ROGUESTATE, page 35
Feldman led Dwayne past the outer office secretaries and thru the Director’s executive secretary’s office. He knocked once before entering the Director’s inner sanctum.
The Director looked up from his desk and gave them a humorless assessment. He visibly winced at the site of the evidence bag, and quietly closed the file he had been reading.
“Gentlemen,” he murmured.
Feldman settled easily into one of the chairs. The Director eyed him cautiously and marked him has one of the ladder-climbers interested in title and authority.
“You’ve brought it with you?” asked the Director.
“Yes, sir.” He handed the Director the evidence pouch. Stapled to the back of the pouch was the Bureau’s manufacturing report. The Director hardly glanced at the report, as if it were a painful reminder. In many ways, he was the exalted ruler of an illusion, and he had little stomach for where all of this might lead.
The Director looked at Dwayne and said, “The remote detonator was entered into the evidence library. You requested a standard search and forensic analysis—standard procedure.”
Dwayne nodded and wondered why he was being given a cadet’s lecture.
Feldman remained silent, watching the Director. It occurred to Dwayne he had no idea how many sides there were to their conversation, and he suddenly wished Cecil were present.
“Unfortunately, this evidence leads to some very embarrassing anddangerous lines of investigation,” continued the Director.
Of course, it was dangerous. There was Irv Fredricks to consider.
“The remote detonator was built under contract for the federal government,” explained Feldman.
Dwayne gave him a dumb look.
“Exclusive contract,” echoed the Director.
Something cold plopped, unsettling on his stomach. “How exclusive?” asked Dwayne.
“The report came back EYES ONLY,” continued the Director. “This detonator was built by one of those privately owned, publicly financed companies servicing the intelligence community.”
“The spooks build a lot of things,” quipped Dwayne.
The Director nodded tiredly. He could not conceive of any operation involving Langley that supported killing elected officials. “But not for distribution to domestic terrorists,” countered the Director.
Dwayne leaned forward and demanded, “What exactly do you want?”
Feldman took up the conversation, sparing the Director the need to lay it out for Dwayne. “We want this to disappear from the evidence databank.”
Huh?
Dwayne twisted in his chair to face Feldman directly. “That’s against the law.”
Neither Feldman nor the Director spoke.
Dwayne stared at them and his skin crawled. The expansive Director’s office suddenly seemed quite small.
“Lose it for a while,” soothed Feldman.
“You have a theory, I understand,” echoed the Director.
Dwayne nodded slowly.
“Make the case without using the detonator,” whispered Feldman.
“I might need the detonator,” protested Dwayne.
The Director sighed and said bluntly, “Consider it like your use of thePhreaks. Useful information, but nothing you can go to court with.”
“But I need something to take to a judge,” whined Dwayne.
The Director glanced at Feldman and said, “I’m sure assistant director Feldman can make whatever other avenues you might need available to you, Dwayne.” The interview was over as quickly as it materialized. The Director got his feet and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Feldman watched the Director vanish beyond the door before he looked back to Dwayne. “The Director is under a great deal of stress.”
Dwayne nodded. He noted the Director left with the evidence bag and the stapled report. It was a dangerous moment.
“Some might construe your use of patently illegal computer tactics as breaking the law as well,” continued Feldman as if he were commenting on the wonderful weather or inquiring after Dwayne’s Thanksgiving plans. “In effect, you circumvented Bureau procedure and federal law when you used Cecil to solicit Mary’s help. ThePhreaks aren’t a trivial asset, and they should be reserved for off-shore problems.”
Dwayne glowered at Feldman. “I realize I can’t use the information from thePhreaks in a courtroom, but without that I’d have nothing.”
Feldman nodded understandingly. “So you can see our problem.”
Dwayne shook his head. Feldman’s problem was he had either encountered an honest cop or one devoid of an imagination. “No, I don’t see the problem, except that you’re too scared to pursue the truth.”
Feldman scowled. “We have a place for troublemakers like you.”
