Authors: Leslie Wolfe
“Gotta hand it to you,” Jeremy said as they were arriving at the Botanical Gardens, where surveillance had told them they could find Smolin, “you got some serious skills.”
“Thanks,” Alex said modestly, then decided to take advantage of Jeremy’s state of mind. “That means you’ll let me interrogate Smolin?”
“You know I can’t do that,” he said apologetically. “Nothing changed in our procedure book since the last time we had this argument.”
They walked silently for a few yards, then he continued, “Oh, and you need to stay here. You can’t come any closer to where he is.”
“The hell I can’t,” she snapped at him. “Yesterday I was able to come within fifty feet of him, today I can’t?”
“It’s procedure. In case he pulls a gun, or fires it. You could get caught in the crossfire or get hurt. You haven’t gone through our gun proficiency. You’re a civilian, after all. How about you start behaving like one?”
“We’re supposed to be partners; for Christ’s sake, Jeremy, don’t be such an ass. Can’t you just bend the rules a little? There’s enough manpower here to arrest a dozen Russians.”
“No,” he said firmly. “I won’t risk it; it’s not worth it. You either stay here, or I’ll lock you in the back of the car.”
“Fine, whatever,” she grumbled angrily, splitting the word in half as to make it more powerful.
She watched the three men approach Smolin’s backgammon table. He was alone, reading a newspaper. He sensed their arrival and put the newspaper down on the table, then stood slowly, assessing his options. He knew what the three men wanted even before they spoke.
She felt her hair stand on end; there was something about Smolin, something feral. She started walking toward him in a brisk pace, almost running, discreetly clasping the handle of her gun under her jacket.
“Evgheni Smolin?” Jeremy said, wielding his badge. “I’m Agent Weber with the FBI. We’d like to speak with you, ask you a few questions.”
As if in slow motion, Alex saw Smolin check his surroundings quickly, looking left, then right, making an assessment of the environment. Then he pulled his gun, lightning fast, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Jeremy’s head. But Alex had already fired her PPK, and her bullet hit Smolin in the right shoulder, causing him to swerve his gun and miss the target.
Smolin’s bullet whistled past Jeremy’s head, missing it by less than a foot and hitting the old oak tree behind him. The other two agents approached Smolin and disarmed him, then started reading him his rights.
“Whew,” Jeremy said, wiping his sweaty forehead, “what kind of consultant are you?”
She smiled and holstered her weapon. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m getting used to this place,” Alex said, looking at the familiar entrance to the Botanical Gardens and following the silhouette of a roaring jet taking off against the sunset sky. “I’m starting to like it,” she added, hungrily chewing a bite from a slice of pizza.
They ate near the hood of Weber’s car, standing on the sides with the extra large, extra cheese between them, eating as if there was no tomorrow.
“I think we’re done with this park,” Jeremy said. “With Smolin locked up, there’s no reason to visit anymore. Oh, and they’ll have your gun returned to you by tomorrow.”
His phone rang. He took the call hands free, recognizing the number.
“Weber here, go ahead.”
“This is Moore. The team finished reviewing the surveillance tapes again, and there aren’t any sandwiches starring in all those hours of film; none whatsoever.”
“But did you notice anything out of the ordinary at all? With anyone? I know you’ve looked before, but now we know more than we did back then. Pull older street video feeds,” Weber insisted.
“OK, give me a few,” Moore said and hung up.
They sat quietly, admiring how the sunset colors lit the sky, creating wondrous colors and shapes in the exhaust of passing jets.
“You hanging in there?” Alex asked quietly.
“Yeah . . .” Jeremy replied in his typical manner, after hesitating a little. “It’s not every day you hear the bullet coming, you know.”
“Yup,” she replied.
“And when it did, when I heard it coming, it was like it took forever, and all I could think about was my son. He . . . he needs me to come home every day. He needs me, so I gotta live,” he said, watching intently another jet gain altitude.
“And you will,” Alex said.
Moments of silence slipped by, as the sky turned darker and the first stars appeared.
