He glanced up from his laptop. "Say Chief, how did you get into technology? I mean it’s like unusual for someone your age."
Steve raised an eyebrow at him. Things were so different for Moll's generation and all the ones after him, where technology wove itself into their day-to-day activities. "My Dad enrolled me in a special summer program sponsored by IBM. When I was eight years old, I developed my first computer program, which was some rudimentary batch job written in an early version of FORTRAN."
"That would be like the early ‘60s, right? Man, how did you do that? Did they even have dumb terminals back then?”
Steve laughed and shook his head. "No, Stanford, I had to make my own punched cards on this clunky machine with a keyboard and no screen, stack them up in order and physically run them through an IBM 704. Crude, huh? The program performed calculations and produced a result on a printed report. Sounds like no big deal today, but back then it was considered miraculous." His parents were so proud of their young son that they framed that report and put it on the wall in their den. He still had it stored away as a memory of how his parents supported him. Sadly they were long gone, dying about ten years ago within a year of each other.
"What was next?" asked Moll, clearly intrigued by this bit of living history.
"My Dad was always seeking special educational programs for me because he was convinced I was a computer whiz."
"Wow, you were like the original techno kid."
Steve said, "More like the Geek of the Week."
Moll chuckled at the remark, closed his laptop, cranked his seat back and closed his eyes, drifting off into a much needed sleep. He was a Californian with his undergrad degree in mathematical theory from Stanford who carried a big student loan burden that he was still working to pay off. He was the creative thinker on Steve’s team. He brought lightness to their cases with his outlandish ideas and talented ability to mimic others, yet he was perceptive, logical and dedicated. When Moll first worked for Steve, he had been disorganized and looked like he lived a ramshackle life, judging by his wrinkled shirts and rumpled suits, but after Steve gave a morning lecture on how neatness and organization contributed to solving cases and to leaving a good impression on the public, Moll changed both his work habits and his appearance, although he lost none of his originality.
Steve glanced over at London, aka Brian, documenting their findings in Portland in that painstaking way he had. He was the analytical talent. His research and investigative work were always meticulous. Like Mathew and Moll, his law degree was from Harvard. Before that he had spent a year at the London School of Economics -- hence his nickname. He was the scholarship fellow, having made his way through by hard work and determination, as well as by his likeable, upbeat personality.
Mathew, now making his way back to D.C. from Mexico, was the strongest performer of the three senior agents, although each one was intelligent and talented. Mathew had brought the other two agents with him on the first case he was on with Steve. Even though Steve knew that Mathew was independently wealthy, he appeared only to live on what he made as an agent. He could be persnickety, but never snobbish. Over the years, Steve had worked the most with him and Mathew had become like a son to him.
In combination, they were the three best agents Steve had on his teams at the FBI and he always went out of his way to work with the best agents he could. Even though he was at the senior executive level, he functioned as a field agent and he attributed his success to the quality of his team members. He had worked with agents from all different backgrounds and out of universities and colleges across the United States. All he cared about were their abilities, their commitment to the Bureau and the way they worked on a team.
Steve pulled his mind back to the child trafficking case. He wanted to bring the case to conclusion rapidly and stop this perverse ring of kidnapping and abuse. The tragic reality of children sold into sexual slavery affected him more deeply than any other case had. Getting the court order to obtain data from Ivy’s company had been a chance initiative -- one that had paid off big time. Some companies would have stonewalled them, filed a brief disputing the FBI’s right to access data in their custody or at least demanding more time. It said a good deal about her company that they were prepared to act quickly and do the right thing. More than that, it said a whole lot about Ivy Littleton.
He was wrong to have baited her that morning, but she was so damn attractive when she was riled. Still in all, it was typical of him that he had little idea of how to build a relationship with a woman. Casual sex he could handle, but how to actually relate was something else. Ivy was a woman to remember. She had the nerve to stand up to him and yet she would bend to a logical argument. She struck him as a woman of deep passions, a strong sense of justice and loyal commitments. She was fast on the uptake, intelligent and highly conversant technically. Her attraction was more than her lovely looks – her good qualities shone through her whole being. He thought about her hair which was so full of life, streaked with silver and soft-looking despite its springy buoyancy. When he saw it twining around her shoulders the day before, he wanted to bury his face in it.
