Authors: Brad Aiken
“Shit. It’s a broad,” he yelped as he saw Kincade with his arm around a petite young woman with short blond hair and sunglasses. “I’ve been sitting in this damned car all afternoon waiting for this? The guy’s having a God-damned affair, and I just pissed my whole day away to make this great discovery. Damn, I could have sworn it was a
guy
that he got on that boat with. It was probably some bimbo in disguise, and I fell for it.”
He took one more look through the binoculars, then tossed them in the back seat. “Christ. Enjoy your midlife crises, Kincade.” He fired up the LeSabre and sped off.
Chapter twenty
A gray pall hung over the sky and pervaded the mood of the employees at BNI. Paul nodded to the lobby guard as he passed. The excitement that he once felt coming to work each day had turned into resentment. He had given up the lab at Hopkins and the only woman he ever loved to pursue a dream career, and now he found himself fighting to escape the vacuum of deceit into which he was being sucked. He knew that if he did not find a way to distance himself from BNI now, his integrity would be stripped from him even if he somehow managed to survive the scandal that was sure to ensue.
It had been a long, sleepless weekend. Paul languished at his desk, trying to decide the best way to approach Sean. He knew that JT had to be behind the data theft and the illegal human experimentation with nanobots, but there surely had to be others. Paul could only guess at who they might be. He was sure that Sean couldn’t be involved in something like this...well, almost sure. It would be difficult at best to get the evidence without his help.
“Mornin’ Paul. Looks like you had one heck of a wild weekend,” Sean called from the office door. He wasn’t used to seeing Paul looking so haggard.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Are we meeting with JT at the usual time?”
“As far as I know. We’ve got to update him on the spinal cord project.” Since the completion of the brain injury project, the lab had turned its attention to developing nanobots designed to repair an injured spinal cord.
“Damn, I forgot that was this morning. I’ve got to get my notes together.” Sean glanced at his watch. “Gotta hustle. I’ll meet you up there at ten.”
“Say,” Paul said as Sean started to turn away, “can you break away for lunch today?”
“Sure. I never miss lunch. You know that. Priorities, man.” Sean laughed.
“No,” Paul said. “I mean get out of here for a couple of hours. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“A girl, I hope.” Sean smiled mischievously.
“You might say that.”
“All right. Way to go, man. For this, I’ll make time.”
“Great.”
“See you up at JT’s office at ten.”
Paul nodded and watched Sean walk away.
___
Richard Kincade was getting used to being on suspension. It wasn’t so bad sleeping in every day. He rolled out of bed at about nine and went downstairs. Lara was already off to work and Sandi, still catching up on a week of sleepless nights, was sound asleep in the guest room.
He peered out the bay window as he came downstairs. “Yuck,” he muttered as he saw the gray stillness of the morning. “Looks like a great day to stay home.” He put up some coffee and went out to get the paper. Internet news was great for a quick update in the morning, but when the luxury of time presented itself, Richie always preferred rumpling through the Sunpapers. He grabbed his Orioles jacket out of the closet and opened the door. The chill of the morning air surprised him. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. On the right side, he felt a crumpled piece of paper pressed up against the lining, and pulled it out to take a look. It was the note that Hank had handed him in the car that day they went to meet Sandi, the note about James O’Grady. He had forgotten all about it. It was hard not to think about what had happened to Hank that day. Richie bit down on his lower lip as he opened the paper.
Richie,
I called in a favor from a buddy of mine at the CIA. Not surprisingly, they didn’t have a whole lot of info on James O’Grady, he’s pretty well protected by his own people, but here’s what they do have:
Name: James Carlton O’Grady
Born: Baltimore, 11/19/2001
Aliases: Ian Blane Nielsen
Karl Damon Potter
Current Position
:
Director of Covert Ops Technology, NSA
Address: 142 Old Court Avenue
Potomac, Md.
Next of kin: Trace Oliver McKnight
Born: Ireland, 1/19/2029
Address: unknown
Current position:
unknown. It is suspected that he works with the NSA under an assumed identity, possibly with the initials SNL or UPN, based on the pattern used by O’Grady.
Hope this helps,
H. H. (but you can call me G.G. or I.I.)
Richie smiled and sat back in his recliner. “Always a puzzle with you, buddy.” Hank was always a bit of a jokester. Richie was going to miss that.
He looked back at the letter again. “G.G. or I.I.?” he muttered to himself. “What in the hell does that mean, Hank?” He read over the letter again, looking at the aliases more carefully. “You picked a great time for this, friend.” Hank had a knack for codes. It was something he was good at – breaking them or making them. Richie was not in the mood right now. He stared at the paper until it looked blurry.
“Hell, let’s let Daisy do this.” He read the names into the computer. First James O’Grady and his two aliases, then Trace McKnight and the two sets of initials that the CIA suspected he might be using, and finally, Hank’s initials, H.H., along with G.G. and I.T.
“You’re slipping, Detective. This is too easy,” Daisy answered immediately.
“I’m not in the mood, Daisy. I just want answers.”
“Answer displayed now.” Daisy sounded almost disappointed as the screen displayed the names in a new order:
Ian Blane Nelson
James Carlton O’Grady
Karl Damon Porter
S N L
Trace Oliver McKnight
U P N
G G
H H
I I
It was not until he scanned down to Hank’s initials that he saw the pattern. He was impressed that Hank had figured it out without the benefit of the isolated initials as a clue.