Dwayne struggled to his feet and snapped, “Where’s the detonator?”
Feldman allowed a smile to slither across his lips. “What detonator, Dwayne?” He waved his hand around the room and said, “I don’t see one.”
Dwayne clenched his fists and considered smacking Feldman, but it would probably hurt his hand more than the lump of concrete masquerading as a brain between Feldman’s shoulders. “I’ll fight you.”
Feldman smirked. “You don’t get it do you, Dwayne? We’re the FBI and we don’t answer to anyone—not the Justice Department, or the Congress, or even the President. I can squash you like a bug, and no one will ever notice.”
Dwayne turned away and headed for the door back to his world.
“Or we can reach an understanding,” offered Feldman.
Dwayne kept walking.
* * * *
Crystal City, Virginia
Harvey Randall gave Jonas a sidelong glance as they ran the query through the Company’s access database. The hits for a specific access code began to mount up on the screen.
“Where’d you get the info?” asked Harvey.
Jonas stared at the screen and let out a low whistle. He unfolded a half sheet of paper from his front pocket and compared the dates on the paper to the dates on the screen.
They were close.
“A little bird told me,” he answered cryptically.
Harvey nodded slowly as he looked over Jonas’ shoulder at the paper. He knew those dates from his interviews with Connor Fadden. “Damon Layne’s travel schedule.”
Jonas nodded. He tapped the screen with his pen.
“This bird—does he have a name?” asked Harvey.
Jonas turned from the screen to the Stetson and cowboy boots. “Yes, but we’ve been told to ignore the truth.”
Harvey bristled at the words until he saw the mischievous light in Jonas’ eyes. “Are we riding off the reservation?”
Jonas shrugged. “Harper might need backup.”
“Where did he get the access code?” asked Harvey.
“Adrian Bridger,” whispered Jonas.
“Bridger? I didn’t know we were allowed to talk to Bridger,” mused Harvey.
“Jim has unique persuasive capabilities. I guess he visited Bridger at his office. I’m sure he was able to convince Bridger to share this information.”
Harvey wondered what Louis Edwards would do once he found out. He just hoped Bridger was still alive. “And where does Bridger come up with access codes to an Agency safe house?”
“I don’t know,” confided Jonas. “But Layne visited it two days ago. I think you should know this particular safe house has an armory.”
Harvey nodded, slowly taking in the information. “Where’s Harper now?”
Jonas tapped a few commands into his computer and replied, “Waiting for this email. There is one other thing.”
There always was in this business.
“The Bureau routed a routine forensic request against a manufacture database. The Company keeps tabs on this database—it helps us track certain items,” began Jonas. “The Bureau issued a forensic inquiry.”
“And they got a hit,” suggested Harvey. There was a cold spot along the back of his throat and he feared where this might lead.
“A specialized type of detonator was identified,” continued Jonas. His eyes drifted towards the screen recording Damon Layne’s access to the safe house and armory.
“How specialized?” asked Harvey.
“It would tend to narrow down the number of suspects to a handful,” murmured Jonas.
“Or maybe just one.”
Jonas nodded.
Harvey stared hard at the screen and watched the dots slowly connect Bridger to Layne to Harper to the Agency and a very nasty rash of bombings across Washington’s power elite. The mess was further complicated by Bridger’s role inSpanish Poppy and the presidential election. The black helicopter crowd could churn conspiracy scenarios for the next twenty years, and they might come dangerously close to the truth.
He picked up a photograph of Damon Layne. The cop Harvey used to be wanted to catch this dirt ball and lock him away forever; the pragmatist he was becoming recognized the immense danger such a tale incurred. Layne and Bridger were the visible tendrils of a moldering stench, and Louis Edwards knew much more about the depth of the decay than he had told them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Washington D.C.,MSNBC,October 17, 2000 –Carnivore, the FBI’s controversial email snooping program, hunts in a pack. Recent revelations suggest the program is part of a larger surveillance group of programs known as the “Dragon Ware Suite.” Declassified documents indicate the FBI’s Internet spy programs are capable of reconstructing the surfing habits of anyone using the Internet.