She was feisty or at least he brought out that quality in her. Even though her mercurial reactions worried him, he needed a woman who would challenge him. Ivy was a captivating combination of logic, charm and courage. He had known a number of career women during his lifetime, but they had lost much of the freshness and femininity that he saw this week in Ivy. She had a certain intense verve about her that even years of working had not dulled.
He would check in with her next week to be sure the data and files were securely in the hands of their corporate counsel. That could mark the end of their FBI business relationship. During that call, he would try to assess whether she thought he was the greatest jerk around or if he might stand a chance with her. While she was on a different coast and he was on the road most of the time, Ivy sparked his interest.
***
Mathew was glad to be the first one in the D.C. office on Sunday morning. He figured Steve was doing his usual weekend morning routine -- work out and swim, an hour at the firing range and then a long walk around the city. That would put him in around 11. The rest of the team had worked late the night before and he figured they would regroup around noon.
He needed time alone to think. He had taken a run at dawn because his thoughts had been jumping all over the place. Now he felt calmer. His condo that morning seemed like one more sterile place where he dropped his luggage. Here at the office, he felt more at home. The J. Edgar Hoover Building had its own sounds, noticeable now when it was quiet, like birds that settling into shrubs with little rustles and creaks here and there. He found it soothing.
Here he was almost forty and still single. Like Steve, he traveled and worked long hours – six or seven days a week. Would he ever find the time to share his life with a special someone? Was he doomed to muddle along, occasi
onally venturing out, then retreating feeling disappointed, mismatched, or even downright unadventurous? How many years would he continue to ask himself these questions before he gave up? He pulled his thoughts back -- never would he give up his search for his true life-partner, whoever she may be. Yet how could he find her with the work schedule he had? He was at an age when he needed to infuse his search with a sense of urgency.
Sitting alone there in his office, Mathew decided to think back over his more serious relationships and see if there were any common reasons why they failed. True to his nature, he would take an analytical approach. He pulled a pad of paper out of his briefcase and wrote the names of the women he had dated down the side of the page, planning to list the reasons the relationship had not worked out by each one. Even before he got started, failure bounced off the page at him.
He pushed back in his chair, thinking about how to make the exercise feel more productive. Instead of listing why the relationships ended, he would examine how each relationship might have succeeded and then decide if he would want to be that person. The list of women was depressingly short and not because the relationships had been very long ones. Six in all. He had dated and or gone to bed with other women, but those liaisons were casual. Even that list wouldn’t have made the total more than 20. He realized that was not even two a year, for chrissakes. His life as a federal agent was full of work, not sex. On the other hand, a revolving door to bed was not what he wanted. He wanted love, a warm home and a connected family – three things his own boyhood lacked.
Mathew considered and discarded several quotes he remembered from his Latin studies to describe his situation until he settled on Virgil’s simple Fugit Irreparabile Tempus, Time is Irretrievably Flying. That was it exactly. He had to change his life before he wound up like Steve, alone at 60 with nothing except his life as an agent. Mathew started with the latest relationship first, listing down what would have been required to make it work, then he went on to the second. At the end, he reviewed the list and felt some of the home truths it represented. Then he enumerated the top five changes he needed to make in his life and in himself. He needed more personal time. He had to open up his feelings. He had to learn how to be joyful and to spread that joy. He had to define a life with space for a mate where they had common interests, goals and understandings. Perhaps most importantly, he needed to look forward to a warm future and not backward to his cold childhood. On the surface, those changes sounded easy, but he knew himself well enough to understand they would be a struggle.
Old Growth & Ivy (The Spook Hills Trilogy Book 1) Page 4
