Sigma Division

by Steve Richer

  “It’s a pretty restful job actually,” Dr. Michaels added. “You’ll keep your office and will still be formally affiliated with the Office of Security. Except that the work you’ll do will be for us.”

  Spicer lowered his head, thinking it through. At this point, anything that didn’t involve sneaking into people’s homes to assassinate them was an improvement. He nodded.

  “I’m interested.”

  This made Houseman light up. “Great! That’s wonderful.”

  Michaels stood and Spicer followed his lead.

  “Dr. Michaels will get you your papers and proper documentation. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

  “Thank you,” Spicer said to both men. He headed for the door before abruptly turning around. “One more thing: the guy who had the job before me, what happened to him?”

  Michaels held the door and stared at Spicer, his eyes narrowing, sizing him up.

  “A heart attack.”

  Spicer chose to believe him for the time being.

  Chapter 3

  It was a myth that buildings in Washington DC couldn’t be taller than the Capitol. The truth actually was that buildings couldn’t be higher than the width of the street they were on, plus twenty feet. Spicer wasn’t interested in that but the building supervisor had insisted on sharing this tidbit, plus more random trivia, when he’d visited his new place in Dupont Circle.

  Now he was moving in and missing his Miami home even though it was a reminder of his old life. He wouldn't miss his old life though it was hard to be this forgiving with the Washington weather.

  “Hold the door, please,” he exclaimed as he rushed through the cramped lobby toward the elevator.

  The doors were closing with the ominous sound of the bell but quickly they opened again. Spicer had trouble looking over the boxes piled in his arms and was grateful for the kindness from a woman already inside.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. What floor?”

  Once next to her, he peeked at the control panel and saw that the button for the seventh floor was already lit up.

  “Seven’s good.”

  The elevator car was small but three of the walls were covered with mirrors. As a professional habit, he checked out the woman. She was short, about 35 years old. She had a mane of dark hair as wide as her shoulders. He couldn’t help thinking that she looked feisty though she probably didn’t even know it herself.

  “You’re moving in?” she asked.

  “What gives you that idea?”

  The woman grinned. “You don’t rely on movers?”

  “I don’t have much stuff.”

  Again, his professional habit kicked in and he couldn’t help sizing her up. Was she a friend or an ally? What would be his best way of defense if she attacked him? After two decades as an assassin, he couldn’t help playing that game with everyone nowadays.

  Stop it, he told himself.

  It was a new life, there was no more need to be on the lookout for trouble. Nobody was out to get him. Taking a deep breath, he stopped looking at her and instead watched the numbers change above the doors.

  But if she wasn’t a threat, why was she glancing at him from the corner of her eyes?

  The bell rang and they exited, Spicer giving her a chance to go out first. He never turned his back on someone he didn’t know. Within moments, they were walking down the hallway in the same direction. He stopped in front of apartment 708.

  “Looks like we’re gonna be neighbors,” she said.

  He flashed her a polite smile and began fumbling with the locks, trying not to drop the cumbersome boxes. Meanwhile, she came to a halt in front of apartment 710. She turned to look at him again.

  “Need help with that?”

  Spicer shook his head. “I got it.”

  “Okay, but if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask, all right? I’m Esther.”

  Spicer rolled his eyes, hastily starting to get annoyed. The last thing he wanted was a nosy neighbor.

  “Sure, thank you.”

  Being attractive didn’t give her the right to interrupt his life. Besides, he had a quiet career to look forward to.

  * * *

  The next morning, already exhausted from trying to locate in which boxes he had put coffee mugs and butter knives, Spicer was in his office. It was on the second floor and most broom closets were more spacious. There was just enough space for a utilitarian desk, a cheap and uncomfortable swivel chair, and one chair for guests, something he’d never actually had. There was no window.

  He wasn’t sure why he even had an office. He supposed it was so that it looked less suspicious on the books but he had no use for it. For the past decade he’d been receiving his mission packages through secure online connections, and before that, with old-fashioned drops.

  He figured he would be here more often so he had better get used to it. Two guys from maintenance were wheeling in a file cabinet. It wasn’t especially large but it was still too big for the office. He would definitely rule out having guests now.

  “You can set it down right there,” he said before running a finger across the desk surface, drawing a line in a quarter inch of dust. “And when you guys are done with that, can you send someone in to clean up?”

  “Sure.”

  They finished setting down the metallic case of furniture and the more senior man walked Spicer through the procedure of choosing his own password for the cabinet which acted as a de facto safe. They had him sign a clipboard and left just as the phone on the desk started ringing.

  “Thanks, guys.”

  He closed the door and picked up the phone.

  “Spicer.” He listened to a secretary and then said, “Okay, I’m coming up.”

  * * *

  After riding the elevator to the seventh floor with people who looked like they were important, he was rapidly ushered into Houseman’s office. Michaels was already there, sitting on the couch and reading documents.

  “Good morning, Mr. Spicer,” the old man said in greeting. “Come, take a seat.”

