The Saracen Incident

by Jack Bowie

Brooks flashed a condescending smile and turned his head. “Captain Rodgers, I think you need to rein in your pit bull before he gets himself in serious trouble.”

  A uniformed black man slid from behind Brooks. “Time to step down, Wes. These gentlemen have jurisdiction now.” He turned toward Brooks. “Everyone needs to take a breath and calm down.”

  The room became deathly silent. Braxton watched as the politics of D.C. law enforcement fought the blood-red ties of police brotherhood. He felt like a piece of carrion being fought over by opposing packs of wolves.

  Davidson made the first move. He turned, picked up his files from the table and headed directly for the door. Rodgers stepped aside but Brooks stood his ground as Davidson plowed forward. Their shoulders met with a force that would have been painful on a football field, but Davidson’s momentum carried him through.

  Rodgers followed his detective. “He’s all yours, agents. I’d appreciate your leaving as quickly as possible. I can’t be responsible for the actions of the rest of the Department.”

  The two agents picked Braxton off the chair, ground a new pair of handcuffs into his wrists, and led him out of the room. They walked him out of the building to a waiting black Escalade, and shoved him in the back seat.

  He never imagined a car seat could feel so soft. He was asleep before the car pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  He awoke with a start when Brooks opened the car door and yanked him out. It felt like he was in a cave: the space was cold and damp, lit only by flickering fluorescent lights. As his eyes grew more accustomed, he saw other cars and the acrid smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes bit at his nostrils. It was an underground garage.

  “Where are we?” he asked groggily.

  “You’ll find out,” Brooks replied and dragged him into an elevator at the end of the aisle.

  They went up, the doors opened and he was led down an empty hallway with closed doors on each side. There were no descriptions on the doors, just numbers. Were they taking him to a cell?

  He had initially felt the appearance of the FBI agents was a rescue, but now he feared they were simply taking him to a deeper level of hell.

  They stopped and Brooks opened one of the doors. Braxton’s heart was racing and he could feel his arms and legs shaking from the adrenaline. What were they going to do to him?

  They entered a room not unlike the interrogation room at D.C. Police Headquarters. The space contained a plain metal table in the middle of the room with a chair on each side. Brooks pushed him into one of the chairs and he realized it was bolted to the floor as was the table. He was facing a large mirror, better for observing the condemned he imagined. To his surprise, Salisbury undid the handcuffs. Braxton brought his hands to the table, rubbing the raw red bruises on his wrists.

  The walls were a pale yellow. In the corners of the ceiling above the two-way glass were large plastic bubbles; more sophisticated video monitoring equipment. At least the place was cleaner than his previous cell.

  He heard a click and turned his head to see a new player enter the room. The man was tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders and a trim waist. He was dressed in an immaculate pin-striped suit, with a starched white shirt and bright yellow tie. His dark black hair was slicked back with not a strand out of place. A black leather folio was in his hand.

  He looked like he was on the way to a White House state dinner. How could anyone be this elegant in the middle of the night?

  Brooks closed the door and the two agents took positions out of sight behind Braxton. Whatever was going on, he sensed Brooks and Salisbury weren’t happy about it.

  The new man paused on the other side of the table, gazed down at Braxton, then sat in the chair facing him. His eyes were dark and emotionless.

  “Where am I? Braxton repeated.

  The man looked surprised that his prisoner had the audacity to speak. Then he replied with all the warmth of a rattlesnake, “FBI Headquarters, Mr. Braxton. The Hoover Building.”

  Braxton felt a wave of relief. At least it wasn’t some CIA black site. If the man was telling the truth.

  “My name is Craig Wheeler,” he began. “I’m an assistant in the Attorney General’s office.”

  Braxton’s face furrowed. Did D.C. really have an Attorney General? Who was this guy?

  Seeing Braxton’s confusion, Wheeler added, “The Attorney General of the United States.”

  That certainly got Braxton’s attention.

  “This,” Wheeler pulled a thick document from his folio and placed it in front of Braxton, “is a National Security Confidentiality Agreement. Think of it as your get-out-of-jail-free card.

  “It states that under no circumstances will you ever disclose or discuss the so-called Saracen Incident with any one, in any way, at any time. If you do, you will be in violation of the listed sections of the United States Code and you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.” Wheeler paused to let the threat sink in. “More likely, however, you will simply disappear.

  “In return for this cooperation, all charges associated with your actions surrounding the Incident will be dropped. You will be free to go.”

  Braxton stopped breathing. He was being given a way out. He stared at the document. All he had to do was sign and it would be over.

  Wheeler reached into his jacket, extracted a gold ball-point pen and laid it on the document.

  Braxton began reading. Most was impenetrable legalese, but he was able to discern that everything involving the Incident had come under a National Security Finding and had been classified top secret. And it did offer complete Federal and State immunity for everything he had done.

  The cover-up had started. That meant that someone knew what really happened. Knew about the mole, about Ramal and the Cache. Had Sam passed along the drive? But Davidson said he had died.

  “How is Detective Fowler? Did he die?”