Privacy advocates were heartened by House Majority Leader Richard Armey, who said, “Dragon Ware Suite? What were they thinking? Until the constitutional questions have been adequately addressed, the Justice Department should not only stop developing new versions of cybersnooping software, they should stop using the existing programs.”
Quantico, Virginia
Thursday, November 16, 2000
1:30 P.M. EST
Ron Babcock never noticed the digital intrusion into his credit card accounts, his bank statements, or his investment portfolio. The cyber-assault mounted by the Bureau’s techno-nerds at Quantico was completely illegal. They operated without judicial restraint and beyond the license a federal warrant provided. The judges that had been approached, reviewed the paltry amount oflegal evidence, and laughed the Bureau lawyers out the door. Ron Babcock looked like a boy scout. His tax returns were conspicuously in order. Even the minor mistakes that plague thousands of Americans with letter audits did not appear on his forms. His name never appeared on any of the more rambunctious mailing lists, and he seemed to be genuinely appreciated by co-workers and neighbors.
He had a wife and two children, attended the local Baptist church, and sang in the choir. He did not smoke or drink. There was no evidence he had ever taken illicit drugs or engaged in promiscuous sexual practices. He held a valid driver license absent of even minor traffic violations. Quiet background checks into his college and high school career did not reveal any political interest. He appeared to be one of millions of Americans who played by the rules and kept out of trouble.
The Quantico watchers would have dismissed his role in the Washington bombing campaign had the suggestion come from anyone less than Mother Mary. No one questioned how thePhreaks identified their prey; it was up to Quantico tolegally gather the evidence so that Ron Babcock could be put away forever. The digital hound dogs waited with the patience of the sphinx.
Ron became complacent in his war against Washington. Obviously, the Bureau had focused on Irv Fredricks, and the two men ensured they kept away from each other. He believed strongly in the security of his messages, and assumed message security was synonymous to path security. Mother Mary decided to keep the email files away from the NSA. However, Terri had provided the means to track Ron’s encrypted emails. The Bureau kept from technically breaking the law, because they simply tracked Ron’s email digital path from server to server.
The instant Ron clicked SEND, the hound dogs yelped and gave chase. Dwayne did not need a court order to issue a conditional arrest warrant for Ron Babcock, although he might have prevented the flamboyant arrest—the Bureau was always on the hunt for good publicity.
Honor was in short supply as the Bureau’s black-clad ninjas spread across Ron Babcock’s property like a bad case of lice. The CNN pool reporter who tripped across the Bureau’s activities caught the acts of slamming a ten-year-old child into the ground and splintering the rear screen door on tape. The home’s windows illuminated from a pair of flash-bang grenades ignited for good measure, and a properly trussed bad guy was apprehended. They left a stunned wife and bewildered daughters in their wake, confident they had accomplished a great thing.
It was spectacular and horrendous, but like everything else, it was swallowed up by the drama in Florida. Southern white boys do not rate high on civil libertarian charts for sympathetic victims, and no one rode to Ron’s defense. While they had arrested the right person, they did it in manner where the left could claim police-state tactics and the right could cultivate its growing distrust of Washington.
* * * *
Johns Hopkins Medical Center
Harvey found Cecil Bixby flat on his back with an arm in traction. The afternoon soap operas did nothing for his attitude and he growled at the nurses and the doctors. He wanted his arm unwound from the ceiling and his clothes back. Cecil did not make a very good patient.
The two men went back a long way. They had the unique relationship of teacher and student that metamorphosed into mentor and protégé. Cecil specialized in hunting Soviet spies, and Harvey was assigned to work on the Red Chinese. He learned everything he could from the older man, and in the process, he developed a keen sense for the odd and unusual. Cecil always had a suggestion, an open door, and most importantly, time to listen to Harvey’s half-formed theories.
