Agent Out

by Francine Pascal

  Starbucks. Wireless Internet. A quick anonymous chance to make contact with Will …

  It had been almost thirty hours since James Rossiter’s basement. In her mind, she could smell the Neutrogena conditioner again and see the indentation on the cot’s white pillow. The closest I’ve gotten to Catherine since this started—and it wasn’t that close.

  At Starbucks she took one look at the crowd by the counter and turned away. Craning her neck, Gaia saw what she needed to see—the Wi-Fi emblem on the counter.

  Thank God, she thought, making her way to a table near the windows. The air here wasn’t just full of the familiar coffee smell—it was invisibly flooded with Web sites and e-mail, too. Not the most secure way to communicate, she thought, but it works, and it’s fast—hopefully I can get what I need and be on the road before anyone has a chance to see me here.

  She flipped her laptop open, anxiously checking to see if she could pick anything up. The computer’s Wi-Fi indicator immediately gave her five bars—a perfect connection. She immediately typed PING 0411 and watched as most of the laptop screen went black. Just as had happened the night before, there was a brief wait while the “Hacker City” backdoor encryption system began working, logging her onto the underground network—Gaia tapped her fingers on the green plastic Starbucks table, trying to be patient.

  Suddenly she looked up, staring out the window, where a black sedan was cruising slowly along the blacktop in front of the building. The sedan had tinted windows—it was impossible to see inside.

  Agents?

  How could she tell? It could be anyone—the important thing was to finish what she was doing and get moving. Looking down at the laptop, she suddenly noticed something down in the corner of the screen.

  A flashing e-mail icon.

  What the hell—?

  Gaia hadn’t been thinking about her regular FBI e-mail account at all. Using it was out of the question since the bureau routinely kept tabs on personnel’s e-mail and phone communications. It was the open secret of the FBI: there was no such thing as privacy. Most of the time it didn’t matter—you went about your business and didn’t think about it. But that was obviously why Gaia had gone to such elaborate trouble to contact Will.

  Now her laptop had just gone ahead and checked her e-mail—and there was one message. She opened it:

  To: gmoore@fbiquantico.gov

  From: admin@cmps.gov

  Date: August 23, 2005, 11:55 EST

  Subject: [no subject]

  Dear Gaia, please come help me. The people I’m with are

  Gaia stared at the screen. The surrounding sounds—the crying babies, the Muzak, the hundreds of loud footsteps on the half acre of tile around her, the hiss of the Starbucks milk steamer—all seemed to fade away. Gaia was alone in the world with the message, this eleven-word e-mail that was sent less than two hours ago.

  Catherine.

  It was her. There was absolutely no question about it. Catherine had found a way to try and contact her friend—and then suddenly had been interrupted.

  She thought she could get away with it, Gaia realized. She had a moment when they weren’t watching her, and she did this.

  Gaia could picture Catherine imprisoned in another dank basement, a gun to her head, being forced to do … something … on a computer. And then, when nobody was looking, frantically beginning an e-mail to Gaia.

  But they caught her.

  Or did they? The e-mail had been sent, after all. Nobody had stopped her. What was more likely was that Catherine realized she was being watched again and had quickly hit the send button without even getting a chance to finish her sentence.

  Which means, Gaia realized, she thought she’d communicated something I could understand.

  The e-mail had another message—one she’d missed.

  Outside the building Gaia saw that the black sedan had pulled up in front of the revolving doors. As she watched, two men in black suits and sunglasses got out, adjusting their jackets and slamming the car doors. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry—they stood there in the sun, with the wind ruffling their close-cropped hair, gazing around impassively.

  Uh-oh.

  Looking back at the laptop screen, Gaia stared furiously at the message. She couldn’t get anything from it. Dear Gaia, please come help me. The people I’m with are—Well, are what? There was nothing meaningful, nothing helpful—but Catherine had sent it. How could Gaia possibly figure out where she—

  Oh.

  The e-mail address.

  Wherever Catherine was sending from, she knew the e-mail address would give it away. Gaia took another look: admin@cmps.gov.

  So what am I supposed to get from that?

  The two men in suits had entered the rest stop building. They weren’t the same men Gaia had seen in the motel. They stood on the tiles just inside the door, side by side, scanning their eyes back and forth, taking their time.

  Time to go, Gaia thought. But she had to figure out where Catherine was.

  Maybe there’s a Web site, she realized. Maybe that’s Catherine’s point.

  There was a potted fern between Gaia and the door, and she hunched down in her chair, returning her attention to the laptop. Going to a Web browser, she typed in the address from the e-mail—http://www.cmps.gov—and hit return.

  Come on, come on, Gaia thought frantically, watching the Web browser. Nothing was happening—the computer’s little hourglass pointer was turning over and over, waiting for data.

  Glancing over, she saw that the two men were leaning to confer with each other, and as she watched, one of them suddenly pointed toward the Starbucks. They started walking toward the coffee bar.

