by Jack Bowie
“Please, gentlemen,” Carlson finally called above the din. “Let Mary Ellen complete her presentation before further discussion.”
Flynn held her position at the front of the table and waited for the attention of the room to return. “Certainly you all remember that just such a coordinated militia effort was suggested by Peter’s IMAGER intelligence. I must congratulate him on his asset. I believe she has been completely accurate.” Flynn smiled toward Markovsky like a starving lion over a fresh kill. It was an expression that made even Slattery shudder.
“Mr. Chairman?” Markovsky asked. All eyes turned to the DDI.
“Yes, Peter?” Carlson replied.
“To be honest, I had hoped that the IMAGER asset would prove to be false. The implications of such coordination are indeed severe. Unfortunately we have received additional information that would support Mary Ellen’s analysis. IMAGER believes that these events are a result of covert cooperation, and are the first in a series of such operations. We do not know the identity of the person, or persons, involved, how many operations are planned, or what the eventual goal may be. These are questions that we must still answer.”
“So you have made contact with IMAGER?” Flynn asked.
“IMAGER has reported this additional information,” corrected Markovsky. “As I explained, this is very indirect intelligence. We cannot put the IMAGER asset in jeopardy.”
“Dammit, Peter!” Flynn exclaimed. “Isn’t that a decision that must be balanced against the potential danger of the militia threat?”
“Mary Ellen, IMAGER is our asset. We will do everything possible to assist your investigation, but I cannot . . .”
“My investigation? Look Mr. Deputy Director of Intelligence, if this should turn into another Oklahoma City, I hope you will have an appropriate explanation for the American people.”
Carlson stood from his chair and held out his hand for calm. “Gentlemen, Mary Ellen. Please. Despite the FBI’s very imaginative presentation, I for one am not convinced of the need to take extraordinary action at this time. I believe we need to . . .”
“What about your investigation, Mary Ellen?” Stroller interrupted. “Isn’t the cell you have under surveillance in Tyler, Georgia? Didn’t your agent have any idea this was going to happen?”
Flynn glared in the direction of the NSA Deputy Director. “The cell is near Tyler but we have no proven connection between the arson and this group. These issues are all part of our ongoing investigation.”
“Jesus, Mary Ellen. How many militia groups could there be around this damn town?” Garcia asked.
“Just because the cell is local, Jerry, doesn’t prove it was involved in the arson. I don’t imagine you want us to rush over and storm the cell do you?” Flynn’s tone was sharp as a razor.
“I certainly do not recommend any premature action, Mary Ellen, but . . .”
“Mary Ellen,” Stroller continued, “what exactly has your agent been able to uncover?”
“He has made preliminary identification of the cell’s leader and is inside the cell. We are following up on his leads.”
“You reported most of that at the last meeting,” Stroller persisted. “What has he given you recently? Why didn’t he know about the attack?”
Flynn shifted her body and began slowly, as if to postpone the inevitable. “The agent who went undercover into the cell hasn’t reported in for the past thirty-six hours.” Her voice dropped. “We have no explanation of the silence.”
The room turned mute. Everyone knew what Flynn was implying.
“Any chance he’s just keeping cover?” Carlson finally asked.
“There’s always that hope, General. But realistically, I’m afraid his cover has been blown. We don’t know what might have happened to him.”
A poorly muffled “shit” came from the Homeland representative. Flynn shot him a withering glare.
“So what will you do now?” asked Delacroix.
“We’re checking our local sources, Admiral,” Flynn replied. “We’ll see what we get back, but I’m not putting any more agents in the field until we have more background.” She turned to the DDI. “We simply must get more information out of IMAGER.”
“I’ve given you everything we know, Mary Ellen,” Markovsky responded.
“And that’s nothing she didn’t already report,” Flynn shot back. “I’d have a lot more faith in this asset if you could give us some more details. Where is she located? How does she get her information?”
“We’ve been through this before, Mary Ellen,” Markovsky replied, ignoring her use of the feminine pronoun. “We are unwilling to divulge any identifying data on the IMAGER asset. We will not jeopardize his cover. I would assume you now appreciate that.”
Flynn’s face went scarlet. She looked like she was going to leap across the table at the spook.
“Enough,” Carlson shouted. “We must respect the CIA’s position. For the moment, this investigation remains with the FBI.” He turned to the head of the table. “Mary Ellen, is that acceptable?”
“Yes, General,” Flynn replied flatly. “I have prepared a detailed report with all our current information.” Flynn nodded to her right and a young, square-jawed agent rose and passed a stack of documents around the table.
“I would like each of your organizations to review these materials and check the names and locations against your files. Hopefully,” Flynn again glanced toward Markovsky, “IMAGER will be able to fill in some of the holes, but until then, we should use all of the resources at our disposal. My office will act as clearinghouse for the information. If that is alright, General.” She turned back to the DNI.
“Certainly, Mary Ellen. I’m sure everyone will afford you whatever support they can.”
