MIND FIELDS (18 page)

Chapter fifteen

Hank arrived home late from work.  With Richie out of the office, Hank had to carry a little more of the load.  Wearily, he dragged into his apartment, threw his coat on the sofa, and went into the kitchen to search his freezer for something to eat.  It was a typical bachelor’s freezer, packed with frozen dinners.  He grabbed the closest one and tossed it in the microwave, then went over to turn on his computer.

  “You have one new message,” greeted him as it powered up.

  “Better be from a girl, preferably one with long legs and a short skirt.”

  “Command invalid,” the computer replied.

  “Story of my life.  Computer, play message.”

  “The message is display only, no audio or video files sent.”

  “Right,” Hank sighed.  “Display message.”

  The e-mail from Richie came up on the screen. 

  “Level Two encryption?  On a home message?  What are you up to, partner?”

  “Command invalid.”    

  “I wasn’t speaking to you. Did you hear me say ‘computer?’  No.  I didn’t think so. God, I gotta get this thing fixed.”

  “Command invalid.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Computer, access office file system.  Employ decipher sequence ‘burrito man’ to new e-mail message.”

  “Working.”

  Hank pulled his dinner out of the microwave and grabbed a fork while the computer deciphered the message from Kincade.

  “Message decipher complete.”

  Hank read the message Richie had sent.  He jotted down the phone number Daisy had found, the one that was dialed from Anderson’s office at BNI shortly after Kincade’s abrupt departure.  He would need to access the department’s databank to run down the location the number corresponded to.  It would have to wait until tomorrow; there was no way he was going back into the office tonight. He stuck the paper with the phone number into his wallet and flipped on the TV.

__

The cool breezes of September blew through the walkway behind center field at Camden Yards and carried the scent of Old Bay-seasoned crab cakes toward the entrance to lure Orioles fans into the park.  The Birds were barely above .500 with just a couple of weeks left in the season, and hopelessly out of playoff contention, but the Red Sox were in town and the stands were filling up fast.

  Richard Kincade picked up his ticket at the Will-Call window, and walked through the turnstiles.  He stood by the archway just inside the entrance to the stadium and soaked in the atmosphere.  Richie didn’t attend many games, but one quick whiff of the air told him where the crab cake concession stand was located.  Hank Holiday was waiting for him when he arrived. 

  “Jeez, Richie, I said six-thirty.  It’s almost seven,” Hank said, keeping his hands tucked deep inside his jacket.  “I’m freezing my buns off, and the smell of these crab cakes is killing me.  I haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast.”

  Kincade raised an eyebrow.  In the twenty-three years they had been working together, Richie had never known Hank to skip lunch.

  “Well, almost nothing. C’mon, let’s grab something and get inside.”

  Hank waited in line for the crab cakes while Richie got a couple of tall cups of coffee.

  “Thanks, buddy.”  Hank was glad to hold the hot coffee cup that Richie handed him as they made their way to their seats.

  The seats were in the upper deck, in the middle of an already full row.  The two men worked their way in, stumbling across those who were too comfortable to get up out of their seats to let the latecomers pass.  Hank wasn’t as nimble as he used to be, and stepped on a few toes along the way.

  “Hey, watch it, buddy!”

  “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Down in front,” Richie heard someone yell as he struggled to get to his seat.

  He looked around, and seeing that they were up in the nosebleed section, turned to Hank and muttered, “In front of what?  Who’d you have to know to get these tickets?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” Hank said, motioning to Richie to sit down as they reached their seats. 

“So what’s up?”

  Hank put his food down.  Richie knew he was serious. 

  “Jeez, man.  What in the hell did you get your nose into?  Those suits who showed up at the office looking for you, they weren’t FBI.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“That’s a bad thing.  There’s worse things than the FBI, buddy.  Have you ever heard of a guy named James O’Grady?”

Kincade thought briefly.  “No.  Should I have?”

