“It does,” Leah answered.
“So, you’re the one who plays around with upper case and lower case, and editorial extrapolations about what Jake might have meant in between the actual words. Is it BAKER or BAKER, with an upper case B?”
“I have no idea, Frank. Jake typed it as lower case. I’m guessing he would have typed it as upper case if that’s what he meant. Except, if he was in a hurry, he might not have had time to hit the upper case key, even if that’s what he meant.”
“And the second word, I’m guessing it’s an acronym, as to which the case wouldn’t matter,” Frank said. “He might have typed it in lower case simply because it was faster and easier.”
“Plus, people often don’t bother with upper case in emails and texts,” Leah said.
“Finally, the third word—or character—is even more vague,” Frank said. “Is it just the letter, or is it some kind of an abbreviation, given the dash that follows it?”
“To me,” Leah responded, “the dash suggests that Jake intended something more than just the letter. Why else would Jake have taken the time to add a dash? Also, this suggests, again, that Jake was in a hurry and ran out of time. What was rushing him?”
“So, the first word could mean someone who bakes cakes,” Frank said, “which doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. Or, it could also mean the name of a person—coincidentally, including our current president—which again is not very helpful, and is even more intriguing if, for some reason, Jake did mean our president. Do you have any idea? Do you know what the acronym in Jake’s second email stands for?”
“I have no idea,” Leah responded.
“Could the acronym possibly have anything to do with our president?” Frank asked.
“I told you, I have no idea!” Leah repeated, raising her voice again.
“And why do you think our house and your phone might be bugged?” Frank asked.
“That’s easy. Jake hadn’t used JK’s Code with me in years. He would have had no reason to do so now, unless he was concealing what he was trying to tell me from someone he thought would intercept or see his emails. It would have been easier and quicker for Jake to just tell me what he wanted me to know. If he thought someone was watching him, it stands to reason that someone may also be watching me.”
Frank nodded ever so slightly.
“Out in front of our home, you said the second email might have been written by someone who had a couple of drinks too many,” Leah said. “In that same light, it could have been written by someone who was having a stroke.”
“Hon, I just said what I did to try and keep things light,” Frank replied.
“I know, but when I think more about it, I rule out both of those possibilities. JK’s Code requires too much precision. I don’t think a drunk, or one in the midst of having some kind of a stroke or a seizure, could have put those two emails together. I think Jake’s trouble is coming from a third party.”
“That does make sense,” Frank said.
Leah got the impression that Frank might finally be coming around. That wasn’t a solution, but at least it was a start—to have someone on her side. And Jake’s.
JAKE TRIED TO KEEP track of how long the car ride was. One thousand one, one thousand two. He kept counting as best he could, but it was hard to concentrate. As near as he could tell, it was around thirty minutes when the car came to a stop, and the engine was turned off. He listened for conversation, anything that might help. Nothing. Who the hell are these guys? Alistair Dobbs, the Georgia election official guy, mentioned POTUS and EBCOM. Ala Jake’s Code, maybe that will mean something to Leah. Wanted to add my code for Atlanta, but it was either code for A- and hit send, or there wasn’t going to be any second email. Hopefully, it will help. Half a loaf …
The captors unhooked him from the SUV door, but kept the handcuffs and hood on. They led him somewhere through a succession of doors. There was a little talking, but lots of electronic noises and clicks.
Finally, he was given a shove, and thought he was being knocked to the ground—until he felt some kind of a cot break his fall. He was shivering. He couldn’t tell if it was just him, or because it was cold. “Do I get a blanket?” he yelled out to no one in particular. No one answered, and no one brought him a blanket. “Don’t I get my one phone call?” he again yelled out.
“Haha,” someone shouted back. “Ain’t you the comedian.” Nice to know I’m appreciated. And not alone. Rather have a hot shower, a change of clothes, and a glass of warm milk. Wonder if Leah got my emails, the closest it seems I’m going to get to my one call. He was trying to think positive.
