The Backup Asset (15 page)

“Just show me exactly where you found it,” Mason Armstrong encouraged Terry, following him inside the Sprinter with some difficulty.

Armstrong, the chief of internal security for Walcott Global, had a painful, bothersome limp in his left leg, an unwanted memento of his days in the US Secret Service. He had been in the service of President Bill Clinton, a president so peaceful that few people still remembered the 1994 assassination attempt that took place at the White House. Armstrong did, however, because one of the bullets fired on that day by the attacker’s semiautomatic weapon had shattered his femur, leaving him crippled and desk-ridden since he was thirty-one.

Despite several rounds of reconstructive surgery, Mason never walked straight again, and every time he put his weight on that leg it was a painful reminder of what a single fateful moment can take from one’s life. None of that pain showed on his face though. Completely bald and clean-shaven, with features that appeared carved in stone, immobile, and free of any emotion, Armstrong was perfectly suited for the high-stress job he had. He remained calm under any circumstance, an invaluable skill he picked up during his training with the Secret Service, a skill that had proven useful many times.

As head of security for Walcott Global, he was responsible for every aspect of security, from the protection of the company’s physical facilities, to the safety of its employees, and the safeguarding of all information. Armstrong combined his calm, thoughtful mental process with a procedural, structured approach to all events and situations. He had earned the trust and respect of his employer for the smooth, efficient, and discreet handling of all matters security, regardless of how delicate.

Armstrong watched as Terry demonstrated where he had found the document, using a blank sheet of paper snatched from Armstrong’s printer.

“When’s the last time you detailed the van?” Armstrong asked, jotting down notes.

“Yesterday morning, sir.”

“How many times has it left the garage since then?”

“Five times, sir. One outbound, two airport pickups, and two roundtrips with our teams.”

“Get me the lists of all people who touched or used the van since the last time you detailed it. You keep logs, Terry?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get you everything you need.”

Armstrong stepped out of the van slowly, holding on tight to the handrail on the door.

“Onboard cameras would have been nice to have now, right, sir?” Terry ventured.

“Yes, definitely,” Armstrong confirmed with a frown.

Armstrong had been an advocate for video surveillance in all company vehicles, but with no success. Walcott’s CEO had resisted the thought, stating that it would insult their guests and visiting officials with such a blatant manifestation of distrust, shown as early as an airport pickup—their first contact with Walcott Global. Maybe the current situation would get him to reconsider.

“Did you touch the document with your hand at any time, Terry?”

“No, sir, I wear gloves when I work on the vehicles.”

“Good, good,” Armstrong said, giving Terry an encouraging pat on the shoulder before he turned away and walked toward the main building.

A few minutes later, he closed the office door and immediately pulled out his cell phone, using voice recognition for his command.

“Call Sam Russell, encrypted,” he said.

“Calling Sam Russell, mobile, encryption active,” the smart phone’s robotic voice answered.

Two short rings later, a familiar voice picked up.

“Mason, hey, good to hear from you,” Sam said.

Armstrong stifled a sigh before responding.

“Well, maybe not so good . . . Sam, I need your help. How fast can you get here?”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against it for a minute. It felt good to be home after such an emotionally draining day. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, loosening his tie. He’d made it home in one piece, documents included. He could make the drop now, and that was going to be easy.

He went straight for the dining room table, where he placed his briefcase carefully on the shiny surface. He pulled the curtains shut, making sure their edges overlapped to ensure perfect privacy, and only afterward he turned on the lights.

He opened the briefcase and carefully tugged at the bottom lining, separating it from the edge on one side. He gently pulled the file folder from underneath the lining, and then he stuck the lining back under the edges with his fingernail.

Photographing was next. He took an older digital camera, one that didn’t connect to anything via any technology, Internet, or Bluetooth; one that didn’t have a GPS built in. It was a simpler model, one of the first to use an SD card. He opened the file folder and started photographing the pages one by one, in the right order.

