“I only had two days,” Alex started to explain apologetically, but then regained her self-confidence. “I know what I’m talking about. All the others are preoccupied by something else. When they think no one’s watching them, their body language shows they’re concerned, worried, and fidgety.”
“Has any of them said anything?” Mason asked.
“No, nothing that would definitively put them at the top of the suspect list.”
“This gives us nothing,” Jeremy said with a grunt. “How are we better than last week? Why did we even go through all this trouble to get you aboard that ship?”
“Why don’t you tell me what the almighty FBI was able to do in these couple of days? Did you get their phone records, backgrounds, banking info? How’s that coming up?”
Jeremy cleared his throat and frowned before responding, visibly annoyed.
“We have some background, not everything. Warrants are still pending to get their finances and phone records; the judge turned us down. He said group probable cause doesn’t apply to individuals. Our DA is appealing it, playing the trump card of national security.”
“So you got a bigger nothing than I did,” Alex chuckled bitterly. “How about we drop the attitude and start cooperating?” Alex offered.
“Meaning?” Jeremy asked, irritation still seeping in his voice.
“Run me through the background you have on all these people, and let’s take it from there. We might be able to get some progress made today after all.”
Mason silently watched the dialogue, but his almost perfectly immobile face started to show signs of concern. For a man like him, a man used to taking charge and getting things done, being almost powerless was not acceptable.
“I’ve pulled the work records for all five,” Mason said, “and I’ve interviewed in detail all their current and former supervisors.”
“How sure are you they’re gonna keep quiet about these discussions?” Alex asked, frowning slightly. “The word could get out there from former supervisors just as well.”
“I don’t think that’s a possibility. I’d say that’s a low risk. We have to have something to go on with,” Mason replied.
“True,” Alex said. “Let’s paint a picture of each one; let’s combine the background information you have, Jeremy, with their personnel files and supervisor interview notes. That will give us a better idea of who these people are. By the way, before we start, is it possible that one of the seamen on the USS Fletcher used the van?”
“No, I am positive about that,” Mason replied. “Why do you ask?”
“I ran into a very anxious, apprehensive young man on the ship. Well… maybe it was nothing,” she dismissed it, ignoring the feeling of uneasiness that still tugged at her gut when she remembered the boy’s red hair and freckled face.
“I have something too,” Mason said. “Our pest control found a godforsaken copier forgotten in the basement mailroom. I have no idea how that was missed. It’s very old; must have been there since before the 1990s. I’ve instructed them to remove it ASAP.”
“No!” Alex blurted. “That would draw our spy’s attention. Ask them to just disable it, make sure it doesn’t work anymore, and dust it for prints if they can do it discreetly, after everyone else has gone home. We don’t want to get anyone’s attention. A piece of junk like that could break anytime; no one will be the wiser.”
“Consider it done,” Mason said.
“On second thought,” she said, fluttering a mischievous smile on her lips, “scratch that. Wouldn’t it be nice if they fitted it with a camera and watch who’s using it instead? We might hook us the traitor faster that way.”
“I will get on it,” Mason said, with a hint of a smile.
“OK, then. Let’s start with the one I thought was our prime suspect, Faisal Kundi. Graduated from Columbia with a master’s of science in computer engineering,” Jeremy read from his file, then flipped through some pages. “Immigrated to the United States at age three. He did well in school, even better in college. He had very few friends, and he didn’t participate in any team sports. Umm… that’s about all we have for now. He lives in a townhouse, and his wife is a homemaker.”
“He is highly appreciated by his supervisor,” Mason said, “who finds him reliable and calm under stress. He is talented and creative. He is quiet and not engaging much with the rest of his coworkers, he’s not the water-cooler kind of guy.” Mason closed the file he was reading from and set it on the table. “That’s all we have that’s relevant on Faisal.”
Alex thought for a second, then asked, “What kind of car does he drive?”
“I can access the DMV database, just give me a second,” Jeremy replied, pulling his tablet and logging in. “A two-year-old Toyota Corolla.”
“Any recent foreign travel?” she asked.
“No,” Jeremy replied, after taking a minute to check Homeland Security’s database.
“OK,” she replied thoughtfully. “It matches what I saw; a quiet, relatively withdrawn individual, who does his work, keeps socialization to a minimum, and is very calm, almost relaxed. He might be clean after all.”
“I find it hard to swallow,” Jeremy objected. “His background is Muslim, a foreign national, it fits.”
“You can’t hold people accountable for the place they were born,” Alex protested.
“No, I can’t, and I won’t,” Jeremy replied. “But I can use statistical information to profile a suspect; that’s my job. Statistically there’s a strong correlation between this type of background and anti-American interests. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I have to agree, to some extent at least,” Mason intervened. “Even here at Walcott, bringing a foreign-born national on staff is frowned on, and a Middle Easterner fares worse. But we recruited Faisal straight out of school, at the end of his master’s program. We chose him.”
“That was how long ago?” Jeremy asked. “Seven years? Many things can change in seven years, especially the allegiances of a Muslim. Statistically, we have a better chance of finding that Kundi is the spy.”
“And, of course, to every such rule there are exceptions,” Alex pushed back. “Let’s try to keep an open mind this time, and move on to… who’s next?”
Jeremy groaned and opened the next file.
“Sylvia Copperwaite, thirty-three, PhD in computational modeling,” Jeremy replied. “She was quite popular in school, partied a lot. She studied at Duke. Divorced five years ago, no boyfriend that anyone knows about. No travel, and…” Jeremy switched focus from his paper files to his tablet, “drives a 1998 Honda Accord. Huh… No recent foreign travel, outside of a trip to Cancun last year.”
“1998 Accord, you said?” Alex asked. “That jalopy is a pretty dismal set of wheels for a six-figure income.”
“Agree,” Mason said. “Her supervisor said she’s very talented, yet sometimes she lacks focus. She can fall behind on projects if not closely supervised, which is a bit of a concern for someone in her role. On rare occasions, she snapped at coworkers, slamming them for minor issues, then immediately apologizing. She’s behaving like she’s under a lot of stress.”
“That aligns with my observations,” Alex added. “She looks pale and distraught, camouflaged somewhat by makeup, but below the chin and jawline the pallor of her skin showed clearly. Her state of mind seemed to vacillate between deep sadness and all-consuming worry. In short, judging by everything we have so far, she’s distraught and broke. Not necessarily the makings of a spy, but you never know. I think we need to understand what’s going on in her life before ruling her out.”
“Got it,” Jeremy said. “Next we have Robert McLeod, the project leader. MIT grad with honors, played football on his school’s team, he was a quarterback. Popular with girls back then, enough to be noted in his file. On his school record there was a mention of a cheerleader who got pregnant. McLeod persuaded her to get an abortion, then the girl had a nervous breakdown and he never wanted to have anything to do with her again. He’s extremely intelligent and quite arrogant. He’s ambitious and competitive. He drives a Mercedes S-Class, and travels every year to Europe on vacation. He’s single and doesn’t enjoy long-term relationships.”