  Finally on the screen a Web site started to come in. It had to be the world’s slowest-loading site. The page turned an ugly shade of green, and then a murky image started to appear, showing an enormous, low-slung, hulking building, huge against a dark, cloudy sky. She couldn’t see any detail. Text flooded onto the page, including a large, bold headline:

  Welcome to the Home Page of the COLLINGSWOOD MUNICIPAL PUMPING STATION

  This meant nothing whatsoever to Gaia—but she had the page, and that was enough. Slapping the laptop closed, she immediately ducked near to the ground and began backing away from the revolving doors toward the back of Starbucks.

  Gaia slid between two more potted ferns—ignoring the puzzled glances of a group of college students drinking Frappuccinos—and once she was out of the Starbucks area she began sprinting toward the glass double doors at the far end of the rest area building.

  There was a big crowd of motorists in the way. Gaia’s shoes squeaked on the tiles as she jumped and weaved, darting around people as she propelled herself toward the doors that led outside. Her laptop computer was clutched in a death grip in her left hand—its metal surface was hot from all the activity the computer had been doing. She couldn’t look back—not while running—so she had no idea if the men in the suits had seen her.

  Gaia actually thought she was going to make it all the way outside. She had bumped into at least four people and had knocked one man flat on his stomach—there was no way to avoid it—but so far nobody had shouted or tried to stop her. When she was ten feet from the glass doors, the shouting began.

  “Stop!” a deep male voice yelled out from behind her. “FBI! Stop that woman!”

  “Stop, ma’am! Federal agents!”

  A woman screamed. Gaia could hear a collective gasp from the crowd as rather than stopping her, the people in her path seemed to pull back.

  Skidding to a stop at the door, Gaia frantically pulled it open, diving through and out into the hot Maryland sun.

  Will they shoot? Gaia wondered. She pushed between a middle-aged married couple in sunglasses, knocking a big road atlas out of the husband’s hands as she passed. They’re not going to shoot me, are they?

  Gaia was sprinting across the blacktop toward the Altima, trying to fish the car keys out of her jeans pocket as she ran. Behind her she cou
ld hear the glass doors being slammed open again.

  “Stop, Ms. Moore!” the deeper male voice cried out. “Don’t get yourself in any more trouble!”

  Word will come down from Washington, Marsh had told her the night before, but officially nobody will hear a thing. And then one day you’ll be dead, Sanders will be dead, and to keep things nice and clean, I’ll be dead, too. With the three of us removed from the game board, the bureau’s precious tactical secrets are safe from Socorro and all the rest, and their war on terror can go on.

  Gaia was twenty feet from her car. She had the keys out. Another woman screamed off to one side.

  “Don’t run away, Gaia!” the other voice pleaded. Echoes bounced through the parking lot. “You’ve still got a chance to give yourself up!”

  They won’t just open fire, Gaia thought. Not with all these people around. They have to warn me first.

  Gaia had made it to the car—she was pulling the driver’s door open as she finally risked a look behind her. The two agents were running toward her at top speed, their guns drawn. A crowd of motorists, frozen with fear, stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, staring wide-eyed. Another woman screamed. Gaia tossed her laptop into the car and heard it thump onto the passenger seat.

  The first agent got there, dropping to a shooter’s crouch and pointing the gun at her. He was so close that Gaia could see herself completely reflected in his Ray-Bans. With her left hand on the roof of the Altima and her right hand on the open door, she swung a two-legged double scissor kick that knocked the gun out of his hand and bashed her other foot against the man’s jaw while the gun was still sailing through the air. The agent jerked backward, his back arching, blood spraying from his mouth. Gaia landed on both feet and drove her right arm against his neck. The agent toppled backward to the ground, unconscious.

  “Stop right there!” the second agent yelled, pointing his own gun two-handed at her face. More people were yelling, ducking, screaming back at the building. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  There was really no choice but a straight standing attack—she had to charge the gun. Some part of her mind knew that even a federal agent given direct orders to kill her wouldn’t shoot her in the face as she attacked—his training would make him hesitate for a split second—but it wasn’t a conscious choice. Gaia launched herself into the air and dove directly onto the agent, knocking the gun down and pushing him backward onto the hot asphalt of the parking lot, landing on top of him. Getting her wind back while the agent tried to stand up, Gaia drove her interlocked fists into his head, once and then again until he was unconscious.

  Stumbling backward, she rose shakily to her feet, looking around. The crowd stared back at her, not moving or speaking.

  Don’t pass out, Gaia told herself. Come on—don’t pass out.

  The sky was a vast blue dome overhead, and the sunlight dazzled her. Panting, Gaia leaned back on the door of the Altima, edging around the other agent, who appeared to be waking up. His gun was on the ground twenty feet away; Gaia wondered if she should do something about that and realized she didn’t have time—she could already hear sirens approaching.

  She dropped into the driver’s seat, checking that her laptop—with the precious Web page that revealed Catherine’s location—was safe. Reaching to pull the door closed, Gaia furiously willed herself not to faint as she started the engine. She had to back out carefully, avoiding the two agents in black suits lying on the ground. Once she was safely past them, she sped up the exit lane, merging back into the interstate traffic and quickly accelerating as the rest stop disappeared behind her.

