He was thin and balding, with a narrow mustache. He wore a black suit and tie in a neo-nineteen-thirties fashion. Alfredo Diaz was good at his job, and several times, he’d alerted Anna to potentially explosive information, which she had passed on to the Third Assistant. Once, Anna had received a commendation signed by the President for it, handed to her by the National Security Advisor.
The problem of government leaks had intensified throughout the years with spies both foreign and domestic. Many of those spies were embedded within the bureaucracy. Years ago, Alfredo had been one such spy, dabbling in Aztlan separatism. Having grown up in one of the so-called “Aztlan” territories—Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada and California—he had felt the pull of separatism. That had changed, Alfredo had told Anna, once the situation in Mexico proper shifted.
Mexico had come under heavy Chinese influence. Because of that, the country had exploded with cheap factories and cheaper labor. There was no minimum wage as Mexico exploited its workers with help from Chinese advisors. The economy had grown rapidly, but the wealth distribution had become more uneven. It had been one of the reasons for the civil war. Rather than align himself with that system, Alfredo had decided to stick with the peaceful government, realizing he didn’t want to live in a country with a permanent state of war. A few times since his awakening—as he’d put it—he’d helped pass Trojan horse information to the leaders of Aztlan. They’d been poison pills that had suppressed some of their primary terrorist cells, and had helped Alfredo prove his patriotism to Anna.
Anna and Alfredo now spoke about the latest Broadway play, sipped wine, nibbled on french fries—they were fantastic—and fell silent as each ate their entrée. Anna had sautéed mushrooms and a half order of ribs, while Alfredo devoured a sirloin steak. Neither wanted dessert, although both agreed they’d like a cup of coffee.
“I want mine black,” Anna told the waiter, who bowed at the waist to show he’d received the information.
“French cream for me,” Alfredo said.
Soon, each sipped coffee as the band played a newly fashionable Benny Goodman number.
“Is this going to be on my tab?” Anna asked.
Alfredo smiled as he clicked his coffee cup onto its saucer. “You’re paying, but only because I have this.” He slid a memory stick across the table.
Anna glanced at the tiny black object before opening her purse and sliding it into a side pocket. Then she gave Alfredo a significant glance.
“What do you know about the destruction of Platform Seven?” Alfredo asked.
“The Shop experts believe CHKR-57 high explosives were used,” she said. “I suppose that’s why the report was forwarded to me. CHKR-57 is of Chinese make.”
Alfredo used his napkin to wipe sweat from his forehead. “The search and rescue workers have discovered a Chinese corpse. The corpse was carrying a TOZ-2.”
“A TOZ-2 underwater pistol,” Anna said. “Those are issued to White Tiger Commandos.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. I glanced at the search and rescue reports. There was never any mention about a TOZ-2. It certainly wasn’t in the news.”
Alfredo glanced both ways before he leaned across the table. “The search and rescue people who found the body have been quarantined.”
“What?”
“I heard the order,” Alfredo said.
“You intercepted it?”
He looked down. “I got carried away,” he whispered. “There was no one else at my station, which is unusual, but it happens more often than people realize. I kept monitoring the conversation and it became increasingly more interesting.”
Anna became thoughtful. “You have strict policies concerning who and what a NSA officer listens to. You’ve just admitted to a serious Federal crime. They could put you away…maybe forever, for what you’ve just admitted doing.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Like a shy boy caught stealing, Alfredo looked at her. “I think the President has decided to cover this one up.”
“Why would you believe that?”
“I heard a Presidential order. It went to a Secret Service detail, with orders to bring the admiral in charge of the S-and-R operation to Washington for a briefing.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Alfredo shook his head. “The Secret Service detail was given top secret orders to reroute the flight and detain the admiral and the entire S-and-R Team in a lonely facility on Federal land in Nevada.”
Anna felt cold inside, never doubting Alfredo for a moment. He was good at what he did. Another reason she didn’t doubt him was that the election was near—sometimes presidents did strange things to win an election. She needed to study Alfredo’s data. It was hot, and she had to make sure no one caught her reading it. She opened her purse to hunt for her credit card. It was time to leave. Then she noticed Alfredo, the fear in his eyes.
Anna reached across the table and touched one of his hands. The skin was cold, and it felt clammy.
“I’m worried,” Alfredo whispered.
She patted his hand. “Don’t be. I’m going to figure this out, but it might be wise if we don’t see each other for a while.”
“I understand. I don’t want to end up in that lonely base in Nevada. And thank you, Anna. I knew you were the person I should tell.”
Anna hardly heard. She wanted to get to work and study the data.
Stan found Bill in his garage, working on the family car. It was the only vehicle the pastor owned. Few people had more than one car or truck these days. Like most of the homes on the street, Bill’s house was over thirty years old and showed it in many subtle ways. Paint and repairs could only hide so much. Anchorage had a rundown feeling, with too many vacant lots and old, deserted buildings.
“You should take that to my friend’s shop,” Stan said, walking into the garage.
Bill was hunkered under the hood. “I’d like to,” he said, “but I can’t afford it right now.”
Leaning on the fender, Stan looked at the engine. There was rust in places, and the parts looked worn. “It wasn’t like this when we were kids,” he said.
Bill wore greasy overalls, a wrench in his hand he was using to unscrew a bolt.
“Did you hear about my dad?” Stan asked.
Bill looked up, searching Stan’s face. “Uh-oh, what happened?”
Stan shook his head. He didn’t have enough extra cash for bail. His dad—
“Does this have anything to do with Sergeant Jackson?” Bill asked.
Stan blew out his breath and began to tell Bill what had happened the other day.
Anna had a high capacity for work: for compiling data, absorbing the data and reaching conclusions. Her book Socialist-Nationalist China had made it onto the bestseller lists for just those reasons.
She had spent a long day in the West Wing after studying Alfredo’s memory chip. Shop files on China, secret memos and several key blog reports had each given her more information. That night at home, she’d studied and correlated various details. She was like a spider spinning a web, trying to capture the reason for the President to have ordered the interning of the S&R Team.
The next day in the West Wing, she turned on her computer and continued her line of inquiry. After sifting through reports, downloading more, reading and thinking, she tried to access a critical Shop file. The data was blocked. She used her override code, and was surprised to find that blocked, too.
She tapped her fingers on the computer. Taking a breath, she tried a different code, one she’d seen on the Third Assistant’s desk several months ago. It had been a momentary glance seen upside down. The Third Assistant had swept the paper into his top drawer, but Anna had a nearly perfect photographic memory.