by J. B. Turner
Whilst other Delta guys drank like maniacs when off duty, Magruder, who wasn’t married and lived alone in a trailer, had been content to nurse a bottle of beer for hours and then retire quietly for the night.
He didn’t talk about sex at all and seemed embarrassed as Delta watched porn, drank beer and talked about women.
Then, in the mid-1990s, a succession of violent rapes occurred in Raleigh, including at North Carolina State University, by what police thought was a lone stranger. The hooded man had climbed into their windows, dressed in black, and at knifepoint raped the women.
Police arrested Chad Magruder who was reported to have been deferential to the detectives when he was charged with three counts of rape. He was convicted and most people, including Reznick, who’d read about the case in the newspapers, had thought the key would have been thrown away.
The truly terrifying thing was no one ever thought Magruder was mad. A bit quiet, obsessive sure, but one of them.
“Why are we heading in this direction?”
“Never you mind. Look, I don’t want to hear any more from you. I’m having a really bad day.”
“Please, can’t you just drop me off and let me go?”
“Knock it off and we’ll get on a whole lot better.”
Reznick let out a long yawn and popped two more Dexedrine, washed them down with a can of Coke. He began to feel more switched on. Alert.
Up ahead a sign for Weston. With six miles to go, Reznick’s thoughts again turned to Lauren.
Where the hell was his girl? Who the hell had her?
He thought back to when she was a baby, cradling her in his arms at the hospital. The smile on her tiny, pink face as she stared up at him: her protector, her father. The way Elisabeth had held her in her arms, then broke down and pulled Reznick towards them both; a family.
Reznick felt a rising anger within him. He thought of Magruder again and what his role was.
Up ahead, the turn-off sign for Weston. He headed into the town, past silent lakes, surrounded by million dollar homes.
The satnav guided him down a dark and near-deserted street towards a huge house overlooking the lake, partially hidden behind a trim hedge. Blinds drawn. The number 2387 on the gate, a metallic silver Mercedes convertible in the drive. But no sign of the black SUV caught on cameras outside the Monterey Club.
He stopped outside for a few moments.
A police patrol car came into sight at the far end of the lake.
Reznick drove on as the police passed in the opposite direction. Neither of the two officers glanced out of their window. He drove on for another half mile before he turned around and headed back towards the house.
He pulled up behind a BMW, about a hundred yards away from the house, but with line of sight to the front door and asphalt driveway. Then he switched off the engine and lights, before letting out a long sigh.
“Why are we stopping here?” Luntz said.
Reznick turned and sprayed the sleeping spray into Luntz’s ear for a second. A moment later, Luntz’s eyes rolled back in his head.
He was out cold, leaving Reznick to focus on the Magruder house.
SEVEN
Fifteen miles southwest of Baltimore, Thomas Wesley was driving past block after block of soulless glass and steel towers in a sprawling business park. His nighttime drives were becoming a routine, killing time until he returned to his job as a night shelf-stacker at Walmart. He yawned and checked the luminous orange clock on his dashboard that showed 3.47am, thirteen minutes until he was due back. It had only been three months since he’d taken the minimum wage job. But already the mind-numbing hellishness coupled with the small talk of his coworkers about reality TV shows he didn’t watch and fad diets of film stars he didn’t know, made him hanker for his old life.
Up ahead, the office sign of Xarasoft – his old employer – glowed bright yellow, only a few lights on in the foyer of the mirrored glass tower. A company he had given twenty-one years of his life to.
Wesley gazed across the parking lot at the other monolithic towers that populated the business park. Cameras scanning everywhere. Most of the companies were technology firms and were contracted – like Xarasoft – to the National Security Agency.
He had had a good life.
A voice analyst who worked for the NSA as a contractor. Six figure basic salary. Huge bonuses. Foreign holidays. The works. Now he couldn’t even pay his utility bills, he was so fucking broke and his wife had had to go back to work as a teacher.
His coworkers at Walmart had no idea what he used to do. They never asked. Even if they had he couldn’t have told them the truth about his top-secret work. They probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.
Wesley saw a light go on in the fourth floor of his old company. He wondered if they were communicating in real-time with the NSA, perhaps ingesting one or two intercepted bulletin boarding postings, instant messages, IP addresses or vital FLASH traffic that had been flagged up.
The more he thought of his old life the more depressed he felt.
His wife thought it was only the Prozac that was keeping him from being able to face the world. But there was something else which was keeping him going. The reason he wouldn’t give up trying to get people to listen to what he knew.
A conversation he had begun to piece together from fragments of near-nigh-impossible-to-intercept scraps of information.
He listened to the voices. He played voice comparison technology and listened over and over again in the small booth in his home study, headphones on, stripping down to the core voices. He wasn’t sleeping during the day. His wife worried about him. But she didn’t know what he knew.
Two days ago he had uncovered a smooth and terrifying narrative amongst the disembodied voices.
The problem was no one was listening.
