by Jack Bowie
Chapter 18
Georgetown University, Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, 2:45 p.m.
GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY SITS on one hundred lush, green acres overlooking the Potomac River. Founded in 1789, it is the most well-known, and the most competitive, university in the District of Columbia. The campus has a quiet intensity about it, the students and professors going about the work of politics and government with a seriousness lacking at other institutions of higher learning.
The late afternoon breeze was cool and refreshing as Braxton sat back against a sprawling oak in Georgetown’s quad. Around him stood four jewels of the campus: Dahlgren Chapel, Old North, Maguire Hall and finally, Healy Hall, the imposing Gothic stone centerpiece of the university. Taking in the serene dignity of the campus, he understood the awe it inspired even in this jaded city.
Before he had left police headquarters, Braxton had tried the number Fowler had given him. A pleasant female voice had answered and identified herself as Susan Goddard. He had explained that he worked for CERT/CC and was looking for some information on Ramal’s research. She had agreed to meet him at three o’clock by the fountain in the quad. He was fifteen minutes early and he could easily keep the landmark in view from his position under the tree.
It had been a busy day. First the work of reviewing Ramal’s files, the conversations with Fowler, the contact with Goddard and then a completely unproductive meeting with Ramal’s advisor, Professor Eric Mendoza.
He had taken the opportunity to drop by Mendoza’s office at GW after a quick lunch. It had been immediately obvious that Cabot had alerted him of Braxton’s presence. Mendoza spouted the same CYA party-line and claimed ignorance of details of Ramal’s activities. He must have been one helluva advisor.
The lone positive note from the meeting was that Mendoza had mentioned that the FBI had copied, not removed, all of Ramal’s server files. The original files would still be in the center’s disk farm. Braxton had immediately called Williams and verified that Ramal’s account had not been deleted. It hadn’t taken much to persuade the SysOp to give him access privileges to the files. Everyone wanted to play cyber-sleuth.
He had done a quick inventory of the account and there still didn’t seem to be any trail of Ramal’s actions. What had led him to send the message? That lack of a record was confusing; Ramal had definitely sent the email just before the fatal explosion.
CERT/CC did, of course, receive a lot of crackpot messages and this could have been another. But Flanagan felt it was real. Braxton sensed that from his initial conversation and her recent request. Now Fowler was suggesting that the death may not have been an accident. Another coincidence? Braxton had been an engineer too long to overlook coincidences.
Then there was the money. He had never really thought much about getting paid before he was fired. A salary had always been there and he simply accepted it. He did his work, solved his problems, and reported to his management. He had had the freedom and expertise to work in areas he liked. The relationship between his work and the money that was deposited in his account every month seemed a remote, ethereal one.
The past two years had taught him the folly of that oversight, and he did not intend to ignore it again. There were still a number of avenues he could check out and as long as CERT/CC would . . .
“Mr. Braxton?”
He glanced up and saw a figure looking down at him. She, he could tell from the voice, was outlined in the glare of the afternoon sun. He checked his watch and saw that it was ten minutes past three.
“Miss Goddard?” he asked.
“Yes,” the voice responded. “I waited for a while at the fountain then saw someone under the tree. I thought I’d give you a try. You looked a little old to be a student.”
Braxton rose slowly and brushed himself off, her words amplifying the stiffness in his joints. “I’m sorry. I guess I was daydreaming and lost track of the time. Thank you for coming.”
He could see her clearly now and liked what he saw. She was tall and slim, wearing stylish dark slacks and a purple knit sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that swung as she spoke. She had a very pretty face: oval with fine, delicate features, high cheekbones and clear blue eyes.
Rather than the mousy undergraduate he had envisioned, she was quite attractive, with an air of maturity he didn’t remember in college coeds. She was smiling, obviously pleased at having caught him unawares, but was keeping her distance.
“I’ve talked to the police twice now,” Goddard began. “I don’t know what else I can tell you about the explosion.”
“I’m actually more interested in the work Mr. Ramal was doing than in his . . . accident,” Braxton explained. “He had sent us an email and we’ve been trying to get in touch with him ever since.” Braxton glanced around at the milling students and thought that she might be more comfortable moving around. “Shall we take a walk?”
“Sure,” she replied, and they started back across the quad toward Healy Hall. “I don’t know that I can tell you much about Mohammed’s work. Most of it was beyond me. What was in his email?”
“He said that he had found a problem with the Internet gateways on campus. He hadn’t sent any other information and I wanted to discuss this with him. Did Mr. Ramal talk to you about what he was working on?”
“He had just started doing his thesis research with Prof. Mendoza. It was something to do with communication lines and traffic patterns I think he said. He was really into it. I could hardly pull him away for our project.” She paused and considered her next question. “What would the message mean?”
“It could be nothing. But it could mean that someone had gained unauthorized access to some of the university’s computers. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
She stopped and turned to face him. “You mean some kind of hacker is breaking into our systems?”
Damn. CERT would have a meltdown if he was responsible for starting a rumor of a break-in at Georgetown. He had to redirect Goddard. “Possibly, but we’re really not sure and I haven’t been able to find any record of Mr. Ramal’s work. You were going to visit him that night?”
