The Switch, page 15
But he could never tell anyone that. And he also knew that what happened in this room would determine if he even had a choice.
• • •
Now he followed the intern into a small, formal room, where a middle-aged man and a young woman sat in two chairs on one side of a mahogany conference table. There was an oriental carpet on the floor and, on the walls, paintings of ships at sea. All of the ships in the paintings, he noticed quickly, were caught in storms. He wondered if the choice of art was deliberate.
“Mr. Abbott,” the woman said. She was around Will’s age—therefore young, in his estimation—large framed, broad shouldered, with light-brown hair loosely knotted at the back of her neck in a complicated arrangement.
“Will.”
“Will. I’m Nicole Erdman, from the Office of Senate Security, and this is John Hathaway from the National Security Agency.” Curious, Will thought, that she felt the need to say the whole name of the three-letter agency. As if they didn’t all know what it was. “We want you to know this interview is being recorded.”
There was no tape recorder on the table, no iPhone. Obviously they didn’t need one. The room was wired.
“Why am I here?” Will asked. He looked at the woman and then turned to the NSA guy, an odd-looking man with pale freckled skin, brown eyes, short black hair, and overlarge ears. The man looked right back, defiantly, and Will couldn’t help but glance away.
“Mr. Abbott, we have reason to believe that some classified information, classified at the highest level by the NSA, was stolen or mishandled. This investigation is tasked with determining the source of that leak—”
“Okay, but why—”
“We have reason to believe classified information was stolen or mishandled within the Senate, uh, intelligence committee offices, about a week ago,” John said in a reasonable baritone. “Within the SCIF.” He sounded like an accountant explaining some complexity of tax law to an inattentive client.
Will felt acid wash up into his throat. He wanted to ask what made them say this and he thought, My God, there are cameras in the SCIF! There have to be concealed closed-circuit TV cameras. What if what I did was recorded on video?
But instead of giving in to the panic, he tipped his head to one side and cocked a brow inquisitively and said, “My God, really?”
Nicole said, “As I’m sure you know, according to the Rules of Procedure of the Select Committee on Intelligence, copying, duplicating, or removing from the committee offices classified materials is prohibited—”
“—‘except as is necessary for the conduct of committee business,’” Will said. “Yes, I’m familiar with the rules. What is your question: Did I break any rules? The answer is no.”
Nicole flushed and said, looking down at a sheet of paper on the table in front of her, “Did you at any point last week bring in a portable electronic device?”
“You mean, like a phone?”
“Right.”
“No, I did not.”
“Um, writing to removable media such as USB or DVD/CD drives is prohibited without express authorization—”
“I said, I didn’t break any rules. Is that not clear enough?”
John Hathaway spoke up now, loudly and firmly: “Did you copy any files to a USB drive, a flash drive, a thumb drive, a memory stick, a disk or any other form of removable media?”
“No.”
“Well, someone did last Wednesday. That limits the pool of suspects to SSCI staff members, any of the senators on the committee, and any members of any senator’s staff who might have access.”
Will felt as if one of the lobes of his brain had just lit up. He realized then: They don’t know who did it!
They probably knew that somebody plugged in a thumb drive. There was probably some sort of intrusion detector in the computer network. He should have thought of that. He would never have taken the risk. But that meant that there was no hidden video recording activity inside the room.
They knew someone had copied top secret documents. How many suspects were there, then? Thirteen senators plus their staffers who had security clearance plus the professional staff. He did the math in his head. That meant a pool of seventy-six people who could have done it.
But they didn’t know it was him.
“Hold on a second,” Will said, holding up his hand. “You’re telling me there’s been another NSA leak?”
John looked sidelong at Nicole.
“How many does this even make since Snowden?”
“Um,” John said.
But Will didn’t wait for his answer. “What the hell is going on with you people? Another NSA screwup? My God, you guys leak like a, a salad spinner.” He considered saying something about Huggies diapers and how they didn’t leak, but he decided that not everybody had baby on the brain. “You sure as hell are better at collecting secrets than keeping them. And let’s not even talk about 9/11.” Will knew that the NSA shouldered the primary blame for not catching the September 11 terrorists, and that this was more than a sore point for the agency. “As you well know, my boss pretty much controls the purse strings for you guys. Every intel budget, every program—she decides thumbs-up or thumbs-down. She can yank those purse strings or she can just snip them off. So what I want to know is: This new leak—do we have something to worry about?”
“Not at all, sir. Nothing at all to worry about. We don’t need to take any more of your time.”
41
Tanner drove to the office, making a few extra turns, taking a circuitous route. Just in case he was being followed. Though in truth he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t.
In the afternoon, when it had been five hours since his meeting with Brent Stover, he gave in to his anxiety and called the guy, on his work number. Calling his mobile phone seemed a little too aggressive. He reached a woman named Linda who seemed to be his assistant, or maybe an assistant for a group of FBI officers. She said he was out of the office and that she’d take a message for him. A couple of hours later he tried Stover’s mobile. He got a recording of Stover saying, “Please leave a message.” He did.