  Wheeler hesitated for what seemed like hours. He wasn’t used to being asked questions. Finally, he spoke. “The Detective will recover. He had significant blood loss and required surgery, but he is now out of danger.”

  Braxton had opened his mouth for another question when Wheeler continued. “Ms. Goddard had a broken collarbone, three broken ribs, a concussion and numerous cuts and bruises, but she is also in stable condition. The doctors expect a full recovery.

  “That is all the information you get, Mr. Braxton. Time to decide.”

  “What if I don’t sign?” Braxton asked.

  “Believe me, you do not want to go there, Mr. Braxton,” Wheeler replied with an unhidden enmity.

  Braxton believed him. He knew he never wanted to face this man again. In court or otherwise.

  He picked up the pen and signed the document.

  Wheeler reached for the papers, stacked them neatly against the desktop, placed them back in the folio and stood up. “Have a good life, Mr. Braxton. You have some very influential friends. I expect to never see you again.”

  He nodded to Brooks and walked out of the room.

  Brooks and Salisbury lifted Braxton out of the chair, only a bit more gently than before, and led him out the door and down the empty hallway.

  * * *

  Five minutes later, he was sitting at the top of the steps to the Hoover building, watching the pink glow of dawn brighten the dark D.C. sky. A Ziploc bag with his wallet, wristwatch, and seventy-five cents in change sat in his lap; a gift from Special Agents Brooks and Salisbury as they escorted him from the building.

  Unknown forces had nearly taken his life. Now he apparently had his life back. But at what cost? Paul was dead, Susan and Detective Fowler were lying in hospital beds. All because he couldn’t let go of a damn puzzle.

  What should he do now? Where could he go?

  The answer was surprisingly easy.

  He walked down the steps to Pennsylvania Avenue and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, bud?” the driver asked.

  “Fairfax Hospital.”

  Ep
ilog

  Tysons Corner, Virginia

  Three months later, 9:30 a.m.

  BRAXTON PULLED HIS shiny new Aztec Red Grand Cherokee into the Tysons Tower garage and spun his way to the last available space on the last available level. That’s what he got for sleeping in.

  He had considered other makes of car, but had finally decided that he owed Jeep an unpayable debt for getting him out of Chamberlain’s property alive. He hoped his new baby didn’t get a complex from sitting in the sea of Audis, Lexus and Mercedes.

  He walked down to street level and crossed to the Tower under a cloudless blue sky and bright yellow morning sun. Most days he would have walked up the additional ten flights to his office, but today his briefcase was heavy with completed proposals and he decided to reward himself for the previous night’s efforts.

  The elevator door slid open and an attractive young woman stepped out. Freshly-scrubbed, blown-dry and bedecked in a trim conservative suit, she was fully prepared to do battle for her chosen beltway bandit. The twenty-two story Tower soared over the rest of the Tysons Corner landscape and was a high-visibility address for defense contractors who had outgrown their aging Crystal City offices. Whatever her destination, her outfit made Braxton feel like a vagrant in his sports coat and open-collared oxford.

  He smiled, said a quick “good morning”, and pressed the button for the tenth floor. As the door closed, he couldn’t help but smile at his turn of fate over the past three months.

  In spite of the National Security Finding, he had been able to glean something of the events following his release. Wheeler had been a diligent G-Man, visiting Susan, Sam, and nearly everyone at CERT/CC in the next two days, securing their signatures on non-disclosures. Information on the last location he had received from Flanagan who had kept in frequent contact.

  Of course no one could speak openly about the Incident, but people did talk and they couldn’t throw you in jail for innocuous references to Internet activities could they? At least he hoped not.

  According to Flanagan, even though there was never any public disclosure of the rogue, the Incident had energized CERT’s, and J. Timothy Rydell’s, quest for a larger piece of the federal budget. He seemed to be having some success.

  CERT/CC had, of course, dropped all investigations. Braxton was sure that the details on the mole were now in the capable hands of the CIA and NSA. He really would have liked to know whether they had ever informed Century of the problem, or kept it safely locked in the vaults of Langley and Ft. Meade to be leveraged at some future time in the name of national security. His gut said the latter.

  Rumors, on the other hand, had spread among the Internet security cognoscenti like an out-of-control software virus. ‘Government secret’ was, after all, the ultimate oxymoron. White hats and black hats alike were burning up blogs and forums with outlandish speculations and bizarre conspiracy theories.

  For his part, Braxton had received an unending stream of job offers, from commercial organizations as well as government agencies, promising both fame and fortune, but somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to take any of them. At least directly.

  He had even received a friendly email from Megan, alluding to his latest “adventure”. It sounded like she was doing well on the Left Coast.

  Staying in Cambridge had simply been too painful. He had left his apartment, and his past, in Massachusetts, and moved south. He now had a small but comfortable apartment in Reston and a suite in Tysons Corner’s newest office building.

  He had then conscientiously followed up with each of his would-be employers, politely turning down their offers, but dangling the carrot of cost-effective consulting services. They had responded with more contracts than he could handle, and he was now trying to figure out whether to bring a partner on board.

