The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

  Asking for Detective Fowler at the first desk he saw, he was directed to the end of the hallway. There, painted across a set of double doors, was “Investigative Services Bureau, Authorized Employees Only”.

  Braxton walked up to the entrance, tugged to straighten his coat, and pushed one of the doors open. Ahead, a large open area was filled with gray metal desks, perhaps as many as fifty, but not in any regular pattern. The desks sat in groups, huddled together as in an elementary school classroom, but more likely to match case teams. Every desk had its apparently requisite computer monitor, stack of manila folders, stained coffee cup and assortment of candy wrappers and potato chip bags. A row of private offices ran along the wall to his right, light filtered through weather-etched and pitted windows to his left and file cabinets stood sentry-like on the remaining walls. Despite the clutter of the room, Braxton counted only eight inhabitants.

  He navigated around the desks, focusing on an intense young detective to his left staring into his monitor. Braxton was drawn to the Boston Red Sox cap sitting on his head.

  “Is Detective Fowler here?” he asked.

  The officer silently stretched out his arm and pointed to his right. His attention never wavered from the screen.

  The only person Braxton could see in that direction was sitting at an isolated desk pushed into the far corner. Apparently Fowler wasn’t much of a team player. Braxton took a deep breath and headed as directed.

  Walking through the squad room, Braxton could feel a growing anxiety. This was the first time he had been in a police station since he smashed Bobby Derrick’s bicycle in eighth grade. His memories of that event and its aftermath were causing an uncomfortable churn in his stomach. Maybe the Reuben hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

  He pushed forward, determined not to let the discomfort show.

  As Braxton approached the desk, he saw a burly black man with broad shoulders and a tree-stump neck seated at the desk. Maybe not big enough to be a Patriots’ linebacker, but damn close. Wiry salt-and-pepper hair was shaved close to his scalp and his lined face suggested he had seen his share of D.C. crime.

  He was dressed in a faded blue shirt and brown pants, visible because a pair of huge scuffed broughams were resting firmly on the top of his desk. He was leaning back in his chair, reading a file. Worn black circles shown through the soles of the shoes.

  The desk was strewn with folders and papers, punctuated with an occasional plastic food wrapper. If this was his typical diet, it wasn’t surprising the detective barely fit in his chair. There was a small family portrait, wife and two daughters, sitting prominently on a corner of the desk.

  “Detective Fowler,” he announced as boldly as he could muster. “Adam Braxton. Thanks for taking the time to see me.” He stuck out his hand.

  The cop glanced up from his reading. “Yeah, sure. Have a seat.” He didn’t bother to get up or acknowledge the extended arm. “Where did you say you were from?”

  “I’m from the CERT Coordination Center. We’re responsible for investigating security breaches of the Internet.”

  Fowler looked up from his reading and crossed thick arms over his barrel chest. He almost looked interested in what Braxton was saying. “Security breaches? What does that have to do with Mr. Ramal?”

  “We received a mail message from him over the weekend. We tried to get back to him but got no response. I came down from Boston to try to talk to him.”

  “Long way to come for someone you didn’t know.”

  “Well, I had another appointment here and it seemed like a good way to check out the incident.”

  Fowler’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean incident? I thought he just sent you some mail.”

  “He sent us electronic mail. He said he had been studying the George Washington University gateway, that’s the computer that links all the other computers on the campus to the Internet, and found some messages that weren’t supposed to be there. Standard procedure is to check it out. We call any report like that an incident.” Braxton wasn’t sure how much of all this Fowler was able to follow, but he’d give the cop the benefit of the doubt.

  “What kind of messages did he find?” Fowler had now managed to put his feet down and turn to face his visitor. Braxton pushed back in his chair to distance himself from the detective’s stare.

  “We don’t really know,” Braxton replied. “All Ramal said was that the messages were unusual. I came down to try to find out what they were.”

  “And what have you been able to find out?”

  “Not very much, unfortunately. Just that apparently Ramal blew himself up with some kind of explosive and that you think he was involved in terrorist activities.”

  Fowler leaned farther across his desk. “Who’d you hear that from?” he demanded.

  “Ah, I spoke with a Professor Cabot at the University,” Braxton replied. “He was the one who gave me your name.” Fowler frowned and gave a nod of recognition. “He also told me you have Ramal’s data files and records. I need to look at those materials and any other information you uncovered that might help us track down what he was doing.”

  It took less than a heartbeat for Braxton to realize he had made a mistake. Fowler leapt from his chair, slammed his hands on the desk and leaned over until there was only inches between his face and Braxton’s.

  “There’s a couple things you need to know, Mr. Braxton. First, I would be very careful in believing anything that that fop Cabot says. All he cares about is protecting his precious research funds. Second, this is a criminal investigation. You have no goddamn authority to tell me what to do and I don’t have to help you in any way. And without me you get shit.”

  Braxton’s head snapped back and he felt glued to the chair. Now was not the time for a snappy retort. Best to take his punishment quietly.

  Fowler paused to emphasize his point before continuing. “You got some identification?”

