“Well, hell, did he at least offer an Agency contact?”
“No, sir.”
“No?”
“No name. No number. He didn’t even advise me as to which department or desk to contact.”
“Well, hell’s bells. What in the blue fucking blazes kind of help was that?”
“I posed a similar question, sir. No less forcefully, but in less colorful vernacular.”
“And?”
Riggleman consulted his notes.
“He responded that this was, quote, ‘an Agency matter currently subject to internal review, involving matters of a highly sensitive nature with regard to current and continuing operations, as well as confidential sources and methods.’ Unquote.”
“Do you think that was his way of saying they think Cole’s a spy?”
“That’s one interpretation. It could also mean they still consider him a reliable source and want to keep him that way. For all we know, they’ve reached some sort of working agreement with him, which could also help explain why his movements have been so hard to track.”
“Hell’s fucking bells. That’s all we need.” Hagan ran his hands through his hair.
“In any event, sir, Bickell maintained that the entirety of their conversation would remain classified.”
“Of course it’s classified. All this shit is classified. But you’re cleared. I’m cleared.”
“I reminded him of that. Nonetheless.”
“Goddamn those fucks!” The general was red in the face. He looked like a street fighter seeking someone to slug. He picked up the desk phone, held it aloft for a second, then set it roughly back in its cradle.
“I’ll follow up on this,” he said, nodding vigorously. “This will not be the end of it.”
Riggleman wasn’t so sure that that was a smart idea, but couldn’t think of a diplomatic way to say so.
“Yes, sir.”
“Where were we?”
“My next stop was at Creech, to speak with Cole’s old buddies, his former CO, his sensor.”
And here, as far as Riggleman was concerned, was where things had again felt strange, the same way he’d felt when the official transcripts of the court-martial had landed on his desk so speedily, yet with an artfully concealed gap of twenty-two missing pages.
At Creech he’d expected to run the usual gauntlet of PAOs and legal officers. Instead, an MP escorted him straightaway to an empty staff room reserved for his interview sessions. It was equipped with a tape recorder, a legal pad and pencils, a full thermos of hot coffee, a basket of sweet rolls from the officers’ mess, and a printed timetable of all scheduled visitors — everyone he’d requested, plus two volunteers. Each of them obediently trooped in to see him, right on schedule, most of them with smiles on their faces. And there was none of the usual checking of watches or interruptions by impatient COs to say, as was often their custom, “Son, I hope you’re about to wrap this up, ’cause we’ve got a war to fight.”
Maybe Hagan had smoothed the way. Maybe someone else had. And maybe he was foolish to regard this as a problem instead of a blessing. But there it was, all the same. Doors were being opened before he even knocked, and he had yet to find out why.
Earlier that morning, Riggleman had debated whether to mention these suspicions. Now, in studying the general’s face, he concluded that doing so would be a bad idea. Instead he proceeded straight to his findings.
“No one had any particularly helpful leads when it came to Captain Cole’s current whereabouts. But the most interesting of these contacts, sir — in fact, to my mind the only interesting one — was his sensor, Airman Zach Lewis.”
“How so?”
“He was very protective, very reluctant to say anything. He was the only one who demonstrated that attitude, the only one who was less than cooperative.”
“Well, they were fellow crewmen for almost a year. It’s a bond, I’d imagine, like the bond between a pilot and his wingman.”
“I’m aware of that sir. This was different.”
“Not having been a pilot, I’m not sure you’re in position to know that.”
Riggleman felt himself flush. So there it was again, the same old class distinction, the same old shit. You’re not really full-blooded Air Force if you’ve never been a pilot, the stratospheric royalty, the jockocracy. Well, fuck that. He gripped the sides of his chair and pushed on.
“With all due respect, sir, if you’ll let me explain my reasoning.”
“Proceed.” Hagan leaned back, frowning, skeptical.
“At first he was fairly relaxed. A little adversarial, but nothing out of the ordinary. Everything changed the moment I asked whether he’d had any recent contact with Captain Cole. From that point on, no matter how I phrased the question — personal contact, by phone, by email, by letter — he began employing classic avoidance and evasion techniques. For every denial he would look off at some point over my shoulder, or down at his lap. He was moving his hands awkwardly, blinking rapidly. He was lying, sir. They’ve been in touch, I’d bet money on it. And if I had to guess, it was contact with a direct bearing on whatever is at the heart of Captain Cole’s disappearance.”
Hagan leaned forward, interested once again.
“Then pull his phone records. His email.”
“I did, sir. Nothing.”
“Well, you see?” Hagan frowned and leaned back.
“No, sir. It’s not that simple. Airman Lewis had recently erased all contents of the Trash folder in his personal email account.”
“Nothing unusual about that. It’s good op-sec. I must do that once a week.”
“Agreed, sir. But he’d gone to rather extraordinary lengths, sir.”
“Explain.”
“Well, when most of us empty the Trash folder, it may empty the folder, but it doesn’t wipe those emails from the hard drive.”
“No?”
“No, sir. So I remotely checked the contents of his hard drive, scanning for whatever it was he’d been so eager to get rid of — on the very morning of our interview, I might add.”
“And?”
“Nothing. And while I can’t verify this without actual physical possession of the hard drive, from all signs it would appear that he has wiped it clean in a manner suggesting a level of technical knowledge not normally possessed by casual users like Airman Lewis.”
“How do you know he’s a casual user?”
“His Internet usage profile, sir. Online history, browsing patterns, everything. None of it suggests that he has the expertise to clean those emails from his system. Not without someone else telling him how to do it.”
“So you think Cole told him how?”
“Or whoever Cole’s working with.”
“Bickell?”
“Possibly. Among others. As you’ll soon see. In addition, anyone with that level of security consciousness would almost invariably erase his browsing history as a matter of routine as well, but Airman Lewis left his intact.”
“I see. Interesting, I’ll grant you, but it’s not exactly conclusive.”
“Agreed, sir. But I would argue that at the very least it makes him worthy of continued scrutiny.”
“So go to it, then.”
“It’s just that, at this point I may need to use some, well, extralegal means.”
“Well, hell, not to ask the wrong question, but hasn’t that already been the case?”
“Yes, sir. But not to the extent I’m proposing. This would require a tweak that could be effected only by gaining direct physical access to his personal computer, sir. Preferably while he’s on shift. And it would leave behind a distinctive programming footprint, possibly traceable by a qualified investigator.”
“Let’s not sugarcoat it, Captain. You’re proposing a B and E?”