Espionage Games Page 4

  Over the years, he collected moments of joy and stored them in a memory box. Occasionally he brought them out, remembering the good times. His dad would say something silly. Or his mom would hear a song on the radio. Or they would be eating around the kitchen table, a tidy family of three. Sometimes Mom filled up with giggles like bubbles in a champagne flute, the bubbles building at the back of her throat and finally exploding in purest delight, her giggles so infectious that husband and son soon joined her in a chorus of hilarity. Sometimes there was so much laughter, it hurt. He also remembered those moments when Elly Coyote Finlay was her loveliest, with dark wavy hair flowing around a flat profile of glowing cheeks lightly dusted by bronze hues. She could be just as beautiful during more pensive moods, when she lifted her eyes skyward and seemed to see herself as a young girl. Or when the days were sunny and her worries few. Such moments were brief. In a flash, the veil of contentment vanished, leaving behind nothing but regret boxed up in an untidy package bound with coarse twine. When Jack remembered the changes that came over her, how crushed dreams diminished her from a vibrant woman into an accursed soul, and later how an insidious disease snuffed out her life at the tender age of thirty-two, he decided to box up the memories—all of them, including the good ones—and store them in the upper shelf of the tallest and darkest closet of his mind. Knowing the memories were there was good enough. He didn’t revisit them often. Today was one of those exceptions. In the end, he was sorry he had taken out the pictures.

  He gave up on sleep, dressed, and went out.

  5

  Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia

  Monday, August 18

  JOHN SESSIONS SERVED as a first lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps and had been decorated with the Bronze Star for meritorious service in a combat zone. Having survived one of the numerous Gulf Wars, first as a specialty platoon leader and then as an executive officer, it had come to this, a dubious end to a brilliant government career, yet deserving the full burial honors of an officer and a gentleman.

  His death came unexpectedly a week ago. On a late Monday night, long after his cohorts left for the day, he climbed to the roof of the Homeland Intelligence Division and jumped to his death. Seventeen storeys is a long way down, and when he hit the pavement, nothing much was left of his skull, making it impossible to find out what was going through his mind when he took the fatal leap. An autopsy had been performed. The cause of death was ruled as fatal injuries resulting from blunt-force trauma. No indication of foul play had been detected, though on a smashed body hitting the pavement at nearly eighty miles per hour, any forensic evidence other than body chemistry was impossible to evaluate. It would take weeks for the toxicology report to be completed, but police discovered an open bottle of Tennessee whiskey sitting on his desk along with a shot glass covered with his fingerprints.

  Bitter came with sweet as his widow and family looked on, shell-shocked and mournful on a dreary and overcast day. HID staff was present from the highest levels on down, every man and woman somber and speechless, most of them tearing up with genuine if not heartfelt sentiment. There were exceptions.

  Cordelia Burke gave them the benefit of the doubt since some were understandably better at hiding their emotions than others, also since time enough had passed to internalize shock. Staff from other government agencies also came to pay their respects. Cordelia motives were different. As a newly promoted Senior Data Research Specialist with the Monetary Compliance Network, she was there to make an up-close and personal assessment of the workmates of Jack Coyote, man on the run. What better way than to blend into the background dressed in suitable black.

  For years, HID had been in the crosshairs of government scrutiny. Recent events put them under the Klieg lights of public notoriety. Even after everything that had happened over recent weeks, the agency was still standing, wounded and beleaguered to be sure, but holding its own. Considering the circumstances, its survival was a triumphant victory, especially since HID lost several key staff members under suspicious if not tragic circumstances. Instead of being vilified, the agency became a sympathetic victim of several unfortunate events, attributable to the misalignment of stars rather than the consequences of its own actions. It also seemed as if they were answerable to no one. From the President on down, everyone stood by them, making Cordelia wonder what kind of unseen power HID wielded, and more problematically, what intelligence they held over the manifestly powerful but otherwise helpless sycophants in Washington. Perhaps she was imagining things. She didn’t think so.

