Terminal Justice (31 page)

Now he had no wife to impugn his lawn-watering meditations. He could stand on the concrete walk all night and listen to the magnificent orchestration of water whistling out of a plastic nozzle. This evening the water music was especially endearing and was carrying his mind away to a peaceful place. He understood the power of being alone on an early October night.

The sound of a car door slamming jarred him back to awareness. He directed his attention to a dark, nondescript sedan parked at the curb in front of his house. A man—young, relatively short but solidly built, with a thick dark mustache—stood by the driver’s door. He wore an expensive looking dark blue suit, a sharply pressed white shirt, and a red “power” tie. A woman exited from the passenger side. She was dressed in a fashionable gray pinstriped suit and had brown shoulder-length hair and a very pleasant face. She carried a small black purse slung over her shoulder. The man looked at David for a long moment, studying him as if he could pull thoughts right from David’s brain and suck them in through his eyes. A moment later the man smiled and gave a small wave. The two approached, being careful to remain on the walk and not step on the wet grass.

“Can I help you?” David asked, hoping that the yuppie-looking couple were neither Jehovah’s Witnesses nor one of those Amway couples.

“Mr. O’Neal?” the man asked. “Dr. David O’Neal?”

“I’m David O’Neal,” he replied, suddenly aware that the two people walking toward him had nothing to do with cultic evangelism or soap. They had a special bearing about them that revealed an inbred pride that came from professional training.
Which area of the government are they from? Police detectives? IRS?
David thought it interesting that he felt a stronger apprehension of the latter over the former.

“Great,” the man said. Reaching inside his coat, the man removed a small leather case, opened it, and displayed an identification card. “I’m Special Agent Woody Sullivan of the FBI and this is—”

“Stephanie Cooper,” the attractive woman interrupted. “I’m with … another agency.”

“FBI?” David exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No sir,” Woody assured him quickly. “Federal Bureau of Investigation. But don’t worry; you’re not in trouble.”

“All the same,” David said seriously, “something must be up to bring you out here.”

Woody glanced at Stephanie then back to David. “Could we talk inside, sir? I think you can help us with a rather touchy matter.”

“Me? How?”

“Inside would be better,” Woody insisted.

“Certainly.” David quickly cranked the nozzle off and put the hose away. “Come in,” he said, shaking the water from his hands. Inside, he motioned to the couch, and his guests sat down. He offered them coffee, which they accepted. David disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a few moments later with a pot and three ceramic mugs. “I started the pot about half an hour ago, so it should be fresh. I brought some sweetener and milk if you want it.” David took a seat in the lounge chair next to the sofa.

“Thank you,” Woody said. “I hope we haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”

“No, not at all.”

“Good,” Woody replied with a smile. He sipped his coffee. “This is very good. This isn’t your basic store brand, is it?”

David understood immediately what the agent was doing. He was attempting to establish common ground by chatting amicably about a shared interest.

“It’s a new brand I’m trying,” David said, playing his part. “The beans are from Central Africa. I bought them at a local coffee
shop.” Before Woody could reply with another question, David interjected, “But I don’t think you’re all that interested in coffee. What can I do for you?”

“Right to the point, eh? I like that.” Woody put his cup down. “All right then, let’s get to it. I, that is, we need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes. From time to time law-enforcement agencies enlist the help of private citizens in the investigation of certain crimes. Sometimes those citizens have information that is helpful or they are somehow related to an investigation. We believe that about you.”

“You want my help in solving a crime?” David leaned back in his chair and slowly took a sip of his coffee. Something wasn’t right here, but he didn’t know what. The two people appeared sincere, but it was too early to tell. “I really should have done this before, but could I have a closer look at your identification?”

“Certainly,” Woody said. “Take all the time you need.” David took the leather folder and studied the picture-identification card. It looked authentic, but David wouldn’t have been able to recognize a forgery anyway. He was buying time, attempting to learn as much as he could while simultaneously gathering his wits. A moment later he handed the ID back.