“Thank you,” Jeremy said after a while.
“Don’t mention it,” Alex replied.
The phone rang again, almost deafening in the peaceful evening.
“It’s Moore.”
“Go ahead,” Jeremy said.
“We’ve seen occasional bike messengers pick up and drop off from Smolin’s residence, maybe two or three times in the past month. Then one of the agents remembered he’d noticed a couple of bike messengers pick stuff up from Bob McLeod’s residence, but didn’t think it was relevant.”
“Oh, God . . .” Weber said, and hopped behind the wheel of his Charger.
FBI Case # 174-NR-24578
Content of decrypted message on SPAM biofilm
[start message]
Laser weapons system (LaWS) functional and ready to be deployed on naval warships. First hull #DDG1005 in Norfolk. On schedule: DDG136, DDG105. More hull #s to follow.
Technical solution for power source and power storage for LaWS is small enough to allow installation on planes, drones.
Prototype on drone scheduled for early next year. Deployment on fighter jets by mid next year.
Installation schematics, cannon capabilities will become available soon.
Engagement protocol recommends use LaWS to disable, not destroy. Target weapon systems, propulsion, and communications. Keep casualties to minimum.
Recommend effort to obtain power source and storage schematics ASAP.
[end message]
Several Dodge Chargers were parked on the adjacent streets leading to Bob McLeod’s street. Two surveillance teams had kept eyes and ears on McLeod constantly since Saturday night, waiting for him to make a move. Finally, he made the anticipated move. He placed a call to FastLite Messenger Service.
A bike messenger, probably eighteen years old, scrawny and crazy fast on his two wheels, appeared from around a corner. He wore a T-shirt and a cap, both inscribed with the FastLite logo. Jeremy waved his badge at him and stopped him before turning on McLeod’s street.
“Weber, FBI. I’m gonna need your T-shirt and your cap. And your bike too.”
The kid gave Weber a doubtful, amused look. Agent Weber was twice his size.
He read his mind and said, “It’s gonna fit, son, don’t worry. It has to.”
He put on the kid’s shirt with difficulty. It would be a miracle if the T did not end up ripped along the seams; it had to be at least three sizes too small.
“Hey,” the boy called. “You’ll need this too.” He handed him the receipt pad and a pencil.
“Thanks.”
Weber took the kid’s bike and rode it to McLeod’s door, then rang the bell.
McLeod opened the door and checked Weber out, frowning a little.
“You’re . . . a little mature for this job, if you don’t mind me saying,” he commented.
“Yeah . . . Well, just making an extra buck at night, man, what can I do? Car’s broken, can’t do pizza delivery no more.” He scratched his forehead, then played indifferently with his phone a little, going through his music, giving McLeod the time to make up his mind.
McLeod sighed and handed him a gift-wrapped package.
“It’s for my son’s birthday. He lives in Smithfield with his mom. Do you think you can take this there tonight?”
“You bet.”
McLeod handed him forty dollars and asked him to keep the change. Weber almost forgot to write the shipping receipt.
He turned the corner and stopped, then took the T-shirt off, as soon as he was out of McLeod’s line of sight, and handed it back to its rightful owner. Then he opened the package. Wrapped neatly inside a Disney DVD case, several documents marked TOP SECRET were folded in half, all of them unregistered, unauthorized copies of original classified documents. The first page was titled, “Capabilities Assessment for Zumwalt-Class Destroyers.” The package was addressed to Smolin’s residence.
“Let’s bust the fucking bastard,” Weber spoke into his radio.
Alex checked her temporary desk, drawer by drawer, making sure she didn’t leave anything behind. Hmm . . . her own office inside an FBI building, who would have thought?
She was getting ready to leave. Her case was closed, and her client, Walcott Global Technologies, happy. Well . . . as happy as it could have been under the circumstances. She was joining Mason and Sam for dinner later, to celebrate. The next day, she’d board a flight back to her home in California.
“You ready?” Weber asked from the doorway.