  Beside Cordelia stood the newest member of their team. Officially, Paul Farrow was a cybercrime specialist with the Global Terrorist Enforcement and Operations group, on loan to her department. Unofficially, he was a pain in the neck. She still hadn’t figured him out. He was drab as a pair of khaki pants, pale as a mushroom, and annoying.

  Very few were acquainted with MonCom or its undertaking, that of uncovering financial crimes, seemingly a boring mission but essential in fighting corruption. Money ran the world, and when used with the right application of coercion and influence, corrupted otherwise decent men into being followers instead of leaders, crooks instead of law-abiding citizens, and traitors instead of patriots. The agency carried out its mission by maintaining voluminous financial data received from all U. S. banks, analyzing and disseminating the data for law enforcement purposes, and building cooperation with domestic and global partners. Put in layman terms, its prime directive was to detect money laundering activities and chase down the bad guys. Crime syndicates, terrorist organizations, drug cartels, human trafficking, pay for play, and everything in between came into its oversight.

  Farrow leaned close to Cordelia, providing snapshots of HID’s important players, his lips barely moving. “That man over there,” he whispered, nodding toward a silver fox wearing a stoic face. “HID’s director. Derek Salazar. Politically astute but more interested in horse racing than government accountability.” Looking more like a Secret Service agent than a paper-pushing bureaucrat, Farrow clutched his hands at crotch level, posture erect, shoulders straight, mouth set, expression phlegmatic, and eyes hidden behind sunglasses. With a steady finger, he pushed the bridge of those glasses against his forehead before rejoining his hands and upending his chin. “And the man to his left? Neville Brandon. Deputy director of the Special Collections Bureau. Runs the department informally known as the cleanup crew.” Brandon fit the stereotype of a thug. Square-jawed, acne-scarred, flat haired, and foul-tempered.

  Most government agencies had similar departments, staffed by people ready, willing, and able to whitewash any action, mission, circumstance, or misdeed. Aside from its cleanup crew, what made HID truly unique was its reputation as being an unsanctioned spy agency. Whispers abounded that it was the rumored shadow government. Their operations had always been suspected and often came under scrutiny, even while the agency presented itself as just another mundane and low-key operation reliant on data collection.

  Bracketing Cordelia on her other side stood Jon Taggert, officially her boss and unofficially her lover. He looked rather dashing in a toned-down suit that fit the occasion while his brushed-back hair gave him an air of superiority. To casual onlookers, Cordelia must have looked like an administrative assistant of some kind, very junior, her identity so insignificant that none of these government officials would know her name or suspect she worked for a sister agency, an agency that had taken a keen interest in the activities of the Homeland Intelligence Division. A few already knew. Others would learn soon enough. For now, their three-man team had the upper hand. They may be interlopers, but they were also an unknown quantity, giving them the opportunity to witness the discreet but telling interactions among the deceased’s friends, family members, and co-workers.

  “Don’t forget the troubleshooters,” Farrow remarked, indicating a squad of unremarkable senior liaison officers crowded near each other for moral support, most pale and placid with expressions of shocked incredulity mixe
d with solemn concern. He went down the line, identifying each by name and title, left to right. “Blake Prendergast, liaison with the CIA. Clyde Kelley, FBI. Allison Dovecote, NSA. MacKenzie Nicholson, DOJ. Rebeka Venters, White House. Larry Engles, DHS. And the power hitters. Janey Matheson, deputy director of the Research Bureau. Chris Cameron, deputy director of Security Methodologies, charged with listening into world leaders, hacking cell phones, emails, and the like. Camilla Howden, deputy director of the Information Assurance Bureau, in charge of data collection, damage control, and public relations, as well as being lead liaison with Capitol Hill. Angela Browne, deputy director of the Signals Intelligence Bureau and a major player with all the agencies that count, including POTUS and the Joint Chiefs. According to Taggert, you’ve already met a few of them, haven’t you?” When she didn’t respond, he went on with the roll call. “Liz Langdon. Interesting character. Once a toady of Sessions. Now the newly promoted deputy director of the Technical Bureau. She’s the one who brought Coyote into the agency. Once they were lovers, maybe still are.”

