The Camel Club (20 page)

CHAPTER
30

“T
HIS IS WHERE
P
ATRICK
J
OHNSON
worked,” Carter Gray said, sweeping his hand across the room.

Alex slowly took it all in. The space was about half the size of a football field with a large open area in the middle and cubicles along the perimeter. Computers with flat screens were on every desktop and servers hummed in the background. Men and women dressed in business attire either sat at their desks totally focused on their work or else walked the halls speaking into phone headsets using cryptic jargon that not even Alex, with all his federal time behind him, could understand. The sense of urgency here was palpable.

As Gray led them over to a set of corner cubicles, Alex caught images of people’s faces flashing across some of the computers, most of them Middle Eastern, with data, presumably about each person, flowing down one side of the screen. The thing he didn’t see was a single scrap of paper.

“We
are
paperless,” Gray said.

Alex was startled by this comment
. Has the man added mind reading to his repertoire?

“At least the people working here are. I still like to feel the material in my hands.” He stopped at one cubicle, larger than the rest, whose walls, instead of waist level, were six feet high.

“This is Johnson’s office.”

“I take it he was a supervisor of some sort,” Simpson commented.

“Yes. His precise task was to oversee the work on our data files of all terrorist-related suspects. When we took over N-TAC, we combined that staff and their files with ours. It was an ideal fit. However, we, of course, didn’t want to strip the Secret Service of all involvement. That’s why Johnson and others here were joint employees.”

Gray said this in a magnanimous tone. However, as Alex looked around the space, he thought to himself,
Nice but useless bone to throw our way, since we had no control over our “joint” employee
. His gaze came to rest on the only personal item in the office. It was a small framed photo of Anne Jeffries sitting on Johnson’s desk. Alex noted that when the woman was all made up, she looked very pretty. He wondered if Anne Jeffries was meeting with a lawyer right now. A moment later another man joined them.

Tom Hemingway flashed a smile as he put out his hand to Alex. “Well, I guess my cover’s blown, Agent Ford.”

“I guess so,” Alex said as he winced at the man’s crushing grip.

Gray raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”

“Through Kate Adams, the DOJ lawyer I was working with, sir.”

Simpson stepped forward. “I’m Jackie Simpson, Secret Service.”

“Tom Hemingway.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom.” She gazed appreciatively at the handsome Hemingway until she caught Alex scowling at her.

“I was just showing them Patrick Johnson’s office and explaining what he did for us,” Gray said. “They’re investigating his death on behalf of the Service.”

“If you’d like, sir, I can take over from here. I know you have a meeting.”

“Tom knows much more about computers than I do,” Gray said. That wasn’t exactly true, but Gray had never been one to boast of his strengths, because that very hubris often turned them into weaknesses.

“Don’t forget to tell your father what I said, Jackie.” Then Gray left them.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” Hemingway asked.

“Basically an understanding of what Johnson did here,” Alex answered. “Secretary Gray said that he oversaw the data files on terrorist suspects.”

“That’s right, among other things. I guess the best way to describe it is that he and the other data supervisors are like senior air traffic controllers making sure all the pieces go together smoothly. The databases are constantly being updated with fresh intelligence. And we’ve streamlined things too. The FBI, DEA, Homeland Security, ATF, CIA, DIA and others each had its own database. There was a lot of overlap and wrong information and no way for one agency to thoroughly access another agency’s files. That was one of the problems that led up to 9/11. Now it’s
all
maintained here, but the other agencies have 24/7 access.”

Alex spoke up. “Isn’t that a little risky, putting everything in one place?”

“We have a backup center, of course,” Hemingway said.

“Where is it?” Alex asked.

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

Well, I saw that one coming.

“And keep in mind that our system didn’t replace the Bureau’s AFIS,” said Hemingway, referring to the FBI’s fingerprint identification system. “We’re after terrorists, not pedophiles and bank robbers. We also bought several private firms that specialized in intelligence data mining and other areas of technological expertise.”