Cecil measured Harvey against the quality of the old Bureau, where there were good guys and bad guys. He despised the paper-pushing, empire-builders like Feldman. Sadly, he watched Harvey continue to pursue his Chinese phantoms and run afoul of the Bureau’s diminished leadership and the scoundrels running the country. Harvey might have been saved, except he consorted with the CIA and that single sin grated everyone. Yet, Cecil knew his best student had been right—and being right used to count for something.
Harvey closed the door behind him and hung his Stetson on one of the hooks. He carried a plain paper bag with a six-pack of Miller under his arm. He said, “They’re calling you names out there, old man.”
Cecil blinked open his eyes and hit the controls on his bed so he could examine his visitor a bit easier. “I thought they kicked your spy-chasing butt out of the Bureau.”
Harvey shrugged and ambled over to the nearest chair. The island sun and regular exercise had reduced his gut a bit, revealing a harder muscle layer. “I quit before they had the opportunity to kick me out.”
The blue eyes twinkled as Harvey pulled the six-pack free of the grocery sack. “I heard you had a run-in with my new boss.”
“Feldman?” grunted Harvey.
“Yeah,” smiled Cecil as Harvey popped the top on the beer can and handed it across the bed.
“Tall, stupid—kind of a health freak. You could say we did not exactly get along,” confided Harvey.
“That’s the one,” exclaimed Cecil. “He’s trying to give me a gold watch and a hearty shove out the door.”
Harvey sipped his beer and nodded knowingly.
“I think he intends to replace me with Rita Mason—have you met Rita?”
Harvey nodded. “She’s the gal following Feldman around—has all the personality of a cobra.”
Cecil chuckled. “He probably has the justification he needs to get rid of me now.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve been chasing a Russian named Eduard Gurov. He works for their FSB and he appears to be on a mission over here.”
Harvey understood—old habits die hard. He leaned back in his chair and finished off the first beer. “They don’t want us to chase spies, Cecil. The administration has too many deals with the Russians and the Chinese.”
Cecil nodded tiredly. “There was day when chasing a spy was part of the job description.”
“They’re long gone.”
Cecil tossed back the last of his beer and handed Harvey the empty. “The rumor has it you skipped the country,” continued Cecil.
“I’m here, and as far as I know the INS doesn’t have a warrant out for my arrest.”
“There are other rumors that you came into quite a bit of money and that you might even be working for the CIA,” mused Cecil.
“This town runs on rumors about who’s in and who’s out. I wouldn’t put much stock in rumors, Cecil.” He opened a second can and handed it across the bed to the sixty-five–year–old agent.
“But you’re not going to go out of your way to deny them either?”
Harvey smirked. “If those rumors were true, my ex-wife and her gaggle of blood-sucking lawyers would have found me and the money by now.”
Cecil raised his beer to Harvey and took a long pull. “It certainly tastes good after the swill they pass for food in this hospital.”
“They say you walked into a bomb blast,” quizzed Harvey.
“We’ve been chasing a fellow by the name of Parvez Hyder. Evidently he left a present for anyone who got curious about his activities.”
“How’s he connected to the Washington bombings—I heard you were working on those killings,” asked Harvey.
“Oh that—I was assigned to Dwayne Morton’s investigation. I figure it was Feldman’s way of getting rid of both of us. Dwayne is supposed to fall flat on his face and I’m along for the ride,” explained Cecil.
“You cut a deal?”
Cecil smiled. “Uh-huh, I wanted one last shot at a Russian. They’re the threat. The Russians, Chinese, Arabs are the real problems. A couple of disaffected white boys from Alabama or some skinheads perched atop a mountain in Idaho don’t really threaten the republic.”
“And you found this Gurov character?”
Cecil nodded. “He’s operating in Dwayne’s part of the country. I took a chance and got burned. Feldman was just waiting for a mistake and I gave him one. He’s probably on the top floor of the Hoover Building, bending the Director’s ear right now. They’ll offer me a quiet retirement…” Cecil trailed off shaking his head, “I guess it’s time to get out of the business. You can’t chase bad guys forever.”
