“Mr. Armstrong,” Jeremy replied, “are you suggesting we bring into our investigation civilian contractors? Uncleared civilians, no less?”
“They’re not just any civilians,” Mason said in an appeasing tone. “Sam Russell is ex-CIA, and Ms. Hoffmann holds a top-secret clearance and a portfolio of achievement in covert investigative work inside government contractor organizations. I hope you’ll reconsider.”
Jeremy struggled to contain his irritation. SAC Taylor was gonna have his ass on rye with mayo if he let this happen. There wasn’t an excuse in hell he could find to justify this. And why should he? There was no valid reason for that. He didn’t need to trail on some retiree and some chick during the entire time, just to make Walcott’s fat cat happy. They’re gonna call the director? So be it… at least this time he was gonna follow procedure.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy said, “This is simply not going to happen. We have procedures to follow, and this is a high-profile case, where we can’t risk making any mistakes. I hope you’ll understand,” he ended, as politely as he could, getting ready to leave.
“Again,” Mason insisted, “we are willing to make all necessary phone calls to get the approvals to make this happen. Just let us know who to call.”
“We have procedures for a reason,” Jeremy said, almost entertained to hear himself making the case for procedures, him of all people. He continued, “There’s simply no way this can happen. Plus, in all fairness, and pardon my blunt honesty, I don’t see the value in this partnership. It would slow us down and risk compromising the outcome of the investigation. If you feel the need to make those phone calls, please do. Have a good day.”
He turned away and grabbed the doorknob, getting ready to leave.
“She worked the NanoLance case,” Mason threw out. “Ms. Hoffmann did.”
Really? Jeremy thought. That was maybe worth spending a few more minutes, but he still wasn’t gonna change his mind.
He let go of the doorknob and turned toward his host, registering the sudden blush in Hoffmann’s face and the frown on Sam Russell’s.
“All right,” Jeremy said, “how exactly do you see us partnering on this, Ms. Hoffmann?”
“It’s Alex,” she replied. “I can bring a different angle to the investigation; gather information without hard handing it, without any visible authority. Your kind of authority scares people into silence, Agent Weber. I bypass that.”
“Pfft…” he scoffed. “Ms. Hoffmann, do you even know what’s at stake here?” Jeremy asked, feeling a little embarrassed to hear how assaholic his voice sounded.
“No, can’t say that I know any of the details yet. I just arrived late last night.”
“Let me tell you exactly what this is about. We have developed a new weapon, the laser cannon. It’s the biggest breakthrough in weapons technology this country has seen in decades. It can be installed on any military vehicle, air, sea, or land, from destroyers to MRAPs to drones, since you’re so goddamn familiar with them. Why is it such a big breakthrough? Because that cannon can blow anything out of the water or out of the sky with precision and for under a buck a shot! Yes, you heard me,” he emphasized, registering her reaction, “less than one dollar per shot. And someone just stole that technology and gave it, or is planning to give it to our enemies. Now, can you please explain to me exactly how you think you can bring value to our investigation?”
She didn’t seem intimidated; she looked annoyed. She cocked her head defiantly, and her lips curled up just a little, in the most irritating hint of a smile he’d ever seen. When she spoke, her voice was calm and cold, factual.
“Well, maybe you’re right and I can’t assist in this case. But don’t get me wrong. That’s only because you’re one of the most stubborn, head-up-your-ass, sorry excuses for an agent I’ve ever met. I can’t work with someone who’s so closed-minded. We wouldn’t be able to communicate; we don’t coexist on the same planet.”
She stood abruptly and walked toward Sam, and quickly leaned down and kissed him on the top of his clean-shaven, shiny head.
“Sorry, Sam,” she whispered, then turned around and left, closing the door gently behind her.
Jeremy stood speechless, watching her leave without being able to articulate an answer. He saw Mason covering his face with both his palms.
“You idiot!” Sam said. “You just blew your only chance to infiltrate that group of people. If the feds want to go undercover on this, it will take you weeks to prep.”
Jeremy looked at Sam. “Are you kidding me? You’ve got to be kidding me, right?”
“I wish I was,” Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. “If you’re thinking of investigating this with guns blazing, locking each one of your eleven suspects in a room with a polygraph and hoping you’ll find who-done-it, well, think again.”
“Why?” Jeremy asked and instantly regretted it.
“Because the moment the word gets out there that we’re looking at this, whoever’s done it will run for the hills, expedite whatever delivery he had planned, and take as much intel with him as he can carry. Your only shot is to somehow start the interrogations and polygraphs with the traitor first, before anyone else. You keep forgetting you must contain the information leak and identify the uplink — find the handler, not just catch the traitor. And you’re running against the clock, you need to infiltrate that group today. How do you like your odds now?”
Jeremy didn’t reply; he processed Sam’s point of view, trying to poke holes in it and couldn’t find any.
Motherfucker, he thought. Who the hell are these people?
…41
Sylvia Copperwaite watched in a blur how the man sitting across from her raked the entire pot over the green velvet to his side of the poker table. His satisfied, wide grin was disgusting, showing discolored teeth, crooked, most likely about to fall from their rotted gums. A lifelong of poor hygiene, of smoking cheap crap, and drinking moonshine can do that to almost anyone.
She shuddered, thinking how different she was, how she didn’t belong with that crowd, yet there she was, again. She looked around the table, at the four strangers around her.
Horrible… this couldn’t be her reality, just couldn’t be true.
The truck driver at her left was about to deal.
“Ante?” he called out.
“Huh? N — no,” she said, after looking at her chips for a second. “I’ll sit this one out.”
“Hey, if you’re at the table, you gotta play, lady,” the man across said. “In, or out,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in a gesture inviting her to take a hike.
She only had two blue chips left, twenty dollars; that was all. She’d come in at 8.00PM or so with seven-hundred dollars, and now she was down to twenty bucks. She felt tears burning her eyes.
Where did it all go? Where and when had she lost her mojo? She used to win, and win big. She used to be able to read her opponents so clearly that she could almost tell every card they held, with accuracy, in cold blood. She knew who was bluffing and who had a strong hand. She used to know when to bet and when to fold. God… One night she’d won thirty-two large ones at a game, bought a new Volvo the next morning. But that was all gone… including that car. She’d sold it a year later, to pay off debts that piled up quickly once Lady Luck had decided to be a bitch and hung her out to dry. She drove a beat-up Honda now, bought from a curbsider for less than two grand.