“NIC bought private companies?” Alex said.

Hemingway nodded. “Government doesn’t have to reinvent the wheel any more than the private sector. The software literally digs into trillions of bytes of information in numerous databases and builds patterns, suspect signatures and behavior and activity models that can be used in investigations. Our agents have handheld devices, like PalmPilots, that allow them instant access to these databases. With a single query they can access all relevant information about a subject. It’s incredible stuff.”

“How do you effectively oversee an operation this big with people constantly firing stuff at you?” Alex asked.

“When all the other agencies’ files came over, it created quite a backlog to work through. And between you and me, there were some glitches, and the system actually crashed a couple of times. But it’s all running smoothly now. It was Johnson’s task and others here to oversee that and also to ensure the accuracy of the data input. It’s very labor-intensive work.”

“So not so speedy,” Alex said.

“Speed is useless if the information is wrong,” Hemingway countered. “While we try to keep everything as up-to-date and accurate as possible, perfection, of course, is not attainable.”

“Could you show us some file examples?” Simpson asked.

“Sure.” Hemingway sat down at Johnson’s desk and put his hand in a biometric reader. Next he hit some keys on the computer, and a face appeared on the screen along with a fingerprint and other identifying data.

Alex was suddenly staring at himself, along with seemingly everything he’d ever done since coming out of his mother’s womb.

“Underage drinking conviction,” Simpson said, reading one of the sections.

“That was
supposed
to have been expunged from my record,” Alex snapped.

“I’m sure it
was
expunged from the official record,” Hemingway said. “How is your neck by the way? Looks like a nasty injury you suffered.”

“You’ve got my
medical
records? What the hell happened to privacy?”

“You must’ve neglected to read the fine print on the Patriot Act.” Hemingway hit some more keys and another search field came up. He said, “You go to the LEAP Bar a lot.” He pointed at a list of credit card purchases from that pub. “I’m sure the presence of the lovely Kate Adams is a factor.”

“So every time I use my credit card you know what I’m up to?”

“That’s why I always pay in cash,” Hemingway said smugly.

He typed in some more commands, and Jackie Simpson’s photo, digitized fingerprint and basic information sheet came up. She pointed at one line. “That’s wrong. I was born in Birmingham, not Atlanta.”

Hemingway smiled. “See, not even NIC is infallible. I’ll make sure it’s corrected.”

“Do you have any bad guys in there, or do you just spy on cops?” Alex asked.

Hemingway punched some more keys and another face sprang up. “His name is, was, Adnan al-Rimi. He was killed by another terrorist in Virginia. You can see that al-Rimi has been
confirmed
as deceased. That’s what the little skull and crossbones symbol in the upper right-hand corner signifies. A little corny and I’m not sure who came up with that idea, but it’s pretty clear as to a person’s current status.” Hemingway opened a drop-down window. “You can see the fingerprint image here. We were able to positively ID al-Rimi from his digital prints, which we had on file.”

“Did Johnson have any information that would be valuable to someone?”

“I think in broad terms everyone who works at NIC would have information that could be valuable to an enemy of this country, Agent Ford. That’s why we run background checks and perform a rigorous vetting process.”

“Can’t do any better than that,” Jackie Simpson said.

“But didn’t Patrick Johnson’s sudden
wealth
raise red flags here?” Alex asked.

Hemingway looked chagrined. “It should have. Heads will roll for it.”

“But not yours,” Alex remarked.

“No, that wasn’t my responsibility,” Hemingway answered.

“Lucky you. So if the drugs weren’t Johnson’s source of income, you’re saying it’s unlikely that he could have been selling secrets from here?”

“Unlikely but not impossible. But the drugs
were
found at his house.”

“Do you mind if we talk to some of Johnson’s co-workers?”

“I can arrange that, but I’m afraid your discussions will have to be monitored.”

