Chap. 2
“God—please! They’re killing me here. You got to get me out of this. Jesus Christ, you said this wouldn’t happen.”
I leaned forward to listen to the voice. Even with the distortion of a bad digital file I could hear the raw terror, the urgency.
“When did this come in?” I asked.
My boss, Mr. Church, sat on the other side of the conference table. He was neatly dressed, the knot of his tie perfect, his face impassive. But I wasn’t fooled. This had to be hitting him every bit as hard as it was me.
“That’s the problem,” he said. “This message is three days old.”
“Three days? How the hell…?”
Church held up a hand.
I paused, dialing it down a notch. “How did this get missed? Burke’s handler should have called us right away.”
“The handler didn’t get this until this morning.”
“Then how…?”
“This message was left on the home phone of the Special Agent in Charge.”
He let that float in the air for a moment.
“Wait,” I said, “home phone?”
“Yes,” said Church, “and isn’t that interesting. Simon Burke would have no way of knowing who the AIC was, let alone have access to his home number.”
“Did the handler get a call?”
Church opened a folder and slid it across the table toward me. “These are the phone records for the handler, Dykstra. The top page is the direct line to Burke’s safe house. The next pages are Dykstra’s cell and home numbers. The previous call from Burke was the routine check-in last week. Nothing since then. Nothing from a pay phone or from any other line that Burke could have used.”
“The handler’s cell….”
“No,” said Church. “There is no identifiable incoming call on any line associated with the AIC or the handler that could have resulted in that message.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand. If Burke left a message then there has to be a record.”
Church said nothing. He selected a vanilla wafer from a plate of cookies which sat between us on the table. He nibbled off a piece and munched it thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving my face.
I said, “Then someone got to the records. Altered them.”
“Mm. Difficult, but possible.”
“Or…they have a way to erase their tracks, remove all traces of the call.”
“Also possible, but….”
“…even more difficult,” I finished.
He said nothing. He didn’t have to. There were very few computer systems in the world capable of the kind of thorough hacking we were discussing; and even then there was only one computer that couldn’t be fooled by any of the others and that was MindReader. That was our computer. It was a freak among computers, designed to be a ghost, to intrude into any other system and then rewrite its memory so that there was absolutely no footprint. All other computers left a bit of a scar on the hard drive. Not MindReader. And Church guarded that system like a dragon. Not even the President had access to it without Church personally signing him in.
“Okay,” I said, “could someone have gotten to the answering machine directly and recorded a message onto it from the AIC’s house?”
“No. Dykstra uses a service provided by AT&T, and the messages are stored on their server. If the call was made from Dykstra’s home phone, there would be a record of that.”
“And there isn’t.”
“No.”
I reached over and took an Oreo from the plate. I can’t come up with any good reason why a sane person would bother with vanilla wafers when the chocolaty goodness of Oreos was right there. It added to my growing suspicion that Church was a Vulcan.
“Who’s looking for Burke?”
“The FBI has been looking for him since nine this morning. Except for us, no one else is in the loop.”
“Local law?”
“They are definitely out of the loop. There have been some concerns about the police department, though admittedly that was under previous management. The current chief has no strikes against him, but otherwise he’s an unknown quantity. This matter was deemed too sensitive to be shared with him.”
“Even now?”
Church pursed his lips. “Only with direct supervision.”
“Which doesn’t mean the FBI.”
“No.” Church ate more of his cookie. “We’ve backtracked to a few hours before the call was left on Dykstra’s voicemail, and nothing. Burke has not used a credit card or made transactions of any kind under his own name. His car is still parked in his garage.”
I sighed. “I’m not liking the spin on this one, Boss. Burke’s not a player. He might know in theory how to stay off the grid, but I can’t see him managing it without making a mistake. Not for this long, not without help.”
“Doubtful. And there’s one more thing.”
I waited, knowing that Church would save the kicker for last.
“Burke’s clever. His whole life is built around creating plots that his readers won’t see coming. Apparently he’s used this same gift against his handler. We hacked the confidential reports between the handler and the AIC, and Burke’s gone missing four times previously. Not for long, a matter of a few hours each time. The handler eventually realized that Burke was using a bicycle to get into town or out of town via one of the two bridges. I had Bug do computer pattern sweeps on commerce records of stores within bicycle distance of the safe house. We’ve been able to establish that on the dates in question, and inside the window of time, there were purchases of six disposable cell phones. Burke has been making calls.”
“Who’s he calling?”
“Add this to the equation,” Church said. “Interest in Burke and his unstoppable novel plot has increased substantially in the weeks following those purchases.”
“Well, that’s interesting as hell.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“You think he’s trying to sell it?”
“We have to be open to that possibility.”
What Church didn’t say out loud was: In which case Burke becomes a National Security liability.
“We need to put this idiot in a bag,” I said. “But we can’t put out an APB. That would draw every shooter east of the Mississippi.”
“Likely it would draw shooters from around the globe,” said Church. “A dozen countries come to mind.”
“What if he’s already dead?”
He looked at me. Church wears tinted glasses that make it tough to read his expression. “Is that what you think?”
I thought about it, and shook my head. “No. Considering how important Burke is, a pro would either be under orders to get him out of the country or get him to one of their safe houses. Or they’d want him splashed all over the headlines. Either way, the odds on him seizing the opportunity to leave a message are pretty slim.”
“Agreed.” Church took another cookie. Another vanilla wafer. Weird.
I nodded to the recorder on the table. “Play it again.”
“This is Simon Burke…look, you jokers said you’d protect me. They’re going to tear me apart. Look…I don’t have much time…this is really hard. You got to do something. God — please! They’re killing me here. You got to get me out of this. Jesus Christ, you said this wouldn’t happen.”
He played it three times more. It sounded just as bad each time, and Burke sounded just as terrified. I rubbed my eyes and stood up.
“He sounds genuinely scared,” I said. “And outraged. I can’t see him making that call after he’s contacted potential buyers. It would make more sense for him to do that as a result of getting no action on this kind of a cry for help.”