3 Lies (5 page)

“We’re not done, Clint.” She rolled her eyes and held up both hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I mean, I don’t want us to be done. Look, I know it’s been a rough year. And this is a lot to take in.”

“A concession? You’re slipping, Counselor.”

“But you always wanted a baby, and now, you’ve got one on the way.” She raised her arms up and twisted on her heels. “I’m just part of the package.”

As always. The room needed more air. He stepped around her and opened all the portals.

“I’ve made a new life for myself, Paige. It’s not that simple.”

“Is this about the girl you’ve been dating?”

Her tone abraded his calm like thirty-grit sandpaper on balsa.

“I know you started seeing someone. Your mother told me.”

But of course she did.

“Look, Paige. I’ve got plans for today as I’m sure you do. Let’s call a time out.”

“Will you meet me for dinner?”

He couldn’t think of a quick excuse, so he didn’t answer.

“Good. Meet me at Savoureux. How’s seven?”

Seven was fine, but he was tired of her presumption. A man has to take a stand. Even if only over dinner. “Make it seven-thirty at Bergans.”

Her third-grade smile dimmed to half-wattage. “Seven-thirty it is.”

He saw her to the parking lot. She parade-waved her good bye. He returned to the boat and paced for the sheer release.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed the sea. Not to go in it, of course, but to ride it like a snorting, stamping bronco—to feel the great quaking from beneath and travel beyond the horizon of everything he has ever known, to match sail against gale and bring him again safely home. Compared to women, the peril was predictable.

Paige. His pregnant five-months-from-ex wife.

Beth. His oxygen. Like Dracula filtering her blood into something fresh, wholesome, pure, and vital, she renewed him.

Where the hell was she? Her voice, her presence had become a ground wire for the static in his life.

Two women. One baby.

Only him in exchange.

Yet, Beth was the one he felt he was cheating.

Paige and he having a baby—that was something he wanted since the beginning. He even played house with her as a kid, at least when no one else was around.

Marriage was supposed to last a lifetime.

He removed the canvas cover from the mainsail and threw it in a heap on deck. He sat atop it, to rest, to think, but he knew. He owed it to the baby to hear Paige out, give her another chance. Maybe this time things would be different. It wasn’t the baby’s fault their timing so thoroughly sucked.

What the hell was this?

Routine agent updates, surveillance reports, even the occasional defector—each transaction corresponded to a code that might appear on the daily activity report. Doug Bryant knew these codes like grocery checkers knew the codes for produce. Field agents or the operatives running the missions entered some of the activities listed on his report. Computers generated other codes due to anomalies in monitored activities. The code that showed on today’s report was entirely unfamiliar.

“Posey, have you ever seen this code?” Doug passed the printout to the tall, muscular Korean at the next desk.

Posey Kong took the paper and handed it right back. “Nope. Never.”

After six months in CIA operations support, reviewing the daily reports dulled. The real action lay somewhere beyond him. Any life that sparked from the reports withered in the hands of his boss, Albert Moore. Doug never understood why Albert didn’t like him.

On the search screen of his computer, he typed in the code. He figured the odds of his having the proper security level were about fifty-fifty. With atomic speed, the computer spit an answer.

Entry Unknown.

It didn’t say he couldn’t see it but that it didn’t exist. He checked to make sure he entered it correctly. Whether or not the computer wanted to claim it, there it was on his report. It must exist.

“It’s not in the computer either.”

Posey’s attention lay elsewhere.

So much for system upgrades. Three hundred million dollars doesn’t buy what it used to.

He recognized the code as unique. For one thing, the number pattern included two additional digits. That alone made it interesting. The character string began with a hash mark, the character like a tic-tac-toe grid. None of the codes used anything but numbers or letters anywhere in the series. Fascinating stuff, but it left him with a problem.

Until he classified this entry, he couldn’t complete his report summaries. If he went to Albert, it would guarantee him a certain amount of ridicule. If he solved the problem on his own, it would still get back to Albert. Either way, he was screwed.

