Authors: Stephen Renneberg
“I guess I’ll just have to keep wearing
your clothes, because I’m staying.” Christa flopped into a chair, unwrapped the
towel and began combing her wet hair with her fingers.
Mouse brought Mitch's attention back to the
computer screen. “Whatever Siren is, it’s buried so deep, Yoda couldn’t find it
with the Force. There’s nothing on the crackable Pentagon systems, nothing in
the conspiracy
journals.”
Mouse
grimaced. “I was sure if there was a secret weapons project, they’d know about
it.”
Christa looked up confused. “Conspiracy
journals?”
“Lunatic fringe antigovernment magazines,”
Mitch explained. “Mouse loves them.”
“They were right about Roswell weren’t
they?” Mouse declared defiantly. “And Tunguska!”
“Only in your imagination, conspiracy boy,”
Gunter said, looking up from his newspaper, sensing Mouse was about to bore him
to death with another passionate diatribe. Christa was surprised to see Gunter
reading the Wall Street Journal.
“What about the security organizations?” Mitch
asked.
Mouse shook his head. “The NSA just changed
their security protocols again, so I got zip from them. I’ve got a back door
into a CIA data center, but it’s low level. No joy there either.”
“Okay, time I jump the red eye to
Washington, start things rolling over there.”
“What’s in Washington?” Christa asked.
“A buddy of mine,” Mitch replied. “He’s
still in the Service. I’ll get him to run a check on Steinus, and the photos I
took at the Institute. That’ll cost your people twenty grand.”
“I thought you said he was your buddy?”
“He is, but this is business, and I’m
asking him to conduct an illegal search. He’ll need another ten to fifteen to
snoop around for a whisper on this Siren thing. While I’m over there, I’ll
grease one of the bureaucrats working for the Senate Appropriations Committee. There
might be some reference to Siren in the classified Committee papers. Someone’s
got to be funding it. That’ll cost at least another hundred.”
“You can’t bribe the Senate Appropriations
committee!” Christa said, sitting up.
“I’m not bribing the committee, just one of
the bottom feeders who live off the gravy train. You can arrange with Knightly
to send the cash we need.”
Christa looked doubtful. “Suppose they turn
you in when you offer them the money?”
“You obviously haven’t done much business
in Washington. Lobby money is legal, bribes aren’t, there’s a difference. It’s
all in the spelling.” Mitch turned to Gunter. “G, you know a lot of people in
the electronics business, people who handle bids on government contracts. Find
out who’s soft, close to the Appropriations Committee.”
“I will have a name for you before you
leave.” Gunter folded the newspaper and sighed. “Then, I must pick up my tapes.”
Mitch shook his head, solemnly. “Can’t do
it, G, it’ll break security.”
Gunter sighed. “The NASDAQ is falling, the
Dow is down. I got to hear those tapes. I am losing a fortune.”
Mitch looked sympathetic, but was
immovable. “You’ll get it back.”
“What tapes?” Christa asked.
They both ignored her.
“Then I must sell now,” Gunter said. “With
or without information.”
“You know the deal G, total blackout,
except for the case.”
Gunter grunted, unable to hide his
agitation. “This will hurt.”
“What tapes?” Christa persisted.
Mitch turned to her. “Gunter plays the
market, but only bets on sure things. Knightly knew about it. I guess he didn’t
brief you on everything, Princess.”
Christa gave Gunter an astonished look. “You’ve
got Wall Street bugged?”
“Just a few key locations, enough to know
what is going to happen, before the market does.”
“You’re an insider trader?”
“Informed speculator,” Gunter corrected.
“We’re conducting a major undercover
operation, and you’re making a career out of cheating Wall Street!”
“Nein. Industrial espionage is my
profession. Cheating Wall Street is my hobby.” Gunter’s face cracked for the
first time, betraying the hint of a smile.
Christa looked at the smiles on all their
faces. “You really are a bunch of thieves.”
“You want something stolen, Princess, ask a
thief. The Professor knew what he was doing when he hired us.” Mitch sobered. “So
G, no tapes, no trades, not this time.”
Gunter nodded sadly, mentally counting the
money he was going to lose. “Agreed.”
“I’ll be on the plane tonight,” Mitch said.
“Back in a few days.”
Christa pointed to herself meaningfully. “We’ll
be on the plane tonight.” She starting wiping the towel over her hair,
squeezing the moisture from it.
“Oh, so now you want a free ride with a
thief?”
“Unlike you, I am focused on our mission.”
“There’s no need for you to go.”
“There is.”
“I’m listening.”
“Trust me, I need to be there. Besides, if
you’re spending our money, someone has to keep you honest.”
“I’m anything but honest, Princess.”
“I can see that.”
Mitch sighed. “Okay, two tickets to
Washington. Mouse, pick a hotel you can control from here. You know what I
mean. Arrange for transport, and order some heat to meet us there. I won’t get
a weapon onto the plane and I don’t want to be naked when I start asking
questions.”
“Will do,” Mouse nodded. “There are plenty
of gun companies on the East Coast doing e-commerce. They won’t even know I was
there. You want concealable, or heavy?”
“Both, and Christa’s weapon of choice is a
Colt Combat Elite. We’ll also need a cover. Something that’ll give us reason to
lobby Appropriations Committee people. Nothing too important. Nothing defense
related. Something so inane no one will have any interest in us.”
“Inane huh?” Mouse looked thoughtful for a
moment, then grinned wickedly. Without another word, he turned back to his
computer, leaving the others wondering what Mouse’s oddball sense of humor had
come up with.