“Wow, just like in prison, only we’re the good guys,” Alex said.

“We’re the good guys
too,
” Hemingway shot back.

An hour later, after they’d spoken to three of Johnson’s colleagues, Alex and Simpson learned that none of them really knew Johnson on a personal level.

After they’d collected their guns, Hemingway escorted them out. “Good luck,” he said before the automatic doors shut behind them.

“Right, sure, thanks for all your help,” Alex groused.

They walked back to the car while two army grunts toting M-16s followed.

“Either one of you guys wanna hold my hand in case I suddenly go berserk?” Alex asked before turning back around and marching on in disgust.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” Simpson said.

“So is ninety percent of investigative work.
You
should know that,” Alex said heatedly.

“What are you so pissed about?”

“Are you telling me all that stuff in there didn’t creep you out? Hell, I was half expecting a photo of when I lost my virginity to pop up.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. And why were you such an asshole with Tom?”

“I was an asshole with
Tom
because I don’t happen to like the son of a bitch.”

“Oh, well, I guess that explains your relationship with me.”

Alex didn’t bother to answer. But he did lay down rubber on NIC’s pristine asphalt getting the hell out of Big Brother Town.

CHAPTER
31

A
FEW MINUTES
AFTER A
LEX AND
Simpson had left, Hemingway passed Reinke and Peters in the hallway at NIC and gave a short nod of his head. Fifteen minutes later Hemingway drove out of NIC. Ten minutes after that, Reinke and Peters did the same.

They met at Tyson’s II Galleria, a large upscale shopping mall, purchased coffees and walked along the concourses. They’d already used an antisurveillance device to ensure that none of them had been bugged, and each had taken great pains to make sure they hadn’t been followed. A major rule of being a spy was to make certain your own agency wasn’t spying on
you
.

“We tried to stop them from going through Johnson’s office,” Peters said. “But then Gray came in.”

“I know,” Hemingway replied. “That’s why I went down there. The last thing I want is Carter Gray turning his attention to this.”

“What about Ford and Simpson?”

“If they get too close, there are ways to deal with them,” Hemingway said. “We found a print on the suicide note and ran it.”

“Did you get a match?” Reinke asked.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?” Peters asked.

“It’s in your jacket pocket.” Hemingway finished his coffee and threw away the cup. Peters pulled out the piece of paper Hemingway had slipped there at some point. He read the name:
Milton Farb
.

Hemingway explained, “He worked at NIH years ago as a computer systems expert but had some mental problems and popped up in some psych centers. He was in the phone book, so it wasn’t hard tracking his address. I’ve e-mailed an encrypted version of his background file to you. Watch him, and he’ll probably lead you to the others. But do nothing without checking with me first. If we can avoid killing them, we will.” He walked off in one direction while Reinke and Peters headed off in the other with renewed energy.

Carter Gray returned to his office, made a few phone calls, including one to the White House, and then held a series of brief meetings. After that, Gray settled down for another task that would take him several hours. Whenever the president was traveling and Gray was unable to accompany or meet him on the road, they conducted a secure video conference call for the daily briefing. Gray typically spent a good deal of each day preparing for that call, but he knew that the salient points could be summed up very quickly.

“Mr. President, the world as we know it is going straight to hell, some of it due to our own actions, and there’s little we can do about it. However, so long as we keep spending hundreds of billions of dollars on homeland security, I can reasonably guarantee that most Americans will be safe. However, all our expensive efforts can still be defeated by a small group of people with enough nerve, dumb luck and plutonium. Then all bets are off, and we could all very well be dead. Any questions, sir?”

Instead of preparing for the briefing with Brennan, though, Gray wanted to go for a drive. Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to. As with the president, the secretary of intelligence was not allowed to drive himself; he was deemed too vital to the security of the nation to be behind the wheel of a car. However, what Gray really wanted to do was go fishing. Since he couldn’t do that right now with a pole and bait, he decided to try another version of fishing, one at which he was also very skilled.

