Shadow of the Lions

by Christopher Swann

  “Drink this,” Trip said to me. “Ignore the marine. Come on, drink it.”

  I took the cup and waved Trip off. “I can drink it all by myself, honest,” I said. “I just . . . got dizzy for a second. Lot to take in.” I took a sip of water and concentrated on breathing. “I guess I almost fainted,” I said after a few moments. “Never happened to me before.”

  “Well,” Diamond said, “I have been known to have that effect on people. Though typically they look much better than you.”

  Trip and Diamond pulled up chairs and sat across from me, perched on the edge of the bed. “So,” I said, feeling on the cusp of something momentous—a feeling that, at the same time, I found ludicrous. “Don’t take this the wrong way, guys, but why the surprise reunion? And why meet in some hotel outside of Culpeper? Why not in D.C.?”

  “Because D.C.’s wired six ways to Sunday with surveillance,” Trip said.

  I smiled. “What, Big Brother is watching us?”

  Diamond’s mouth quirked. “You have no idea,” he said.

  Trip said, “I called Diamond and asked if he would help me with a little research.”

  “About Fritz?” I asked.

  Trip looked at Diamond and then back at me. “About his father’s company, NorthPoint.”

  I turned to Diamond, whose face was expressionless. “What do you know about NorthPoint?” I asked. I think I kept my voice relatively calm.

  Trip and Diamond glanced at each other. “Just so we’re clear,” Diamond said, “I am saying and doing nothing that compromises national security.”

  “Um, okay,” I said. “Do I need to take some kind of oath or something?”

  In a low voice, Trip said, “He’s serious, Matthias.”

  I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I get it. I’m not asking anybody to compromise national security, for Christ’s sake. I just want to know what happened to Fritz. Do you know something, Diamond? Trip?”

  A few moments passed in taut silence. Then Trip and Diamond both leaned forward to talk, and then stopped, unwilling to interrupt each other. Curiously, it was Diamond who leaned back and gestured to Trip to start.

  “Okay,” Trip said, running his hands through his hair as if slicking it back. “NorthPoint’s been contracting with the government for years, ever since Fritz’s father started it back in the eighties. But since Nine/Eleven, it’s mushroomed. More office buildings, more employees, lots of new areas of interest.”

  “What does that have to do with Fritz?”

  “I’ll get there,” Trip said. “Just follow me. NorthPoint was a privately owned company until 1997 when they went public. They needed investor money, and they got it. Allowed them to push through R and D in several areas, get more contracts with Uncle Sam, and become a major player. I couldn’t find any financials on NorthPoint before ’ninety-seven—one of the privileges of being a privately owned company up to that point—but I was able to find budget info for them after they went public. And in 2000, they had one curious item: a three-hundred-thousand-dollar increase in payment to Alliance, a private detective firm in Reston, Virginia.”

  I tamped down my irritation and played along. “So they hired private detectives,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “Why would a security company earning millions of dollars a year hire private detectives?” Trip asked. “They’d have their own guys. Why hire outside people?” He looked at me encouragingly, but I shrugged, not getting it. “Corporate espionage,” Trip said. “Companies spying on companies, stealing trade secrets, research, technology. This isn’t like Pepsi trying to steal Coke’s formula, though. This is one IT company trying to steal another IT company’s latest project so they can develop it. Problem is, the latest project is a government contract, which means money and power and—if the wrong people get their hands on the project—maybe even a threat to national security. So companies like these will hire private detectives to dig up dirt on competitors, or find out who leaked details about the new gizmo to another company. In December of 2000, NorthPoint’s budget for private detective services spiked.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. Which is why I called Captain Cooper.” Trip turned to Diamond with a light flourish. For his part, Diamond just sat in his chair, shoulders back, feet flat on the floor, hands resting on his knees. “He’s involved in military intel,” Trip continued. “Which is why he’s very clear about what he will and will not share.”

  I shook my head. “The Marines are involved in . . . spying? I thought that was the CIA.”

  Diamond snorted. “Every service branch has an intelligence service,” he said. “Army, navy, air force, coast guard. And most definitely the Corps.”