  Cordelia gave him a look of disbelief.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  She would have enjoyed wiping the smirk off his face. Instead, she said, “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

  He rocked back on his heels and smirked. He was a character, maybe even a flake, always laughing inwardly at some perceived joke only he found funny. But he was becoming an asset, even if an annoying one. Cordelia had an interest in Coyote. And her new partner had just given her a solid clue about him. Possibly Langdon could help her track him down. If not, she would still be an interesting person to befriend. Cordelia knew something else about the woman. She was definitely a sweetheart, but these days, someone else’s sweetheart. A senator, or so they said, rumored to be Wallace Reed, chairman of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and newly named President Pro Tempore of the United States Senate, placing him third in line to the Presidency. Another dark-haired beauty lingered near Langdon, clearly of Pakistani or Indian heritage, and a new blip on the radar. Cordelia would have to do some research on her.

  Other attendees of considerable note included Vice President Frazier ‘Frank’ Daugherty, Gov. Geraldine Therrien of Virginia, said to be a longtime friend of the vice president, and a rather tall gentleman of note who must have been important from the way other bureaucrats paid court, shaking hands with him while exchanging brief words of sorrow. Cordelia nudged Farrow and nodded in his direction.

  “Sam Soderberg,” Farrow said. “Under Secretary for Political Affairs in the State Department.”

  “How do you know all these people?”

  He merely smiled a thin-lipped secretive smile. The man was annoying. Cordelia was starting to resent him. No, she decided. Resent wasn’t a harsh enough word. Loathe was more like it.

  Another interesting party arrived late. Cordelia recognized him as the homicide detective with the Severn County Sheriff’s Office, the cop who arrested Coyote back in July and turned the event into a media event while in full view of a hungry and clamorous press. He stood behind everyone else, at stiff attention, keenly making a wide sweep of attendees as though imprinting faces into his memory banks for future reference. Swarthy, burly, barrel-chested, and imposing, he was wearing the official dress browns of his department, including jacket with epaulets, striped trousers, campaign hat, and Oxfords. He looked spiffy, official, and damned intimidating. The indecipherable expression and trim mustache were memorable, but the narrow glare he used to dissect everyone at the point of a scalpel was even more telling. Eventually his eyesight circled around to Cordelia and lingered. She stared back. His focus eventually shifted to the two men standing on either side of her before zeroing in on her once again. He acknowledged her with a symbolic doff of his hat as if they had met before. If they had, Cordelia could not recall where or when.

  The penetrating look of the sheriff wasn’t lost on Farrow. He cast his eyes down on her with a questioning gaze. She shrugged ignorance. He was skeptical. The sheriff probably had a blotter above his desk with every government official pinned to the board. She remembered his name now. It was almost unforgettable. She would never forget it again. Sergeant Detective Jaime Benedicto.

  Not present was security analyst Milly Whitney, for the obvious reason of her being most foully murdered on the Fourth of July. Also missing in action—figuratively and literally—was Harrison Tobias, former division head of the Special Collections Unit, rumored to be the man who set up special ops teams under Brandon Neville. And lastly, Lindsey-Marie Moffat, assistant to Tobias and the reported victim of a drug overdose, although anyone who believed that was either brain dead or delusional.

  After the casket flag was presented to the widow, a three-rifle volley broke the air followed by a mournful rendition of Taps. The honor guard about-faced with heel-to-toe precision and marched away. The ceremony ended.

  Mrs. Sessions bravely sat in the widow’s chair, grace under fire and refusing to give into tears. Two adolescent sons bracketed her like closing parentheses. Parents and other loved ones gathered supportively around her. Eventually she stood without assistance and thanked each of her husband’s colleagues for coming. The gathering began to break up. Most were reluctant to go, as if departing would leave behind a tragedy that could not be undone. Beyond that, they needed support from each other. They needed to shed tears. They needed closure. And an explanation that made sense. They would never get it.