Mitch and Christa entered the small
restaurant less than a mile from Capitol Hill and sat down opposite a slender
man wearing a neatly pressed suit and smoke gray glasses. Mathew Prescott had
joined the Secret Service the same time Mitch had, although he fared better
with the hierarchy that ran it, because he kept his opinions to himself. When
Mitch introduced Christa, Prescott gave him a dark look.
“Don’t worry,” Mitch reassured him. “Christa
represents the client. Whether she’s at the table or not, she’ll know what goes
down.”
“No offence Miss Malleson, but I prefer to
have as few people as possible involved.”
“Anything we discuss will remain strictly
confidential,” Christa promised, “You have my word on it.”
Prescott looked dubious, but before he
could say anything, the waitress came to take their order. They asked for
coffees all round, then when she’d moved out of ear shot, he said, “I was
surprised to get your message, Mitch, I thought you were out of the security
business.”
“I’m into more lucrative ventures these
days, gathering background information for lobby groups. Kind of boring, but
profitable.”
“I heard the FBI was interested in you,
something about industrial espionage and a suspected murder. I always knew you
were a hard ass, Mitch, but I never thought you’d whack any one.”
“The FBI has a file on everyone, it doesn’t
mean dick. Besides, they keep losing the file. It seems their computer system
mysteriously deletes anything associated with my name. It’s called the Mitchell
virus, because it only affects people with Mitchell in their name.”
Prescott chuckled, relaxing a little. “So
you’re still hanging around with that computer nerd. I thought someone would
have put him in jail by now, or stuck him in the NSA.”
“I assume you’re still interested in some
freelance work, especially if we can place the money offshore?”
Prescott glanced uncertainly again at
Christa, weighing up the risk of talking openly in front of her. “Could be. What
are you looking for?”
The waitress brought their coffees, then
when she’d gone, Mitch produced a plain brown envelope and slid it across the
table. “These are photographs,” he said, nodding to the envelope containing
prints of the pictures he'd taken at the Newton Institute. “I want to know, of
who.”
Prescott slid the envelope into his inside
coat pocket. “I won’t ask why you want to know, but it might help if I knew
where to start looking.”
“Not sure. One looks like intelligence
community, a couple may be civilians, probably all working for the Defense Department.”
“Defense Department?” Prescott raised his
eyebrows curiously. “Don’t ask me to do anything for a foreign government,
Mitch, or I’ll turn you in myself. I’m no traitor.”
“Neither are we,” Christa said firmly. “Anything
you do for us is in our country’s best interests. I can assure you of that.”
“I feel better already,” Prescott said
dryly.
“Like I said, Mat, we’re doing research for
a group that’s got its eyes on winning a classified US government defense contract.
They just want a head start over the competition.”
“Which defense contract?”
“It’s called the Siren Project. That’s the
second part of the job. We’d like you to dig up whatever you can on it.”
“Never heard of it. What is it?”
“An advanced technology research project,”
Christa said.
“I need more to go on than just a name.”
Christa shook her head slowly. “That’s it.”
“You can trust me, I guard the lives of
Presidents.”
“It’s not a question of trust. I have my
orders,” she replied with finality.
“I guess I can assume this Siren thing is
classified, so if I get caught snooping around, things could get ugly. Right?”
“Don’t get caught,” Mitch said.
Prescott considered the proposal. “Okay,
I’ll bite. Twenty five for the photo ID, ten for looking into Siren, plus
another twenty five if I find anything.”
“Sixty thousand!” Christa whispered, then
turned to Mitch, “You said–”
Mitch cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Agreed.
You got somewhere you want us to send the money to?”
Prescott passed a card listing his bank
details to Mitch. “When I see thirty five thousand hit that account, I’ll do
the photos and start checking on Siren. I’ll call you when I’m ready. Don’t
call me.”
“The money will be there in a few hours,”
Mitch assured him.
Satisfied, Prescott finished his coffee. “So
tell me Mitch, if I’m making sixty on this deal, how much is in it for you?” Prescott
asked enviously. “For career planning purposes, you understand.”
Mitch winked at his old friend, and said
nothing.
* * * *
Mitch and Christa parked their hire
car a short distance from the dour office block that provided administrative
support to a range of Senate activities. It was a nondescript rectangular building,
built more than half a century earlier, and only recently renovated. Off in the
distance, they could see the dome of the congress building poking above the
skyline, and unseen, they heard a helicopter flying low over the city, possibly
carrying some elected official about his business.
They were given visitor’s passes at the
entrance, and proceeded up several flights to an office, where they were kept
waiting forty minutes past their appointment time. Mouse had arranged for the
meeting with the man Gunter’s contacts had identified as someone who was known
for his open self interest. When the receptionist finally let them into the
office, Lawrence Rayborne rose and crossed the office to meet them. He was a solid
individual, tending to fat, although in his younger days, he’d played college
ball and had even fielded a few offers from the minor leagues. After finishing
law school, he'd drifted through several law firms until he landed a Washington
based job in the Department of Agriculture. From there he found his way into a
much more opportune role supporting the Senate Appropriations Committee. He
quickly learned how to torpedo projects for obscure legal reasons, making him
someone the beneficiaries of such projects were keen to ingratiate themselves
with.
He settled back into his deeply padded
leather chair and looked curiously at them. “So, you’re from Marsin Reath Electric?”
“That’s right,” Mitch replied.
“Who at Marsin gave you my name?” He asked
cautiously.
Mitch had memorized the details Gunter had
given him the night before over the telephone. “Harrison Whitmore.”