Authors: Fiona Quinn
S
triker and I moved back to my office, where we found the team busy drawing scenarios on the whiteboard. They were debating the setups for an extraction plan for a new case. The FBI required our immediate intervention. It looked like a radical boarder protection group, Defenders of the Oath Association, otherwise known as D.O.A., was involved in a series of disappearances of Sudanese immigrants – undocumented, and under FBI surveillance. Obviously not tight surveillance, though, or how would D.O.A. get to them? And why was this dumped onto the FBI’s lap instead of Immigration’s? This case didn’t fall under Iniquus’s normal protocol. The FBI had clearly called us in for what we liked to label a “CYA (cover your ass) assignment”. Some agent was trying to shovel his way out of a fixed post in Siberia.
Our team would be out in the field, following the leads that our contractor ginned up. All of us except for Blaze and me. Blaze was tasked with monitoring communications, and I didn’t do daring deeds of do or die. Well, that was my mantra, if not my reality. My contract indicated that I am
not
a trained field operative and should confine my scope of activity to puzzling, data gathering, and, on occasion, maybe a little shadow walking and sleight-of-hand work. But nothing requiring bullets, camo-wear, or Kevlar.
I swung into the chair next to Jack and fixed on Striker’s review of the intelligence, setting all other thoughts aside and focusing in. It was a welcome feeling to have my Puzzler hat back in place, though the hat seemed to sit on my head slightly askew. In the plane crash, my brain got pretty beaten up, and my thoughts often seemed a little foggy. Today, as I waded through the information—it was a little bit like shambling through a twilight woods. I usually worked things out much more quickly than this. I wished I could shine a clear light; I needed to find the roots that were bound to trip my team up. They were there. I just couldn’t pinpoint where.
The doctors warned me this might happen. Two major head injuries in less than a year made for an unhappy brain. My mind created my identity. And I didn’t mean that in the way every human’s life was constructed around their thoughts and feelings. I relied on my mind like a pianist relies on her fingers. Like a ballerina depends on her legs. My brain was my paycheck. My intelligence and offbeat thinking were the only reasons I had my job.
But not today. Today, I leaned heavily on my team – I was almost no help at all. I shuffled some papers around. I held up photos. But it was a charade. I rolled my head to loosen my shoulders and my thoughts. When that didn’t help, I threw the file onto the table in exasperation. My team turned their focus on me; I offered them a flat-lipped smile and shook my head. “We’re missing something,” I said. “Something is off. But I can’t pin it down.”
Jack put his hands on his hips. With his jet-black hair and GI Joe build, Jack had the physical and mental discipline to get him through almost any situation. Just the sheer proportions of his six-foot-five build discouraged problems in the field. On sight, most of the criminals simply laid their weapons down and slowly raised their hands.
Jack’s husky blue eyes rested on me and waited for more. I had nothing more. The whole thing reminded me vaguely of a baking experiment gone awry. I tasted the concoction, and it was seriously off. A major ingredient was missing. I just couldn’t tell what. And every baker knew one ingredient can make or break the outcome. The struggle to get to the answers didn’t feel exhilarating today. Strike Force’s safety depended on our intelligence and planning. Even the best-trained, most intrepid warriors needed a clean mission assignment.
Striker’s cell phone vibrated. He shot me a hard-edged glance before he strode into the hall to answer it.
When he stepped back in, he said, “So this is the plan.” Striker pointed at the whiteboard. “Rallying point at twelve hundred sharp. We’ll do a communications check as we get into place. Good luck, gentlemen.” Striker dismissed the men with a wave of his hand. He looked down at me as he pinched his lower lip between his index finger and thumb. A stress signal. With a shake of his head, he released his lip and caught me under my elbow. “Let’s go.” He steered me into the hall.
“Something else on the agenda for today?” I asked.
“Command called; they’re sounding edgy. They want to talk about a case.”