  Trip leaned forward. “Matthias, this goes beyond the military or organizations like the CIA. There’s an entire community in America that thrives on top-secret work. And when I say community, I’m not talking about some secret town in the desert. I’m talking about more than a thousand government organizations, two thousand private companies.”

  I took this in for a second. “Private companies like NorthPoint,” I said.

  Diamond and Trip both nodded. It was Diamond’s turn to sit forward. “NorthPoint works with the Corps, the navy, NSA, DIA,” he said. “Cyber ops is one area they’re involved in.”

  “Cyber ops?”

  “Cyber operations,” Diamond said. “Digital espionage and warfare. Imagine attacking an enemy through his computer network, crippling his communications, his logistics. Or stealing intel by hacking into his database. Designing defenses to keep others from doing the same to your computer systems. That’s one area NorthPoint is into, big-time. Add in surveillance technology, satellite imagery, technical intelligence of all kinds, and NorthPoint is a player. Upward of a billion dollars in revenue a year.”

  Stubbornly, I said, “I still don’t see what this has to do with Fritz.”

  Diamond held up a finger, as if shushing me. “Three months before Fritz disappeared, NorthPoint dropped a lot of cash on private detectives. More than twice what they’d ever spent before.”

  “That doesn’t mean the two are connected.”

  “True,” Diamond said. “It’s simply a point of reference.” Now he held up two fingers. “Point number two,” he said. “After Fritz goes missing, the feds get involved. Then one week later, they drop it. That didn’t make sense to me. Your deputy friend was right—the FBI doesn’t get involved and then just walk away. So I talked to a buddy of mine at Justice, ex-marine. He did some digging and told me that the Davenports called an old friend of theirs at the FBI, two days after Fritz went missing. Friend’s name is Jeff Jacobsen. He was assistant director of the FBI’s cyber division. Soon after that, the FBI shows up at Blackburne.”

  I was growing frustrated. “Diamond, we already know they called the FBI.”

  Diamond shook his head. “Not they, Matthias. It was Mary Davenport who called.”

  I frowned. “Mrs. Davenport? Fritz’s mother?”

  Now Trip spoke. “Jacobsen wasn’t just an old family friend. He dated a girl named Mary Gillespie in college. She broke up with Jacobsen to go out with another classmate, Frank Davenport. And now she’s Fritz’s mother.”

  I stared at him. “Exactly how much did you find out about the Davenports?”

  Trip shrugged. “You asked me to dig. I dug.”

  I got up off the bed and started pacing around. I’d discovered while teaching that I liked to do this when I thought, especially out loud. “Okay, so what? Mrs. Davenport calls up an old boyfriend at the FBI. Makes sense. Her son’s missing. I’d do the same thing.”

  Diamond looked at me. “It was Fritz’s dad who called Jacobsen back and told him to drop it.”

  I stopped pacing and sat down on the bed again. I felt I needed something solid underneath me. “Mrs. Davenport calls an old boyfriend to ask for help in finding her son,” I said slowly, “and within a week her husband calls the same guy and tells him to stop looking. W
hy the fuck would he do that?”

  “Had to be difficult for both of them,” Trip said. “Mary Davenport calls up Jacobsen, who she dumped in college, and asks him for help finding her son, and then Frank Davenport calls Jacobsen and tells him to quit helping.”

  “Why would Jacobsen listen to Davenport?” I asked.

  “Money,” Diamond said. “NorthPoint had a contract with the FBI to help them upgrade their IT systems, which sucked, frankly. Jacobsen ran the cyber division, so he was in charge of managing the contract on the FBI’s end.”

  “So, what, Davenport threatened to break the contract?”

  Trip gave a wry grin. “Nothing like blackmailing the FBI,” he said. “And it worked. Would’ve cost millions if NorthPoint had walked away and the FBI had to start over. Jacobsen would’ve been demoted or fired.”

  I stared. “You have proof of all this, I’m assuming.”

  Trip snorted. “Legal proof, as in court of law? Not a chance. But it’s what happened, or something close to it. I’ve got my own sources at Justice that confirm what Diamond found out.”