He heard his hosts depart, whispering something among themselves he couldn’t make out. He was still cuffed and hooded, lying there uncomfortably on the cot, the cuffs digging into his wrists. The springs of the cot poked against his side. The ache in his shoulders grew worse, thanks to the handcuffs pinning his arms behind his back. He couldn’t find a more comfortable position. It was hard breathing under the hood. Wherever he was, it was dank, but he couldn’t tell if it was the hood or the room he was in, or both.
They weren’t just holding him captive. They were also going out of their way to intimidate him. He was doing his best not to panic, but it was against long odds.
Sometime later, he couldn’t tell exactly when, he sensed that he was no longer alone. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pinch in his shoulder, like the sting of a wasp he remembered from more otherwise pleasant summer days in his past. He felt dizzy and then everything went black—blacker than it already was under his hood.
CHAPTER 95
July 16, 2020, One Day Later
AMIR HAD CONTINUED DRIVING nonstop through the night. He was tired, but he knew that receiving no calls from Jake was not a good sign. He had to get to Jake’s sister. He didn’t remember her name, but knew she lived somewhere around D.C. and was a lawyer. She had given Jake some immigration information that Jake had passed along to him with her contact information in case he needed her help. He hoped she would be able to help Jake.
The contact information was in his apartment in New Haven. He would have to go there first, find her contact information, and then drive to D.C. It would not be good for him to call her because she didn’t actually know him, and his poor English wouldn’t help.
He heard the sirens behind him. Sirens were a bad thing in Kazakhstan. He was frightened. The cop, who was wearing a mask, pulled alongside him on a motorcycle and motioned for him to pull over onto the shoulder of the highway. He did as he was directed, and turned off the engine. Amir hurriedly put on his mask as the officer walked over to the car. He could see the officer’s hand on his holster. Definitely not good. The cop signaled him to lower his window. He did.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry. No see fire.”
“Did you know you were doing 80 in a 65-mile limit?”
“Sorry. Not know.”
“Where are you from?”
“From New Haven, Connecticut, USA.”
“Before that?”
“Kazakhstan.”
“Never heard of it. Where’s it at?”
“Europe.” Not say Eastern Europe. Better?
“Do you have permission to be in America?”
“Yes. Am asylee. Have papers.”
“Asylee? Let me see them papers.”
Amir reached toward his glove compartment.”
“Whoa. The officer pulled his gun from his holster. Keep your damn hands where I can see them!”
“Yes. Sorry. Papers in glove compartment.”
“Okay. Slowly.” The officer waved his gun toward the glove compartment.
Amir held his left hand in the air and moved his right hand to open the glove compartment. Slowly. He pulled out his passport with the asylum form and handed them to the cop. Slowly.
“Asylee? What the hell is that?” the cop asked.
“Means right to be in U.S. of A. Very pleased be here.”
The cop looked at t
he picture in the passport, and then looked at Amir.
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Do you have a fever?”
“No. Not cough either. Not tired. Taste and smell good.”
The officer nodded. “Take off your mask.”
Amir did as he was told. Slowly.
The officer looked at the passport photo and then at Amir again. “Not a very good picture.”
“Yes. Mother say same.” Try be funny. Make friend.
“Why are you sweating?”
“In Kazakhstan, stop by officer, very scary.”
“You sure you don’t have a temperature?”
“Sure. Yes. No temperature.”
“Is this your car?”
“Yes. Drive for Uber in home town, New Haven, Connecticut, USA.”
“Let me see your driver’s license and registration.”
“In glove compartment. Okay?”
“Slowly. Very slowly.” He tightened the grip on his gun.
Amir handed his license and registration to the officer.
He looked at them and checked them on a handheld device. After a few minutes, he returned all of Amir’s papers to him. “Okay, I’m going to let you off with just a warning this time because you seem like a nice guy. Keep it under 65.”