The Director looked up from his desk and gave them a humorless assessment. He visibly winced at the site of the evidence bag, and quietly closed the file he had been reading.
“Gentlemen,” he murmured.
Feldman settled easily into one of the chairs. The Director eyed him cautiously and marked him has one of the ladder-climbers interested in title and authority.
“You’ve brought it with you?” asked the Director.
“Yes, sir.” He handed the Director the evidence pouch. Stapled to the back of the pouch was the Bureau’s manufacturing report. The Director hardly glanced at the report, as if it were a painful reminder. In many ways, he was the exalted ruler of an illusion, and he had little stomach for where all of this might lead.
The Director looked at Dwayne and said, “The remote detonator was entered into the evidence library. You requested a standard search and forensic analysis—standard procedure.”
Dwayne nodded and wondered why he was being given a cadet’s lecture.
Feldman remained silent, watching the Director. It occurred to Dwayne he had no idea how many sides there were to their conversation, and he suddenly wished Cecil were present.
“Unfortunately, this evidence leads to some very embarrassing anddangerous lines of investigation,” continued the Director.
Of course, it was dangerous. There was Irv Fredricks to consider.
“The remote detonator was built under contract for the federal government,” explained Feldman.
Dwayne gave him a dumb look.
“Exclusive contract,” echoed the Director.
Something cold plopped, unsettling on his stomach. “How exclusive?” asked Dwayne.
“The report came back EYES ONLY,” continued the Director. “This detonator was built by one of those privately owned, publicly financed companies servicing the intelligence community.”
“The spooks build a lot of things,” quipped Dwayne.
The Director nodded tiredly. He could not conceive of any operation involving Langley that supported killing elected officials. “But not for distribution to domestic terrorists,” countered the Director.
Dwayne leaned forward and demanded, “What exactly do you want?”
Feldman took up the conversation, sparing the Director the need to lay it out for Dwayne. “We want this to disappear from the evidence databank.”
Huh?
Dwayne twisted in his chair to face Feldman directly. “That’s against the law.”
Neither Feldman nor the Director spoke.
Dwayne stared at them and his skin crawled. The expansive Director’s office suddenly seemed quite small.
“Lose it for a while,” soothed Feldman.
“You have a theory, I understand,” echoed the Director.
Dwayne nodded slowly.
“Make the case without using the detonator,” whispered Feldman.
“I might need the detonator,” protested Dwayne.
The Director sighed and said bluntly, “Consider it like your use of thePhreaks. Useful information, but nothing you can go to court with.”
“But I need something to take to a judge,” whined Dwayne.
The Director glanced at Feldman and said, “I’m sure assistant director Feldman can make whatever other avenues you might need available to you, Dwayne.” The interview was over as quickly as it materialized. The Director got his feet and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Feldman watched the Director vanish beyond the door before he looked back to Dwayne. “The Director is under a great deal of stress.”
Dwayne nodded. He noted the Director left with the evidence bag and the stapled report. It was a dangerous moment.
“Some might construe your use of patently illegal computer tactics as breaking the law as well,” continued Feldman as if he were commenting on the wonderful weather or inquiring after Dwayne’s Thanksgiving plans. “In effect, you circumvented Bureau procedure and federal law when you used Cecil to solicit Mary’s help. ThePhreaks aren’t a trivial asset, and they should be reserved for off-shore problems.”
Dwayne glowered at Feldman. “I realize I can’t use the information from thePhreaks in a courtroom, but without that I’d have nothing.”
Feldman nodded understandingly. “So you can see our problem.”
Dwayne shook his head. Feldman’s problem was he had either encountered an honest cop or one devoid of an imagination. “No, I don’t see the problem, except that you’re too scared to pursue the truth.”
Feldman scowled. “We have a place for troublemakers like you.”
Dwayne struggled to his feet and snapped, “Where’s the detonator?”
