“As you requested, we have reinvestigated the incident in Albuquerque.”
“Get on with it.”
“We have three salient points to convey, ma’am. Point one, we have confirmed that the explosion was caused by a sophisticated but homemade device. This is consistent with the assertion that Cushing wore an explosive vest of her own construction into the house.
“Point two, the FBI forensic team that collected and inventoried body parts reported that only two individuals perished in the explosion: the twin sisters. We had extrapolated from other sources that Cushing’s remains—what little could be gathered—were identified via DNA samples and disposed of. Her name was inserted weeks later in the passenger manifest of the Air Force transport plane that went down in the Atlantic.”
“Yes, yes. I know this. What about the sisters?”
“We interviewed the FBI pathologists. Consistent with their report, they asserted that DNA tests positively identified remains belonging to Gemma Keyes and her sister, Genie Keyes. However, being identical twins, the sisters shared the same DNA profile, so it was not possible to separate body parts based on DNA. The team’s federal oversight told them that two women had been positively placed in the house at the time of the explosion. Consequently, they were instructed to separate body parts into two caskets for burial.”
“Cut to the bottom line.”
The man knew not to feed her irrelevant details. “Yes, ma’am. With adequate financial and personal inducements, one of the pathologists cracked. He admitted that of the body parts collected, none were actually duplicated. That is, he saw no physical evidence that two young women perished.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, ma’am. It now seems likely that only one of the twins died that day, that federal agents manipulated the incident reports to establish that both sisters perished.”
The woman was silent as she processed what she’d been told. The caller knew not to interrupt until spoken to.
When she broke her silence, she asked, “You had a third point, I believe?”
“Yes, ma’am. According to eye witness accounts, two federal agents coordinated the cleanup. One of them was local FBI, which was to be expected. The other, however, was a woman, one Janice Trujillo.”
“She acted as Cushing’s team lead.”
“She did. We reached out—circumspectly—to the other members of Cushing’s team. Turns out, Trujillo was the only member of the team to participate in the incident mop-up. The other members had been dispatched into the field.”
“For what purpose?”
“Cushing had been off the grid for days. Supposedly, the agents were sent out to follow up on leads in their search for Cushing.”
“Supposedly?”
“Two team members described their assignments as make-work, tasks designed to keep them occupied. They had the feeling Trujillo was shunting them away from Albuquerque. It was apparent from our questioning that they did not know Cushing had died anywhere but in the plane crash.”
“Very telling, indeed. Where is this agent Trujillo at present and what has she been up to the past six months?”
He had anticipated her follow-on questions. “She and her team remained in Albuquerque for a month awaiting orders. When the Air Force announced Cushing’s death, they returned to D.C. and disbanded. Since then, Trujillo has received three short assignments overseas.”
“Her handler?”
“Cushing’s operation was deep black, ma’am. Above my clearance.”
Yes, exactly. Danforth did well to limit this woman’s recent assignments, to watch her closely and test her loyalty—but the fool missed the crucial factor from the get-go.
“Your orders, ma’am?”
“Stay put until I’m certain I won’t need you further where you are.”
Satisfied that her agent was ignorant of the connection between Cushing and Harmon—and, therefore, Harmon’s connection with Danforth, the woman hung up.
Removing a throwaway phone from her handbag, she dialed Danforth’s cell.
“Pick up Janice Trujillo. Take her somewhere . . . remote and question her. I want the truth about Gemma Keyes.”
“And afterward?”
“We will keep her only until we’ve exhausted her usefulness.”
Chapter 26
WE MET GAMBLE AT HIS car for our regular Sunday night meeting, intending to walk to the house without anyone seeing us. We said hello, but Gamble seemed fussier than usual.
“Have either of you heard from Trujillo?”
We shook our heads. “No. Not since last Sunday,” I answered. “Was she supposed to meet us here or at the house?”
His response was curt. “Here. Ten minutes ago. And she’s not picking up my call.”
“Well, she’s probably on her way.”
“You’re probably right. She does live about an hour from here.”
Fifteen minutes ticked by, Gamble fidgeting as we waited. When Trujillo still hadn’t shown, Zander and I grew concerned, too.
Gamble called Trujillo again. It rang and rang before going to voice mail.
“You know where she lives?” Zander asked Gamble.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We piled into his car. He dropped us not far from our vehicle. We got in our car and followed him.
Janice Trujillo had a tiny house (what we in New Mexico called a casita) behind a much larger home. The driveway belonging to the large house wended around a three-car garage, and dead-ended at the far back of the acreage where Trujillo’s place was sheltered under some old maple trees.
Trouble. We knew it right away. Her front door hung open on one hinge.
Gamble was out of his car, sidearm drawn, before Zander came to a stop behind him. I think Gamble sensed that the house was empty, because he waited for us at the demolished door.
Inside, we found the debris of a struggle. Maybe “a fight” better described what we found.
Trujillo had hurled whatever came to hand at her attackers: a lamp, a planter, a heavy framed picture. I sniffed the air and trailed my finger along a table before we followed the swath of potting soil and broken pottery into the kitchen where she’d retreated before her attackers.