  Braxton produced his now well-worn ID. Fowler grabbed a scrap of paper from his desk and scribbled some notes before returning it. Braxton’s hand shook as he stuffed the card in his wallet.

  The detective lowered back into his chair and Braxton managed to take a breath. This was actually worse than Bobby Derrick. He prayed he would never be across the table from this detective on a real interrogation.

  When Fowler continued, his voice had dropped to a whisper. Now it was Braxton who had to lean forward. “On the other hand, Mr. Braxton, we might be able to come to an understanding that could help us both. But this would be completely unofficial. Can you handle that?”

  Braxton managed to push the words out of his throat. “I’d be happy to help in any way I can, Detective.”

  “Good. Let’s take a walk.” With that Fowler stood and took off across the room. Braxton was amazed how quickly the huge man could move. He was still five steps behind when Fowler entered a waiting elevator.

  They left the headquarters, walked down 4th Street past the Court of Appeals, across E Street and into the quiet of Judiciary Square. Fowler continued his brisk pace.

  “All right, Detective,” Braxton asked after catching his breath. “Why the afternoon stroll?”

  “Off the record, Braxton, I’ve got a problem. The department thinks Ramal was a terrorist. The physical evidence in his apartment is damned incriminating, but there is no link between your student and any known terrorist organization.

  “The FBI wants him to be a terrorist, but even their whizzes couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary in his computer.

  “I don’t buy the clumsy lone wolf theory, but I don’t have any real evidence against it either. If you think you can find anything new looking at those files, I’ll get it cleared. But whatever you uncover comes to me first. We talk about it and go from there. Deal?”

  Deal? What was Braxton doing making a deal with a detective? And getting caught up in a criminal investigation?

  Should he check with Flanagan back at CERT? If he did, how would it look?

&nbs
p; He knew the answer to that. He had hired his own consultants in the past. It would look like he couldn’t handle the job. He would get a polite thank you and never hear from them again.

  Did he really think he could find anything the FBI couldn’t? The answer to that was easy. He didn’t have much respect for the computer expertise of any of the government agencies. Didn’t they always go to industry to build their systems? NSA might give him a run for his money, but not the FBI.

  And then there was his financial situation. Why pass up an opportunity to build some more clients? If he helped the D.C. Police Department, it could mean more business in the future. That was thinking like a real consultant.

  “Sure, let me take a look and I’ll give you my best shot. But if I find something that’s not related to your case, I get to take it back to CERT. Deal?”

  Fowler turned and stared back at the consultant. If this was the cop’s way of sealing an agreement, it was very effective.

  “Okay,” Fowler said. “Come back in the morning and I’ll set you up. You can take a look at all the stuff then. Eight o’clock sharp.”

  Braxton glanced up and saw Fowler had taken him around the Square. They were back at E Street, headed toward Fowler’s office.

  He hadn’t planned spending the night, but he had thrown a change of underwear and his toiletry kit in the carry-on bag just in case. It would be easier than fighting the airlines again.

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “But one question first.”

  Fowler wrinkled his brow. “What now?” the detective growled.

  “Why this case? I doubt you make a habit of going around your department, and the FBI.”

  “Despite what you may think about me, Braxton, I am a professional too, and I care about what happens in my city. And I really don’t like anyone being railroaded, even some guy who may or may not have blown himself up. Now I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said you were from Boston. I thought CERT was in Pittsburgh.”

  “It is. I’m just a contractor.”

  “I see.” Fowler abruptly turned and walked across E Street. It was obvious he didn’t intend for Braxton to follow.

  He sat down on the grass of the Square and tried to shake off the tension of the encounter. The detective was a very strange fellow. First accusatory, then supportive. Stand-offish, then conspiratorial. That must be how the police get their information.

  But Fowler was right. Braxton needed to see those files. And if he had to deal with the devil himself, he’d do it.

  He had done everything he could today. A cool, damp wind blew across the Square and Braxton pulled his jacket tighter across his chest. Rain was coming.

  Maybe some indoor sightseeing would take his mind off the frustrations of this case. He headed right on E, then south on 6th Street toward the Mall. As he crossed Constitution Avenue, he realized just how much he had underestimated the cop.

  Chapter 11

  Theater Electronics, Reston, Virginia

  Tuesday, 4:00 p.m.

  “THIS PROPOSAL REPRESENTS a significant step forward for Theater Electronics as major player in the international command and control market,” Greystone concluded. “To continue our legacy as an innovative leader in the industry we must shed our closed image and embrace strategic partnerships as the way to future success. I look for your support of this proposal and affirmation of its specific steps as our new operating plan.”

  Greystone finished his presentation with a characteristic flourish. He was again in the Board room, but cold, gray clouds had blown over as the afternoon passed, laying an ashen pall over the Virginia countryside. Try as he might, the somber scene outside had seeped into the meeting, darkening the moods of the participants.

  He had stressed every key point and played to each of the special interests of the individuals sitting around the table. Their questions had been thoughtful and direct, although lacking in the long-term, strategic view he was hoping for. Even Keane had sat in his chair and listened intently to the presentation.