  He stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall to the offices of Cerberus Consulting. The irony of his company’s initials was not lost on him.

  Karen Chu, his new secretary, was typing furiously into her computer, probably searching for a better price on next week’s flight to Berkeley. Chu was a sharp-tongued, Gen X wife and mother who had burned out teaching math in the Fairfax County school system and wanted to apply her considerable analytic abilities to a new profession. After a ten minute interview, Braxton had hired her on the spot.

  “A little late this morning, Adam,” Chu scolded as she looked up from the monitor. “Heavy date last night?”

  “You got that right,” he replied hefting his briefcase in the air.

  He walked past her desk, gave a quick salute, and continued into the inner office. The space wasn’t large, but comfortably held his desk, an old couch, a wall-full of overloaded book cases and a large window overlooking the sprawl of Fairfax County. When potential customers visited, he used a small conference room around the corner he shared with an aggressive young Virginia architect.

  He dumped his briefcase on the sofa and moved to his desk, staring over a mound of unread reports and contracts. Email notwithstanding, the paper-less office had yet to arrive.

  Despite the overflow of documents on his desk, Chu had managed to clear an open space and leave a stack of mail with his daily appointment card on top. Smart phones were great, but there was something emotionally satisfying about a carefully-annotated index card.

  It looked to be an easy day: only two meetings, both in the afternoon.

  Highlighted at the bottom of the card was a note to be sure to pick up his tuxedo for Sam Fowler’s retirement party that evening. The doctors had said the detective had completely recovered, but the injury had been a stark reminder of Fowler’s mortality. He had given twenty-six years of his life keeping the District safe and it was past time to find a new line of work. His wife Pat couldn’t have been happier.

  Braxton settled behind his desk and, as had become his habit, started the day by scanning the latest stories on the CNN web site. He had been waiting for one particular story to appear, and he found it on the third screen:

  Lexington Named New Virginia Senator @Washington Post

  (Abridged)

  Virginia Governor Howard Benedict today named Wilson Lexington, a prominent Richmond attorney and former Virginia legislator, as interim senator filling the post left vacant by long time Virginia politician, David Potterfield. Potterfield, the Senior Senator from the State and Chairman of the Senate's Committee on Technology and Communication, resigned unexpectedly following continued allegations of illegal conduct on the part of his former Chief of Staff, Barclay Nicholson. Nicholson was killed in an apparent mugging several months ago. Potterfield could not be reached for comment. "Mr. Lexington is honored that Governor Benedict has selected him to represent the Commonwealth," stated Susan Goddard, Lexington's Media Relations Director, "and he promises to work diligently for the people of Virginia, continuing in the strong tradition of his predecessors."

  [Press Release][Full Article]

  Braxton clicked on the “Press Release” link to see what changes had been made since the version Susan had shown him a few nights before. He was pleased that some of his suggestions had been incorporated.

  Their relationship had drifted to the platonic after the urgencies of the Incident had passed and new opportunities had presented themselves. He was neither surprised nor hurt; such was the way of life. Still, they were close friends and he knew they would always be there for each other.

  Scanning the other stories, he read that the Promoting Freedom and Democracy Bill, now called the Rasmussen Bill after the new Chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, was locked in a conference committee, while staffers, lobbyists and associated other Hill jackals fought over modifications to the Bill’s encryption standards.

  Hawthorne Systems in particular had been flooding dollars into the discussion. Just last week, he had read they had signed an agreement to partner with Takagawa Communications for the development of a new command-and-control platform. If they could tilt the specifications toward their technology, it
would be a colossal windfall for both Hawthorne Systems and Japan.

  Oddly, one of Braxton’s job offers had come from Akira Hajima, CEO of Takagawa. He had written a very personal, and extremely generous, offer letter that had ended with an effusive “thank you”.

  But “thank you” for what? Braxton knew the Japanese were polite but he was still puzzled by the tone of the communication.

  He turned back to his proposals, vowing from now on to stick to simple technology problems: bits and bytes; hardware and software. He would never get involved with politics and politicians again.

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  The Adam Braxton Thrillers:

  The Saracen Incident

  The Liberty Covenant

  The Langley Profile

  Now keep reading for an excerpt from

  the next Adam Braxton adventure

  The Liberty Covenant

  Chapter 1

  Southeastern Tennessee

  Saturday, 10:00 p.m.

  IT WAS TENNESSEE and he was Terry.

  The ten men knelt in a clearing of the dense Appalachian woods. Wind whistled above their heads, a reverent chorus to their silent prayers. They were in a circle, with hands joined and heads bent; a confusing mix of dirty jeans, stained T-shirts, and well-worn camo fatigues. Each had his revolver of choice holstered on his belt. They already knew their own parts of the mission, there would be no need for further instruction or explanation.

  Terry watched the ritual from beside a battered old oak tree, about twenty yards from the group. It would have been inappropriate to join, even though it had been his command that set the night’s operation in motion. The temperature had fallen to the forties, still comfortable for physical activity but with just enough bite to keep everyone alert. Moonlight filtered through wispy cirrus clouds; enough light to provide guidance but not identification. God was smiling on them tonight.