“You going solo?” Posey gave him that are-you-a-man-or-a-mouse smirk.

Doug decided the more interesting route was to research it himself. He struck a body builder pose and flexed both arms in a large arc. “Yes, I am.”

It meant starting up in the archives. Archives could run computer searches beyond his access. Plus they retained off-line copies of everything the Company ever produced and would admit developing. An added bonus, a hot redhead worked there. Though a bit older, she still brought the room’s temperature up several degrees. The diversion alone would make up for most of Albert’s ass-bite comments.

Doug’s boss Albert had cultivated someone of influence within every department during his long career as a programmer and retrofit analyst. He knew every angle in every system that geometry allowed. If you weren’t around him too long, he seemed like a dedicated, pleasant, and industrious fellow. Doug had apparently passed the expiration date.

He jotted down the code from the report, added some reference information to help in the search, then rechecked it all. “Hey, I’m running upstairs to archives. I’ll be back in a shake.”

“What’ll I tell Ally baby if he shows?”

“Tell him I went to see a man about a horse.” On his way out the door, he decided that his less than reverent behavior might have some bearing on serious Albert’s less than stellar opinion of him. Up was the only direction left.

Doug always took the stairs for the exercise they afforded. At his height, extra weight was never a problem, building muscle was. A former All-American in track at William and Mary, he worked hard to keep himself fit. After two flights, two stairs at a time, he headed for the archive room.

Archive access, like all information, was on a “need to know” basis. Around here, your clearance was more important than your name. His clearance ticked barely past minimal. To Doug the logic of security access seemed akin to building a road by following a cow and paving after it. He hoped it made sense to someone.

Unfortunately, the redhead wasn’t at the counter in archives, just Milt. A nice-enough guy, but not even a reckless spinster would consider him a babe. Chester Spivey, the Director of Support, stood over a stack of maps. Ex-Army Intelligence—piloted anything with wings during the Viet Nam war—Chester was the kind of man that put the “G” in GI and possessed the nuanced opinion of a glass shard. He lacked neither smarts nor grit.

Chester gave Doug a stiff eyeing.

“Bryant, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Doug Bryant.”

“How long have you been with us, Bryant?”

“Six months, sir.”

“You’re down in Albert Moore’s outfit. Or did that old bastard finally retire?”

Doug suppressed a smirk. “No, sir. He’s still in charge.”

“He’s a kiss ass that one.” Chester reviewed his maps. “You watch your back, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

Milt’s attention finally bent Doug’s direction. “What do you need?”

“I’m not sure. I’m collating transactions from field reports to keep statistics on agent activity. Each entry has a transaction-type code. Very generic information. Anyway, today I came across a transaction code that I’ve never seen before. I ran a search on it, but it came back ‘unknown’.”

“Let me check on my system.” Milt’s clearance was anybody’s guess. The few times Doug needed anything, Milt could access it even he wasn’t a hot redhead.

Milt clicked around on his keyboard for at least a minute before he said, “I’ve checked the documentation for the program that generates that code. If the computer can find it, it should be in there. I’ve got zip. You sure this info is correct?”

“Absolutely.” Doug said. “Do you have any other ideas?”

Milt put both arms up on the counter. “I’m not sure. I—”

“Pull out the old program.” Chester didn’t stir from his maps.

“Excuse, me?” Doug cocked his head.

“Your code sequence pre-dates the 9-11 system upgrades. You need to look at the documentation for the previous revision of the program.”

“Is that information still on-line?”

“I don’t know, let me check,” Milt returned to his computer for further digging.

Doug whiled the time reading Company job postings on the wall.

“I don’t have the files on line, but I should have a hard copy in my stack,” Milt said. “Let me check your clearance level before I bother.”

Doug held out the badge around his neck and let Milt scan it.

“Bingo. You’re golden. I’ll be back in a few.”

Chester squinted at Doug. “You’re a William & Mary man aren’t you?”