At seven he left another message on Stover’s cell phone.
• • •
The next morning, Tanner was up early. He checked his e-mail and wondered for the first time whether anyone—“they”—might have tapped his Internet connection. He didn’t even know if that was possible.
He decided to go into work early. Sal the roaster might be at work—he kept long hours, by his own choice—or he might have to open the place, which he rarely had to do.
At seven thirty, before getting into his car, he called Brent Stover’s mobile phone. This was the third time. He got voice mail again. And he wondered: Was it possible Stover was just too busy to get back to him? If that was the case, leaving another message would be obnoxious. He ended the call before the beep. Then he called Stover’s office number and got a voice mail message. It was too early for the office there to open. He didn’t leave a message.
He wondered whether Stover was avoiding him for some reason. Maybe he was too busy with FBI casework and meetings and paperwork to have checked into the classified documents Tanner had told him about.
Sure . . . but Stover had sounded alarmed at what Tanner had told him. He had sounded intensely interested, and it wasn’t an act. It didn’t seem plausible that he’d drop it when he got into work.
There must be a good reason he was avoiding Tanner’s call.
At eight thirty he called Stover’s work number from his office landline. Linda answered.
“Yes, Mr. Tanner, good morning. He’s in a meeting, but I can take a message.”
Tanner left Stover a second message and told her it was important. “How long does that meeting go on for?” he asked.
“Usually no more than an hour. Half an hour to forty-five minutes, max.”
“Okay. Well, he’ll know what this is about, but please tell him I need to talk with him soon.”
“I will,” she said, pleasantly.
At ten thirty, he called Stover’s FBI line and got Linda again. “Is there a good time to reach him? I don’t want to keep bothering you.”
“I’m giving him the messages, sir,” she said testily.
“I appreciate that. It’s a matter of some urgency.”
“I understand,” she said. “He’s a very busy man.”
“Is there a good time to reach him, do you think?”
“I’m sorry, sir, all I can do is give him your message.”
“So he knows I’ve been calling.”
“I don’t know whether he’s seen the messages, sir. I’ll tell him you called again.”
Tanner had his own meeting to get through, with Karen. At the end of it he asked if he could borrow her cell phone. She looked surprised—she could see his on his desk—but said sure.
She unlocked her home screen and handed it to him. As soon as she’d left the office, he called Brent Stover’s cell phone.
Stover answered right away. “Yeah?”
“Brent, it’s Michael Tanner, and I want to apologize for hounding you.”
“Yeah, uh, Michael, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m really awfully busy, I’m sorry, best of luck.”
There was a click. He had hung up.
Tanner was stunned. The FBI guy was avoiding him, that was clear, but why?
I’m afraid I can’t help you.
What did that mean?
• • •
Brent Stover left work at six, Tanner remembered him saying.
At quarter of six, Tanner was standing outside the glass doors to a small lobby area and a bank of elevators in One Center Plaza. There was a constant surge of people, mostly government workers, leaving work for the day. Some looked bedraggled and unhappy; some were voluble and boisterous.
At five minutes after six, Brent Stover came out of a crowded elevator.
This was sort of like stalking, Tanner knew. But it was justified.
He waited for Stover to emerge from the glass doors, saw he wasn’t talking to anyone, and approached him.
Stover saw him. A flash of panic on his face. Subtly, he shook his head.
Tanner came closer, and Stover said, quietly, “Not here.” His eyes darted upward and to his right. Tanner saw a surveillance camera mounted on the building face high above, and his stomach twisted.
Stover kept walking, Tanner following at a distance.
Stover crossed the street in the direction of the sandwich shop where they’d met the day before. Tanner waited a few seconds and then crossed. Stover was still within view, walking past the Starbucks and down the street. He seemed to be leading Tanner. He certainly wasn’t trying to lose him.
Stover rounded the next corner and then turned into an alley. He stopped beside a Dumpster. As soon as Tanner came up to him, Stover spoke to him quietly and quickly. “Do me a favor, Tanner, and turn off your phone.”
“What the hell is going on?” Tanner said.
“Here’s what’s going on. I got a wife and four kids who depend on my salary. I got a pension. I got a career. I got a life. And they’re shutting me down.”
“Who’s shutting you—”
“I cannot touch this. Please, just forget my name and never call me again.”
“Will you explain to me what you—”
“I don’t know what you did, but please—just stay away from me. This conversation never happened. Don’t contact me again. Please.”
42
There was something deeply unnerving about seeing a man like the normally stolid Brent Stover so visibly frightened.
This conversation never happened. Don’t contact me again. Please.
What the hell had the FBI agent discovered? What had he been told?
And what was this about turning off his phone? Tanner wondered whether it was true that you could be tracked via your mobile phone. He’d heard that somewhere but had never given it much thought.