  I sat on the bed, rubbing my hands on my knees and trying to comprehend all of this. “This is the point where you tell me what this has to do with Fritz,” I said.

  “Let’s assume,” Trip said, “that the Davenports really wanted to find out what happened to their son. Calling in the FBI makes sense. But when the feds start poking around—and they are nothing if not thorough, these guys—who knows what they might find.”

  I stared at them both. “Something big enough to keep the Davenports from wanting to find their son?”

  “Big enough to want them to get rid of the FBI, anyway,” Diamond said.

  I shook my head, remembering Mr. Davenport’s anger and frustration almost boiling off him. “You didn’t see Fritz’s dad,” I said. “After Fritz vanished, he came to our room. He wanted . . .” I paused, searching my memory. “He wanted to know where Fritz was,” I said slowly, still thinking. “But he asked me—he asked me something else. Before he screamed at me, he asked me . . .” Various scenes cycled through my brain, and suddenly I was watching the right one. “He asked me what Fritz said. He wanted to know what Fritz and I had talked about.”

  Trip frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “What if Fritz knew something, something about NorthPoint? And his dad wanted to know if he’d said something—something to me?”

  Trip shook his head, still frowning. “Why would Fritz say something to you about his father’s business?”

  I ignored him. “Three months earlier, NorthPoint hired private detectives and paid them for a lot of work. What if they were up to something illegal? Or they were helping cover up something illegal that NorthPoint had done?”

  “And two months after Nine/Eleven,” Diamond said, nodding slowly in agreement, “NorthPoint wins a contract with CENTCOM. Had to do with miniaturizing electromagnetic spectrum sensors. The kind of thing used on Predator drones. You can guess how much that was worth. If that had fallen through, NorthPoint might have stalled and missed out on all that government cash.”

  Trip raised his arms, palms up and spread apart. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

  “I’m looking for a motive,” I said.

  “You think Davenport had his son disappear?”

  “I don’t know, Trip. That’s why we’re meeting.”

  “We’re meeting because you asked me to dig into the Davenports. And I found some evidence to suggest that Davenport called off the feds because they might find out something that would ruin his company, not that he . . . offed his own kid.”

  I thought again about Mr. Davenport in my room, surging up in my face and screaming at me. Was this the behavior of a concerned parent at the breaking point? Or of someone desperate to hide something?

  “Does Mrs. Davenport have anything to do with NorthPoint?” I asked.

  Trip blinked, clearly not expecting this. “No,” he said. “She helps raise money for charities, organizes flower shows, things like that. Nothing to do with NorthPoint.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so Mrs. Davenport just wants her son back, which is why she calls the FBI. But Mr. Davenport quietly arranges for the FBI to get off the case. He knows something his wife doesn’t. Another point in favor of NorthPoint being involved somehow.”

  Trip shook his head again. “I don’t think Frank Davenport had his son . . . erased. I don’t buy it.”

  “You’re telling me the thought didn’t cross your mind?”

  “For about a second before it died a righteous death. The parents are the first people the cops look at. And Frank Davenport isn’t a fool. He could convince the feds not to look into NorthPoint, but he couldn’t keep them away if there was even a hint that he murdered his own son. There’s no way, Matthias. Diamond, help me out here.”

  I looked at Diamond. His military uniform was crisp, his shoes polished so they shone like dark mirrors. He’s killed people, I thought suddenly. My old roommate had probably shot and killed insurgents in Iraq. The thought seemed to blow a fuse in my brain; for a moment, I couldn’t comprehend anything but the idea that Diamond had taken someone else’s life. Slowly, Diamond shook his head. “I’m with Trip on this one, Matthias. It’s not impossible, but I don’t think it’s likely. I’ve met Davenport a couple of times. He’s ruthless, and maybe he did something that he didn’t want exposed, but I don’t see him hiring someone to kill Fritz. Too risky, makes him too vulnerable.” He eyed me. “That doesn’t answer your question, though.”

  “Question?”

  He shrugged, almost sadly. “What happened to Fritz?” he said.