He considered the comment. “I am, sir. You must have seen the sticker on my car. Or read my personnel file.”

Chester’s satisfied grin rolled out into laughter. “Both reasonable assumptions. Actually, I’ve seen you run at Annapolis. Son, you can fly. What the hell are you doing working in Albert Moore’s pit?”

Doug’s posture suffered under the observation. “Sir, it’s an opportunity to serve my country and learn—”

“Cut the crap. Albert’s a jackass, and we both know it.”

He pressed his lips to keep a smile at bay. “If you say so, sir.”

If Milt heard the exchange, he didn’t let on, but plopped a wide ream of green-striped fan-folded paper on the counter. “Here you go, state of the art programming circa 1992.”

Doug flipped through the stack looking for the code key—the variable declaration section— which listed the available transaction-type codes used by the program. The programmer’s comments, though ignored by the computer, would tell him what each code meant.

In typical government fashion, the programming notes took more space than the executable code. But they served a critical purpose. If a program didn’t perform as expected, the Company needed to be able to find the problem section and fix it quickly. More importantly, they needed to be able to remove the programmer on a breeze and replace him with someone who could drop in like a perfectly machined gear.

This program, a single routine from hundreds of thousands in use at the Company, contained over a quarter million lines of programming. Fortunately, the person in charge of this code was a documentation fanatic. Doug found the variable declaration section within a few minutes.

The transaction-types carried on for several pages. The format of the code fit with what he saw in this older program. As he scanned the old codes, his brain jumped to the current code in use for each of the activities. Even when not at work, he found himself forming these codes from everyday contexts
—
license plates, road signs, menus. From chaotic images emerged familiar faces.

His index finger scrolled down each line on the page. The transaction codes were in alphabetical order of the activities they represented. He neared the end of the section when he located the code from his report. The comment section listed one statement:
Whereabouts Lapse—IR.

“I’m not sure what this means.”

“What have you got there, son?” Chester said.

“I—” Doug lifted his head from the report. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t tell you until I can verify your clearance.”

“Damn right you can’t.” Chester put his badge out for Milt to scan.

Milt sneered at Doug. “The man can access your colonoscopy records if he needs it.”

“I don’t need it. Now scan my damn badge.”

Milt obliged and said, “Platinum.”

Doug’s face warmed. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t ever apologize for obeying procedure. Now what did you find?”

“The code mapped to an activity called
Whereabouts Lapse
. Which obviously means something is not where it should be. But there are two letters behind it.
I
and
R
. Do you know what that means?”

“It means you’ve got a live one, son.” Chester clapped his back. “You’re right, something is missing. But in this case, it’s a someone, an agent. The agent is missing and it tripped an
IR
.
Investigation Required
. Congratulations. You found your first stray.”

Doug’s chest muscles flexed. He leaned against the counter and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Sir, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Chester articulated each word for emphasis, “Why?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t get just one entry with this code, sir.” Doug wiped his palm on his hip. “I got ten.”

At the bar inside Clement Marina’s restaurant, Nor'easters, Clint let the pay phone ring until he heard Beth’s voice on the recorder for the third time that day. He opted not to leave another message. Two messages were sufficient evidence of his desperation.

Unease accumulated like snowfall. The world around him ran on sixty cycles. Since Beth stood him up that morning, he felt he’d been oscillating at fifty. He yearned for something to make sense.

Even if Beth intended to treat him like crap, she’d never do that to her uncle. Abe must have heard from her by now. Clint decided to call him.

Abraham Melinger. Uncle Abe. Hizzoner.

Abraham Melinger, the Honorable Chief Justice of the United States, was the closest man to a father in Beth’s life. While Abe went off to college and then law school, Abe’s brother, Sam, continued in the family lobster fishing business. His trawler capsized during a brutal autumn squall. The Coast Guard rescued his five crewmembers, but Sam disappeared in the blue. Eight months later, Sam’s widow bore a baby girl. Beth’s mother eventually remarried, but Abe stayed family.