“Yes. Thank you, Mr. Officer.” Amir wiped his dripping forehead with the back of his hand as he drove off, slowly, relieved that the officer hadn’t asked him why a man from Kazakhstan was traveling on a Bermuda passport.
POTUS, BAKER, JR. AND AUSTIN stood around on the driving range. “It really pisses me off to have to come over here to get away from those goddamn mandatory official White House recording devices. Like those cops now having to wear body cams. I’m the goddamned President of the United States. People shouldn’t be trying to record what I say. And they shouldn’t be wasting tax dollars trying to get my tax returns. What I say in my tax returns is nobody’s business but my own. All this nonsense isn’t going to continue much longer.”
Austin and Baker, Jr. smiled knowingly.
“Okay, what’s the poop on this schmuck, Klein?” Baker asked.
Austin proudly responded, “We got him. Locked up tighter than a walnut held between two butt cheeks.”
“Where?” POTUS asked.
“United States Penitentiary, Atlanta,” Austin answered.
“Visitors not permitted, right?” POTUS asked.
“Right, because of COVID-19 risks,” Austin said.
“Hmm, would be too bad if he came down with that. How long can we hold him incommunicado?”
“Actually, Dad, we don’t have the right to hold him incommunicado at all,” Baker, Jr. said.
“Who the fuck says? I’m the goddamned President of the United States. If I wanna hold him incommunicado, I can. Period! The son of a bitch is a treasonist. That’s a capital offense.”
“You mean he’s guilty of treason?” Austin asked.
That’s what I said, didn’t I?”
And who says I can’t hold him avocado if I want? You didn’t answer me about that, Junior.”
“Your Attorney General does,” Baker, Jr. said. “And you did mean incommunicado, right?”
“Yeah? Well, you tell the Attorney General I appointed him, I made him, and I can fire him. Tell him he better do some more research because I’m thinking of doing the same to all of these asshole protesters—the ones in Portland, Los Angeles, and Chicago. And around the White House. They’re treasonists too. Why the hell do you think I’m egging them on? You think I don’t know what I’m doing? And how come you don’t laugh at my jokes, Junior? I made you, and I can fire you too.”
Baker, Jr. laughed—sort of—POTUS didn’t.
LEAH WOKE UP FROM a restless night’s sleep, mostly past her anxiety, and ready to confront the task before her. Frank had a security firm he worked with sweep their home earlier that morning to verify there were no bugs planted anywhere in their home. He also bought Leah a new laptop computer and smartphone that she could use without having to worry about any planted backdoor hacking entrances.
Steaming coffee mug in hand, Leah was all over the internet looking for any sign of something or someone called EBCOM. A- was not even worth a try. Maybe it will mean something if I can first find EBCOM. Once again, directly typing EBCOM into her browser produced nothing, not through Google, not through Wikipedia, not through YouTube, and not through any other search engine.
She decided she would try searching on Dustin Baker to see if that brought up any references to EBCOM. The theory might have been good, but there were dozens of pages of entries under Dustin Baker.
Next, she searched on the White House Chief of Staff, the White House legal counsel, and all other White House executives. Again, nothing referring to EBCOM. Can’t give up.
She went through each member of Baker’s cabinet. Nothing after nothing after nothing. Until a little glimmer cropped up when she searched on the Secretary of Defense. On the eighth page of Google, she found it. A link that included the word EBCOM. There was no indication of what the letters stood for, but it was apparently some kind of committee on which the Secretary of Defense was a member.
The brief article appeared in a nondescript D.C. blog. The byline attributed the story to a journalist by the name of Regina Liu. The subject of Liu’s blog was whether it was appropriate for White House cabinet members to sit on private for profit committees. In her blog, Liu said she tried, but was unable to obtain an interview of the Secretary of Defense or to find out anything about what EBCOM was or does.
