Tom Clancy Support and Defend

by Tom Clancy

  Ethan cracked a little smile for show, but he couldn’t quite hold Finn’s gaze as he turned to leave.

  This did not feel like a ploy to Ethan. Agent Finn seemed genuinely suspicious.

  18

  IN CONTRAST to the previous evening, tonight Dominic Caruso wasn’t out on the prowl for strange women or blundering into fistfights. For dinner he sat on his couch, eating left over Fra Diavolo that he’d warmed in the microwave, and he washed it down with a glass of water.

  He had other things on his mind now. The food was just fuel.

  Adara Sherman had called him yet again, shortly after he’d returned from his morning run, and again she asked if she could come over to check his wounds or run errands for him. Dom appreciated the gesture, although he was almost positive Gerry Hendley had asked Adara to do some drive-by wellness checks on him to make sure he was behaving himself and convalescing quietly at home.

  Dom told Adara he was fine and she’d not pressed him too hard. Gerry had probably orchestrated that as well, telling her not to push Dom right away.

  Gerry would see Adara as the one member of The Campus who could serve as a conduit between the rest of the force and Caruso. She wasn’t an operations officer, she was an employee of shell company that operated the Hendley Associates Gulfstream, which provided her a secondary layer of detachment from The Campus.

  Dom knew he’d have to interact with Sherman sooner or later, otherwise he’d get a call from Gerry. But for now, his mind was elsewhere.

  Dom’s conversation with the Mossad officer in Georgetown had determined his actions for the rest of this day. As soon as he got off the phone with Adara he called an ex–Mossad man he knew living in Maryland, who agreed to call the phone number on David’s card to see if this man was, in fact, representing Israel. An hour later Dom’s friend called back and verified David’s identity. He was, according to Dominic’s Israeli friend, an ex–IDF colonel now working for Mossad here in D.C.

  Satisfied he was not at risk of getting sucked into some sort of false-flag situation, Dom then reached out to FBI special agent Darren Albright, leaving two messages for him during the course of the afternoon. Albright hadn’t called him back yet, which pissed him off, but in the brief and fleeting moment when he put himself in Albright’s shoes he recognized the supervisory special agent in the Counterintelligence Division was probably busier than a one-armed fan dancer at the moment with the leak investigation at the NSC.

  Dom didn’t let him off the hook for not calling him back immediately, but he did force himself to hold off on leaving a third message on his voice mail.

  Now it was late evening, Dom was back in his bathroom, changing his bandages. He stripped a length of medical tape off a roll with his mouth, then he used it to secure a small square of white gauze over the stitches on his forearm. He repeated this once more, fixing the gauze in place with a second strip of tape. He was pleased with his work, and doubly so that he was healing quickly enough that he no longer needed the larger dressing on his arm.

  He’d just dropped the tape and gauze back into a drawer in his bathroom when his mobile phone rang. He snatched it off the vanity and answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Caruso? Albright here. I’m returning your call. Your calls, I should say.”

  “Hey, man. I appreciate it.”

  “Awfully busy. What can I do for you?”

  “Just wondering if you learned anything from the polys?”

  “I thought I told you I’d give you a call when I had something.”

  “You did. I’m just a pushy son of a bitch. Sorry about that.”

  “Right.”

  “Anything?”

  Albright hesitated before saying, “Not really. A couple of soft possibilities.”

  “Tell me about them.” Dom added, “Please.”

  After a long sigh, the special agent replied, “One of the NSC senior staffers, female. When I met her the other day she seemed agitated about the investigation. The examiner pressed her pretty hard, and the test came out inconclusive. I’m not too hopeful, even the examiner said she might just be so damn high-strung the machine had a hard time figuring her out, but I thought I’d circle back with a surprise visit to her office tomorrow, maybe shake her tree and see if anything falls out.”

  Dom thought that might be a good idea, though it didn’t sound like a promising lead. “You mentioned two possibles.”