“Yeah, ready.” She turned to grab her laptop bag, then added, “One more thing I gotta ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“When you interrogate Smolin, can you ask him . . . well, about the man, that
Russian . . .”
“You mean the man from the case you said you had no idea what I was talking about?” Weber asked with a crooked smile.
“Yeah, the case we never worked on, that one,” she confirmed and winked. “Ask him about a Russian with the initial V, who calls all the shots and plans majestic endeavors of espionage and warfare,” she said, almost laughing at how cheesy her description sounded.
But how true
. . .
she thought bitterly.
“You got it. And here’s something else that you might find interesting. It’s highly confidential; please handle it appropriately.” He handed her a manila envelope containing a dark blue brief bearing the insignia of the Central Intelligence Agency.
“What is it?”
“It’s a report prepared by a senior CIA analyst regarding Russia’s intentions to invigorate its nuclear arsenal and restart the Cold War. It might help you identify your Russian.”
She dropped the laptop bag to the floor and flipped through the pages.
“I have to meet with this analyst,” she said, then looked on the cover page for the name she was missing. “I need to speak with this Henrietta Marino ASAP. She’s missing critical information.”
“That’s a bad idea, Alex. Hell, no.” He ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of exasperation. “See? That’s why I shouldn’t break the fucking rules, ’cause they bite me in the ass every goddamned time,” he said angrily. “You’re not authorized to know this report even exists. Don’t get me in trouble, all right?”
“I won’t, I promise. But I do have to speak with her, and it’s urgent.”
He shrugged, defeated, then added, “Trying to stop you is like trying to stop the damn midnight express. Good luck with that . . .” Weber rubbed his neck as if to get rid of a migraine. “But be careful, all right? Not every agency out there is willing to look the other way on some of the stuff you . . . didn’t do.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Alex replied with a frown. “I have to.”
The thirty-six hours Bob McLeod spent in federal detention had left marks on his face, his clothes, and his entire appearance. His hair and beard were grimy and unkempt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his dirty hands ran through his hair and over his face almost obsessively. He had slept, the little he’d been allowed to, in his suit, and that looked crumpled and dirty, the fine, designer, wool fabric reduced to a rag.
By contrast, the FBI agent seated across from him at the small, metallic table looked fresh and almost content, sipping steaming coffee from his tall cup and showing slight irritation in his eyes when reviewing McLeod’s file.
McLeod decided to break the silence.
“You’re still not going to allow me my right to an attorney?” he spoke almost defiantly.
“Traitors have no rights,” Agent Weber replied indifferently, almost casually.
“How long are you gonna keep me here?” McLeod protested, slamming his hands on the tabletop as much as his chained cuffs allowed him. “You can’t keep me like this forever.”
“That is correct,” Weber confirmed, not even looking at McLeod and continuing to read the excerpt from prior interrogation sessions. “But you seem to be forgetting you were caught in an act of espionage and treason, and that voids all your rights under the Patriot Act.”
McLeod fell silent for a while, them whispered, “Gitmo?”
“No. We’ve recently closed that facility, but we have others, just as capable of handling our country’s traitors, maybe even better, because no one really knows they exist. Everyone knew about damn Gitmo . . . It was becoming such a drag to deal with all that public outrage. That’s over, done with. We have new locations.” Weber sipped some more coffee, then continued, “For example, we have a new facility specialized for people who won’t talk at all, for traitors who just fail to understand their situation. They make things hard for us? Then we make things hard for them . . . And, of course, we have to keep such operations offshore, in places so deep and dark no one ever hears the screams, and no one ever counts the bodies.”
McLeod shuddered and swallowed hard. His defiance was all gone; he sat crouched, with his shoulders forward and head bowed. Then he spoke quietly.
“What do you want to know?”
“For starters, I want to know details on every piece of information you stole, and who you gave it to.”
McLeod hesitated. He must have known that an admission of treason was not going to help his case much. For a logical, cold-blooded thinker as he obviously was, he must have known by now he was finished anyway. He might as well cut his pain and get this phase over, done as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Treason carried an unavoidable death sentence. If McLeod didn’t know that by now, Weber was determined to reiterate that point and help him make up his mind to talk.
