While Justice Sleeps(75)
“Understood. Tangier on him?”
“Yes, sir. And I’ll be on tonight’s red-eye to Atlanta.”
“No. Check for a black flight. I don’t want there to be a record of you that Jared Wynn might be able to trace. Report your findings to Phillips.”
“Copy that.”
* * *
—
Disconnecting the call, Major Will Vance summoned Phillips to his office. While he waited, he skimmed his copy of the reports pulled from Homeland Security. His careful dispersal of funds had gone unnoticed for almost five years, only to be nearly undone by an overzealous bureaucrat in a DC back office.
The pages crumpled beneath his hand. When Phillips entered the room, Vance said without preamble, “Where are we on shutting down Betty Papaleo?”
“She’s still here, but I’ve got ears on her Homeland Security phone and her personal cell.”
Despite knowing how vulnerable technology can be, bureaucrats placed their faith in the myth of privacy. Their job relied on the fairy tales Americans told themselves about their government, despite ample proof to the contrary. Surveillance. Covert research. Targeted retribution. All disguised by pleasing stories told by men like Vance and President Stokes. “Any change at the hospital?”
“The blood work should be back from Quantico any moment. I have a flag on it, and we’ll be notified as soon as they determine what Wynn swallowed.”
“Castillo is on his way to Georgia. Send a fresh team to monitor the apartment to relieve him, and they should let him know when Avery and Jared are en route.”
“Understood.”
Vance left the office for his next call. The smartphone had been seized in a low-level sting against a group of college morons who thought the idea of kidnapping foreign dignitaries on U.S. soil seemed like a viable career option. Aided by an interjurisdictional task force, the young men had purchased a batch of burner phones, thoughtfully activated with a fake credit card provided by the ATF, from a counterfeit batch created by a Mexican drug cartel looking to diversify their portfolios.
His department’s role in the sting had been tracking the would-be domestic terrorists using an experimental system that embedded microscopic transmitters beneath the skin. Each subject had unwittingly consented to the procedure when the ersatz ringleader, a four-year veteran of the FBI, had convinced the cell to get matching tattoos.
The Science Directorate reveled in developing the type of technology that would have made Bond’s Q envious and a bit intrigued. In the quiet celebration of a successful maneuver, Vance had appropriated a handful of the smartphones for later deployment. Three of the devices had been outfitted with antihacking tech developed by the Cyber Security Division. Now the other two waited thousands of miles away, each for his call.
He drove to the Jefferson Memorial, a spot with multiple pockets of privacy and clear sky. A fitting president to overhear his latest act. The call connected on the first ring.
“Yes?”
“They’ve identified the scientist and the project. Have you located him yet?”
A long pause, then, “No. We have leads that tell us he remains in-country, but pinpointing a location is difficult.”
“Try harder. He was your problem to solve, yet he managed covert discussions with a Supreme Court justice. Archives of their discussions have been uncovered.”
“We attempted to use the discussions as bait, assuming Ramji would return for them. When they were triggered, we stopped them from downloading. Unfortunately, it was not Ramji who tripped the alarm.”
“So you are no closer.”
“No, but the rest of his team is gone.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the others. None of them embedded classified information in a chess game. Ramji did.”
“We will finish it,” the man replied. “When he next attempts to make contact—with friends, family, anyone we are monitoring, we’ll take him.”
“No, you won’t. They’ve laid a trap for him. When he comes close, we’ll take him.”
“This is my problem. I will handle him.”
Vance’s tone was flat and controlled. “You have proven that handling Dr. Ramji is not your strong suit. Leave him to me.”
Another silence, deeper and more hostile than the first. Finally: “Is that all?”
“Silence Nigel Cooper. He’s attracting too much attention. Agitating Capitol Hill and the White House.”
“I can do nothing permanent. Not without raising his suspicions.”
“Be creative. But shut him up.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Across an ocean, Vance corrected, “Succeed.”
* * *
—
Hours later, Castillo steered the rental car off the deserted highway and onto the road leading to the cabin. Houses along the lane had been set far back from the road, spearing along the mountain face in a ragged, distant swathe. The GPS beeped imperiously as he neared his destination; then the instructions went silent, out of signal range.
Using the map he’d memorized, he navigated through the pitch black. During his tours of duty, he’d gotten used to the absence of light on narrow passes—guided only by the headlamps on his vehicle. Soon, he drove up the driveway and shifted into park. Nothing stirred beyond the restive cries of cicadas and tree frogs. On the seat beside him, he assembled his tool kit. Lock pick, flashlight, and semiautomatic in case of guests. His phone had been tucked inside his pocket earlier, the signal no better than the GPS. He carried a sat phone for emergencies, but he would use it later.