But he kept his phone turned off just in case.
He stopped at a convenience store and bought three prepaid cell phones. He had to be reachable, had to stay in touch with the office, yet he couldn’t use his iPhone any longer. He returned to Carl’s house in Newton, warily—parking down the street and around a corner and walking back to the house. Was he being followed? He didn’t think so. Not that he could tell, anyway.
He unlocked the front door, couldn’t help noting the house smell. Every house had a different one. Carl’s was a blend of faint mildew, mothballs, old vacuum cleaner bag, and coffee. Tanner was like a bloodhound with a highly specialized skill, or maybe more like a truffle hound: he could detect the odor of coffee anywhere.
Carl wasn’t home—Tanner called out—so he switched on the lights in the living room and opened one of the disposable cell phone’s blister packs using a pair of scissors, though a hacksaw would have been a lot easier. The phone’s battery came with a minimum amount of charge, but enough to call Lucy Turton, Tanner Roast’s office manager. While they talked, he plugged the phone in to charge, then set up and plugged in the other two phones in the outlet on the kitchen wall.
“I’ll be away from the office a few more days,” he said.
“Okay . . .” Lucy sounded like she wanted to ask why but it wasn’t her place.
“And I’ll have a different phone number for a while. My iPhone died.”
“I see the number . . . Okay. Hey, a couple of guys came by here looking for you.”
“When was this?”
“Just a couple of hours ago. Serious-looking dudes. They said they were from Homeland Security.”
“What’d they want?”
“They wouldn’t tell me what it was about. They said they’d only talk to you, and they said they’ll be back.”
“Thanks.” Tanner ended the call. They’d probably tried his house, too. And it wouldn’t take them long to determine the names of his employees and friends, and soon enough they’d find him here, at Carl’s house.
Which meant he had to leave here as soon as possible.
At the same time, Tanner couldn’t help but think: Is this all about the goddamned senator’s laptop? What if I just give it back? What would happen if he simply handed it back to the senator’s office? If he called that guy, Will Abbott, and said, You know what, you’re right, I have it, and here it is, and let’s end this.
Lanny had insisted that the laptop was his life insurance policy, that once he surrendered it, he was disposable; he could be killed. Because the real issue was what was on that laptop: the top secret documents. Lanny had them, on a thumb drive; he let people know he had them, and he was killed. Before he had the chance to publish a story. Maybe Lanny was killed because he knew about these documents—to stop him from making them public.
Whereas Tanner was still alive. Maybe that was because someone wanted to get that computer back. And once they’d gotten it, they’d surely kill him too.
So: no. The computer had to stay hidden, held as a hostage.
But it occurred to him, with a spasm of terror, that maybe things had changed. Maybe things weren’t so simple anymore. Maybe having the laptop hidden away wasn’t enough to keep him safe.
After all, he had killed a man.
Maybe that had marked him. Maybe he was in a different category now. Maybe they knew he’d done it. They—whoever sent the tattooed guy after Tanner—would have a pretty good idea of who must have done it, a couple of blocks from the Tanner Roast office and roastery.
He heard a key turning in the front-door lock and for a moment he froze. He looked around for a weapon, something he could use if it came to that. A lamp? Then his eyes lit upon the fireplace and the metal tools next to it, including a fireplace poker. That would do nicely. He grabbed it and took a few steps toward the entry hall, poker up in the air, ready to swing, in case—
“Whoa there, dude,” Carl said.
“Sorry.” As he lowered the poker, he realized his hand was shaking.
Carl frowned. “Did something happen?”
Tanner shook his head.
“Someone try to get in?” Carl was maybe twenty feet away, but Tanner could smell the funk of his sweat. He was just back from a day of lessons and classes and he hadn’t taken a shower.
“No. But it’s only a matter of time. They’ve already been looking for me at work. I’m sure they looked at my house. Now I’ve gotta move.”
“But who’s been looking for you?”
“I have no idea who. They say Homeland Security. But I don’t know.”
Carl crinkled his brow. “FBI, maybe?”
“I don’t think so.”
“CIA? Some other three-letter agency?”
Tanner shrugged.
“Where are you gonna move to? Come on, man, I’m worried.”
“I don’t know, but I have an idea. I need to see my wife.”
• • •
“Can we talk?” Tanner said.
“Uh-oh. Now it’s your turn,” Sarah said.
“This is really important.”
Her tone changed suddenly. “What is it?”
“I can’t talk on the phone.” Maybe he was being unduly paranoid, but he assumed that they had the ability to listen in on Sarah Tanner’s mobile phone and that they might in fact be doing it. He didn’t want to take the chance.
Tanner and Sarah arranged to meet on Huron Avenue in Cambridge, in front of her real estate company’s offices. It was cold and windy, a fall nip in the air, the threat of a Boston winter on the way. He saw her from a distance, illuminated by a streetlamp. She looked small and vulnerable.