“Not likely.  Not many people have.  He likes it that way.”

“You’re talking in circles, Hank.  I hate when you talk in circles.”

“Gimme a second, and I’ll connect the dots.”

Hank felt a tap on the shoulder. Startled, he turned quickly, bumping the arm that was holding a cup of beer being passed down the isle.

“Shit,” the guy next to him muttered, looking at the small splash of beer on his pants.  “Watch it, dude.”

“Sorry.” Hank took the cup and passed it on down the row.  He checked his jacket for any signs of beer stains.

“Well, connect them … dude,”  Richie said wryly.

Hank brushed at a small spot on his coat, and then looked back up at his friend.  “Funny.  Real funny.”

“Thanks … dude.” Richie started to chuckle. 

“Right, funny guy.  Well, laugh about this.  I tracked down that number you forwarded to me yesterday.  It wasn’t easy.  Turns out it’s a restricted cell phone number.  It uses an international exchange, not a local provider.  You know how hard it is to lock down on a number that uses a private uplink system?”  He stared at Richie and paused for effect.

“Go on.”

“Damned hard.  Turns out the number belongs to a guy named James O’Grady.  I couldn’t dig up too much on him, but word is he’s NSA.”

  “NSA?”

“Not just NSA,
rank
NSA.  He’s in charge of covert ops technical development.  Those are some pretty big toes you stepped on, buddy.  Five’ll get you ten those feds who strong-armed the chief this morning were NSA.”

“What in the hell was Anderson doing calling the NSA?”

“Well, it’s not really all that surprising, is it?  BNI is on the leading edge of tech development, and O’Grady is the head of tech ops at the NSA.  Seems like a natural fit to me.”

“Maybe, but what would the NSA want with the kind of tech that BNI is involved in?  Biotech weapons are strictly taboo, you know that.”

“Yeah, well nobody knows too much about the NSA.  At least nobody is supposed to.  Judging from what went down though, I’d say somebody thinks you know too much.  What are you into, Richie?”

“Damned if I know.  I was just there to ask a few simple questions, background stuff on nanobots.  You know the routine.  I was just trying to understand the potential of the damned things.  I never actually believed that what Shelly Lange was insinuating was really possible, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to fish around a little.  Hell, even Doc Fletcher thought the idea was a bit off the deep end.”

  “You lost me, pal.  What in the hell did Shelly tell you the other day?”

  Richie proceeded to tell Hank the whole story, starting with the strange events that Shelly Lange had related to him about the four BNI employees, and her theory that BNI was somehow using the nanobots to control the minds of the unfortunate victims.  He detailed his encounter with JT Anderson at BNI, and then proceeded to tell Hank about Dr. Fletcher’s accusations of the theft of data from her lab, again pointing to BNI as the culprit.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, Hank.  I just can’t fit all the pieces together, not yet anyway, but it all has to be related somehow.”

  “You’ve been watching too much TV, buddy.  I mean, Shelly’s a bright girl and all, but she’s a strange bird.  Don’t get me wrong; she’s a great gal, lots of fun.  She’s bubbly, gorgeous, and she’s got legs that won’t quit, but if you pay too much attention to what comes out of her mouth, it ruins the package, if you know what I mean.  I guess that was my fault, I should have warned you about her.  I think she was just infecting you with her paranoia.”

  “Maybe so, but that doesn’t explain Dr. Fletcher. She doesn’t impress me as the flaky type … and that look on Anderson’s face when I surprised him at BNI … A CEO shouldn’t be so jumpy at his own office.  I mean, I was surprising him, yeah, but on his own turf.  He should have either blown me off or taken the offensive, but it was more like dealing with a kid who just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  Doesn’t sound like a shark with the reputation of a JT Anderson, now does it?”