  Farrow and Taggert nodded to each other, of like minds. The drama had played itself out. It was time to go. They came for no other reason than to witness the staging, observe the actors, note the alliances, and detect the battle lines. They looked to Cordelia for consensus. She nodded subtly toward the interactions still playing out, probably the most revealing part of an otherwise somber occasion. Taggert understood and acknowledged her with a wink. Damn the man, he always knew what she was up to. He gave her an encouraging pat on the back and motioned Farrow to come along. Her partner stubbornly stayed put. Taggert grinned and walked off.

  Standing together, Farrow and Cordelia silently watched, saying nothing but occasionally exchanging looks. An auburn-haired woman of arresting good looks marched across the rolling terrain, arms pumping with purpose. Cordelia recognized her as the journalist who wrote the articles for the Washington Gazette, hit pieces exposing HID’s electronic snooping activities and covert operations, both programs clearly out of the agency’s purview and probably illegal. A matter for Congress to decide, if it ever came to that, and knowing the way Washington worked, probably never would. It was no coincidence Sessions took his fatal leap the night the first story broke. Vikki Kidd followed up with a piece on Sessions and the suspicious accidents afflicting other key personnel at the Homeland Intelligence Division. She came here for many of the same reasons Cordelia had, but with a different motive. And she was bold enough to strike. Sergeant Benedicto was her target, a curious choice. The sergeant removed his hat, grasping the brim at ten o’clock and two o’clock. They spoke cordially enough, neither looking directly at the other but instead watching the major players with interest. Most of the interactions were inconsequential. A few were notable. How Janey Matheson and Allison Dovecote stood side by side, exchanging few words but sharing rigid body language. How Angie Browne and Camilla Howden made a point of avoiding each other. How Neville Brandon and Liz Langdon exchanged furtive glances but kept their distance. How Derek Salazar left unnoticed. How Chris Cameron skulked off. And how the various alphabet-agency liaisons massed together like a bulwark against unknown enemies. Cordelia dearly wanted to know what was said between the cop and the reporter.

  Soderberg sidetracked Janey Matheson and spoke to her. She had remained stoic throughout the service while others wept crocodile tears. With him, she let go, briefly resting her head against his chest, then quickly flicking away tears and apologizing. He brought her against him with a reassuring one-handed hug. After a while they walked on, heads bent, saying nothing since the
re was nothing to say.

  Few mourners were left. Farrow nudged his head.

  “What do you think?” he asked Cordelia as they strolled out of the cemetery. “Did he jump? Or was he pushed?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sure, it matters. One implies a crisis of the heart. The other is a crime.”

  “Aren’t we the deep one,” she said. “How does that change our investigation?”

  “It doesn’t. But it might change our assumptions.”

  They meandered past the upright gravestones of dead soldiers, laid to rest in neat columns and rows. Their long sleep of eternity replicated the way they had fallen, as battalions on the march. Cordelia could only think of the waste of treasure and lives. So many battles fought and so many more to come. The endless parade of war was inevitable. Sometimes they were noble, other times unprincipled. But the personal sacrifices made on battlefields were indisputable. Inwardly, she saluted every one of these brave men and women who gave the ultimate price.

  “I have another question,” she said to Farrow. “Is Coyote a traitor or a patriot?”

  “Not my call.”

  “You have to stand for something, Farrow.”

  “If he was a patriot, we wouldn’t be going after him, now would we?”

  “Oh innocence, thy name is Farrow. Prosecutors don’t always go after the guilty. Sometimes they go after the convenient scapegoat, twisting the truth into a lie in exchange for a guilty verdict. Don’t get me wrong. They manage to convince themselves of their lies by stressing incriminating evidence and throwing out contradictions. But it still makes me wonder. Do they do it out of crassness? From a sense of duty? Or because they must be right no matter what, because to be wrong would mean they’re fallible?”