  “Thank you Robert, you present a very persuasive argument,” said a distinguished man at the end of the table. Julius Flitterman was a hard-nosed New York investment banker who had a long history in venture capital. Chairman of the Board, he had been with Keane since the founding of Theater, but lately Greystone had been sensing cracks in the relationship. With a little more pressure, the banker might come over.

  “If you don’t mind, Julius,” Greystone interrupted, “I’d like to request the Board’s approval to proceed with this plan. If we don’t move ahead we will lose the momentum to build these relationships.”

  “You’re asking a lot, Robert,” came the harsh reply from a matronly woman seated to Flitterman’s right. Despite her appearance, Meredith Hardesty was a cagey executive who controlled nearly ten billion dollars’ worth of pension funds. She was not one to be pushed headlong into anything. Greystone feared he might have pushed too hard.

  “We need to review all the other proposals thoroughly before any decision can be made. You’re asking us to commit ten million dollars to this effort. Surely you understand our need for diligence.”

  “Of course, Meredith. I only want what is best for the company.”

  “Well, on that note let me give you an update on my plan.” Keane rose slowly from his chair.

  “Update, Charles? I thought you were ready with an alternate proposal.” Greystone’s voice cut a little too sharply for many around the table. Their eyes turned to Keane to see how he would respond.

  “I’ve been busy with some other business, Robert.” His voice maintained its calm, even temper. “We do need to look out for short term revenue as well as strategic issues you know.”

  Greystone considered a reply, but thought better and merely smiled. He closed his laptop, returned to his seat, and waited for Keane’s presentation. Lying in front of him on the table was a folder he had prepared before lunch. Abstracted from Lombard’s data, and adding some insights of his own, it was a scathing attack on Keane’s Hawthorne Systems proposal. He placed his hand over the papers and felt another rush of the adrenaline. He was anxious to get on with the confrontation.

  “I have also spent some time looking at major partnerships and divestments for the company. An analysis of our existing business plan and resulting cash flow requirements, quite before any additional proposed expenditures,” he slowly nodded at Greystone, “shows that . . .”

  God how Keane could talk. Why can’t he just get to the point? The tension grew inside the executive like an expanding shock wave. He ran through the Hawthorne arguments in preparation for the coming attack.

  “ . . . and despite insufficient time to prepare a full report, I can say confidently that this company will provide much needed cash resources as well as a broad technology base on which we can draw. In fact, it may be possible . . .”

  Greystone drummed his fingers over the report. Each of Keane’s words ratcheted the tension. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he tried to control the relentless pressure.

  “ . . . target will complement our efforts to produce a product that is both revolutionary and . . .”

  Suddenly he just exploded. “Charles, I don’t understand how you can think we won’t be completely dominated by a cutthroat organization like Hawthorne Systems.”

  The room went silent. They had all been rendered mute. Eyes turned first to Greystone, then back to Keane.

  “Hawthorne Systems?” Keane said in that same soft voice. “I’m sorry you misunderstood, Robert. I was not referring to Hawthorne, although they would be a rather interesting partner. I would prefer to refrain from getting into any further details until I can complete my analysis. Julius, could we continue this review at the Board meeting next month? I’d like to get off early today and head out to the cabin.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Charles.” Flitterman wasn’t normally one to show surprise, but his halting speech gave him away. He had expected a dead
ly strike from the President. The other Board members seemed equally shocked. “Ah, if there are no additional items, I’ll entertain a motion for adjournment.”

  Greystone slumped back in his chair. He had lost. Keane had played out the line and he had jumped for it; and there was nothing there but a shiny, deadly hook.

  But Keane should have used the opportunity to destroy him completely in front of the Board. Why would he let me off so easily?

  The old man fool left him an opening. Perhaps there was time for one more round.

  * * *

  Lombard sat dumbfounded at his desk staring into his CRT. He had been waiting all afternoon for any gossip on the Board meeting. One of the secretaries had said his boss had gotten in trouble, but no one could provide any details. And as usual, all the Board members had left the building quickly, paying no attention to the people that did all the real work.

  Keane and Greystone had stopped briefly in their offices, probably to just gather up some papers, and then they had disappeared as well. He had tried to speak with his boss, but Greystone had abruptly waved him off.

  The executive floor had slowly emptied out, as was typical when the masters were gone, and Lombard was left to do some clandestine research by rifling an occasional unoccupied desktop. He had finally returned to his desk and checked his mail, only to find an email from the President himself. Keane rarely sent electronic mail to his employees, except for the yearly Christmas greeting and the quarterly state-of-the-company reports, so to receive one sent directly to him was extraordinary. The contents were just as surprising:

  From: Charles Keane

  To: Theodore Lombard

  Subject: Employment

  Mr. Lombard, I am aware of your impropriety concerning Miss Montonet and Hawthorne Systems. If you would like to discuss your further employment by Theater, please join me at my cabin this evening at 7:00. I have a proposal that may resurrect your rapidly disappearing career.