  He approached them in the sitting area but remained standing. “I’ll stand if it’s all the same with you.”

  Dr. Michaels ignored him. “Have you read the New York Express-Ledger this morning?

  “No, why?”

  Spicer hadn’t followed the news in 20 years. He found it was easier to keep a clear conscience when he didn’t form an opinion about world affairs.

  Houseman grabbed an iPad from the coffee table, flipped to the correct screen, and handed it to his new employee.

  “Read this.”

  Spicer quickly spotted the headline Big Brother a Scary Reality.

  While he was reading, Houseman spoke. “This is a paid ad, not an article. It’s anonymous. We need you to track down the writer, see what he knows, where he gets his information from.”

  “What’s the problem? It’s freedom of speech.”

  This seemed to annoy Dr. Michaels. “Tell me Gene, in your long government career, has the Constitution mattered much to you?”

  “That life’s over for me.”

  “Is it?”

  They both stared at each other and Spicer hated him instantly. As far as he was concerned, people who called themselves doctor without having to deal with blood and diseases were just pretentious dicks.

  Houseman caught the tension and took over. “The text speaks of machines that can read thoughts, of the government being involved with types of research that can be used to that effect. This person stipulates, this person makes assumptions, nothing more than theories.”

  “Is he telling the truth?” Spicer asked.

  “That’s irrelevant. What is, however, is that this person isn’t respecting our secrecy policy.”

  “At Sigma,” Dr. Michaels said, “we get the mandate of developing things from either the NSA, CIA, all the branches of the military, and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. They supply us with funding and we delegate to unive
rsities. They have the right to take credit for their discoveries, for the most part, but have in no way the right to leak information before we’ve been informed and given consent.”

  “That’s always been the deal and this person broke it,” Houseman said. “So find this man and have a discussion.”

  Spicer delicately put the iPad on the table and nodded.

  “Tell me, am I the Head of Security or the only security guy?”

  Houseman smiled. “I like your attitude.”

  He should have figured that his new position wouldn’t be as quiet as promised.

  Chapter 4

  Coming out of Housman’s office, he saw a ramrod-straight African-American man standing next to the assistant’s desk. He was about 30. The dark suit wasn’t necessarily of the best quality and finest cut but it was neatly pressed, as was the starched shirt. From this and the posture, Spicer knew he was some sort of military guy even though the haircut was slightly longer than regulation.

  The guy brightened up when Spicer spotted him and he came forward. “Gene Spicer?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, I’m Lieutenant Ned Wallace.” He extended his hand to introduce himself and Spicer didn’t have a choice but to shake it. “We haven’t had the chance to meet yet. I’ll be your assistant.”

  “Lieutenant of what?” Spicer asked as he began walking away. The kid quickly fell in next to him.

  “Navy, I was an aviator.”

  “Was?”

  “There was an incident over Libyan territory. They transferred me to Naval Intelligence, making covert transports, that sort of thing. This led to here.”

  Sure, Spicer snorted silently. The universe had a way of funneling the world’s fuck-ups to the CIA.

  “What about the guy before me, you liked working with him?”

  “Oh sure, but we didn’t see a whole lot of action. He was a former cop so for him the idea of a good time was sitting in his office while listening to a ball game.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Heart attack.”

  “Did you see it happen?” Spicer asked, still convinced that the Agency handled firings with tidy little convenient murders. He had cynicism down to an art form.

  They reached the bank of elevators.

  “Yeah, the bastard was eating a chili dog when it hit him. I thought he was choking, did the Heimlich and everything. Turns he was dead before I’d even started. Truckloads of cholesterol, the doctor said.”

  It actually made him chuckle which somewhat endeared him to Spicer. Still, the story didn’t convince him.

  “Promise me that if you get the order for me you’ll use a gun, all right?”

  Ned frowned with puzzlement as Spicer stepped into the elevator. “What are you talking about?”

  * * *

  Andrews Field, the airfield portion of the formerly known Andrews Air Force Base which was now known as Joint Base Andrews, was busy as ever. It took more than ten minutes for the sedan Ned was driving to finally reach the gate and even then it took just as long for their credentials to get checked out. After all, this was where Air Force One was based so every visitor was treated as if they were going to meet the President.

  They were finally directed to a hangar and they parked in the designated area behind. A Gulfstream aircraft was being prepped for takeoff and Spicer and Ned climbed aboard after the younger man spoke to an Airman First Class, giving the proper paperwork.

  Spicer had been all over the world, he’d done things that few people could ever be able to wrap their head around, but he had never been in a luxury executive jet like this one. Although small with enough space for 16 passengers, the entire cabin looked like the first-class section of a commercial flight. A gorgeous female Air Force Staff Sergeant showed them to their seats in the back.

  She said, “It shouldn’t be very long, the general should be arriving any minute now.”

  As she left, both men craned their necks to admire what should have been on a recruitment poster.