McLeod sighed and started talking in a low, almost casual voice.
“I had access to three classified files—SECRET, TOP SECRET, or above— all about the laser cannon installation on Zumwalt-class destroyers, or about the cannon itself. I copied all three and took the information home.”
“Go on,” Weber said.
“Then I prepared several deliveries.” McLeod cleared his throat, continuing, “I wasn’t going to hand out everything in one deal. I milked it for all it was worth.”
“So, you’re just a regular Judas, a traitor for money?”
McLeod smiled bitterly. “That’s what you think, huh? How simple it is for you ignorants to slap a label on someone and find peace with your conscience, no matter how wrong you are. Amazing . . . Ignorance
is
bliss.”
“Then tell me, what am I missing?”
“You haven’t asked the most important question: why? Why did I decide to risk my life and my freedom to give these people information? I couldn’t care less about their ideology.”
“OK, I’ll bite. Why?”
“A few years ago I filed a patent for a new navigation stabilization system, one that could be used on Navy vessels, and also adapted to any aircraft. My invention introduced variable geometry controlled by environmental sensors. In short, the vessel would change its hull properties depending on currents and wind direction, bringing significant gains in speed, fuel efficiency, and stability. Do you even know how important that is, how much of a game changer? I guess I’m safe to presume not . . .”
“Yes, you are. Go ahead, I’m all ears,” Weber replied dryly, immune to McLeod’s biting arrogance.
“The patent was filed under joint authorship, me and Walcott Global. It wasn’t the first patent that I filed under these circumstances.”
“Then what happened?” Weber asked, while his interest piqued.
“A couple of months ago I heard it on TV, on the fucking TV no less, that Walcott had sold my patent to Endeavor Aviation for 157 million dollars. Nicely done! I didn’t even know about it.”
“Then what did you do?”
“At that point I was still a solid citizen,” he said with a disgusted scoff. “I went to see my boss about it, then Human Resources. They all said the same thing, that all my work was work for hire, that I was being paid every two weeks, and that they didn’t owe me anything. Fucking bastards!”
“I understand you were upset—”
“Upset? I was frantic! What a difference 5 percent would have made for me, for my life, while they wouldn’t even have felt it. Even 1 percent; I’d have taken that 1 percent and be eternally grateful. But no . . . the fucking greedy parasites, the leeches, sucking every ounce of someone’s value and paying pennies for it. They had the arrogance to think they could own my brain. They only pay for eight hours of my
time
during each business day. They don’t even come close to paying for everything
this
has to offer,” McLeod finished his tirade pointing his right index finger at his temple.
“Then what did you do?”
“I decided to make them pay a different way, if I couldn’t negotiate with them. I thought maybe there was someone else out there willing to pay me, while I taught the leeches a lesson in humility and fair compensation. That’s why I didn’t hand out all the documents at a time.”
Weber’s anger was getting harder to control. He couldn’t believe the entitled arrogance in that asshole.
“Did you ever stop to think you were betraying your country, Mr. McLeod?”
“My country can take it, Agent Weber. This country is full of brilliant schmucks like me who’ll invent new gizmos every day and get paid next to nothing for it. That’s what makes America great, isn’t it?”
Weber stood abruptly and exited the interview room, afraid his mixed feelings would cloud his judgment in there. He had spent his entire life serving his country, and nothing disgusted him more than a traitor. He could have wrung that arrogant bastard’s neck himself in there, with his bare hands. Yet, in the back of his mind somewhere, he could feel the man’s frustration and see his point. Maybe McLeod wasn’t the only guilty party in this game . . . Maybe Walcott could have done things a little differently too, although Walcott had never broken the law; only McLeod had.
But if that were entirely the case, why didn’t Mason Armstrong find any evidence of this situation anywhere in McLeod’s file, Human Resources debriefings, or during the interview with his manager?