  “Yeah, there is another NSC staffer who might warrant a closer look. Nothing definitive, but we’ll do some digging. No clear deception on the poly, another inconclusive. But on this guy the examiner thought something was fishy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The examiner is the best in the Bureau. He thought the subject was playing the system. You know, doing the old butthole clench, biting his cheek, taking meds to control his perspiration, shit like that.”

  “Does that work?”

  “Believe it or not, sometimes it does. We’ve caught guys at CIA and FBI and DoD who spied for decades and beat their annual polys the entire length of their careers. All people are different, the gadgetry can only do so much to account for the individual, but in the end it’s looking at a statistical mean. You can beat the exam by being different from the mean.”

  “And this character who tried to skew the box? What is his role at NSC?”

  “He’s assistant deputy in the Middle East and North Africa Division. His background is solid. Not a single red flag, although he’s not terribly well liked around the office. It doesn’t look too promising, but there is one thing about him that makes me a little more interested.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s dating a woman who works for a government technology contractor. She’s in the classified network security infrastructure field.”

  “Is she getting a poly?”

  “No. She had no specific access to the SS Ardahan files or even to the Eisenhower Building, and she is as clean as they come. It’s just worthy of note that this assistant dep at the NSC might have gleaned a little technical know-how from his girlfriend. Whoever moved those files to the file-sharing server knew how to hide their identity.”

  “What’s this assistant deputy’s name?”

  “Ross. Ethan J. Ross. His mom is Emily Ross.” That didn’t ring a bell with Caruso, and Albright registered this from the silence. “She’s a well-known biographer. Wrote a bunch of books about First Ladies and such. Can’t say I’ve ever read any. She’s got political clout, which means her boy might have gotten some preferential treatment along the way, but again, all his previous polys and security checks have been stellar.”

  Dom walked over to his couch and leaned over his laptop. He typed in “Ethan Ross” while he talked.

  “Did you meet this guy?”

  “I introduced myself. That’s all.”

  “What’s your take on him?”

  Albright snorted into the phone. “Caruso, if I could spot a spy by his handshake I’d be a fucking rock star. I don’t know.”

  “He’s going to get a tap and tail?”

  Another snort. “Hold your horses. Nothing like that yet. I don’t know how you boys do things in spookland, but we don’t put a package on everybody who raises an eyebrow. The examiner thinks he’s shady, but he didn’t fail the exam, so I can’t make him at person of interest until I find something else. I’ve already started digging into his work history a little more, pulling up earlier polys to look for anomalies. We’ll talk to his superiors about his attitude and water-cooler talk. That sort of thing. I’ll stop in his office tomorrow and give him the stink eye, see if he shits his pants.”

  “That’s it?”

  “If he warrants more attention, he’ll get it. Plus, I’ve got a hell of a stink eye. Believe me, I’ll tap the guy if he needs to be tapped.”

  While they spoke, Caruso had already Googled the man, and he found a bio and a picture of him from his days working at the White House. He enlarged th
e picture and stared into the eyes of a young, thin man sitting in front of a U.S. flag on a flagpole. He had blond hair and a nice suit and a little smile that Dom read as somewhat smug.

  “One more thing,” Dom said. “The polygraph examiner. You said he was the best in the Bureau.”

  “I did.”

  “That must be Jim Barker.”

  Albright whistled into the phone. “Damn, Caruso. You need to update your Rolodex. Barker moved out to L.A. three or four years ago. No, I’m talking about Rigoberto Finn. He’s in the Baltimore office, and he’s as good as they come. CID brings him down to D.C. regularly.”

  “Finn. Right,” Dom said, although he’d never heard of the man. He scribbled the name down on a pad next to his computer, along with the word “Baltimore.” Then he said, “And Finn says you need to work this Ross?”

  “He did, and I will. But I told you, it’s going to take some time.”

  “Then I won’t keep you on the phone. Darren, I really appreciate the call. If you get anything else—”

  “If I get anything else, I’ll call you. I promise I won’t forget about you out there in spookland.”

  “This isn’t spookland. This is my condo. It’s just me.”

  “Right.” Albright hung up.