  “Maybe not, Richie, but the chief looked pretty pissed when those agents came into the office looking for you.  Hell, you should just forget all this. Take advantage of the down time from work, even if it wasn’t your idea.  You should be on some beach somewhere with your wife, not sitting out here chilling your bones with me.  If you go after Anderson again, especially while you’re out on leave, he’ll fry you.  Don’t blow it when you’re so close to retirement, man.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t make a move without dragging you in there with me.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.  Besides, I can only do so much from home.  I may need you to do a little snooping around in the department files for me.  My computer is so old that Daisy can’t do too much from house.”

  “Daisy? How’d you …”

  “Don’t ask.  And don’t let anyone else know either.”

  “Shit,” Hank muttered.

  “What?”

  “Mueller grounded into a double play.”

  Richie had almost forgotten there was a game going on too.

__

James O’Grady excelled as an NSA agent from day one.  He loved espionage work, and was particularly fascinated with the new covert weapons systems that the technological revolution of the early twenty-first century had made possible.

In 2029, on his twenty-eighth birthday, he was approached by Bart Jackson, the director of the NSA.  Jackson had learned of the intensity of the young Irishman and had followed his career closely.  Once convinced of O’Grady’s absolute loyalty to his new nation of choice, he was sure that O’Grady was the perfect man to head up a new division at the NSA, the Covert Operations Technology Division (COTD).  Jackson recognized the torrid pace at which technology was advancing, and particularly how well the new technology lent itself to the development and implementation of new covert devices for espionage.  He also recognized that it would take a young man, someone who had grown up with the new technology, to understand its full potential.  O’Grady’s affinity for technology, along with his natural abilities as a law enforcement agent, made him the perfect choice.

O’Grady was even more proficient at the job than Bart Jackson had envisioned.  By his fifth year with the agency, he had become one of the most powerful men in the organization; technology was a wonderful thing for those who knew how to use it to their advantage.  O’Grady had infiltrated every level of the organization with his covert technology, which proved equally effective when directed inward at his colleagues as it was when directed, as originally intended, toward America’s enemies.  O’Grady never actually used the information he obtained on his coworkers against them, but just the threat of knowing that he could was enough to sway most fellow agents to his way of thinking. 

James O’Grady had a knack for capturing the loyalty of nearly every great scientific mind in the nation; it seemed that every technological advance was at his disposal before anyone else even knew it existed.  He was adroit at making sure that no one person ever knew the full extent of the technology he commanded, and the legends of what he could do with this technology grew to mythical proportions within the agency.  Everyone had tremendous respect for him, even if most of it was born out of fear.

Nothing seemed to shake the Irishman or veer him from the path to power that he seemed destined for.  Nothing, that is, until the news came to him of the fatal automobile accident that killed his sister Jenna and her husband, Jonathan McKnight, on a highway just outside Dublin.  Jenna was the last of his family in Ireland, and with her died the last thin thread of the genealogical ribbon that tied him to the old country.  He had tried to keep in touch with Jenna after she moved back to Ireland, but did not like being reminded that he was an immigrant in the country that he loved.  Each letter, each phone call he received, pulled him back to his past, and within a few years he no longer made the effort.

When the news came of Jenna’s death, James was surprised to learn that his sister had a young son named Trace.  In her will, his sister had named James as custodian for the boy.  James was taken aback when he learned of his unknown nephew and made every effort to find a foster home for the lad in Ireland, but his conscience eventually won out.  He felt a responsibility to raise the young man in accordance with his sister’s wishes, and to give him the same opportunity that James had given himself, the opportunity to be an American.

Jimmy O’Grady reluctantly made the trip to Ireland to pick up his nephew.  Strange feelings welled up inside him as he disembarked from the plane.  He felt at home, and yet felt a stranger at the same time.  O’Grady did not like feeling out of control.  He picked up Trace and then returned to the United States as quickly as possible. 

Trace Oliver McKnight arrived in Washington at the age of five aboard a military jet commissioned by his uncle, Agent James O’Grady.