There she’d thrown pans and dishes and knives. The floor was cluttered with stainless steel cookware, broken plates, and knives. Three of them. A small streak of dried, brown blood in the shape of a skid mark on the tile gave us hope that she’d hit her target at least once.
I stooped down and touched the dried blood. As I bent over, I spied a syringe that had rolled under the jutting cabinets.
I picked up the hypo and showed it to Gamble and Zander.
Jayda Cruz, we have analyzed the scene.
I saw their analysis as soon as it was complete.
“Here’s what the nanomites say happened,” I said. “Two attackers, at least one a woman, kicked in the door. If they had guns, they did not use them. Agent Trujillo must not have had her service weapon handy, either. No expended rounds or traces of gunshot residue.”
“One was a woman?”
“The blood on the floor tested positive for female hormones—but it isn’t Trujillo’s blood type. I’d say Trujillo got a few licks in before they overpowered her. The trace drug in the syringe is a fast-acting tranquilizer.”
Gamble nodded, distracted. “To render her docile. They came to take her, not to kill her.”
“We have to ask ourselves why she was taken,” Zander said. “Why her? Why now?”
“I need to make some calls.” Gamble bolted outside. We followed him but kept our distance.
He spoke at length with someone, then hung up. The look on his face wasn’t encouraging.
“Just got off the phone with the FBI forensics team in Albuquerque. Last week two men with federal credentials interviewed the forensics team members about the explosion that took down Gemma Keye’s house and killed Genie . . . and Gemma.”
“Someone’s digging,” I whispered.
“Yes. And I think they found part of what they were digging for—enough to figure out who would know more.”
“Trujillo. They knew she was there, in Albuquerque.”
“You mean her handlers knew she was there. She had to have written and transmitted after-action reports. Standard operating procedure.”
I looked at Gamble. “You’re saying they’ve taken Trujillo to find out more about me—but before last week, she wouldn’t have known me in my new identity. Wouldn’t have known what I—what we—can do. Wouldn’t have known our assignment. Now? Now she knows everything.”
“Do we . . . can the nanomites tell how long ago she was taken?”
“From the condition of the blood, the nanomites deduce the attack happened this afternoon. Maybe two o’clock.”
Trujillo had been in our enemies’ hands for close to eight hours.
Gamble—big, tough FBI Special Agent Ross Gamble—shuddered. I’d never seen him as shaken as he was now.
Zander took the initiative. “Nano, we need you to hack into the feed of all overhead satellites and nearby traffic cams. Find the vehicle that took Agent Trujillo and track it.”
We cannot work fast enough without increased bandwidth, Zander Cruz.
“The nanomites say they need faster Internet than what our phones can provide.”
“It’s about the nanomites’ computing power outstripping our phones’ network speed,” I explained. “The bandwidth of the connection limits how many satellite feeds they can access concurrently.”
“Well, then we need to get the nanomites within range of a high-speed cable junction box,” Zander said.
Gamble snapped out of his funk. “At the top of the drive. I saw a box there.”
Zander gunned our car to the top of the drive; he angled the vehicle so that the passenger window was alongside the cable box. Gamble pulled in behind us.
Nanomites spooled away from me into the box, and their search speed jumped exponentially. For a moment, I imagined every user in the neighborhood losing their Wi-Fi signal—and the bedlam that would ensue.
Too bad.
Gamble climbed into our back seat. “What can you see?”
“Everything they can see,” Zander replied.
I closed my eyes and went into the warehouse where the many feeds the nanomites were scanning seemed larger and closer. I sensed Zander near me, but I kept my attention on the flashing, changing panorama.
As fast as the images flipped by, I kept up. And then the feed froze . . . and gave way to a single “window.” The window zoomed in at dizzying speed and paused. When I caught my breath, I recognized the neighborhood, the large house, the drive. It was satellite video, but nothing was happening.
“Speed it up, Nano.”
They fast-forwarded until a vehicle—a dark SUV—turned into the drive. The nanomites followed the SUV down the drive. Before it made the turn toward Trujillo’s house, it stopped. Two figures emerged.
“Zoom in close, Nano.”
A man and a woman, as we had deduced.
“Give me a close-up of the man, Nano.”
The man’s features blurred and then came into focus.
“I know him. He’s an NSA SPO.”
“Tagged?”
“No.”
He was not one of the four SPOs I’d tagged with a nanobug array. He and the woman were “new” members of the conspiracy, and the numbers were growing.
“Nano, fast forward.”
We watched the fast-forward video of an unconscious Trujillo being dragged to her abductors’ SUV and the vehicle retreating up the drive. When the SUV reached the top of the drive where we were presently parked, it turned right.
Jayda Cruz, we have fast-forwarded the satellite feed to the vehicle’s destination and have recorded their route. We can now provide explicit directions to where the vehicle is parked without an Internet connection.
“Good job, Nano.”
I turned to Gamble. “We don’t need to watch anymore; the nanomites know where Trujillo is and will direct us. With us or follow us?”
“I’ll follow. We may need both cars.”
Our two vehicles sped away, relying upon the nanomites to guide us. I knew Zander and I could rescue Trujillo from her captors—but could we reach her before she gave us up? Or worse, before they killed her and dumped her body where we’d never find it?
