Infiltrator Read online

  It took a few seconds for him to realize he'd been addressed and someone was standing beside him. He pulled his eyes away from the article which had him so interested, and slowly looked up at her, a hint of confusion in his eyes. He hadn't been expecting anyone, and was clearly surprised to be interrupted. His eyes took in her slender form and she could sense his evaluation of her looks as he tried to process her greeting. She watched as comprehension slowly dawned.

  "You're Miss Carter, aren't you?" he finally asked, pulled her name out of memory and recognition dawned. "From the debriefing sessions?"

  So he recognized her and was fully aware of the place in Washington where they had met. He not only looked like Johnson, but he also knew the critical information. This close she was even more certain it was him, as impossible as that had to be.

  "Jessie," she offered with a brilliant smile. Her good looks had come in useful more than once when dealing with someone she wanted information from. "May I sit?"

  Johnson looked briefly confused as if surprised she would ask, but finally pushed his article aside and gestured. "Please," he said.

  Pulling the chair opposite Johnson away from the table and slipping gracefully into it, she said, "This is a hell of a surprise. I didn't expect to run into anyone I recognized."

  "I wasn't of the impression you lived in New York," Johnson said. "I somehow got the idea from something you said yesterday that you were like the others and lived in D.C."

  "You aren't mistaken," she replied smoothly. He remembered their brief encounter the day before, the first time they'd actually spoken. "I'm just here for the day. A relative passed a couple of weeks ago and left a complicated estate. I had to come here to meet with his broker at Fidelity. Boy, am I glad that's over." She had passed by the investment firm as she had followed Johnson here.

  "I see," he relied thoughtfully. "So you are just here for the day."

  Jessie nodded enthusiastically. "I was hungry after that marathon session, and the secretary there suggested this place as a bit more reasonable than most of the spots nearby. I didn't expect to spot someone I knew. I haven't been in New York more than a handful of times. Do you mind if I order? I'm starving."

  Johnson nodded, and flagged down a waiter.

  "Sadly, I won't be able to stay with you through your lunch." He checked his watch. "I have a meeting in thirty minutes, and will have to leave shortly in order to get back and be prepared."

  Jessie waved off his apology.

  "That's okay. I'm the one barging in on your lunch. I was just so surprised to spot you. I've only seen you half a dozen times briefly before the meetings started. Even then we never see each other afterwards, at least every time I finish up I'm the only one there."

  Johnson nodded his agreement.

  "Yesterday I was eager to get away because of the storm, hoping I wouldn't be delayed getting back to New York. I was one of the first out I believe, and left immediately."

  Jessie paused, wondering just how to proceed. This was clearly a lie, or at least wrong. She'd been the first of the group to finish, and when she'd emerged the streets were already buried and the cabs delayed. She'd waited as the others finished up, with Johnson being the fourth of those to step out from one of the doors at the far end of the hallway. Like the rest of them, he had been dismayed at the situation, and hadn't left early as her companion had just indicated.

  "The flights weren't delayed?" she asked finally.

  "Actually they were, but the storm had abated, and after two hours of nervous waiting we were allowed to board and take off. I got home pretty late, one of the reasons I'm a bit rushed for this meeting. Normally I'm fully prepared well in advance."

  Her heart thudding in her chest, Jessie considered what she was being told. Johnson couldn't possibly expect her to believe what he was saying, since she'd been there with him several hours after the meetings had ended. Unless, of course, he didn't know about what had really happened. She couldn't understand how that could be. He clearly remembered what had happened earlier in the morning, but somehow appeared to have lost all memories of the latter part of the day. It made no sense how that could happen, but looking into his eyes, which showed absolutely no sign of deceit, she was certain he believed he was telling her the truth. His recollections were a reasonable extrapolation of what normally happened, colored by the complications of the storm. Jessie believed if she checked the flight history, she would probably find his flight had been delayed. But she was very much aware that Bud Johnson had never made it to the airport to board that flight.

  "Well, I'm sorry, but I must be going," he said, as he picked up his lunch check and stood to go. "It has been delightful to encounter you, and perhaps we can talk again next when we meet in New York."

  Jessie nodded and smiled, masking her confusion over what she had learned. Already she was eager to get back to Washington to pass along what she'd discovered to Mark.

  After Johnson had left the deli and headed back toward his office, Jessie pushed aside her unwanted lunch. She was more than a little confused by the morning's developments, and could see nowhere to go with her probing. Perhaps she ought to have a look in Johnson's apartment before she left. She had to go back for her car anyway, and she knew he'd be out for several hours. Picking up her own bill, she headed toward the register, her mind still trying to fit pieces into some meaningful shape.

  She was eager to talk with Mark. He was the only member of their small group that she thought had the right background, and she had given no thought to talking with someone outside those who had been present when Johnson had been shot the night before. This whole situation was rapidly spiraling into something that simply couldn't be real. She was positive she'd just had lunch with Johnson, just as she'd been very much aware that he'd died the night before. And yet, this Johnson was either lying or unaware of the true nature of certain key events. He seemed unaware of his being shot! Impossible!