  Dom continued looking at the photo slowly and carefully.

  Ross was a good-looking guy, Dom had to admit. He had his own Wikipedia page, too, but Dom found an article about him in the Post that looked more reliable. He was thirty-two, he was in Mensa, the organization for people with genius IQs. This article showed a picture of the man standing next to his mother, Emily Ross, and it identified her as an ex–U.S. ambassador and a longtime tenured professor at Georgetown.

  Caruso focused again on Ethan Ross. He looked into his eyes.

  “Are you the guy? Are you the fucker who got the Yacobys killed?”

  Dom had no idea if Ross was responsible, but at the same time, he had had no other real suspects. On a whim, he looked up Special Agent Rigoberto Finn’s mobile number on an FBI internal phone list. It was nearly eleven p.m., but he dialed it anyway.

  After enough rings to where Dom was certain it would roll to voice mail, a gruff and tired-sounding man answered.

  “Finn.”

  “Special Agent Finn, I’m very sorry to bother you so late. This is Special Agent Caruso calling from D.C.”

  After a couple of coughs to clear his throat, Finn said, “Dominic Caruso?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ll be damned. The President’s nephew.”

  “At your service.”

  “I remember you smoked that child killer down in Georgia a few years ago.”

  “Alabama. Yes, nasty business.”

  “That was a damn good shoot. What I would have given to be in your shoes just once in my career.”

  Dom cleared his throat uncomfortably, not sure what to say.

  Finn asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m calling about Ethan Ross. I understand you boxed him this afternoon.”

  “Yep. You working with Albright?”

  Dom waffled for a moment, looking for the least untrue thing he could say. “You know Darren. Eleven p.m. and I just got off the phone with him. I’m doing a little follow-up on Ross.”

  “Yeah, that Albright’s a ball buster. I’m still at the Hoover Building. He’s got me filing reports from today’s exams. I’ll be back at NSC first thing tomorrow, boxing another group of staffers.”

  “I hear you. About Ross . . . Darren said you liked him as a suspect?”

  “Maybe not a suspect, but a person of interest, for sure. Intelligent as hell, I could read that off of him instantly, but he was gaming the shit out of me.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I told Albright, and I’ll tell you. Ethan Ross went into that exam ready to obscure all relative physiological indices. People don’t go to that much trouble just for kicks. I don’t give a damn what the box says about the results. I had to mark it down as inconclusive, because Ross did a good job hiding his deception, but I’d bet my soon-to-be-relevant-and-insufficient pension that he was hiding something significant.”

  Dom thanked Finn for his time, and he hoped like hell the examiner would have no reason to mention this phone call the next time he spoke with Special Agent Albright, then he hung up. Dom next decided to spend the rest of the evening planning his one-man operation to look deep into the life of Ethan J. Ross.

  19

  A STEADY SLEET HISSED ON the streets of Georgetown, but Ethan jogged right through it. Anyone looking out a rowhouse window or driving by on this early morning would surely think the man in the orange windbreaker an exceptionally dedicated runner, but the truth was quite different. Rising an hour early to run through the streets had been hell on Ethan this morning, and now traipsing through sleet that burned his eyes and cheeks seemed insane, but he told himself he had to make the predawn check of the green fire hydrant on Wisconsin. He could have driven by, of course, but it would have been completely out of character for him to do so, and even with zero real tradecraft training, Ethan knew that would have raised red flags in the unlikely event he was being watched.

  He passed the hydrant and saw no telltale mark from Banfield. He wondered if it could have washed off in the weather, but he thought that unlikely, as the hydrant itself was dry. He continued on, jogging up 29th and leaving no mark behind himself. Although he wanted to talk to Banfield and Bertoli about yesterday’s polygraph, he decided to give it a day for things to quiet down before leaving a signal and heading back out to Fort Marcy.

  He continued alone through the sleet, lost in his thoughts. He was still apprehensive about the poly, even though he’d worked hard to convince himself he was just being paranoid. Even if Agent Finn had suspicions about his truthfulness, Ethan knew the best thing he could do for himself was remain calm and continue acting as if all was normal, both at home and at work.

