by T C Miller
All operations were compartmentalized and departments were limited in access to details of any operation. The organization operated under the general title of “The Consortium” in some countries—“The Confederation” in others—and they usually referred to each other as“The Group”.
Wonder who some of the other agents are…but not gonna die trying to find out.
The arrival of the elevator car was noted by a subtle chime accompanied by a gentle swish of the doors as he stepped in. Life is good.
NSA DIRECTOR’S OFFICE THREE DAYS LATER The Director was gone after another hectic day and his office was dark. The outer office was lit by warm incandescent lighting instead of the harsh florescent tubes found in most NSA offices. Justin leaned forward in his desk chair and reached for the desk toy—a touch of whimsy in an otherwise meticulous work surface. He swung the marble-sized metal ball and watched it collide with an audible click. It hit the next ball in the row of eight and transmitted the impact to the last ball, which flew away in the opposite direction, only to come back and hit the ball next to it, repeating the process.
They made a pleasant clacking sound that he found mesmerizing. The six balls in the middle barely moved while the first and eighth ball swung out and back, in turn.
He sat back and watched the action eventually subside, then picked up the end ball and restarted the movement. The satellite phone on the solid walnut desk sounded a quiet buzzing—but even that startled him. Why so damned jumpy? He pressed the top of a wood and brass chess timer and answered the call, “Yes?”
The voice at the other end offered no greeting in reply, but since the caller was the only other person who used the phone, he knew the identity. It was as if they had been cut off during a conversation and were simply continuing their exchange.
“Again, my compliments for your valuable assistance. The information you provided proved to be accurate, as always, and we have located the individual in question. We have a client who will deal with Tupelo.”
“So I assume you mailed the letters?”
“Yes, yes of course. Fifty thousand letters were mailed to the smaller town.” The caller was referring to the sum of fifty thousand dollars being transferred to an account in the Grand Cayman Islands. “Small city” would have indicated a deposit into an account in Lucerne, Switzerland. “Large city” would have pointed toward still another account in Geneva. The phone was encrypted with what was supposed to be an unbreakable code, but he knew better than most people that any code could be compromised.
Already checked. “Do you require more of my assistance?” “Not at this time. However, I am curious, has your employer revisited the subject of retirement?”
“Not directly, although he has dropped a few subtle hints.” The timer sounded a warning and Justin ended the call. He waited thirty seconds and initiated a callback. The scanning ability of the massive computers in the NSA server farm was limited and the simple protocol of ending and restarting the call greatly reduced the likelihood of discovery. Use of the satellite phone with powerful encryption reduced the chances even further. “Recently, he asked me if we would continue our chess game after his retirement.”
“Do you think he might?” The voice was eager.
“Continue the chess game, or retire?”
“Retire, damn it…That’s what we were talking about, wasn’t it? Concentrate.”
“Sorry, I could not resist…No, to be honest, I think they will carry him out of here on a stretcher before he will retire…He has no other life to speak of…His wife suffers from end-stage Alzheimer’s and recognizes no one…His only child is an estranged son who moved to Seattle to avoid him. He has the usual acquaintances and associates any man in his position acquires, but very few friends. Most of the people he has known have retired or died and the job seems to be his sole reason for living.”
“That’s too bad…We were hoping for a change in the near future.”
“Change? But I assumed you preferred having a known element in the Director’s chair.”
“That would be true if we had control…Unfortunately, we do not. He holds dearly to convictions that are archaic and a hindrance to our operation…Something may need to be done to accelerate his departure.”
“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“I’m suggesting nothing…at least not for the moment. We do, however, have some concerns for the not too distant future.” The reference to “we” was undoubtedly to the Commission, which directed the affairs of the larger Consortium. The location of their headquarters was unknown and efforts to trace any communication with them were met with stiff resistance—they usually led to a dead end.
Their influence was occasionally obvious, but more often than not, indirect. They preferred to have associates accomplish desired tasks, and allegiance was bought through a web of partnerships, alliances and when necessary, bribes. Once the person’s cooperation was secured, unquestioned loyalty for a lifetime almost always followed.
The Commission began Justin’s well-crafted image as an Ivy League lawyer while he was still in high school. Far from being the pampered descendant of wealthy parents, he arose from dirt-poor, hard-scrabble beginnings. His parents were alcoholics who fell into a haze of meth amphetamines and hallucinogenic drugs shortly after he was born. He was an only child and was left to his own devices at an early age. Thankfully he was not abused by them—except the severest form of cruelty, complete lack of attention.
Being a voracious reader allowed him to be transported to other locales and situations that were far more pleasant. His mentors encouraged him to go to college, and with their help he secured a full-scholarship from the Consortium Foundation. .
Justin learned over the years how generous the Committee was to its loyal associates. Shortly after being hired by the National Security Agency, a distant cousin—of whom he had no knowledge—passed away and willed him a Georgetown townhouse that would have been far beyond his means as a civil servant. The bequest included a trust fund that provided for maintenance, taxes and insurance for the home.