  She could call on her cell, but this wasn't the kind of thing she wanted to discuss over any unsecure line. Relaying the information would have to wait until she got back to Washington, and given what she knew of Mark's plans, probably until she could contact him on Sunday. That would give her more time to sort through what she had learned, and in addition to tossing Johnson's residence, she could think of a couple of others things she wanted to do tomorrow.

  Chapter 6

  Saturday

  Saturday morning found Mark up early as he prepared for the quick trip to Denver. He had no plans to stay over, with his current reservations having him returning later that evening, but wondered if he should bring a small carryon bag with a single change of clothes just in case. It had been a long time since he'd visited the family, and frankly no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't sort out his feelings regarding them, nor explain why he hadn't been to Denver to visit in so long. He could envision a whole spectrum of reactions to his unannounced visit, including the possibility he'd be pressured to at least spend the one night. In the end he threw a few items into a travel bag, electing to bring it along since he wouldn't have to check it and deal with the delays associated with baggage retrieval.

  The small S&W 9mm sat on the dresser as he considered what to do. Technically, his government permit allowed him to carry the handgun with him. There was little doubt that bringing it would greatly complicate his travels, and there was the very real possibility that TSA would run a check on his permit, which would alert those at NSA that he was traveling, and carrying a weapon while doing so. That could generate an interest and questions at work he'd rather not have to deal with at this time. He argued with himself briefly, trying to convince himself that there was no one after him, and while logic supported this conclusion, he felt oddly uncomfortable when he slipped the gun away and locked the drawer on it.

  He was traveling out of Reagan National Airport. It had a number of flights into Denver, and was far less hassle to get to than Dulles. The Metro would take him from College Park to an exit right at
the airport, eliminating the need to drive and deal with parking the Ford. It hadn't snowed again, and the roads were open, but they were also icy, and he didn't wish the added complication being added to the equation.

  Finally ready, he powered down the cheap phone that held the SIM for his usual phone service. He'd take the second cheap phone with the throwaway SIM. It would serve him well enough. He memorized any numbers he might wish to call, and he had set this one up with data service so he could access the net for anything he might need. For reasons he couldn't explain, he wanted as little traceability of this trip as possible.

  Carrying his small bag, he boarded the Metro at College Park, and rode the green line until Gallery Place in China Town. There he switched to the yellow line, and continued on to Reagan. The ride was cold and uneventful. Check in at the airport went smoothly enough, although the TSA searches of both himself and his carryon luggage made him glad he'd left the little gun at home, and he made his way to the gate to wait for boarding. While waiting, he checked the internet website Jessie had set up, but there was little of interest. Several of the others had posted phone numbers, which he easily committed to memory. Neither Pam nor Glen had provided numbers as yet.

  Denver had been spared the heavy snows that had buried D.C., and he could see through the terminal building windows that at the moment there was nothing beyond a thin blanket of older snow. That would make driving easier. He took the inter-terminal tram to the main concourse, and headed outside to where the courtesy vans that serviced the rental cars waited. A bit over half an hour later he was equipped with a year old Toyota Camry, rented under a false name using an ID from last year's Agency action that he'd kept as a souvenir, and was heading away from the airport, a faint apprehension settling in as he anticipated the visit ahead of him.

  Driving the streets leading toward the suburb where he'd lived as a child felt decidedly strange. He'd grown up here in Denver, and spent his high school years learning to drive in this area, yet everything felt oddly unfamiliar. It was as if he'd seen pictures of the place, and memorized the streets and names of places he was passing by, but none evoked a sense of déjà-vu, or triggered any personal memories. Even the intersection where he'd been involved in a collision with the family car after partying the first year he'd had a license didn't trigger any of the expected emotions. He'd been away a considerable time, but he'd anticipated more of a feeling of homecoming than the drive was providing him.

  Finally he turned into the housing development where he'd lived during his junior high and high school years. He couldn't help set aside the anticipation of his unscheduled visit as he scanned the residential street for his family's home. Then he spotted it. It was older than he recalled, and more run down. It had also been painted sometime in the years he'd been away, the color now an odd yellow as opposed to the cream it had been when he lived here. The trees had grown in the more than a dozen years since he'd been here, the roots in places pushing sections of the sidewalk up several inches. Across the street was where his best fiend Tommy had lived. He wondered where his friend was now. Another burned bridge, lost in the byways of the past.

  For many reasons he didn't feel he had the right to pull into the driveway alongside the ten year-old Chevy Malibu that was parked there. Instead he let the car drift to a stop in front of the house, under the empty branches of the large shade tree. Turning off the car's engine, he took a deep calming breath, wondering why coming home should provide such anticipation. Then, steeling himself, he pushed open the door and headed determinedly up the driveway and the front door.

  He rang the bell and waited. It was Saturday, so there was a reasonable chance both his father and mother would be home. His brother would be old enough he could very well be away at college. His younger sister might be gone as well. He was having trouble deciding just how old she would be now. This was another of the things he just never thought about. It was midday, so they could simply be off enjoying the weekend. Then he heard footsteps coming toward the door.