“Yes, we had a project in a multimedia course we were taking. He studied a lot at his apartment, so every once and awhile I’d go over there to work. He had lots of books and references.”
“He had computer materials? Did he keep them in the apartment?”
She scowled at him. “Yes. Isn’t that what I said?”
Quit trying to play detective. Just get to the point.
“Yes, you did. I’m sorry, but the police didn’t find any computer books or disks in the apartment. Could he have taken them anywhere else?”
Goddard’s ponytail swung provocatively as she shook her head. “I don’t know where. Mohammed didn’t like Prof. Mendoza all that much and he didn’t get along with the other graduate students. He did most of his work at the library or at home. He had a stack of books and computer manuals right next to his desk. We were always going through them for ideas. What would have happened to them?” A sad expression appeared on her face. “Could his research have anything to do with his death?”
He was mad at himself for upsetting her. “I really don’t know, Miss Goddard. I’m not a policeman. I’m just trying to find out if there’s any information that would help explain his message.”
“I understand, Mr. Braxton. But I’m afraid that’s all I know. I do wish I could help more.” She looked straight at him. “Mohammed was a good friend. I don’t believe that he was a terrorist.”
“I can see that. I’ll talk with Detective Fowler and see if he can make any sense of this. If we find anything out I’ll get back to you, okay?”
“Yes, I would like that.” The smile finally reappeared. He liked that.
“If you think of anything else, please do give me a call.” He handed her his card. “Thank you again, Miss Goddard. I am very sorry about your friend.”
“Thank you.” She
glanced down at his card. “Oh, you’re from Cambridge.”
“Yes, why? Do you get up there at all?”
“Sometimes,” she said hesitantly. “I have friends in Boston.”
“Then perhaps we’ll run into each other.”
“Perhaps.” She turned and walked back toward Maguire Hall.
Braxton watched as she joined a group of other students and disappeared into the building. Why was he so concerned about how she felt? She was attractive, very attractive actually, but she was just a student.
Of course she was a graduate student. How old was she? Twenty-four? No, she looked more mature than that. Twenty-six?
Enough! He really had been out of circulation for too long. There was no point in worrying about his social life now. The investigation had enough problems already.
He headed back through Healy Hall to 37th Street and flagged a cab for Reagan National. Resting in the back of the taxi, he replayed Goddard’s words, searching for some hidden sign of encouragement.
It would be nice to see her again.
Chapter 19
Theater Electronics, Reston, VA
Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.
JULIUS FLITTERMAN CALLED the Board to order at four o’clock sharp.
“I would first like to express my sorrow at the loss of a close colleague and good friend. Charles was an innovative founder and a diligent President, and I will miss his counsel greatly.” He paused for the other members around the table to say their silent eulogies before continuing. “Unfortunately, we do not have the luxury to mourn his loss at this time. We have responsibilities to the employees and the shareholders to keep this business afloat. I want us to review the status of the situation, and then develop a plan for an orderly transition. Robert, what have you been able to find out from the police?”
Flitterman had discussed his approach with Greystone when the Senior Vice President had returned from the Hill. The Chairman would call on the Board members to provide their personal views of the catastrophe. He would then identify the areas needing greatest attention and make Board assignments to manage the issues in the short term. Decisions on the long term leadership of the company would wait until the aftershocks had subsided and operations were stable.
Greystone rose from his seat. “It appears that Charles was killed by Ted Lombard last night,” he began, “for reasons that are unknown at this time. The State Police are continuing the investigation, and have asked to review all recent email and correspondence of both Charles and Lombard. Victor, can you please coordinate this and make sure that no sensitive documents are released?” The lawyer nodded, much calmer now that he knew he had control over at least the document access issues.
“Needless to say, everyone here is in a state of shock,” Greystone continued. “We need to be sure that we get messages out to all the departments stating that the company is under strong leadership.”
“Thank you, Robert.” Flitterman nodded and Greystone took his seat. “Morale is critical. I’ll work with Meredith to prepare a company-wide statement. I will ask that all of the senior managers meet with their staffs and see that the employees are comfortable with our plans.
“We must be understanding of the stress some may feel. Charles’s secretary Clarice is taking it especially hard. I hope she can hold up. I’ll need her assistance for the next few months.”
Months! Greystone grabbed the table as the room spun around him. Flitterman can’t tie up the company that long. He can’t possibly want to run the company himself.
“If there is no objection, I will temporarily assume Charles’ executive duties. I am not able to devote full time to the company, however, so I will need your support to manage an orderly transition. Victor will monitor the legal aspects of the case and prepare responses for the stockholders. We cannot let this tragedy compromise the company. Victor, be very careful of this thing with Lombard. If there is anything culpable as a result of the investigation, we must know immediately.
“Meredith, would you please reactivate the Audit Committee and work with Stanley on a complete analysis of our finances.” Stanley Piccolo was Theater’s Chief Financial Officer. “I want to be sure we are completely covered here.