I glanced up and saw the tightened muscles along his jaw. “Any background before we get in there?”
“I don’t have anything specific. Command wants to speak with you.”
“Me?”
“Us.” He guided me up the hall towards the east wing.
“Alright, any idea what’s up?” I all but jogged to keep pace with him as he propelled forward on long legs.
“Yeah. Word is that a team pulled a goose egg, and they’re going to dump a case in our laps.”
“I take it that that’s not to your liking?” I was getting warm at this pace. I didn’t want to sweat in my silk blouse.
“It’s not my preference. One team has already gone in, already made contact. We don’t know what they’ve said and to whom. We don’t know what mistakes they’ve made. I like a clean slate. I’d rather go in blind and start fresh.”
“Especially because they weren’t successful?”
Striker’s eyes looked as cool as stone. “Especially that.”
We slowed our pace to a comfortable stroll as we moved into Command’s reception area. Downstairs, Command wanted to give the impression of machine-like accuracy and precision with modern decor, streamlined chrome and black. But this was the wing where Command schmoozed our clients – private contracts and various agencies of the US government. Here there was definitely a masculine vibe, smacking of a different era, one where men in smoking jackets with Cuban cigars sipped aged scotch. The goal here was to make our clients—most of them men of power and means—comfortably at home with us.
In this wing, warm colors spanned the walls. The carpeting was plush under my heels, making me glad for Striker’s hand at my elbow as I tottered along beside him. I could smell wealth and success wafting down from the high-coffered ceilings. Command had hired an organizational psychologist to work with the designer to make sure that, from step one, the client viewed us favorably. Iniquus left nothing to chance.
As we pushed through the heavy carved doors into the reception area, I was surprised to find Leanne Burns, former Miss Arizona, sitting at the desk. I could normally find her in General Elliot’s office suite.
Leanne rose from her seat with exquisite grace. “Commander Rheas, Mrs. Sobado.” She acknowledged us with a formal smile. “Colonel Grant and Mr. Spencer are waiting for you.” She walked us to the conference room door.
Two of our senior officers waited for us dressed in impeccably tailored pants. They had rolled their starched shirtsleeves up to the elbows; their ties hung loosely at their necks. They were edging toward retirement age, balding, white, both of them a corporate shade of tan—from playing golf in the islands, I guessed.
“Good to see you, Striker. Lynx, you’re feeling better?” Spencer asked. It was more of an introductory statement than a question.
I gave a curt nod.
“We find ourselves in a little bit of a sticking place; we thought some fresh eyes on the problem would be helpful,” he continued.
That was a better spin than Striker had given it. Two boxes sat on the table. They probably contained the usual: pictures, case notes…
Striker pulled out a chair for me. I sat down at the highly polished Queen Anne table, and waited. Leanne brought in a serving tray and set it on the credenza, then poured out coffee, placing the china cups and saucers in front of each of us.
Colonel Grant gestured towards the boxes. “Here’s what our operatives have gathered so far. Our clients think it’s a case of industrial espionage. We believed that a Mr. George Matthews, a researcher for Montrim Industries, was trying to sell data to China. Montrim is contracted by the Pentagon to develop a weapon that uses energy waves to take out anything warm-blooded in an urban environment, while leaving infrastructure in place.”
Spencer picked up the conversation. “Montrim hired us in. It’s hush-hush. They don’t want to get the Feds involved for fear they may lose their contract. Their research hasn’t gotten far. It’s still in the conceptual stage, but if Matthews has an ongoing relationship with China, he’ll continue to update the data.” Spencer tapped his pen on the table and looked over at Grant. They were like a tag-team going back and forth.