The Commission became such an integral part of his life that he seldom questioned why he was chosen to receive their largesse. Recent tasks, such as passing along a name here or there or disclosing information from meetings, were a way for him to thank his benefactors, although they insisted on including a monetary reward for his efforts. They were simply there when he needed something and he routinely performed the work they requested.
“So what do you require of me?”
“Actually, nothing more at this time…I’ll call if necessary and, in the meantime, we would like you to continue your daily routine. Contact me if something extraordinary occurs…Before I go, are your funds at an acceptable level?”
“Yes, thanks to you and the Commission, money is not a concern. I have very few needs, since I work most of the time.
“Excellent. I have other matters to attend to. Good bye.”
Justin ended the call and sat back in the comfortable office chair.
He picked up his regular desk phone and dialed. “Hey, Mike, have you picked up any rumors lately about my Director?”
***
CHAPTER 8
HANK’S HAV-A-CUP TRUCK STOP & DINER HUMBOLDT COUNTY, NEVADA “I still don’t see why we have to be here so damned early.” The words would have sounded whiny if spoken by a grizzled Marine veteran of two wars or a black-belt mercenary. They were not—so they were especially annoying coming from the twenty-three year old nephew of the county sheriff who occupied the passenger seat of the big law enforcement cruiser. “I also don’t see why I can’t drive…I do know how, you know.”
“My cruiser…I drive,” replied Corporal Benjamin “Ben” H. Washington, Jr. “You’re here ‘cause you talked your uncle into it. My choice…you’re back at the office filing reports.”
“Which is why I need to be here…to meet important people like these federal agents.”
“Ain’t coming to i
mpress you…Have a job to do, just like me.”
“Like I don’t? I’m a deputy too, you know.”
“Only ‘cause of your uncle…Been doing this since you were just a gleam in your daddy’seye…more’n twenty-six years.”
“Yeah, I know, the big-shot lawman who took on a biker gang and whipped them…I heard all the stories…But don’t you see…I need to get some experience, too…So again, why are we here so frickin’ early?”
“Long story short…learned it in the Corps…Get there fifteen minutes early…you’re never late.”
“I get it…But why meet them in a back parking lot of a greasy-spoon truck stop…and why are they here anyway?”
“Don’t know…don’t care. Sheriff says be here…I’m here…End of story.” He opened the car door, stepped out and let it slam shut to cut off the whiny voice. Bet the Sheriff wants him out of the office to get a little peace and quiet…Can’t say I blame him.
The whirling blades of a sleek black helicopter stirred the dust in the bone-dry Nevada desert and sent Ben back into the patrol car in a temporary retreat. He assumed the agents would be driving, but it made no difference. There wouldn’t be a problem as long as they didn’t mind riding in the back behind the security screen.
He hoped they might have some business at the truck stop so he could say hello to his sister-in-law, Cheryl, who worked there as a waitress. He tried to arrive early for the meeting but was delayed by the Sheriff, who wanted to thoroughly coach him on what to say to the federales.
He would have preferred to spend the extra fifteen minutes chewing the fat with Cheryl. Kind of in-law I like…Got a job, don’t ask for money, keeps to herself. The dust settled sufficiently for him to step out of the car at the same time the rear door of the chopper opened. He let a long stream of tobacco juice loose on a flat rock and waited for his guests to disembark. A young woman in hiking boots and jeans stepped down first followed closely by a bland looking man in similar attire. At least they got the brains to dress for the desert.
Ben toward them and the interior of the helicopter became clearer with each step.
He heard the passenger car door slam and the nephew rushed past him to greet the agents. “Hi, I’m Deputy Harold Grimes…named after my uncle…the county sheriff.” He pumped the woman’s hand up and down like a slot machine that paid off with every pull. Harold repeated the act with the male agent as the pilot shut down the engine and the blades slowly spooled to a stop.
Ben walked over in a stride that was just short of a swagger, stretched out his arm and shook hands with the woman. Man, she’s got a nice firm grip. She introduced herself as Agent Benson and the guy as Agent Johansen…No first names…No badges shown and Ben noticed the helicopter had no identifying marks, other than a tail number. Bet if I look it up it’s registered to some hole-in-the-wall agency.
“What can I do for you two?” The woman was apparently in charge. “We got a report that a subject of one of our investigations was seen at this truck stop…Need to interview people who work here…You familiar with the staff?”
Ben smiled and took a casual stance, “Ma’am…I mean Agent Benson, fewer’n six thousand people live in all of Humboldt County…Been in law enforcement over twenty-six years…Related to or grew up with most…I know the people who work at the truck stop…’though might be a wetb… I mean a transient washing dishes slips under my radar…Otherwise, I can probably help.”
She sized him up and smiled. “Sounds like you’ll do just fine…How about we start talking to people?”
“Hop in…and why don’t you take shotgun.” Harold glared at him.
The ride to the front of the truck stop took no more than two minutes—the walk to the manager’s office another two. Today was Jim Wanamaker’s turn in the barrel and he ushered them into the eight-by-ten foot room he shared with two other managers. Like Ben, Jim was a sizable guy, with twice as much belly hanging over his belt.