Wesley took out his Blackberry and set about composing the latest encrypted email to his friend, Lance Drake, a Republican Congressman on the House Intelligence Committee. He stared at the email on the screen for a few moments before he sent the message. He put away his Smartphone and closed his eyes, thinking of his fiftieth birthday party only a year earlier, when the Congressman and other close friends attended a barbecue in his back yard. But now those same people he thought were his friends, people he had a beer with on a Saturday night, guys who he went bowling with once a month, didn’t return his calls or go out for drinks.
His cell phone rang and Wesley almost jumped out of his skin.
“Thomas, what the hell are you playing at?” It was Drake, his old Yale drinking buddy.
Wesley cleared his throat. “Lance, appreciate the call back.”
“Do you know what time it is?” His voice was an angry whisper.
“Yes, I know what time it is. Did I wake you?”
“The buzzing of my fucking Blackberry on my bedside table woke me up.”
“Lance, why haven’t you answered my emails?”
“Why haven’t I answered your emails?” The tone was heavily sarcastic. “Do you want me to level with you?”
Wesley said nothing.
“You’ve sent me precisely seven emails – all virtually identical – in the last forty-eight hours alone. And not to put to fine a point on it, I’m starting to question your state of mind.”
“My state of mind, huh?” Wesley felt a knot of tension in his stomach. “There’s nothing wrong with my state of mind.”
“Thomas, they say you had two psychological evaluations before you were sacked and that you show certain personality traits.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Lance let out a long sigh. “Thomas, look, I know how smart you are. But the fact of the matter is you screwed up before. You made the wrong call.”
“It’s that what they told you? That’s bullshit.”
“They say you were flat out wrong.”
“They’re lying.”
“Listen, I’ve not got time for this, Thomas.”
“OK, let’s focus on the he
re and now. Forget about that. What I’m about to tell you is something that sounds a bit far-out there, I understand that.”
“Thomas, please, it’s late.”
“Just bear with me. I’ve been busy working on developing a new bit of software. It helps achieve tight bandwidth compression of the speech signals like you wouldn’t believe. Have you heard of MELP?”
Drake sighed. “No, I’ve not.”
“It’s enhanced Mixed Excitation Linear Prediction.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a speech voding standard used mainly in military applications and satellite communications, secure voice and secure radio devices. Vastly improves the previous quality. I’m talking primarily speech quality, intelligibility and noise immunity, whilst at the same time reducing throughput requirements.”
“Thomas, I don’t understand this technical stuff you’re throwing at me.”
“My technology is a major leap forward even from MELP. I began to piece something together before my security clearance was taken away. It’s not related to the reason they fired me. This is something bigger and far more troubling. Lance, all I ask is that you take heed of what I’m saying. I believe there is a very real threat to America.”
A long silence opened up for what seemed like an eternity.
“Did you hear what I said, Lance?”
“What did you say?”
“There is a very real threat. I can’t tell you the ins and outs on the phone.”
“Why haven’t I heard of this?”
“Good question. But that’s just half of it. There’s more I’ve discovered recently. I’ve been listening to the voice again. I think I’ve identified the person. You wanna know who it is?”
“In the name of God, Thomas. You don’t work for the NSA or Xarasoft anymore. Are you telling me you’ve taken secret recordings off site?”
“I’m not going to say. What I will say, Lance, is that if you just meet up with me and put me in front of that committee, then they can decide. I swear you have to listen to what I’ve got.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Look, why don’t you take what you’ve got to the NSA?”
“I have. I sent them the details anonymously, but I haven’t heard back. Nothing.”
Drake sighed again.
“Lance, I did over two hundred hours of speech data tests, and I know I’m correct. The cover audio I picked up was an innocuous pop song, but underneath was an encrypted conversation. I stripped away all that shit. But Lance, it’s not just the conversation I’ve decrypted. I believe a covert message has been embedded within the digital audio signal.”
“What?”
“I’m still working to decode that side of things. America needs to wake the fuck up.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. You were sacked for wrong analysis.”
“I told you that was lies. Do you really think I don’t know what I’m talking about, is that what it is?”
“I’ve spoken to people at the NSA and you know what they’re saying about you?”
Wesley closed his eyes, knowing what was to come.
“They’re using words like paranoid and deluded. Look, maybe it’s best if you don’t email me anymore.”
Wesley shook his head. “They’ve got to you, haven’t they? Someone has told you that this guy is nuts, and for your career, leave him alone. Is that what’s happening?”
“Thomas, I think we’re going round in circles. OK, let’s assume for a moment that what you’re saying is the truth.”
“It is!”
Lance sighed heavily.
“Look, I’d like to meet you at your office, and let you know everything.”
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
“Why?”
“There are procedures for doing things. The right way of doing things.”
“Lance, what’s more important? To do things the right way, or do the right thing?”
“Look, this is getting us nowhere.”
“So, what do you suggest I do with what I’ve got? No one is listening.”
