‘In reality, I was still running a solo investigation, reporting only to the Director… and getting nowhere.’
He smiled grimly. ‘The asshole is still out there. Investigations still turn to crap, maybe one or two a year. And this is an equal-opportunity asshole — all the shit is gang related, but not limited to any one gang. 5Clubs, Latin Kings, the Crips, Bloods… busts involving all of them have gone south. Different gang smileys turn up regularly — though of course, given 5Clubs’ hold over the city, most of the drawings refer to them.
‘This is where you come in. We need your help. Director Murphy has given me a free hand and unlimited resources, but I don’t want to use anyone from the FBI. Been there, done that, didn’t get anywhere.
‘But I might have a chance if I use outside contractors. I went to Clare to see if her Agency could help, and she flatly refused. She said it was a good idea to take on outside help, but she has enough on her plate without helping us wipe our own ass. Can’t blame her. I then asked her if she could recommend any contractors, and at that she basically threw me out of her office.’
He laughed a genuine laugh. ‘I can see why you guys have a lot of time for her. That lady has the biggest, brassiest pair of balls I’ve ever seen.’
Broker pondered for a moment and asked the obvious question.
‘You haven’t told me anything about the JOCTF and 5JTF; how many in each of those, how many had access to the information flow?’
Isakson raked his fingers through his hair, a man who knew the enormity of the task at hand, maybe even its futility.
‘Task forces are clearing houses for information in the first instance, and that information goes to a lot of people. Unit Chiefs, Section Chiefs, Associate Directors, SACs — Special Agents-in-Charge, ASACs — Assistant Special Agents-in-Charge, Special Agents… a lot!’
‘Give me a number.’
Isakson said reluctantly, ‘Including the Field Agents and the SWAT teams who went on the busts, thirty on our side. The juice came to about ten of us and then got disseminated.’
‘These thirty have been on this investigation since the beginning?’
‘Since time began.’
Broker looked out of the window. That’s one hell of a number, and those thirty could have further spread the word, pillow talk, water cooler gossip, no way that could have been contained to just thirty.
He watched a bird fly past the window, forage its only concern.
‘You investigated all thirty.’ It was a statement, not a question, but Isakson nodded.
‘Turned them inside out, made them take polygraphs, aggressively interrogated them, all under the guise of routine internal investigations, not that they bought it. We didn’t stop at that. We dug into their phone records, financial records, mortgage statements, credit cards, cash transactions, linked accounts, put their children under the scanner, checked out their schools, put tails on all of them, tracked their Skype or messenger chats, followed their wives, went back to their birth records, parents’ records, girlfriends, partners, all of those in their immediate orbit. We put them through psych evaluations… I got to know those guys better than I know myself. If they stopped at a Walgreens, I knew about it and why. If they went to a strip club, I knew what they did there, who they talked to. If they argued with their wives or girlfriends, we knew about it! Got enough reports that if I had to print them and convert them back to trees, we would have a brand-new Amazon forest.’
‘All these in electronic form?’
‘Most of them, say ninety-percent, the rest, paper files in a secure storage only the Director and I know.’
He pushed a slip of paper at Broker containing names, titles, contact details and demographic details of all thirty agents. Broker skimmed through the list, swiftly noting the three married women and five single men, divorcés.
Isakson saw his pause, read the names upside down, and commented, ‘Yeah, I focused on those divorcés, seeing how they could fit a traitor profile, but they came clean too.’
‘Too clean? Any of them?’
‘Look.’ Isakson’s voice rose in frustration. ‘They came clean to me. However, I can’t keep second-guessing my investigation and its findings. There are quicker ways to insanity, if that’s where I want to go. Hence, I need a neutral pair of eyes, which is where you come in.’
He looked at Broker. ‘So?’
Broker shrugged. ‘Of all the gin joints and so on, why me? There must be a million other contractors out there who can help you, and who like you a damned sight more than I do.’
Isakson leaned forward. ‘You guys are trusted by Director Murphy, who has heard of you via Clare. The National Security Advisor likes you. Makes my job easier to work with someone my bosses trust. Your dislike for me has nothing to do with it.’
Broker got up and turned to leave. ‘I’ll give it some thought and get back to you. But if I was you, I wouldn’t be holding my breath.’
‘You would be doing your country a favor by helping us.’
Broker swung round at the door, and Isakson felt the full force of cold blue eyes. ‘Save it. My associates and I are the last people you should be using the patriotism card on. Your bosses know what we do, who we do it for, what motivates us. They wouldn’t hold us in such regard if we were your average Joe Mercenary. I’ll think about your request and get back to you.’
The two agents who followed Broker were hanging around outside Isakson’s office. Broker glanced at them as he brushed past them. ‘The next time you follow me, I’ll break your legs.’
Chapter 11
When in doubt, coffee, was Broker’s motto, and the Jura brewed him a hot black one when he reached his office. He leaned back in his chair and allowed the aroma to clear his mind. If he was honest with himself, he could help out Isakson. There wasn’t anything on his plate that his analysts couldn’t handle. He had already activated General Klouse’s project, but even that didn’t require his all-day attention. He’d let Isakson stew for a couple of days and then tell him he was on board.
That decision made, he went over his analysts’ reports, looking for mentions of any out-of-the ordinary military hardware and didn’t find any. He checked Werner to see if the spiders were configured correctly, and saw that they were. He patted it. Of course patting it made it work harder! This was artificial intelligence, after all. He then pushed everything out of his mind and turned his thoughts to Isakson’s revelations.
His computer chimed softly. Isakson had sent him the dossiers of the thirty agents and the key surveillance summary sheets and findings. He shook his head at Isakson’s persistence and then smiled. Broker would have done the same in Isakson’s situation.
He opened the files and started reading them swiftly, keeping his mind blank, letting it make any associations unconsciously.
Seven hours and four refills later, Broker leaned back and stretched with a satisfying grunt. He could read nonstop, without moving, and had done so from the moment he clicked his mouse. The pad in front of him had scribbling on it — Venn diagrams, models, graphs crudely drawn — and in the center were nine names: Charlotte Adams, Becky Pisano, Emily Santiago, Kory Refus, Claude Beucamp, Rick Stonehaus, Eric Yarbrough, Floyd Wheat and Chris Slinkard.
Women didn’t fit the traitor profile, and that was precisely why Broker had jotted their names down. The next five names were the divorcés and the last, Chris Slinkard, a Special Agent in a strong marriage with two kids, was perfect material for FBI recruiting posters.
Broker had picked the women and Slinkard because they didn’t fit the profile, and the single men just had to be included. He would turn Werner loose on all thirty, but those nine would be his starting point. He would compare whatever Werner threw up against Isakson’s reports and look for anomalies, coincidences, patterns, spreading the net wider with each search.