“Ms. Cooper?” David looked at her and waited. She seemed fidgety at first, reluctant to comply yet unwilling to refuse. She reached into the small purse and removed a similar folder. David felt the blood drain from his face. It was one thing to have the FBI sitting on your couch, a big thing, but to have the CIA in your living room smacked too much of the Cold-War spy movies that Hollywood had been so fond of producing in the seventies.

“Unreal!” David said with a nervous chortle. “Tell me you’re joking.”

Stephanie smiled sweetly. “I’m not joking. The identification is real, and so am I.”

“But the CIA!” David struggled to believe what his eyes were telling him. “What … I mean who … that is, how …” He took
a deep breath. “Let’s start from the beginning. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here and how it is you think I can help you.”

“Fair enough,” Woody replied lightly. “We’ve been working on a case that has at its heart our nation’s interest and our nation’s security. I know that sounds a little hackneyed, but it’s true. What I’m about to tell you should remain confidential. Since you are a former minister, I feel that you understand the importance of things spoken in confidence. Is that true?”

“I’ve kept my share of secrets,” David acknowledged, wondering how they knew he was a minister.

“I take it, then, that we can count on your understanding and confidence.”

David made no commitment and said, “I’ll keep your confidence unless I feel that to do so violates my conscience.”

“Let me cut to the quick of the matter. Someone has been electronically breaking into a certain computer system in the CIA and taking classified material. Their approach is efficient and effectively elusive. We haven’t been able to catch them in the act or get a fix on the perpetrator, but we have been able to narrow our suspicions to one primary suspect.”

David began shaking his head. “I know only the basics of computers. I can use a word processor, make my way around a decent database, but that’s where it ends.”

“We don’t suspect you,” Stephanie said. “We suspect someone you know.”

“Who?” David asked pointedly. “I don’t know anyone who could do such a thing.”

“Very few criminals,” Woody said, “especially criminals involved in technical crimes, tell their acquaintances what they’ve been up to. You definitely know him, and know him well.” Woody paused to judge David’s response, but David sat still, his eyes fixed on the FBI man. “You recently went to work for Barringston Relief, is that correct?”

“It is, as you know,” David replied cautiously.

“Barringston Relief is a large organization, and one that makes extensive use of technology.” David immediately thought of the research labs and the advanced satellite communications. “We know that some of the top computer systems people in the country work for Barringston Relief, including Eileen Corbin and Raymond Reynolds. Are you aware of these people?”

“If by
aware
you mean have I met them, the answer is yes,” David commented evenly. “I met Mr. Reynolds when I first went to work. He set up the computer in my office and gave me a brief introduction to the network. I met Eileen Corbin at a fund-raising dinner. That’s all I know. I’ve never spent any time with them or had any discussion with them. In fact, I’ve never been in their offices.”

“That’s fine,” Woody said, picking up his coffee mug and sipping the dark liquid. “We didn’t think you had. To be perfectly honest, we’re more interested in Mr. Barringston himself.”

“A.J.?”

“Yes, A.J.”

David furrowed his brow in genuine confusion. Why would they be interested in A.J.? “Let me get this right,” David said, raising his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. He spoke in measured tones. “You think that A.J. Barringston is somehow connected with the computer piracy of CIA files. Is that what you’re implying?”

“Exactly,” Woody replied.

Leaning back in his chair, David looked at his uninvited guests. He studied their faces as they studied his. One thing was clear. They genuinely believed what they were saying. It was then that David surprised both his guests and himself—he began to laugh. Not a snicker or chortle, but an unrestrained guffaw that repeated itself in loud repeating peals that rebounded off the walls of the living room.

Stephanie Cooper was aghast. “This is a serious matter, Dr. O’Neal. We’re speaking of matters of national security.”

David peered through tear-filled eyes at the somber woman in the business suit. Her distress made him laugh all the more. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes, “but the idea is so … so ludicrous, so out of character for A.J. that I can’t help myself.”