Slattery had to give Flynn credit for mostly keeping her cool during the inquisition. She had pressed her case, but it was clear Carlson and the rest of the advisory group did not support her analysis. He didn’t know how she had managed to coerce Carlson into calling the emergency meeting, but now she was standing at the end of a very long plank. If her theory didn’t hold up, her credibility, and possibly her career, was gone.
Carlson nodded and Flynn returned to her seat. He paused for a moment then rose to address the members. “When Mary Ellen approached me this morning with her preliminary results, I initially hesitated calling this meeting, but coupled with Peter’s IMAGER intelligence I felt it was my duty to update all of you as soon as possible. This concludes the meeting. Mary Ellen, I would like an update on these matters on my desk in forty-eight hours. Peter, you will inform me of any additional information from this agent of yours. I will evaluate the results and determine if any further action is called for. Thank you.”
As the others were gathering up their papers, Markovsky turned to Slattery and handed him the FBI’s updated package. “This is for you, Roger. Check it out and give me your assessment tomorrow.”
Slattery started to say something, but Markovsky suddenly stood and strode deliberately to the door. All Slattery could do was watch his boss disappear from the room, all his questions remaining unanswered.
What the hell is going on?
Chapter 12
Cerberus Consulting, Tysons Corner, Virginia
Wednesday, 3:30 p.m.
A ruddy orange sun hovered high above the mountains of western Virginia as Adam Braxton, Founder, President, and Technical Staff of Cerberus Consulting sat hunched over a PC in his Tysons Tower office, desperately trying to complete his report for Systems and Methods, Incorporated. The picturesque scene outside his window did nothing to alleviate the pressure of the deadline.
Cerberus was a character from Greek and Roman mythology; a monstrous three-headed dog with a mane of snakes, the claws of a lion, and the tail of a serpent. It was supposedly the sentry that guarded the entrance to Hades to prevent the dead from escaping and the living from entering. When Braxton had started his information security consulting company, he had decided that this was ju
st the personification of network security he wanted to portray.
Sometimes he wondered whether the monster was trying to devour him rather than his customer’s information.
He had gone on that damn trip to Chicago to sign up a new client. It had been completely worthless. The stupid software company hadn’t had a clue about internal security. They had wanted a simple magic formula that would solve all their problems. And, of course, one that didn’t cost anything.
Now he was even farther behind on the SMI proposal. He had promised the report by end-of-business yesterday. He had to finish it today. Hopefully the delay wouldn’t blow his chance for the contract.
His fingers returned to the keyboard.
Our review of SMI’s information security plan showed a satisfactory understanding of the external threats to your IT assets, but did not recognize the significant additional dangers from internal sources. While we are sure your personnel background checks for new employees are quite thorough, this does not prevent . . .
“Adam?”
. . . internal malicious behavior due either to employee discontent or bribery. One of our recommendations, therefore, is that SMI initiate a regular review of key personnel with a focus on the identification of potential security problems. Cerberus Consulting would be pleased to work with SMI on the development of such a program. Additionally, we would recommend . . .
“Adam!”
The shout finally broke through his concentration and he glanced up to see his secretary, Karen Chu, standing in front of his desk, her face a portrait of impatience.
“Yes?” he barked.
“Adam, I’ve only been standing here five minutes. You’re more self-absorbed than my husband.”
Braxton looked into her smiling face and his anger washed away. “Yes, that has been mentioned to me more than once. But I’ve got to get this report finished.”
“Why don’t you let me type it? You are the fastest two-fingered typist I’ve ever seen, but I do this kind of thing for a living you know.”
“It’s okay. Really. I have to make a few changes and add the section on biometric identification equipment. It’s just easier if I do it myself.”
Chu shook her head. “You are impossible. I may be out of line, Adam, but you’ve got to give yourself a break. The business is going great. Take some time to enjoy your success.”
“When I finish the report, I promise I’ll go home, lie down on the couch, and watch TV.”
“Sure. And it’ll probably be CNBC.” She turned and headed back to her desk in the reception area of their suite. Then she stopped and added, “You could try to get out sometimes. Maybe even get a date?”
“Karen!”
“Okay, okay. But I’m here if you need any help.”
“I know. Thanks. But I’ve got this. I’ll be done in two hours. Oh, can you give FedEx a heads up?”
“Will do, boss.”
Chu was a miracle worker. He had brought her on when the logistics of his consulting contracts had been too much for even him to handle. She had jumped into the mess he had created, organized every client engagement, and put him on a strict need-to-know basis.
Chu had burned out teaching math in the Fairfax County school system and had wanted to apply her considerable analytic abilities to a new profession. Over the past year she had learned more about the federal contracting system than any senior executive Braxton had ever known. She had been invaluable in stabilizing his nascent security consulting business. He really did need to tell her how much he appreciated her work.
And she probably was right about getting out. He wasn’t unattractive: just under six feet tall with a full head of short sandy-brown hair and clear green eyes. Regular exercise at the gym downstairs kept him reasonably fit, although he did miss the rock-climbing excursions with his Boston friends. Left behind, along with more painful memories, when he had moved to the D.C. area.