  He wasn't certain he would have recognized the man who answered the door had he encountered him on the street, but after a moment's study there was little doubt this was his father. The man had aged considerably, and his once thick black hair was now mostly gray, and very thin on top. His eyes were sunken, and he clearly saw Mark as a stranger and waited to hear what he wanted.

  "Dad?" Mark said, his one word as much a question as a statement.

  The older man stared back at him uncomprehendingly. Finally he seemed to get his thoughts together realizing who Mark was, and said, "You said you were never coming back. Why now, after so long?"

  Mark was surprised by this. He couldn't recall ever having said such a thing. They hadn't communicated much over the years, but the infrequent letters never addressed this. There had been letters, hadn't there? Suddenly he wasn't so certain.

  "Can I come in?" he asked uncertainly.

  The older man hesitated, but a voice behind him wasn't so hesitant.

  "Of course he can come in," the woman said.

  "Mom?" Mark asked, seeing the woman emerge from the shadows. Her hair was fully gray now, but there was no mistaking who she was. Her face clicked perfectly with the vision from the photo sitting in his Washington apartment. Whereas his father's eyes held doubt and suspicion, his mother's were warm and pleased.

  "You didn't let us know you were coming," she scolded.

  This seemed like an entirely normal comment, until she added a bit more tersely, "We've heard nothing from you since you left almost thirteen years ago. Maybe he had misread her reaction, and was seeing what he hoped rather than what was there. And how could she claim he hadn't contacted them in all that time?

  "The letters, the calls," he muttered lamely, but both stared back at him uncomprehendingly.

  "I don't know what you are talking about," his mother said softly. "You've never written or called. We have had no idea where you were or what you were doing. We assumed you were still alive somewhere, otherwise the military would have informed us."

  "The letters and Christmas cards you sent," Mark objected.

  "We never sent you nothing," his father injected harshly. "We wouldn't have known where to send 'em if we'd wanted."

  The exchange startled Mark. He could recall the items he'd just mentioned. Not specifics of what they said, but the fact of their existence.

  "Are you still in the Army?" his mother asked, obviously wanting to change the uncomfortable subject. "Come in and tell us what has been going on with you."

  Not ready to allow the conflict to settle so smoothly, his father asked, "They threw you out didn't they? The Army I mean. That's why you are here. You have no place else to go."

  Mark recalled he and his father had had some strong arguments in the past. Mark had been a brilliant student, wicked smart in fact, but wild and independent. He'd been into hacking, even to the point he'd stolen some money using his then marginally developed computer skills. He'd refused his parents guidance, and eventually had fled to the military to escape. But he'd thought that had all been smoothed over. Apparently not.

  "Didn't some people talk with you a few years ago?" he asked, as he followed his mother into the house. "Security folks."

  "That was a long time ago," his father groused. "They wouldn't say much about what all the questions were about. I figured it was related to something you were doing in the Army."

  "I'm NSA now, Dad," Mark explained. "National Security Agency," he added when his mother gave him a blank look. "I have been for almost eight years." So they didn't even know that he'd left the military so long ago. This made no sense.

  He took a seat in the living room on the aged and worn couch. His parents sat in the two heavy chairs opposite. The furniture was old enough it had to have been here when he lived here before, but none of it felt at all familiar to him.

  "The spy people?" his father asked. "You're some kind of secret agent?"

  "Is that why you've stayed away?" his mother
asked. "It might be dangerous for us to have contact with you because of your job?"

  "I'm a programmer, Mom," he replied. "I write software. Only once or twice was I involved in some field work that was anything like what you are thinking. I found a useful outlet for some of my skills." He glanced toward his father as he said the last. His hacking had been one of the strongest areas of contention between them.

  "You live in Washington, D.C.? his mother asked.

  Before he could reply, his Dad added. "You are one of those that spy on our phones and listen in to whatever we have to say in our private conversations, aren't you?"

  Mark wasn't certain where to go with the question. It was true that the NSA snooped on almost every form on conversation it could get a hold of, and his current project would only extend their reach. Fortunately, before he could formulate some kind of reply, his mother interrupted, changing the conversation.

  "Why are you here now? I sense that something has happened."

  "Something very strange," Mark admitted. "I needed to come verify some things as a result. Sadly, I can't really tell you about it just now. I needed to see both of you, and I hoped to see Tad and Jamie."

  "Tad lives in Florida now," his Dad said, obviously proud of the younger son. "He's in real-estate."

  Jamie is away at college," his mom added, as she stood up and grabbed a couple of framed photos on a side table and handed them to him.

  The pictures could have been of anyone. They didn't look at all like the young siblings he had pictures of somewhere back at the apartment, and he wasn't going to have a chance to speak with them. It was probably just as well. He was certain the conversation wouldn't help him in any way.

  An hour later he said his awkward goodbyes. It was clear they knew him and he was their son, but it was equally clear that his perception of their relationship was badly skewed and that he hadn't had the contacts with them that he believed. He glanced at Tommy's house across the street, but his Mom had told him the family had moved away almost five years ago, so there was nothing for him there either. As he drove away, heading back to the airport for the flight back to D.C., he realized no one had asked him to stay the night. He tried to understand and reconcile the reality of his life and what he'd comfortably, but wrongly, believed up to now.