The room was crowded with two old metal desks buried in paperwork, three filing cabinets and two six-foot tall utility shelves. There was barely enough room to fit Jim behind the desk, with the two agents seated in worn-out chairs in front. Ben stood just inside the doorway—which left Harold trying his best to force his way around Ben’s bulk.
After a few cursory pleasantries, Agent Benson began, “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Wannamaker. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.” She said it without conviction and Ben got the feeling she would take as much time as necessary. “We got a call saying a man we’re interested in may have been here two days ago.”
“Correct…But please call me Jim…Everybody does…even my employees…Just one of the guys.”
Ben knew better.
Jim cleared his throat and squirmed in the chair. “Anyway, Andy Johnson, our mechanic, noticed the bulletin. Things were kinda slow yesterday, like most Tuesdays…Best business is usually on Friday, so you wouldn’t expect yesterday to be…”
“Unfortunately, our time is short,” Mary interrupted, “Appreciate it if we could speed things up a little.”
“Oh, sure, sorry there, ma’am, er, Agent Benson…Tend to run off at the mouth a little when I’m nervous…Where was I? Oh, yeah, Andy’s bored, so he’s leafing through the Most Wanted flyers from the FBI office in Reno. We cooperate with the FBI…Even give ‘em ten percent off in the restaurant…You with the FBI?…Could get that ten percent.”
“No, but we work closely with them.”
“Didn’t think you were…Fewer’n a dozen in Reno and I know most of ‘em…Ex-son-in-law worked there ‘til he got transferred to Boise…You know Marty Shafer?”
“No, sir. I don’t know any of the Reno agents.”
“Sure, being from a different agency and all…Anyway, Andy spots this picture on a flyer…Says it sorta looks like a guy who broke down here a few days back…Replaced the alternator on this guy’s truck…Some kinda retired engineer or something out of Dallas…Tells me it looks like the guy on the poster. So I check the invoice and, sure enough, it says the guy with the pickups name’s Bill Martin…Give us an address in Garland, Texas… Must be a suburb of Dallas, from the ZIP code.”
“I believe you’re correct, Mr. Wannamaker.”
“Call me Jim…Everybody does.”
“Okay, Jim, so why did you call the FBI?
“Well, at first I put it off to Andy’s imagination…‘til I checked the video…”
“You have pictures of this guy?”
“Sure do. System covers the gas pumps to keep people from driving off without paying…Be surprised how many people try it…Usually get them before they’ve gone ten miles…Why, I remember one week before Thanksgiving…”
“Again, we’re in a hurry.”
“Sure, sorry…Like I said before, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous…Anyway,guessin’ you wanna see the video.”
“Please.”
Jim raised his bulk off the creaking chair and moved toward the door, “Video gear’s locked up in back so robbers can’t erase it…Follow me.”
The rest of them stood and squeezed their way out of the office one at a time as Harold tagged along behind.
The picture was black and white and more than a little grainy, but it certainly could be Rick Eichner, now going by the name Bill Martin. Jim handed the tape to Benson without asking for a receipt. It would be enhanced and analyzed by the NSA’s best technicians.
Benson and Johansen thanked Jim and asked Ben if he would show them to the shop where Andy worked. Wonder if I’m gonna see Cheryl after all.
The repair business was apparently slow—Andy was sitting behind a grease-stained ketchup-splattered desk reading a car magazine in what passed for the repair shop office—little more than plywood-covered walls and ceiling that enclosed a small portion of a cavernous corrugated-steel metal building. They were glad to close the flimsy office door and shut out the howling wind.
They explained why they were there and Andy quickly rose to the occas
ion. “Yup, I knowed they’s sumpin’ not quite on the up-an-up ‘bout him…Had a sneaky kinda look and weren’t all that friendly…Tries to gab a bit, but all he wants to know is when his truck’d be done…Skedaddles soon as the bill’s paid.”
“How did he pay?” Benson asked.
“Cash money…’cause we don’t take no credit cards or outta town checks.”
“Did he say which way he was heading?”
Andy turned toward Johansen to answer, even though it was Benson who had posed the question. Johansen pointed to Benson.
“No, ma’am, like I says, tweren’t the gabbin’ type…Asked how far Lost Wages was when he brung the truck in…That’s what I call Las Vegas.
“Though I get the feelin’ tweren’t where he’s fixin’ to go…Whilst I was a workin’ on the truck, I sees a map on the front seat…He’d drawed a circle around some town over Californy way…Up on the coast ‘bove Frisco…Dint have my specs on, so couldn’t see jest where.”
“Anything else you may have noticed about him that was unusual?”
“Truth be told, he’s kinda ord’nary lookin’…Sure were touchy ‘bout that trailer, though.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard about a trailer…What kind was it?”
“Don’t know ‘zackly what brand twas…One a them covered ones…Like a you-haul-it…only white.”
“How big was it?”
“Can’t say fer sure…‘bout six-foot wide an’ coulda been ten or twelve-foot long…Two-axle jobby with two doors round back what swung open…Had a lock on ‘em big as my fist…Take a cuttin’ torch ta get it off.”
“Thank you. We’ll get back to you if we have any further questions…Here’s my card, in case you remember anything else.”
