Blowback (The Black Cipher Files Book 1) (20 page)

“No separation of church and state.” Unlike the U.S.

“Exactly.”

“That is where the breakdown in understanding happens.” I reasoned, “As a country, we’ve separated religion and politics for so long, it’s hard to for us to see that Islam’s basis is intertwined in both political and economic decisions which motivate religious–at least in our mind--action.”

“Pretty much.”

“Whereas they just believe they are protecting their way of life.”

“A way of life infinitely better for those in power and those who would be hurt financially by a change in political climate from Islam to democracy,” Lucas said drily.

Isn’t that what everything boiled down to? Money and power?

“So what would she use as a password?” He dropped back down into the chair.

“We have to get into her head.”

“We?”

I pressed my eyes closed. The implications of the word were frightening. I lifted my lids slowly. “We.”

He smiled, a warm, intimate smile and longing unfurled within me. His knowledge of me was like a seductive lure. I felt my lips curve in answer, and I returned back to my analysis.

Staci’s password wouldn’t be anything standard. No birthday, address, phone number. Based on her house and her profession, Staci Grant had a sophisticated and complicated mind.

Lucas said, “She’s got at least two passwords. The general one that is the same as her house alarm password. And another secret password for the deeper security--blocking the information we’re trying to access.”

The dichotomy would appeal to her.

The first level was her alarm password and accessed the general information related to everyday life and her work as a lecturer.

For the second level, she’d use something more universal. But not easy. “The street recruitment work would be something that would be accessible by other agents in case anything happened to her.”

“She isn’t stupid.”

The admiration in his voice shouldn’t have irritated me, but it did.
I’m losing it. I’m jealous of a dead woman.
“I know.”

I thought back to her townhouse. Simplicity hidden in extravagance.

“Something related to the job.” I scrolled through websites looking for anything that stood out or triggered an idea.

I mentally sifted through the information I’d read on the websites. But like a tongue probing a sore tooth, my mind kept going back to TICOM. That’s when it hit me.

“What about MARA?” I asked.

“Who is Mara?”

“It’s an acronym. Like Hamas, the Palestinian organization.”My excitement grew. “MARA for Mohammed Al-Rasheed.”

Lucas looked thoughtful. “Mohammed. The prophet.”

The messiah in Islam. It made a twisted and perfect sense.

“I like it,” he said.

The more I mulled it over, the more convinced I became I’d hit it first try.

“We’ve got her files.” I glanced around the public library. I didn’t want to be looking at Staci Grant’s files in a public place. “Not here.”

“I agree.” Lucas’s computer chimed softly, drawing his attention away from me. “Huh.”

That little word pulled me out of my excitement. “What?”

“Let me fiddle with this.” He punched the keys some more. “I hope Donny Boy isn’t too important.”

“Why?” I refused to panic until I knew more.

“He’s amazingly clean. I can’t find much.” Lucas punched at the keys some more. “Wait, wait. Let me look at another page.”

I closed the file and wiped the library hard drive of my presence, focusing on the mundane, rote task while I waited for him to get to the point.

“He doesn’t exist.”

My heart grew cold. Earlier visions of weddings and houses and babies crystallized and shattered into tiny particles. “What do you mean he doesn’t exist?”

But I knew.

“His records prior to a month ago are zero. Unless he just moved to this country and filed for a social security number.”

I didn’t think so. But I needed to make sure I understood clearly. “He’s at Georgetown. There must be a record.”

“No. There are two Donald Christians at Georgetown, but this email address for your Donald isn’t related to either one. He just has the address doctored to look like he goes to Georgetown.”

I blew out a breath slowly when what I wanted to do was hurl the monitor across the room.

Was he after Bella? I forced myself to calm down. It did Bella no good to make assumptions, but I sure wasn’t buying coincidence. Maybe the agency had assigned someone to protect her, but that would mean she needed protecting. Shit.

Either way, Carson should know what was going on.

Lucas said, “If you want to know who he really is, then I need more information.”

“That’s all I have.” I tightened my fingers so hard around the desktop my knuckles showed white.