It boiled down to a question of time and Trujillo’s will. Her captors had already had her for eight long hours.
Lord, I prayed. Agent Trujillo is one of the good guys. Please help her to hold on.
We drove on into the night, moving steadily south and east.
Toward the coast.
AN HOUR AND A HALF later, our route wound through dirt tracks and one-lane plank bridges between coastal islands. I checked my phone.
“No service out here.”
It was impossible to tell exactly where we were for the meandering road and the water that surrounded us. We saw no houses. I doubted that the marshy area was inhabitable, subject as it had to be to tide and the vagaries of storm surge.
Eventually, we arrived at a fenced area, but the fencing was old and rusted. Sections of the chain link leaned precariously or had collapsed. Faded signs wired to the fence read, “Property of the U.S. Government. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” but, from all appearances, the place was abandoned.
The nanomites directed us through an open gate. We drove further and arrived at what I could only describe as a ship graveyard—acre upon acre of decaying docks glinting under the moonlight, their pilings standing in water as grossly putrid and dead as the rusting hulks moored to them. Some of the lifeless skeletons had keeled over and come to rest on their hulls in shallow water; a few ships were anchored farther out in a wide inlet, their structures sinking by inches as the years passed, some so low in the water that lazy waves washed across their decks.
The docks formed a damp, tangled maze overgrown with seaweed and algae. Many timbers had rotted through, making them impassable. Who knew which docks were safe or unsafe to drive on?
In addition to the treacherous conditions, we were driving through the night with a moon only days into its first lunar phase. Worse, the nanomites had advised us to turn off our headlights to avoid detection. Once our eyes adjusted to the dark, we had barely enough starlight and moonglow to navigate by—just enough to reveal how disgusting, dangerous, and vermin-ridden the graveyard was. Rats scuttled before us, their eyes blinking red when they stopped to stare at us.
And the stink? Nasty. I could only guess at the stench of decomposition during the heat of the day.
“Dead flies in perfume make it stink, and a little foolishness decomposes much wisdom,” Jayda Cruz.
I swallowed down my gorge. “My nose tells me there’s more decomposing here than dead flies, Nano.”
If the satellite video had not enabled the nanomites to track the SUV that had carried Trujillo here and record its route, we would have become lost in the labyrinth. We inched ahead, under the nanomites’ sure guidance rather than our own vision: Where the SUV had safely gone, we could also.
Jayda Cruz, the vehicle is parked just ahead. We advise you to leave your vehicle here. However, you will not be able to proceed far on foot.
The nanomites replayed grainy overhead video for us of the SUV coming to a halt. Zander and I watched Trujillo’s attackers yank her from the back seat. She must have regained some consciousness, because they forced her to stagger between them—to a small, open boat tied up between the barnacle-encrusted skeletons of two ships.
The man stepped into the boat and reached for Trujillo. As he did, she came to life and kicked out at him while trying to shake the grip the woman had on her.
Her escape attempt was short-lived: The man grasped her foot and jerked it out from under her. Trujillo dropped on her back on the slimy dock. When the woman kicked Trujillo’s side, Trujillo curled into a ball, her face etched with agony. It was awful to watch. I was glad G
amble couldn’t see it.
Moments later, the boat motored away, toward a rusted ship anchored in the inlet.
“Nano, why are they taking her out there?”
Jayda Cruz, the boat is a clandestine NSA facility hidden in plain sight.
“How do you know this?”
We found a number of NSA facilities listed in the Repository.
“Hmm.” Seems the Repository was not entirely without value to us after all.
We have found many interesting and perhaps useful documents in the Repository.
“Later, Nano. Trujillo is out there on the water, and we’re stuck here. How do we get to her?”
We have located a small, usable craft at the end of this pier.
“That’s great! Let’s go.”
Zander and I got out and motioned to Gamble. “This way. And remember that sound carries farther over water.”
Gamble whispered, “God bless my doctor. He’s been bugging me to re-up my tetanus vaccination. If we get out of here alive, I’m stopping at a 24-hour pharmacy on my way home to get my injection.” He shuddered. “This place is a vile, revolting petri dish.”
We crept past the SUV; its engine was cool to the touch. We pushed on down the dock.
We have arrived at the craft, Jayda Cruz.
I stared around in the dark. “Where, Nano?” All I saw was an upside-down aluminum boat with a gash the size of my foot in its side.
The craft is in front of you, Jayda Cruz. As Jesus said, “Launch out into the deep and let down your nets for a catch.”
“What? In that?”
I pointed as I protested. Zander and Gamble saw what I was pointing at. They both shook their heads. Emphatically.
“Nano, this thing has a hole in it. It won’t even float. And we’ll need paddles.”
Have Zander and Gamble turn it over and place it in the water.
Zander heard the nanomites, too. “Put that thing in the water? Sure, pal.”
You of little faith, why are you so afraid?
He snorted. “Why, indeed? Well, this oughtta be quick.”
He gestured to Gamble. “Give me a hand. The nanomites want us to put this in the water.”
Deep State Stealth Page 27