  I glanced at Trip, who sat back as if my glance had pushed him back into his seat. “Don’t even think about asking me to look into that,” he said. “I’ve used up a lot of favors to get this info. No way am I going to start asking people whether or not they think Frank Davenport could have had his own son disappear.”

  “I get that,” I said. “And thanks for what you’ve found. But you think Fritz’s disappearance might somehow be tied into NorthPoint?”

  Trip shrugged. “Looks possible. Although we don’t know how.”

  Slowly, I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “No worries. I’ve got another idea.”

  A FEW HOURS LATER, evening fell as I drove into Washington. I’d been to D.C. several times, mostly on day trips from Blackburne when I was a student, and my view of the nation’s capital was complicated, a blend of postcard images of the White House and the Capitol with a kind of nausea of the soul, an inherent distaste for political machinations. Overlying all of this was a thin but bright layer of romantic idealism, like a coat of varnish on a moldering but beloved oil painting. No matter how cynical I could be, there was something about driving over the Potomac on the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge and seeing the crystalline blaze of the Kennedy Center reflected in the water, or the white columns of the Lincoln Memorial, or the obelisk of the Washington Monument thrust into the indigo sky—these sights gladdened and quickened something within me. It was not without regret that as soon as I crossed the river, I curved to the left, leaving the familiar sight of the Kennedy Center behind as I headed for K Street and Georgetown.

  Soon I found my destination, an impressive brick town house near Twenty-Sixth and P Street. By a stroke of luck, I found a parking spot only two blocks away and walked through the bitter night air, my feet crunching on road salt and the icy remnants of the storm that had tapered off that afternoon. I felt as if a cold block of marble were lying against the exposed skin on the back of my neck. But the view of the town house was almost as salutary as a good fire. The structure was in the Federal style, neatly proportioned but clearly renovated and painted a dark terra-cotta. The windows gave off a warm glow, while the black shutters gleamed in the soft light thrown by the streetlamps. The brass knocker on the front door was the size of a ship’s anchor. After foregoing the knocker for the doorbell, I heard the muffled chimes of the opening passage of
Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro ring inside.

  Footsteps, then a murmured exchange followed by laughter. The doorknob turned with a solid chunk, and the door swung open to reveal Wat Davenport in a charcoal-gray flannel suit, a highball glass in one hand. His smooth, tanned face creased in a smile. “Matthias, there you are. Get in here out of the cold.” He stepped aside, ushering me in.

  In the foyer, which was flanked by white built-ins and mantled with a coffered ceiling, stood another man, shorter, less commanding than Wat. He wore the navy-blue suit of someone in government. Wat turned to the man and said, “Bob, this is Matthias Glass, an old family friend.”

  Bob’s handshake and greeting were polite and perfunctory, and as he stepped past me for the door, he turned his head and said, “Thanks again, Wat. I’m forever grateful.”

  Wat beamed. “A fact I shall surely remind you of,” he said. “Say hi to Doris for me.”

  After the door shut behind Bob, I turned to Wat. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

  Wat waved his hand, the gesture both a dismissal and a benediction. “Business. What else?”

  “Is he a client?”

  “Oh, no. A congressman.” Wat took me by the arm. “Let me show you around.”

  The town house was a series of bright, open spaces anchored by neutral-toned couches and armchairs, with strategically placed throw pillows of vibrant orange. Modern, abstract artwork hung on the walls, creating the sense of a place that was somewhere between a gallery and a home. A stacked pile of logs burned cheerfully in a massive white fireplace. Classical music played from hidden speakers—Beethoven, maybe, or Tchaikovsky. We passed through a formal dining room with heavy drapes and slipcovered chairs and walked into the kitchen, a sleek affair of wood and chrome and marble countertops. Here, Wat topped off his whiskey and poured me a glass of wine. “Abby told me she’d seen you,” he said, corking the bottle. “At the Game.”

  I took a rather large sip of excellent Shiraz, stalling. I had no intention of talking about how that meeting with Abby had gone. “Um-hmm,” I managed. “Yes, I did. See her.”