Woody leaned forward on the couch, staring at David in a manner that left no doubt about his current emotional state, and said in a tone a full octave lower than his normal speaking voice, and with a timbre dripping in intensity. “Dr. O’Neal, this is no joke, and we are no fools. This is not an assertion we make without reason. If you think you can gather yourself long enough to extend the courtesy of listening, then you will better understand our point.”

“No,” David snapped, his laughter relinquishing its position to a new and just as surprising emotion—anger. “No sir, I don’t think so. How dare you speak to me in that tone. I don’t know what you think you know, but I know a great deal. I know that A.J. is my friend, not just my employer. I know that I have observed this man’s compassion, a compassion that surpasses any I’ve ever seen. I’ve traveled with him through some of the harshest terrain in the world and have watched him gladly endure hardship and the ugly face of mortality. I’ve seen him hold starving infants so thin and emaciated that they were glass fragile. I’ve seen him weep over the pain he’s seen. No sir, you can’t waltz in here and pretend to tell me about A.J. and imply some impropriety on his part. I’ll have none of it. Do you hear? None of it!”

Silence flooded the room, filling the space with tension and suspicion. Stephanie broke the spell. “Dr. O’Neal, your loyalty is commendable. Most of the people we are forced to work with have no understanding of that concept. It’s a pleasure to meet someone who values friendship. But I believe you have more going for you than loyalty. I think you’re a man who knows how to weigh information given him. I want to give you the opportunity to do just that—to weigh the information. We came here for your help. It’s possible that we are way off base, but there’s a good chance that
we’re not. And since this is a matter of national security, then I would think that a man of your intellectual caliber and loyalty would at least invest a little time in listening to our point of view.”

David sat silently considering her words. He was overreacting and he knew it. Both the laughter and subsequent anger surprised him, shocked him with their intensity and abruptness. And there was a national interest to consider. What if these two strangers were right? What if there was something untoward happening at Barringston Relief? Certainly A.J. wasn’t involved, but that didn’t mean that some employee hadn’t found some rationalization for using the company’s computers to access the CIA. He had always considered himself a rational man who purposely eschewed useless displays of emotion and opted for a reasoned approach. He wasn’t always successful, as in this outburst, but he always returned to the pragmatic course.

“Okay,” David said quietly. “I apologize for my reaction. I’m listening.”

Both Stephanie and Woody relaxed and leaned back on the couch. Stephanie took the lead. “There have been several successful attempts to download files from one of our, that is, the CIA computers. I can’t give you all of the details or explain how the individual circumvented our security systems. Those details aren’t important to our discussion anyway.” David wondered if she was concealing information or just flat didn’t know how the break-in was achieved. “The files that were stolen were unique. In fact, it was their peculiarity that first made us think of Barringston Relief. You see, what was stolen were surveillance photos of East Africa, Somalia in particular. You just got back from Africa, didn’t you, Dr. O’Neal?”

“Yes,” he responded, wondering how they knew that and what else they might know about him. “But not Somalia. We had planned to go there, but we spent all of our time in Ethiopia. None of us, including A.J., went into Somalia.”

“We’re not saying that he did,” Stephanie continued. “The
point I’m trying to make is this: Why would anyone steal satellite photos of Somalia, unless they had some vested interest in the country?”

“I couldn’t say,” David replied. “The world’s a big place and filled with people who might find the area interesting.”

“Doesn’t Barringston Relief have employees in Somalia?”

David nodded, “Yes, and in Ethiopia, Sudan, Tanzania, and nearly every other famine-stricken country, including those outside of Africa.”

“Isn’t it true that one of your field workers, a Dr. Judith Rhodes, was killed in Somalia?” Stephanie inquired.

“Yes. That information was on the news some months back. It’s common knowledge.”

“Do you know a man named Roger Walczynske?”

The sudden change in direction shocked David. Suddenly his mind was filled with the image of the cool Ethiopian night as he, A.J., and the others sat around a gas lantern discussing the day’s events. He recalled how Wu and Raines had shown up in camp with a man introduced as Roger.