He typed in a request for a name on his laptop. Within five minutes he had the information he wanted. NIC personnel were nothing if not efficient.

It had been one of his most brilliant moves, Gray thought, centralizing all terrorist databases under NIC’s control. While it made the system far more accurate, it also gave NIC the heads-up on other intelligence agencies’ operations. If the CIA, for example, needed information on something, they would have to access one of the NIC databases and Gray would instantly know what they were looking at. It had worked beautifully, allowing him to spy on his intelligence brethren under cover of bureaucratic efficiency.

He set up the images and data on split screens so he could view them all simultaneously. There were many men staring back at him. Almost all were Middle Eastern; they had all been duly recorded in the NIC database, complete with digital fingerprints, if available. And they were all dead, many at the hands of other terrorists. The skull and crossbones marker resting in the upper right-hand corner of each man’s picture confirmed this fate. They included an engineer and chemist who were also expert bomb makers. Another, Adnan al-Rimi, was a courageous fighter with nerves that had never broken in the heat of battle. Six others lost their lives when an explosive went off in the van they were in. Whether it was accidental or intentional had never been determined. The crime scene had been horrific, with body
parts
instead of bodies to collect. Other than Muhammad al-Zawahiri, none of these men were on the “A-list” of terrorist suspects, but it was still fortunate for America that they were dead.

Gray had no way of knowing that the photos of al-Rimi and others had been altered subtly. They were not the pictures of the men who’d
actually
died either. They were a digitized combination of the real al-Rimi, for example, and the dead man identified as al-Rimi. This was done so that any “earlier” photos of the men still floating around would not look so different as to raise suspicion. It had taken time and considerable expertise. The result had been worth it, though. It was now virtually impossible to identify any of these Arabs from their photos in the NIC database.

The other brilliant stroke had been leaving no “faces” behind on the dead men to identify. What had been substituted in their entirety, of course, were the men’s fingerprints, the forensic signature by which they’d been positively identified. Fingerprints never lied. Of course, in the digital age nothing was inviolate.

And yet with all that, Carter Gray’s gut was telling him something was not right.

Gray clicked out of the file and decided to go for a walk around the NIC grounds. He was allowed to do that, he supposed.

As Gray strolled outside, he looked at the sky, following the flight of a Lufthansa 747 as it made its way into Dulles Airport, and his mind wandered to the past.

Early on in his career at the CIA Gray had been assigned to the CIA’s ultrasecret and now abandoned training facility near Washington, Virginia, a bit over two hours west of D.C. The building, extremely well hidden within the surrounding forest, was known, in CIA parlance, as Area 51
A,
demonstrating that the Agency did, indeed, have a sense of humor. Unofficially, though, it had usually been referred to as Murder Mountain.

Long since closed down, NIC had recently moved to have it reopened as an interrogation facility for terrorist suspects. However, the Justice Department had gotten wind of the scheme, and the process had slowed down considerably. Then, after the cumulative effects of “Gitmo” Bay in Cuba, the disgrace of Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, and the Salt Pit prison fiasco in Afghanistan, the plans to reopen the facility were on the verge of being nixed.

Gray was unconcerned, though. There were lots of other places
outside
the country that would serve the same purpose. Torture of prisoners was illegal under American and international laws. Gray had testified before many committees regarding compliance with this law by his intelligence community, lying to the Congress with virtually every word he spoke. However, did those great and pious legislators who neither knew one word of Arabic nor could even name the capitals of Oman or Turkmenistan without a staffer’s help, really think that was how the world worked?

Intelligence was a filthy business where people lied and people died all the time. The fact that the U.S. president was right now contemplating the assassination of another country’s elected officials was testament enough to how complicated the global politics were.

Gray returned to his office. He wanted to take another look at all these “dead men” who might somehow figure prominently in his future. God help America if they did.