Feldman allowed a smile to slither across his lips. “What detonator, Dwayne?” He waved his hand around the room and said, “I don’t see one.”
Dwayne clenched his fists and considered smacking Feldman, but it would probably hurt his hand more than the lump of concrete masquerading as a brain between Feldman’s shoulders. “I’ll fight you.”
Feldman smirked. “You don’t get it do you, Dwayne? We’re the FBI and we don’t answer to anyone—not the Justice Department, or the Congress, or even the President. I can squash you like a bug, and no one will ever notice.”
Dwayne turned away and headed for the door back to his world.
“Or we can reach an understanding,” offered Feldman.
Dwayne kept walking.
* * * *
Crystal City, Virginia
Harvey Randall gave Jonas a sidelong glance as they ran the query through the Company’s access database. The hits for a specific access code began to mount up on the screen.
“Where’d you get the info?” asked Harvey.
Jonas stared at the screen and let out a low whistle. He unfolded a half sheet of paper from his front pocket and compared the dates on the paper to the dates on the screen.
They were close.
“A little bird told me,” he answered cryptically.
Harvey nodded slowly as he looked over Jonas’ shoulder at the paper. He knew those dates from his interviews with Connor Fadden. “Damon Layne’s travel schedule.”
Jonas nodded. He tapped the screen with his pen.
“This bird—does he have a name?” asked Harvey.
Jonas turned from the screen to the Stetson and cowboy boots. “Yes, but we’ve been told to ignore the truth.”
Harvey bristled at the words until he saw the mischievous light in Jonas’ eyes. “Are we riding off the reservation?”
Jonas shrugged. “Harper might need backup.”
“Where did he get the access code?” asked Harvey.
“Adrian Bridger,” whispered Jonas.
“Bridger? I didn’t know we were allowed to talk to Bridger,” mused Harvey.
“Jim has unique persuasive capabilities. I guess he visited Bridger at his office. I’m sure he was able to convince Bridger to share this information.”
Harvey wondered what Louis Edwards would do once he found out. He just hoped Bridger was still alive. “And where does Bridger come up with access codes to an Agency safe house?”
“I don’t know,” confided Jonas. “But Layne visited it two days ago. I think you should know this particular safe house has an armory.”
Harvey nodded, slowly taking in the information. “Where’s Harper now?”
Jonas tapped a few commands into his computer and replied, “Waiting for this email. There is one other thing.”
There always was in this business.
“The Bureau routed a routine forensic request against a manufacture database. The Company keeps tabs on this database—it helps us track certain items,” began Jonas. “The Bureau issued a forensic inquiry.”
“And they got a hit,” suggested Harvey. There was a cold spot along the back of his throat and he feared where this might lead.
“A specialized type of detonator was identified,” continued Jonas. His eyes drifted towards the screen recording Damon Layne’s access to the safe house and armory.
“How specialized?” asked Harvey.
“It would tend to narrow down the number of suspects to a handful,” murmured Jonas.
“Or maybe just one.”
Jonas nodded.
Harvey stared hard at the screen and watched the dots slowly connect Bridger to Layne to Harper to the Agency and a very nasty rash of bombings across Washington’s power elite. The mess was further complicated by Bridger’s role inSpanish Poppy and the presidential election. The black helicopter crowd could churn conspiracy scenarios for the next twenty years, and they might come dangerously close to the truth.
He picked up a photograph of Damon Layne. The cop Harvey used to be wanted to catch this dirt ball and lock him away forever; the pragmatist he was becoming recognized the immense danger such a tale incurred. Layne and Bridger were the visible tendrils of a moldering stench, and Louis Edwards knew much more about the depth of the decay than he had told them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Washington D.C.,MSNBC,October 17, 2000 –Carnivore, the FBI’s controversial email snooping program, hunts in a pack. Recent revelations suggest the program is part of a larger surveillance group of programs known as the “Dragon Ware Suite.” Declassified documents indicate the FBI’s Internet spy programs are capable of reconstructing the surfing habits of anyone using the Internet.