“Thomas, we’re done. I’m sorry. Don’t bug me again with this.”
Then the line went dead.
EIGHT
The ranch-style house in Weston appeared algae green as Reznick peered through night vision glasses. He was slouched down low in the car, watching and waiting, with Luntz still out cold in the back seat.
His mind flashed back to the green tinged landscape of Fallujah at night.
Blinding lights. Screaming and pleading. The smell of the open sewers. The dust. The filth. The Black Hawks flying low, strafing the neighborhood. The green smeared vision through night sights as Task Force 121 scoured the warren of streets and alleys in the darkness, looking for insurgents.
He’d lost count of the number of kills. He’d become desensitized until he almost didn’t care. They’d trained him that way. It had become second nature. But somehow, he still managed to keep a small part of his soul intact. Even when his team had killed an insurgent, and cut off his blood-stained clothes to check for tattoos to help identify the person, Reznick always remembered what his dying father – haunted by memories of Vietnam – had once said when he said he was going to join the Marines. “Never be blasé about death. Don’t forget, every man you kill is somebody’s son.”
The words stayed with him. Echoed down the years. He always clung to that even as he felt his soul was turning black. Even when they were scanning the dead man’s iris and fingerprints with a portable biometric scanner. It was always somebody’s son.
The front door opened and Reznick snapped out of his thoughts. A woman in her thirties emerged wearing a smart jacket, dark slacks and kitten heels, speaking into her cell phone.
Reznick watched as she locked the door, turning the handle a couple of times. She climbed into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut. Then she reversed out of the driveway and drove off past the lake.
He had a split second decision to make. Follow or fold? Was Chad Magruder inside? He felt conflicted.
“Fuck,” he said, feeling himself grinding his teeth.
He hung back for a few moments until she was nearly out of sight. Then he started up the engine but kept his lights off. Time to see where she led him.
He pulled away slowly and waited for a couple of minutes before he switched on his lights. A few moments later he caught sight of her car further along the north side of the lake. He hung back as much as he could as he negotiated the quiet residential, palm-lined streets before they skirted downtown Weston. It was like a Mediterranean village, all pastel colors and low-rise buildings.
Then she took a right at some lights and drove down Racquet Club Road, past the Hyatt.
A few moments later, she pulled up outside a low-rise motel overlooking another lake.
Reznick drove on and took a left into a parking lot on West Mall Road. It had a clear line of sight over to the motel’s car park a couple of hundred yards away. He picked up his night vision glasses and peered into the darkness towards the deserted motel parking lot. The woman was sitting in her car, lights on, engine running, cell phone pressed to her ear, occasionally nodding her head.
The woman then ended the call, got out the car and walked into the reception of the motel.
Reznick edged the car around the corner and back on Racquet Club Road, then got himself into a position at the far end of the motel’s parking lot, shielded by an island of shrubs and palms. He switched off his engine and lights, slouched in his seat. Then he picked up the night vision glasses.
Did she work there? Maybe she was an innocent. But what if… what if his daughter was being held there? Was that too far-fetched? The thought triggered an adrenaline rush to his heart. His breathing quickened.
The seconds ticked by, then the minutes.
Just as he was about to get out of the car and head into the motel, the woman emerged alone. She got in her car, switched on her lights and pulled awa
y, oblivious to Reznick.
What now? Follow her or sit tight? He couldn’t barge into the motel and go room to room. The cops would be called and he would be taken in. And then what?
“Goddamn.”
Reznick decided to sit tight. He wondered if the woman had taken a message to someone inside. Was that it? Was Magruder holed up inside?
His mind flashed back to news footage of Magruder being led away in handcuffs from the courtroom, impassive, eyes dead.
The time dragged like a chain at the bottom of a sandy seabed. He waited. And waited. And still he waited. More minutes being eaten up. But no one left or entered the motel.
“Fuck,” he said.
He turned the car around and drove back into Weston town center. He stopped to pick up some sandwiches and provisions from an all-night deli to keep them going for the next few hours, intending to head back to the ranch house to find out who the woman was or see if Magruder turned up.
The plan changed.
As he headed along affluent residential streets, he took a right at the lights into Main Street. As he drove by, his gaze was drawn to a Jeep, parked diagonally opposite a Starbucks under a huge palm. He checked the plates. It was hers.
Reznick drove on for a couple of hundred yards, pulled a U-turn and parked fifty yards behind the Jeep with a perfect view of the coffee shop on the corner. The clock on his dashboard said it was 5.31am. He switched off his lights and picked up his binoculars, switching off the night vision facility as the lights were on in Starbucks.
Scanning the inside of the shop, he saw the Magruder woman sitting at a table with a couple of coffee mugs. His instincts told him she wasn’t having her morning coffee alone. But a few minutes later the woman walked out of the Starbucks alone. Her clothes looked expensive, well cut.
“Who are you?”
He slouched down in his seat as she walked towards her car, opened the Jeep with a fob and drove away down Main Street.