  I’m coming, Catherine, Gaia thought. I’m on my way.

  second chance

  SUDDENLY ALTERED BEHAVIOR

  Watching the Quantico streets go by, Kim wondered if he was handling this new “partnership” correctly. Next to him in the driver’s seat Will was also gazing out at the town, following the directions they had been given by phone. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the two of them had spent the whole day together on the lollipop case.

  Kim wasn’t sure if he should take this opportunity to have another conversation with Will. He knew what he would say: he wanted to apologize for being so aggressive the night before. It was my first day as a “real” agent, he would tell Will. I’m sorry I got in your face. It’s easy to criticize what someone else is doing—especially if you’ve never done it yourself.

  But Kim hadn’t said a word.

  There was a specific reason for this. From the moment he and Will had met up at the Quantico courthouse that morning, Kim instantly knew that something had happened. Will had changed. To Kim, the difference between Will’s behavior the night before in the dorms and today as they busied themselves with the case was as vivid as black and white. Will was in a completely different mood.

  He was whistling to himself at breakfast in the cafeteria. He laughed too much at some of the trainees’ jokes at the table, but then at other times he seemed to be off in some kind of private reverie, not listening to the people around him at all. Kim caught him smiling for no reason at least once.

  And—the most peculiar thing—each time the two of them got anywhere near a computer connected to the Internet, Will seemed to linger. It was so subtle that Kim barely noticed it, but three times Will had craned his neck, slowing down and dragging his feet when he saw someone using a Web browser. Kim almost expected him to say, Hang on one second, Kim—I know we’re investigating a serial killer, but I have this sudden urge to go shop for books on Amazon.

  Strange.

  The funny thing was that Will’s suddenly altered behavior was recognizable. It reminded him of the way that Will used to get around Gaia Moore. Kim once told Catherine Sanders that he knew Gaia and Will liked each other before either of them knew it—the spark that had passed between them was so blindingly obvious to Kim on those first few days as trainees that he found it endlessly amusing to watch them earnestly pretend they didn’t like each other.

  And now Will was back in that same state of mind. If Kim didn’t know better, he would have guessed that Will and Gaia were in contact with each other—that they had talked on the phone or had some kind of conversation.

  And of course, that was impossible. It was obvious that Will’s phone, mail (both paper and electronic), and all other communication were being monitored. Kim assumed that his was, too. And they both had firm standing orders from Special Agent Malloy to report any attempts by Gaia to contact either of them.

  So there was no way Will and Gaia were talking.

  Yet Kim felt sure he was missing something. Will was working very, very hard all day on the case. It was almost like he wanted to get it all done early so that he could go do something else. It reminded him of a kid hurrying home after school to catch a favorite TV program.

  But he couldn’t imagine what else Will needed to do besides catch the lollipop killer. And he wasn’t about to ask. But Kim had decided to keep his eyes open when around Will and see what he could figure out on his own.

  “Here it is,” Will said, pointing out the windshield at a drab, two-story office building. “Ready, partner?”

  “Sure,” Kim said, adjusting his badge and gun yet again. It was going to take him a while to get used to walking around among actual citizens while wearing a firearm. Will seemed to have taken to it like a natural, but for Kim it still felt a little bit like playing cowboys and Indians. He got his notebook and pen together as Will eased into a parking spot in front of their destination. “You go first—I’ll follow.”

  “No, not today,” Will said, looking over. “Listen, I’m sorry again about what happened yesterday. Why don’t you be primary today? I’ll follow your lead. Let’s see how that goes.”

  Kim looked back at Will. He couldn’t read his face at all. But something’s up, he thought again. He’s not even thinking about me right now. His mind’s a million miles away somewhere.

  As they slammed the car doors and dashed up the steps and in
to the building, various Quantico passersby looked at them curiously. Kim kept a blank facial expression, trying to look casual as Will checked the building’s directory.

  “Here it is,” Will said, pointing. “SecondChanceVA.com—on the second floor.”

  Vaulting up the stairs, Will made an exaggerated show of holding the doors for Kim when they passed the pebbled-glass sign that read SECOND CHANCE and, below that, Virginia’s Best Online Singles Service.

  NOTHING TO HIDE

  They entered the office. It was a small, carpeted waiting room with a few upholstered chairs and couches where five or ten young men and women sat reading magazines or filling out forms on clipboards and generally pretending that they didn’t see one another. There was a window with a counter behind it, like in a drugstore, where two or three staff people stood around, dealing with paperwork.

  These are the “singles,” Will realized, looking at the chairs’ occupants. He didn’t know how much of SecondChance’s business came from the Web site and how much from people walking in; it was one of the things that they needed to find out.

  The singles in the room were mostly divorcees, Kim figured, based on the Web site’s statistical projections. As Will and Kim came through the room in their suits and ties, the singles glanced up at them and quickly away. Lonely people, Kim thought. It was very obvious. He could tell from the naked openness of their faces, from the neediness in their eyes that they revealed and then immediately hid from view.

  Will was leaning on the counter, smiling back at Kim as he waited for him to catch up. He’s being a model of courtesy, Kim realized—he wants to make up for yesterday.