“He isn’t related to your recent problems, is he?”

I needed to relax, to make Lucas believe Donald Christian was not important. “No.”

“I’ll keep digging and see what else I can find out.”

Good. He could keep digging. My gaze shifted to the clock, the tick of the second hand magnified in the silent room. It was one o’clock. Dr. Fitzhugh would be waiting. Time to go. Even if I didn’t want to. What I wanted was to find this Donald Christian kid and beat the shit out of him.

“I have an appointment.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“You can’t.”

“We go together.”

I knew he’d argue. “It’s a psych eval.”

That shut him up.

“At headquarters?”

I could have lied to him, but somewhere, sometime I’d decided to trust Lucas Goodman.

“No. The Psychological Services Building is in Hanover.”

“Want me to wait in the van?” We’d driven here separately. Lucas in his van and me in my car.

“Surveillance cameras in the parking lot.”

“Is there security to get into the parking lot?”

“No.” Suddenly I wondered why not. The intellectual and mental workings of an NSA employee contained a bounty of confidential secrets and if someone tapped the information, potential breaches in National Security.

Shouldn’t that information be at Crypto City, guarded against as judiciously as actual international espionage?

I glanced over at him. “You still can’t wait for me.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

What the hell. “How familiar are you with the NSA?”

“I know a little.”

“If an employee is discovered meeting with, speaking with, or exchanging information with a questionable person....”

“Me,” he said flatly.

I inclined my head. “Their security clearance is taken away until it can be determined no breach has occurred.”

“Son of a bitch.” He slammed his hand down on the desktop, making his laptop jump. “The stink is here.”

“Pretty much.”

Lucas rubbed his hand along his thigh. “How about I find the library in Hanover?”

“Okay.” I hesitated. I could bail on him. A week ago I would have. “I’ll meet you there.”

He didn’t ask for my word on it. I could be lying through my teeth. He’d just have to trust me. Of course, trust is a two way street.

As he held my gaze with his, the hum of the computers perched on the cubicle desktops and low murmur of voices beyond the door faded. “I trust you.”

I trusted him too. Sort of. The realization shook me. Trust was a power within itself and Lucas Goodman wasn’t stupid.

I did trust him. Just not completely.

TWENTY-TWO

I didn’t have time for a psych eval.

I strode into the tan brick building, wondering if their patient files were secure. Intense worry spread through me, spooking me, and I wished I had a weapon.

I sliced my badge through the magnetic reader, wiggled my fingers at the security camera. The door clicked open and I walked through the entryway into a waiting area painted a soothing sage green. Framed in brass, watercolors of lush flowers dotted the walls.

I saw Dr. Mary Fitzhugh every three months, regular as clockwork. But this session was a non-standard mission review, separate from my quarterly physical and psychological evaluation.

Security concerns continued to bother me.

No secretary waited behind the standard-issue office desk. A potted plant with big shiny leaves trailed over the Formica edge. No file cabinets flanked the walls. An appointment book lay open on the desk. Curious, I looked at the pristine white page.

Only first names.

So far, so good.

I wondered if the office had security cameras unobtrusively placed in the room. A protective seal coated the windows, keeping the sunlight out and prying eyes blind to the occupants of the waiting room.

If he’d been dead, George Thorogood would be rolling over in his grave at the Muzak version of
Bad to the Bone
piped into the waiting area.

The building had four floors and thirteen personnel. On the first floor there were three doors, all closed. Mary’s was the one on the right.

Conflicting emotions caromed through me. I wanted to prowl the office, instead I perched on the desktop and surveyed the outer waiting area. I crossed my arms over my chest and wished I had my firearm. Any firearm. Instead of ceasing, the naked feeling I’d gotten when I entered the building continued to escalate.

I didn’t need to be re-hashing my failure on the mission but the warning from Carson had been clear. I needed to pass this psych eval.

“Jamie.” Dr. Fitzhugh’s voice startled me out of my musings. “How are you?”

I straightened to greet the woman standing in the doorway to her office. A lavender cashmere sweater peeped out of the sleeve of her white lab coat as she held out her hand.