“Finally, Robert, I would like you to take on full day-to-day operational responsibility. You are closer to the business than anyone.” He focused his gaze on Greystone and added, “But the Board will retain ownership of strategic direction and partnerships. Is everyone clear on this?”
No one objected, and Flitterman completed the afternoon by assigning some specific reports due at the next meeting.
Greystone breathed a sigh of relief as he exited the room. The result wasn’t everything he had hoped for, but he now had firm control of the operations of the company and some maneuvering room for his projects. But he still needed to get Board approval on the collaborations he had initiated. This would have to be his top priority.
He would be sure to schedule time on Flitterman’s calendar later in the week.
* * *
Fowler rapped once on the door jamb and walked into Rodgers’ office. His boss was sitting behind his desk talking with two business-suited men who were standing by the window. Fowler recognized them as the FBI agents who had been assigned to the Ramal killing.
He feared the worst.
“Sam,” Rodgers said, “I believe you know Special Agent Brooks and Special Agent Salisbury?”
“Yes sir,” Fowler gave the agents a perfunctory nod. It struck him that he had never seen just a single FBI agent. They always appeared in pairs. Their bosses probably didn’t trust them out alone.
“We’d like to review the Ramal case,” Rodgers continued. The pained look on his face didn’t make the detective feel any more comfortable. “The FBI has suggested we turn it over to them and the department is inclined to agree. It appears to be terrorist-related and that’s their territory. Any problem with closing it out from our end?”
This was just what he had feared. They were going to pull the case out from under him before he even had a chance. Maybe Rodgers was willing to give it away, but he wasn’t going to go without a fight.
“Actually, yes, sir. It’s only been a few days since the bombing. We’re still getting the reports back from forensics and there are a number of loose ends that I’d like to investigate. It’s possible that this was not an accident.”
Salisbury and Brooks passed a knowing glance and remained silent. They had undoubtedly already told Rodgers what they thought of Fowler’s theories.
“An interesting theory, Sam, but what evidence do we have? Any witnesses? Physical evidence? Papers? Anything?”
“I don’t have anything hard yet, Captain. But there’s a lot of crap that doesn’t make sense. Books and files that should be in the apartment that aren’t. Bomb paraphernalia in the wrong room. No suspicious history. All I need is a little more time to tie it together.”
“So you believe, Detective Fowler,” Brooks interrupted, “that there is a hidden conspiracy by unknown parties, not terrorists by the way, who blew up Ramal’s apartment and planted some evidence but took other evidence away. Is there some motive for this heinous deed?”
Sarcasm dripped from the agent’s voice. The bastard was almost laughing at him.
“That’s enough, Special Agent Brooks,” Rodgers barked. “Let’s try to focus on the case. Is there anything else, Sam?”
“I think it has something to do with what he was working on at GW,” Fowler replied. “A computer networking project.” He felt the hole he was digging getting deeper. His anger was nearly out of control but he refused to give the agents the pleasure of seeing him blow up.
“Computer networking? Don’t you think that is a little beyond our expertise?” Rodgers asked.
“Our Computer Crime Team studied Ramal’s files thoroughly, Captain,” Salisbury quickly replied to Rodgers. “We found nothing out of the ordinary.”
Yeah, right, Fowler thought. The same experts who took two years
to find out Aldrich Ames was a Soviet spy and left a Chinese mole at Los Alamos for a decade.
“How many open cases are you carrying at the moment, Detective?” Rodgers was delivering the coup-de-grace.
Fowler paused, took a deep breath and replied, “Eleven, Captain.”
“I think we can safely let the FBI take this one off your plate, Sam. Close out your case file and leave it on my desk by the end of the day. The department appreciates all your work.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s all, Sam.”
Fowler turned on his heels and headed for the doorway. The smirks on the agents’ faces were the last straw. He grabbed the door as he passed and slammed it shut with all the force he could muster. The door cracked against the frame and shook the privacy wall from the front of the building to the main corridor. The glass partitions chattered in their channels but stayed in one piece.
Fowler took their resilience as a sign of divine forgiveness.
The rest of the room had been prepared for the blowup. As soon as Fowler had gone in, they knew a confrontation was unavoidable. He was an old-time street cop who didn’t like politics and hated the FBI. The combination in the Captain’s office was incendiary.
Unfortunately, rookie Patrolman Thomas Moses hadn’t seen the preliminaries and was just entering the squad room when Fowler struck. He lurched at the blast and drenched his freshly pressed uniform with a steaming cup of coffee.
Fowler made it back to his desk without further incident. For the rest of the afternoon, the corner was treated like a radioactive hot-zone by the rest of the cops.
He had been a D.C. cop for twenty-nine years. His father had been a cop; there were few better opportunities for black men in the District thirty years ago. Fowler had risen slowly, finally making Detective ten years ago. So far, his work in homicide at Investigative Services had been satisfying. His main complaint was that working out of headquarters put him farther away from the neighborhoods and closer to the bureaucrats at Police Headquarters and City Hall.
But he was nearly 50 and about ready to give retirement a try. The case load had increased and the bad guys were getting more dangerous. They had better weapons and better organization. He always felt like he was one step behind.