As he worked, his hands steadied and his heart rate dropped to more normal levels; he was getting used to the idea of what he was doing; he was getting more comfortable walking on the path of no return. He had no regrets . . . he was actually happy he was going to even the score with his employer . . . the bastards deserved what was coming to them, and more. That feeling of accomplishment, of setting things right overcame all his fear—fear of getting caught, of spending the rest of his days serving a life sentence for treason, fear of death.

He paused after each file, verifying his work on the camera’s tiny screen. All three documents were going to make his handler very happy. Not bad for his first drop: the capabilities assessment for Zumwalt-class destroyers, the evaluation memorandum regarding the compatibility and readiness status for laser cannon installation onboard the USS
Fletcher
, and the performance and capabilities assessment for the laser cannon. Yep, not bad at all. Well, actually too good. Why give him everything in one drop? He could make more money if he delivered the valuable goods one gem at a time.

He chose the evaluation memorandum for the drop, and brought an extra SD card to store the other two files.

When he finished photographing the last page of the memorandum, he verified the images on the camera; they were all there. He removed the SD card from the camera, then packed it neatly in a small Ziploc bag.

He took the documents and camera out of sight, hiding them in a kitchen drawer. He made a quick call to his favorite messenger service, FastLite, asking them to pick up a package.

Taking a new canister of three Dunlop tennis balls, he carefully opened it, making sure the clear wrapper stayed as intact as possible. Using a box cutter, he cut the tape sealing the cap on the clear plastic wrapper, and took two of the balls out. He carefully made a small incision in one of the balls, slicing along the gum line for about an inch. Then he slid the packet containing the SD card in its Ziploc bag inside the tennis ball. He verified carefully; the cut wasn’t visible at all, hidden in the green fuzz at the edge of the gum line. Satisfied, he put the ball on top of the remaining one in the canister, then topped it with the third ball and sealed the package with a fresh piece of tape.

He finished everything moments before the messenger rang his doorbell. He opened the door promptly.

“Got a package, sir?” A kid, no more than sixteen years old, wearing a FastLite tee and cap, stood in his doorway, still mounted on his bike, leaning sideways on one foot.

“Yeah, just this,” he said, showing the boy the set of tennis balls. “It’s my kid’s birthday; I need these to get to him tonight. It’s not far . . . Can you do it?”

“Sure . . . that’s what we do,” the boy answered, a bit confused by the question.

“Great, just give me a second, let me wrap this real quick.”

He took gift-wrapping paper from one of the drawers and packed the tennis balls quickly, slapping some tape at the ends so it stayed wrapped. He handed it to the boy, together with two twenty-dollar bills.

“No card?” the boy asked.

“Huh?”

“It’s his birthday . . . no card?”

“N–no,” he said, caught off guard. “I called him earlier.”
Fuck
. . . he thought.
That’s really sloppy work, damn it.

“Ok, I’ll go, if that’s it,” the boy said, filling out a small form and handing it over. He started looking for change, but the sender stopped him.

“Nah . . . keep it!”

“Thank you, sir!”

He closed and locked the door carefully, and put the chain on. He had one more thing left to do before calling the job done. He had to destroy the documents.

He pulled the file folder from the drawer and took it in the garage. He grabbed a bucket and filled it halfway with hot water, tore the papers in a few pieces, then submerged them in the water, one by one. The water dissolved the bonding agent that held the cellulose fibers together, and the paper quickly turned mushy. He helped the process stirring the contents of the bucket with a long screwdriver, and, within minutes, the paper was mashed up in small little bits, the writing on it gone, liquefied by the hot water.

He carried the bucket to the bathroom and flushed its content down the toilet. He put the bucket back in the garage where it came from, and looked around to see if everything looked in order.

Finally, he did the one thing he’d been waiting for the whole day. He poured himself a double shot of whiskey neat, and gulped it with a couple of antianxiety pills.

“I need to get better at this,” he heard himself saying. “Way better.”

Alex curled up on her couch in the semi-darkness of her living room. The dusk projected long shadows on the walls, but she didn’t turn on the lights or close her curtains. She welcomed the nightfall in her home to match the gloom in her heart.

She’d kept the word given to herself and slept on her resolution, avoiding any rash decisions. A full day of anguish and pain had passed since she had her eye-opening conversation with Tom. Despite her sleeping on it, the decision remained the same. She had to regain control of her life and clean up her own mess. The decision felt right rationally; it was the logical thing to do, but broke her heart.