ANYA WAS NOT HAPPY returning home to Russia without knowing what Jake’s fate was, what exactly “it’s over” meant. It was not likely that she would learn more under Turgenev’s need-to-know philosophy. If she didn’t return home soon, she knew her handler would send someone after her.
Anya’s long blonde hair was now short, dark and cropped, made possible by the scissors and bottle of dye hidden away among the bare essentials packed into her roller bag. She omitted her laptop and smartphone, which she intentionally left behind in her Cambridge apartment. She stopped at a nearby computer store and purchased a new laptop and smartphone.
She made the purchases using a credit card in a name unknown to her handler. She set up her new devices using credentials that matched the credit card she used to make the purchases.
She called an Uber, again using the credit card with which she made her electronic purchases, and headed for the train station. She used cash to purchase her train ticket.
LEAH SAT IN THE coffee shop opposite Regina Liu.
Frank had wanted to accompany her. “Remember, we’re a team,” he’d said. “Besides, interrogations are what I do.”
Leah had overruled him. “I’m afraid two of us might prove intimidating. Furthermore, I know how to take a deposition, too, if it comes to that.”
Liu seemed quite nice and forthcoming, and they quickly dispensed with formalities and last names.
“I want to thank you again for meeting with me, Regina, especially on such short notice.”
“My pleasure. You’re the first one besides me who has shown any interest in EBCOM. Plus, I’m also curious to know exactly what your interest is.”
Leah was afraid that if she explained her true motives, she might scare Liu away. Also, Cyrus always tells me whoever goes first loses. “Curious is a good choice of words. A friend of mine asked me if I had ever heard of EBCOM. I Googled it, but I couldn’t find anything. That made me curious. Then I stumbled across your article, and here we are.”
“I think you’re probably the only one who’s ever read my article. How in the world did you find it?” Liu asked.
“I honestly don’t recall,” Leah lied. “I was just looking around here and there, and stumbled across it somewhere.” She paused and hoped that would do the trick—it did. Liu actually seemed quite pleased to have someone with whom to share her EBCOM journey.
Liu explained that her editor, an ar
dent Republican and Baker fan, had assigned her to do a puff piece on Baker’s cabinet. In researching the Secretary of Defense, she came across an obscure reference to EBCOM and wondered what it was. She couldn’t find any other references to the name, including in the Secretary’s public bio. She guessed it was a committee or association of some kind, and wondered whether cabinet members generally sat on private committees or associations.
She called the Secretary and tried to set up an interview. In passing, she mentioned EBCOM to the Secretary’s assistant. He professed not to know what it was, but said he would get back to her on the interview time. When he called back, he said that the Secretary did not do interviews. Liu found that odd. If the Secretary didn’t do interviews, why wasn’t that explained to her initially? She wondered if it had anything to do with her inquiry about EBCOM.
Liu decided to try a less direct approach. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is the ranking U.S. military officer. He runs the Pentagon and reports to, and advises, POTUS, the Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor, who is the head of the National Security Council. While the National Security Advisor is not customarily a member of the White House Cabinet, membership on the cabinet is essentially a matter of presidential discretion and pro-military Baker includes the National Security Advisor on his cabinet.
Liu had gotten nowhere with the Secretary of Defense. She thought maybe she could get there with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, given his close relationship with the Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor.
Liu was able to secure an interview with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. When she showed up at the appointed time, the chairman’s assistant greeted her in the reception area of the Pentagon. She apologized profusely, but said the chairman was called away to an emergency meeting of EBCOM. The assistant rescheduled her interview.
When Liu returned for the rescheduled interview with the chairman, she was greeted by a new assistant. She asked about the assistant she had previously met. She was told that the former assistant was a temp, pinch-hitting for the woman speaking with Liu, and was now gone. Liu commented that she had enjoyed a pleasant chemistry with the temp during their brief exchange, and wondered if she might be given her name. The regular assistant responded that releasing that information would violate Pentagon privacy rules.
JK's Code (Brooks/Lotello Thriller Book 4) Page 25