  Finn had nothing, Albright had nothing, and if he just chilled out, Ethan told himself, he’d be fine.

  In an effort to play cool, he’d had Eve over the previous evening, they’d gone out for dinner at a Korean barbecue in Adams Morgan, and then they returned to his place to watch a movie until heading to bed. Eve made it clear halfway through the movie she wanted sex, But Ethan begged off. Again, he wasn’t in the mood.

  Eve was a little disappointed, but not too surprised. Ethan was normally the aggressor, but he’d seemed distracted lately.

  She spent the night, but went home early in the morning while Ethan was out on his run. Before she left she brewed him a pot of coffee and pulled his cup out of the cabinet, staging it for him next to the coffeemaker. On top of the cup she left a Post-it note with a heart on it that she drew with a Sharpie.

  Ethan returned from the run to the empty house, walked into his kitchen, crumpled the Post-it and tossed it in the trash. Then he poured himself a cup of coffee and headed upstairs to start the shower.

  AT EIGHT-FORTY A.M. he stepped out the front door of his Georgetown row house. By now the clouds had moved on and the sky was bright and blue. He buttoned his wool coat against a cold breeze as he descended the stairs and headed down to his Mercedes in the driveway.

  A moment later he fired up both the engine and the stereo. He was in a Rage Against the Machine mood this morning, so he selected a playlist on his phone and then rolled off down 34th street in the direction of work.

  DOMINIC CARUSO WATCHED him go.

  He stood in a small grove of trees across the street in Volta Park, his hands in his pockets to protect them from the cold wind. His head and face were covered with a wool hat and a neck gaiter, and he wore gray coveralls and black sneakers. A white hard hat was tucked into the crook of his arm, and a small black backpack hung over a shoulder.

  He looked like a laborer who’d just climbed off a bus from one of the poorer sections of town, down here in tony Georgetown to work on the roads or an exterior home-remodel project i
n the area.

  After Ethan Ross’s Mercedes disappeared down the street with some sort of thundering rap music Dom couldn’t identify blaring through its closed windows, he turned his attention back to Ross’s home: 1598 34th Street was a narrow, whitewashed brick two-story row house with a drive on one side and steps in front that led both up to the tiny porch and down to a basement entrance. It wasn’t a large building at all, maybe fifteen hundred square feet or so, but in this ritzy neighborhood Dom put its value at north of two million dollars. Dom doubted the average NSC staffer would be able to swing a mortgage here, which meant Ross’s wealthy mom was probably footing the bill.

  Dom didn’t know if this guy was the traitor or not, but he’d already built up some biases against him.

  From his position in the neighborhood park Dom could see the fronts of all the other row houses up and down the other side of 34th Street. He took a few minutes to make sure none had security cameras on their porches that were angled to pick up the sidewalk in front of Ross’s property. He knew exactly where to look for them, and he found nothing that gave any indication that an approach of 1598 would be recorded for posterity by a neighbor.

  He then spent a few minutes analyzing several other crucial features about Ross’s property and the neighborhood from his viewpoint here in the quiet little park. When he had all the intel he needed he turned away, headed back up the street to Wisconsin Avenue. His mission for right now was to get out of the cold and to enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee. He wanted to make certain everyone in the neighborhood heading to work or to school this morning had cleared out, so he decided to time his entry for ten a.m.

  Last night after he got off the phone with Albright, Dom read through Ross’s bio and CV and a few articles he had written for Foreign Affairs and other publications. He’d found nothing in his writings of note other than a bias against Israel, which wasn’t at all uncommon in U.S. diplomatic circles. He then looked up Ross’s name and birth date in a D.C. real estate records database and found his address in Georgetown, pulled up the neighborhood on Google Maps and used Street View to virtually walk the area. This gave him a basic understanding of the layout and style of the buildings, and he was even able to use his computer to look over a fence in the side yard that showed him the rear of his target’s property.