Privacy advocates were heartened by House Majority Leader Richard Armey, who said, “Dragon Ware Suite? What were they thinking? Until the constitutional questions have been adequately addressed, the Justice Department should not only stop developing new versions of cybersnooping software, they should stop using the existing programs.”
Quantico, Virginia
Thursday, November 16, 2000
1:30 P.M. EST
Ron Babcock never noticed the digital intrusion into his credit card accounts, his bank statements, or his investment portfolio. The cyber-assault mounted by the Bureau’s techno-nerds at Quantico was completely illegal. They operated without judicial restraint and beyond the license a federal warrant provided. The judges that had been approached, reviewed the paltry amount oflegal evidence, and laughed the Bureau lawyers out the door. Ron Babcock looked like a boy scout. His tax returns were conspicuously in order. Even the minor mistakes that plague thousands of Americans with letter audits did not appear on his forms. His name never appeared on any of the more rambunctious mailing lists, and he seemed to be genuinely appreciated by co-workers and neighbors.
He had a wife and two children, attended the local Baptist church, and sang in the choir. He did not smoke or drink. There was no evidence he had ever taken illicit drugs or engaged in promiscuous sexual practices. He held a valid driver license absent of even minor traffic violations. Quiet background checks into his college and high school career did not reveal any political interest. He appeared to be one of millions of Americans who played by the rules and kept out of trouble.
The Quantico watchers would have dismissed his role in the Washington bombing campaign had the suggestion come from anyone less than Mother Mary. No one questioned how thePhreaks identified their prey; it was up to Quantico tolegally gather the evidence so that Ron Babcock could be put away forever. The digital hound dogs waited with the patience of the sphinx.
Ron became complacent in his war against Washington. Obviously, the Bureau had focused on Irv Fredricks, and the two men ensured they kept away from each other. He believed strongly in the security of his messages, and assumed message security was synonymous to path security. Mother Mary decided to keep the email files away from the NSA. However, Terri had provided the means to track Ron’s encrypted emails. The Bureau kept from technically breaking the law, because they simply tracked Ron’s email digital path from server to server.
The instant Ron clicked SEND, the hound dogs yelped and gave chase. Dwayne did not need a court order to issue a conditional arrest warrant for Ron Babcock, although he might have prevented the flamboyant arrest—the Bureau was always on the hunt for good publicity.
Honor was in short supply as the Bureau’s black-clad ninjas spread across Ron Babcock’s property like a bad case of lice. The CNN pool reporter who tripped across the Bureau’s activities caught the acts of slamming a ten-year-old child into the ground and splintering the rear screen door on tape. The home’s windows illuminated from a pair of flash-bang grenades ignited for good measure, and a properly trussed bad guy was apprehended. They left a stunned wife and bewildered daughters in their wake, confident they had accomplished a great thing.
It was spectacular and horrendous, but like everything else, it was swallowed up by the drama in Florida. Southern white boys do not rate high on civil libertarian charts for sympathetic victims, and no one rode to Ron’s defense. While they had arrested the right person, they did it in manner where the left could claim police-state tactics and the right could cultivate its growing distrust of Washington.
* * * *
Johns Hopkins Medical Center
Harvey found Cecil Bixby flat on his back with an arm in traction. The afternoon soap operas did nothing for his attitude and he growled at the nurses and the doctors. He wanted his arm unwound from the ceiling and his clothes back. Cecil did not make a very good patient.
The two men went back a long way. They had the unique relationship of teacher and student that metamorphosed into mentor and protégé. Cecil specialized in hunting Soviet spies, and Harvey was assigned to work on the Red Chinese. He learned everything he could from the older man, and in the process, he developed a keen sense for the odd and unusual. Cecil always had a suggestion, an open door, and most importantly, time to listen to Harvey’s half-formed theories.