Not as good as I should be since technically it’s between visits.
I shook her hand quickly and dropped it. “Okay.”

Her eyes displayed nothing beyond professional concern. She had to know why I was here, but she exhibited no shock that I’d disobeyed mission instructions.

“Why don’t we go into my office, where we’ll be more private.” She gestured toward her office with a smile and her iron will.

I wondered at her polite euphemism. Could the outside offices be bugged? In a permanent building like this, the walls could be hard wired. The solicitous way she handled me pricked my consciousness. Perhaps her insistence that we move to her office was more a way to put me at ease than I’d given her credit for.

Mary Fitzhugh was about twelve years older than me. I’d been her patient since the beginning of my association with the NSA. At first, I had wondered if they’d assigned her to me as an older sister figure but after our first few sessions she stopped attempts to forge a relationship beyond doctor/patient.

Still, I never wasted a source. And today she had ‘good source’ written all over her.

We walked into her office. I noted her pristine desk. The only file on it a thick one, presumably mine. A calculator, scotch tape dispenser, and ceramic vase with a fake flower were lined up on the credenza behind the desk.

I plopped down on a sofa upholstered in muted pastels while she took her customary chair to my right.

“So...what happened?”

I always tempered my responses during the sessions with Dr. Fitzhugh. Besides the fact I couldn’t reveal exactly what happened or where I’d been, I hadn’t trusted anyone for so long, being obscure came as second nature.

I realized long ago if I didn’t present a composed picture, she had the power to recommend I be taken off active duty.

I couldn’t bear that.

“I’m not sure. I was in the middle of a mission and realized that something was off. So I ignored my original directive and got out.”

“This is the first time that you haven’t completed your assigned mission.” Her tone seemed accusatory which had me going on alert. She was supposed to be an objective observer. “How do you feel about that?”

“It was unavoidable.” I skirted her question. I never told anyone how I felt, especially not the shrink.

Mary Fitzhugh tensed. “You seem a little stressed.”

I shrugged. I was getting a bad feeling about this. I hadn’t shot anyone, I hadn’t harmed anyone. I hadn’t given away any National Security information.

Dr. Fitzhugh glanced down at a file. “I see there was a civilian man involved with this last mission.”

Standard procedure dictated we document non-NSA personnel contact in a mission, but I had no intention of discussing Lucas with her. I stared, not commenting.

“Was he the reason you decided to abort?” She lifted a mug of steaming liquid to lips that matched the lavender of her sweater.

“Nope.” I slid down into the comfort of the sofa, stretching my feet underneath the coffee table.

She put the mug down on the coffee table and made a notation in my file. My very thick file.

“You look tired.”

“Twenty-four hour days on the road will do that,” I quipped.

“Are you tired, Jamie?” The gentle voice always put me on edge. After she tried to lull you with the sympathetic tone, Mary Fitzhugh usually went for the jugular.

“Nothing ten hours of uninterrupted sleep won’t cure.”

“The anniversary of your family’s death is almost here.” She leaned over and put her hand on my forearm. “Are you sure that didn’t affect your decision making process?”

What?

Two things shocked me. She never touched me. Ever. Frankly I was uncomfortable being touched--which she knew. And she hadn’t brought up my family in years. I had steadfastly refused to discuss them when I first started coming to her. Even then I’d sensed my conflicted feelings about their deaths could jeopardize my need to avenge them, my need to atone for not dying too.

I’d read enough psych books to know I had survivor guilt. I didn’t need her telling me I needed to get over it.

“I know about anniversary reactions.” I carefully removed her hand. I wanted to curve my arms over my stomach so I deliberately relaxed. “This wasn’t one.”

The pastel walls, designed to soothe, were suffocating me.

Did this mean she knew about Bella? Was the doctor trying to get me to acknowledge her?

“Do you think you exhibited any surprising weakness during your mission?”

I glanced sharply at her, my gaze focused on that little bit of lavender cashmere. The phrase mirrored what the white-coated man had said too closely. That unsettled feeling bumped up another notch. What the hell was going on here?