“Montrim asked us whether or not they should fire Matthews, and of course it’s better in the long run to have him in place,” Grant said. “That way, we can watch him. See who his contacts are. See if there are any more players in the building. See how much he knows, and if he’s giving them real data or if he’s feeding them hooey.” Grant looked up at the ceiling for a long minute. “We made that mistake once before. We charged a guy with espionage when in fact, he was creating false data and feeding it to the USSR. His efforts actually ate a big chunk of Moscow’s defense funds, and took some of their best scientific minds off other projects for years, all to end up with nada. The guy was actually a national hero, and ended up in jail for a decade before we figured it all out. We try to be extra sure of ourselves now.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. They seemed to be directing the conversation toward me, even though Striker was Team Command. “What role do you need me to play here?”
“Puzzler. We’re specifically looking for the answers to questions we asked in the interview we’re about to show you. We need all of that, and we need a location where this guy, Matthews, might have hidden the evidence,” Grant said.
Spencer picked up a remote. “What I’m about to show you was filmed six days ago. Our guys befriended Matthews at work. They decided to make Matthews nervous so he might start making mistakes. Our man called himself ‘Jim.’ Here, he’s confronting the target, Matthews, on hidden camera in Matthews’s home.”
Leanne moved over to the faux Monet “Water Lilies” painting on the wall and pushed it to the side, revealing a sixty-inch LCD flat screen. She walked to the switch and dimmed the lights.
The opening shot pictured a thirty-something nerdy-looking guy, small and slight, in a red and blue striped golf shirt and Levis. He sat casually on a wingback chair in what I assumed was his living room. The furniture seemed nice enough — the kind you’d find in a local furniture shop. Definitely not high end. Tasteful, though.
The colonial-style room was painted cream from the hip up. The wall space below was a soft olive-green, with a wooden chair railing and wooden detailing on the lower half. Yes, lovely. Homey. I could imagine Matthews’s wife putting this together.
The guy hunched back in his chair drinking his beer and laughing at some joke that was just told to him.
“Hey, George, I need to talk to you.” The operative leaned closer to Matthews, bringing the camera’s focus in tight on Matthews’s face. The operative lowered his voice. “I’ve been watching you at work and some things seem pretty odd.”
Matthews went immediately still, his face blanched. His back pulled ramrod straight, and he leaned forward a little, as if he wanted to get up and run from the room. He was no longer comfortable.
“It’s about our project.”
As the operative talked, I watched Matthews closely. He breathed deeply to regain his calm. Little beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders to show non-comprehension. He was doing a pretty good job of lying—not bad at all. But he was lying.
“That’s a great story you just told me, Jim.” Matthews forced himself to lean back casually again. He took a big swig from his beer bottle. “Have you ever thought about writing on the side? I bet you’d be awesome at doing conspiracy theory stuff and thrillers - the next Tom Clancy.” Enthusiastic. Believable. Except for that first critical moment of shock when Jim caught Matthews off-guard.
Jim stood up and said he had to go. At that point, with the camera still rolling, I was able to take in much of the room. Jim walked out the door, and the camera went to black.
I picked up the remote and rewound the video, stopping at the wall, and paused. The men in the room sat quietly. They stared at the image of a wall, two-toned olive-green on the bottom, cream at the top, two wrought iron candle sconces holding golden tapers that had never been lit. I shut off the video and turned my attention back to my commanders.
“Okay,” I said, and waited.
“Did you see something, Lynx?”
“I was getting my thoughts together. You can go on.”
“That’s it. After that interview, Matthews didn’t do what we thought he would do,” said Colonel Grant.
“Which was?” Striker asked.
“We thought he’d panic and go to his source for instruction. He didn’t. He sat tight and did his job. Our operatives thought they’d followed the wrong man the whole time.” Mr. Spencer turned to me. “We took them off the case, and we’re hoping you can find the right man.”
I cleared my throat. “They had the right man.”
They waited for me to elaborate, but I didn’t. I didn’t feel the need to walk them through each example of Matthews’s body language that, to me, spoke far louder than words.
“Okay, Lynx. So you’re saying this is the right guy.”
I nodded my affirmation.