A rebel tear rolled on her cheek. She wiped it with the back of her hand, just as the doorbell rang.

“Yeah, come right in,” she said, not moving.

Steve walked through the door, a frown of concern replacing the smile on his face as soon as he took in the details of what he was seeing. He reached for the light switch on the wall, but she stopped him.

“Leave it off,” she said.

“All right,” he said in a pacifying tone. “You left your door unlocked again, and we—”

“Save it,” she cut him off bluntly. “Take a seat somewhere; this isn’t gonna take long.”

He seemed to turn pale, but she couldn’t be sure; it was quite dark in the room. He sat in the armchair across from her and remained silent, waiting.

She let the silence match the darkness for a while, thick, bothersome. When she spoke, her voice was broken and quiet, whispers hiding sobs that were pressing to come out.

“We have to part ways, Steve. We’re over.”

He jumped on his feet and came toward her. She raised her palm outward, stopping him.

“Don’t. Please. It’s hard enough as it is.”

“Then why do it, Alex? What’s wrong?”

“It was a mistake to mix our work with a relationship, an idiotic rookie mistake. We both knew better,” she articulated with difficulty. “We both knew there was no way this could end well, despite how we feel.”

“What happened?” Steve asked in a soft voice.

“You betrayed me, that’s what happened.”

The surprise on his face was genuine.

“What you see in my house,” she clarified, “when you come visit, is private. It’s mine and only mine. My secrets, that I chose to share with you, were mine and only mine, yet you chose to share them with others without my permission.”

“But it’s Tom we’re talking about,” Steve said, gently. “Tom only wants what’s best for you, and so do I. We’re all worried.”

“I need to be in control of my life, Steve,” she said, wiping another tear with the back of her hand. “Tom is also my boss, you’re forgetting that. You jeopardized my job, my existence.”

“Tom would never fire you—”

“It’s not about that, and yes, given enough reason, he would,” she interrupted. “He’s not running a daycare; he’s got a business to run. Maybe I’m too new at this, or maybe I don’t feel so confident anymore. In any case, I need to regain full control of my life.” She paused for a few seconds, closing her eyes. “And that means letting you go,” she whispered.

“Alex, I’m sorry, I promise I’ll ne—”

“It’s too late, Steve, I’m sorry. I fell in love with you and I made excuses; I rationalized how we’re not gonna be a cliché; not us, ’cause we’re so much better than everyone else is. We’re not gonna fall into the traps of doomed office relationships, not us. But we did, we did exactly that.”

His head hung, and he clasped his hands together, in an unspoken plea. She stifled another sob.

“After yesterday, I could never trust you again, not like before, and my heart would ache for that kind of trust, for that loss. I would have to lie to you, hide from you. It would slowly ruin our relationship, putting us through more pain than either of us can handle.”

He looked at her silently, unable to say a word, the sadness in his blue eyes speaking in his place.

“I’m sorry, Steve, I really am.” She wiped another tear with her sleeve, then said in an agonizing voice, “Please, go now.”

He approached her slowly and took her hand, holding it gently. She didn’t turn to look at him; she just continued to stare into the thickening darkness.

“There’s one thing that neither Tom nor I were going to tell you, but I think you should hear it anyway. This obsession you have with your elusive Russian terrorist, your stubbornness to accept that the case is closed, is who you are: dedicated, persistent, driven. The fact that saving a few lives and catching a few terrorists just isn’t good enough for you, well, that’s what makes you who you are. That’s what makes you great, what makes you special. That’s what makes you so damn good at what you do. But that’s also what could destroy you. And we just couldn’t sit idle and let it happen . . . we’re here for you. I’m here for you . . . always.”

He placed a gentle kiss on her hand, then let it go. She still didn’t look at him; she couldn’t.

He turned away and walked out, closing the door behind him silently, after releasing the auto lock on her deadbolt.

She heard his car start and pull away from her driveway. Soon thereafter came a deafening silence, the time for her to mourn her loss.