Since relocating, there just hadn’t been time for relationships. He had been out of work, and worse, once in his career and he never intended to let that happen again. He would never again rely on anyone else to step up and help him.
Enough psychoanalysis for one afternoon, I’ve got work to do.
. . . that you implement more restrictive, and secure, access-control devices in critical information areas such as the capabilities and contracts vault and main research server areas. I have included data-sheets on a number of new Biometric Identification devices that will provide . . .
* * *
This time it was the buzz from his telephone that broke his concentration. Shit! Who would be calling him now?
He grabbed the phone and barked a curt, “Braxton.”
“Adam? Is that you? It’s Megan.”
The soft voice of his ex-wife put Braxton’s head in a spin. What could she want? He hadn’t heard from her since the conclusion of his Incident investigation. Was something wrong?
“Megan? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
“Yes, Adam,” she replied calmly. “I’m fine. Does it have to be an emergency to call you?”
Now he felt like an idiot. Why does she always do this to me?
“No. Of course not. It’s just been so long since we talked.”
“I know. Actually, that’s why I called. I’m going to be in D.C. for some meetings later this week. I wondered if you’d like to get together for dinner.”
“Ah, sure. I guess. When?”
“How about tomorrow night? If you’re busy . . .”
“No. Tomorrow’s fine.”
“Okay. Can you pick me up at the Sheraton at seven?”
“Got it. Seven o’clock. You’re sure everything’s okay?”
“I’m fine, Adam. I just want to talk a bit. It’s probably about time. Bye.”
Braxton couldn’t decide if he was more shocked, flattered, or frightened. But he knew he heard a tension in her voice. Was something wrong?
* * *
Virginia State Trooper Gary Alesi set out more road flares and watched patiently as the Great Falls Emergency Rescue Team cut through the mangled metal and plastic. A five-ton GM pickup had broadsided a much smaller sedan, driving it off the road. The car was now nearly wrapped in half around a very old, and very sturdy, Virginia Black Oak.
He had kept in the background while the rescue crew spent thirty minutes separating the vehicles and another fifteen minutes with the Jaws of Life to get to the driver of the sedan. Unfortunately, it had only taken a few minutes for the Reston Medical Ambulance team to complete their work. When they laid their patient out on the plastic bag, it was time for Alesi to step in.
“You guys finished?” he asked the taller of the two EMTs.
“Just about,” the paramedic responded. “White male, young, probably about twenty-five or thirty. Dressed in a tux. Anything else is hard to tell. The collision cracked the side impact bars. His air bags trapped the poor bastard and the bars sliced right through him.”
Alesi shuddered. He had never been able to inure himself to the violence of a “simple” traffic accident.
“I hope to hell you find the driver of that truck,” said the other EMT looking over to the pile of smashed metal by the road.
“Not very likely,” Alesi replied. “I ran the plates. It was reported stolen in Arlington yesterday. Looks like the driver took off into the woods after the accident. Probably without a scratch. You guys come up with any identification?”
“Nothin’ we found, but you can take a look. Then we’ll wrap him up.”
He patted the man’s pockets and came up empty.
“Nothing here. You can take him. I’ll check the car.”
Alesi walked back to the crash site and noticed the heavy scars on the trunk of the oak. This had not been the tree’s first encounter with human carelessness.
He stuck his head into the car and was hit by the sickening odor of blood and death. There was no way he would ever get used to that smell. He pulled out, took a short breath and looked in aga
in. Lying on the passenger seat was a tuxedo coat. He grabbed for the coat and stepped back from the wreckage.
“Find anything?” the first paramedic asked as he finished zipping up the bag.
Alesi checked the pockets and produced a thin wallet. “Something here.” He yanked out a card, took a quick look, then tossed the jacket back in the car. “Shit!”
“What’s the matter?” the shorter EMT asked.
“I may as well go home. There won’t be any follow-up on this one.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
Alesi held up the card. It was an official-looking government ID. Across the top in bold, dark letters was “National Security Agency.”
Chapter 13
Central Intelligence Agency, Langley, Virginia
Thursday, 11:30 a.m.
Slattery tossed the last of the library books into the growing pile on the floor of his Langley office. Nothing but bullshit! Markovsky had really dropped a load on him this time.
What the hell was he doing trying to make sense out of the complex of unsubstantiated facts, rumors, and guesses laid out in Flynn’s report?
Other agents were hard at work doing important jobs: processing field reports, performing political analysis, producing policy statements. He could see them through the glass partitions of his office scampering back and forth among the cubicles. The drones of the intelligence hive were hard at work.
Slattery had trained and mentored a lot of these employees over the years. Most were very capable and some honestly exceptional. He glanced up just in time to see one of his favorites walk through the open door.
“Jesus, Roger. What are you doing? Planning a book burning?”
“Might as well be for all the good they are. Come on in, Manny. I need the company.”
The visitor was Manuel Ikedo, a young analyst specializing in European affairs. The offspring of Spanish and Japanese parents, his unique mixed heritage gave him a most un-American view of political and cultural thinking. This was exactly why Slattery considered him one of the best analysts in the Agency.