Cecil measured Harvey against the quality of the old Bureau, where there were good guys and bad guys. He despised the paper-pushing, empire-builders like Feldman. Sadly, he watched Harvey continue to pursue his Chinese phantoms and run afoul of the Bureau’s diminished leadership and the scoundrels running the country. Harvey might have been saved, except he consorted with the CIA and that single sin grated everyone. Yet, Cecil knew his best student had been right—and being right used to count for something.
Harvey closed the door behind him and hung his Stetson on one of the hooks. He carried a plain paper bag with a six-pack of Miller under his arm. He said, “They’re calling you names out there, old man.”
Cecil blinked open his eyes and hit the controls on his bed so he could examine his visitor a bit easier. “I thought they kicked your spy-chasing butt out of the Bureau.”
Harvey shrugged and ambled over to the nearest chair. The island sun and regular exercise had reduced his gut a bit, revealing a harder muscle layer. “I quit before they had the opportunity to kick me out.”
The blue eyes twinkled as Harvey pulled the six-pack free of the grocery sack. “I heard you had a run-in with my new boss.”
“Feldman?” grunted Harvey.
“Yeah,” smiled Cecil as Harvey popped the top on the beer can and handed it across the bed.
“Tall, stupid—kind of a health freak. You could say we did not exactly get along,” confided Harvey.
“That’s the one,” exclaimed Cecil. “He’s trying to give me a gold watch and a hearty shove out the door.”
Harvey sipped his beer and nodded knowingly.
“I think he intends to replace me with Rita Mason—have you met Rita?”
Harvey nodded. “She’s the gal following Feldman around—has all the personality of a cobra.”
Cecil chuckled. “He probably has the justification he needs to get rid of me now.”
“How’s that?”
“I’ve been chasing a Russian named Eduard Gurov. He works for their FSB and he appears to be on a mission over here.”
Harvey understood—old habits die hard. He leaned back in his chair and finished off the first beer. “They don’t want us to chase spies, Cecil. The administration has too many deals with the Russians and the Chinese.”
Cecil nodded tiredly. “There was day when chasing a spy was part of the job description.”
“They’re long gone.”
Cecil tossed back the last of his beer and handed Harvey the empty. “The rumor has it you skipped the country,” continued Cecil.
“I’m here, and as far as I know the INS doesn’t have a warrant out for my arrest.”
“There are other rumors that you came into quite a bit of money and that you might even be working for the CIA,” mused Cecil.
“This town runs on rumors about who’s in and who’s out. I wouldn’t put much stock in rumors, Cecil.” He opened a second can and handed it across the bed to the sixty-five–year–old agent.
“But you’re not going to go out of your way to deny them either?”
Harvey smirked. “If those rumors were true, my ex-wife and her gaggle of blood-sucking lawyers would have found me and the money by now.”
Cecil raised his beer to Harvey and took a long pull. “It certainly tastes good after the swill they pass for food in this hospital.”
“They say you walked into a bomb blast,” quizzed Harvey.
“We’ve been chasing a fellow by the name of Parvez Hyder. Evidently he left a present for anyone who got curious about his activities.”
“How’s he connected to the Washington bombings—I heard you were working on those killings,” asked Harvey.
“Oh that—I was assigned to Dwayne Morton’s investigation. I figure it was Feldman’s way of getting rid of both of us. Dwayne is supposed to fall flat on his face and I’m along for the ride,” explained Cecil.
“You cut a deal?”
Cecil smiled. “Uh-huh, I wanted one last shot at a Russian. They’re the threat. The Russians, Chinese, Arabs are the real problems. A couple of disaffected white boys from Alabama or some skinheads perched atop a mountain in Idaho don’t really threaten the republic.”
“And you found this Gurov character?”
Cecil nodded. “He’s operating in Dwayne’s part of the country. I took a chance and got burned. Feldman was just waiting for a mistake and I gave him one. He’s probably on the top floor of the Hoover Building, bending the Director’s ear right now. They’ll offer me a quiet retirement…” Cecil trailed off shaking his head, “I guess it’s time to get out of the business. You can’t chase bad guys forever.”