  Ned turned to his boss. “When we can hitch rides with military transports, we do it. The 89th Airlift Wing is always nice enough to accommodate Sigma. When they can’t and other branches don’t have handy flights, we go commercial. And if that’s impossible too, we can literally commandeer Air Force planes. They send us the bill afterwards.”

  “Nice.”

  Spicer looked at his watch impatiently and the aviator picked up on it.

  “So how does it feel to be at the right side of God?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s how me and my old partner referred to Houseman. This guy knows everything that nobody’s supposed to know.”

  “How’s that?”

  Ned leaned in closer and looked around to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, which was easy since they were the only other passengers.

  “Sigma, man. That’s what we do. The JFK assassination, ring a bell? The truth about the whole thing is locked in his office. Same thing about the aliens at Roswell. Hell, he even knows about Amelia Earhart.”

  “Jesus.”

  Right then, a stern three-star general came on board followed by a junior officer and a man in a suit. They were seated toward the front and Ned continued.

  “I know what you mean. It’s our job to keep that secret. People would kill to get our jobs, man, I’m telling you.”

  Spicer waited for him to expand on the subject but he didn’t. Instead, the young man bent down and started going through the pouch in front of him. When he didn’t find what he was been looking for, he waved at the flight attendant.

  “Hey, Sarge! You have any peanuts?”

  * * *

  The New York Express-Ledger was in an odd position. It didn’t have the journalistic reputation of the Times and yet it wasn’t so concerned with the tabloid sensationalism of the Post. It was right there in the middle. Business was going surprisingly well in spite of the recent media revolution and the newspaper had moved in swanky new offices on Manhattan’s Second Avenue.

  The editor-in-chief had his office on the 10th floor and an early lunch was spread out on his crowded desk, although it was still untouched. He looked at Spicer and his assistant as if they were mob shakedown artists intruding on his territory.

  “So what can I do for the FBI?”

  Spicer had to give it to Sigma, the job came with a nice variety of official badges and credentials. It would definitely come in handy. Still, it didn’t faze the newspaperman who went to stand behind his desk but didn’t sit down.

  “You ran a full page ad in your paper this morning, page 36.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “We’d appreciate you telling us who paid for it.”

  The editor snorted and didn’t mention that he hated having the black guy strolling around the office as if he owned it. “I can’t give you this information.”

  “Sure, you can,” Spicer said with a forced smile. “We’re the FBI.”

  “Does the First Amendment mean anything to you? I’m pretty sure you’ve covered the topic at Quantico.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder to see what Ned was up to. It turned out he was looking down the window.

  Spicer spoke to get his attention back. “This was advertisement, not a journalist’s column, not a source.”

  “This person paid for this ad because he or she wanted their message screamed out and loud. And that is what freedom of expression is all about.”

  “We’ll get a warrant,” Ned said.

  Spicer turned to his new assistant, knowing too well they couldn’t do that without involving seven other layers of bureaucracy.

  “You can get all the warrants you want but there’s no way you’ll get it outta me. My lawyers’ll be on you so fast you won’t even have time to haul our computers out.”

  Ned walked back to the center of the room and touched Spicer’s arm. In a flash, he smiled brightly at the editor-in-chief.

  “All right. Thank you for your assistance, sir.”


  He nodded goodbye and started walking away. Spicer wasn’t used to investigative work so he reluctantly followed.

  As soon as they work out of the office, Spicer said, “I really didn’t like that guy.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later they were down on the street, walking away from a hotdog vendor with food and sodas. Spicer was used to exercising patience because killing someone in a way that didn’t arouse suspicion was all about biding your time. However, it was frustrating that his new career made it seem like the old one.

  “We came to New York for nothing,” he barked. “I hate New York.”

  Ned chuckled. “I hear you. But what I wouldn’t give to fly my Hornet through Manhattan. Man, that’d be sharp!”

  He made his hotdog fly through the air like a five-year-old. All that was missing was the pew-pew-pew noises.

  “We have to get inside those computers, Ned. Any ideas?”

  “We got a guy at Sigma, a keyboard genius.”

  “Okay, put him on it,” Spicer said before taking a huge bite.

  They found a bench and for a few minutes they just ate.

  Ned turned to his partner. “What did you do before?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What was your affectation, at the company?”

  “Office of Security, in the Directorate for Support.”

  Ned nodded as he processed this. “So if I was to go there and ask around about you, nobody would know anything, right?”

  Spicer paused to stare at him a second. The kid was smarter than he looked.

  “Eat your fucking hotdog.”

  Ned grinned while Spicer walked away.

  Chapter 5

  The University of Virginia campus was generally considered to be one of the most attractive in the world, especially in the fall, but Gilmer Hall was kind of lackluster. Having been built in the 1960s, it was a nondescript brick structure that had been meant not to be an architectural marvel but rather intended as a serviceable research facility for the Biology and Psychology departments.

  Harland Fry had his office on the second floor. As a young associate professor of 32, he was considered lucky to even have an office. Hell, he was lucky just to be a professor. College employment was more convoluted than politics in the middle ages. At the moment, he wished he had gone into the private sector instead.