“Daisy, display all capital letters in bold print.”
The screen updated to meet his request:
I
an
B
lane
N
elson
J
ames
C
arlton
O
’Grady
K
arl
D
amon
P
orter
S N L
T
race
Oliver
M
cKnight
U P N
G G
H H
I I
“Now delete all lower case letters.”
Once again, the screen updated:
I
B N
J
C O
K
D P
S N L
T
O M
U P N
G G
H H
I I
“Of course...consecutive letters.”
“Painfully obvious, isn’t it detective,” mocked Daisy.
“Watch it. I just might need to reprogram you, Daisy,” Kincade snapped.
“A bit touchy, aren’t we? Can’t a computer have a little fun once in a while.”
“How am I going to explain what’s happened to you when we get back to the station?”
“Not to worry, Detective. I’m not stupid. My personality program is just for your ears.”
Kincade just shook his head and refocused his attention on the screen. His eyes were immediately drawn to the center set of letters, particularly the initials in the middle: TOM. Tom was a very common name; maybe it really
was
J. Thomas Anderson who was receiving those messages from Sandi’s boyfriend, but Richie knew that O’Grady was knee-deep in this, and he didn’t believe in coincidence. He scanned the initials above and below TOM.
“SNL...Shit,” he smacked his forehead as he remembered Hingston talking about his lab partner. “Sean Light…something.”
He looked up at Daisy. “Daisy, access a list of employees at BNI and display anyone with the initials SNL or UPN.”
“Accessing…List now on screen.”
Only one name appeared: Dr. Sean Lightbourne, Nanobotics Lab. No middle name available.
Kincade picked up the phone and dialed Paul Hingston’s cell phone.
___
It was nearly noon, and Paul had wasted away most of the morning. He had managed to make it through the meeting in JT’s conference room, but was sure that his anxiety was obvious. He returned to his office and stared at the computer monitor. Solitaire was about the greatest challenge he could face this morning; it helped calm the nerves.
“You about ready, buddy?” Sean came to the door at twelve sharp and saw the screen with a half-finished game of Solitaire. “...or do you need a little more time to work on that top-secret project you’ve got going on there?”
“Ah, hell,” Paul said, “let’s get out of here.”
“Must have been some wild weekend, huh? I can’t wait to hear about this one. What do you say we figure out women over a couple of burgers.”
Paul laughed and grabbed his coat. It felt good to laugh again. “Come on.” He slapped Sean on the back and they walked toward the elevator. Just as they stepped in, Paul’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hingston, thank goodness I found you. Listen, have you talked to Lightbourne yet?”
“No.” Paul looked up at Sean. “Why?”
“Don’t.”
“OK then. Can I pick it up Friday?”
“Can’t talk now, eh?”
“I was really hoping to have it by this weekend. Did the stain come out OK?”
“Just listen then. The Tom we’re looking for is not J.Thomas Anderson. In fact, it’s not anybody named Thomas. The guy we’re looking for is TOM, as in the initials T...O...M. They are the initials of an NSA agent named Trace Oliver McKnight.”
“Great. I really don’t need all of the details. As long as you got it clean.”
“He uses an alias with the initials S.N.L. According to my computer, your lab partner is named Sean Lightbourne. You wouldn’t happen to know his middle name, would you?”
“Thanks, Nathan,” Paul said.
“Shit. That’s what I was afraid of. Be careful.”
Paul was trying hard not to stare at Sean too long and hoped that the sweat on his forehead wasn’t too obvious. “I sure will. See you Friday.” He disconnected and put the phone back in his pocket.
“Damned good laundry service,” Sean said. “Who do you use.”
“Some little place that my doorman recommended near Poe Towers. It looks like a dump. I can’t even remember the name, but they do a hell of a job.”
“Oh well. That wouldn’t exactly be convenient to my house anyway. It’s a long haul from Columbia. I don’t know how you do that drive everyday.”
“Ah, it’s not to bad. At the hours I’m on the road, most people are still asleep.”
Paul wiped his brow. He’d have to think of something else to talk about at lunch today. He could hardly believe that his best friend, Sean Lightbourne, was an NSA spy, much less the kind of man who could perpetrate the kind of crimes that Richard Kincade was implicating Sean in. Sure, he had the means to misuse the nanobot research, and he certainly had the knowledge, but… It was just too hard to deal with; he would need more evidence that Sean was really doing this before he was ready to give up on his friend, but he knew better than to do anything foolish until he was sure.
They went to lunch as planned, and Paul managed to divert the flow of the conversation by appealing to the well-ingrained machismo of the suave Sean Lightbourne. He didn’t have to stray too far from the truth in telling Sean that the girl he wanted to talk about was Sandi Fletcher. Sean wasn’t too surprised. In fact, Paul’s obsession with her was something that Sean had counted on through the years, and he was rarely disappointed. But this time, Paul explained, the news of Sandi’s death had changed things. He just had to find a way to get her out of his mind and get on with his life. He asked for Sean’s advice on how to pick up women, something that Paul had to admit his partner excelled at. Sean carried the bulk of the conversation throughout the remainder of lunch, just as Paul had hoped he would.