The Shadow Protocol (58 page)

“How?”

“I don’t know yet.” A cold smile. “But he does.”

The answer was already in his mind. All he had to do to find it was think.
What is Gordon Harper’s worst fear? How can he be exposed?

Harper knew. And now, despite his persona’s attempts to deny him, Adam did too.

He sat in silence for a long moment, absorbing the flood of information and images and feelings. A name and face jumped out: Alan Sternberg, the national security adviser. A rival—and a threat. The nightmare scenario for Harper was Sternberg discovering the truth about the events in Pakistan. There would be no bargaining, no deals, no quiet cover-ups. Sternberg would destroy him without hesitation if he ever had the opportunity.

Was there a way to give him that opportunity?

Yes
.

Adam felt Harper rage in protest inside him, but he pushed the DNI’s fury down and started the car. “Where are we going?” Bianca asked.

He smiled. “A hardware store.”

She was surprised. “Why?”

The smile widened. “To solve Levon’s puzzle.”

“Sir,” said one of the Secret Service agents, listening to a message through his earpiece. “A Mr. Baxter just arrived. He says you asked to see him.”

“Let him in,” Harper ordered. He irritably waved away another agent still fussing about him. The cut on his forehead had been bandaged and he had been given some painkillers, but refused to take them, wanting to keep his mind sharp.

Gray knew everything he did. That meant Gray also knew how to expose him. Even though he had done what he did solely to protect America’s interests, he knew that the sniveling left-wing parasites infesting Washington would not accept that as justification. If they learned about it, they would twist it in the media to bring him down in a howling witch hunt of a kind not seen since the trial of Oliver North. He would be accused of treason; every past decision second-guessed, every black operation under his watch dragged into the light. A disaster for American intelligence—no, a disaster for
America
.

As a patriot, he would do whatever it took to stop that from happening.

At the back of his mind for the past ten months had been the concern that something might emerge that could destroy him. The risk was minimal—he had taken every possible precaution, from the deletion of incriminating files at the small end of the scale all the way up to Gray’s mind-wipe and the elimination of his CIA contact in Islamabad. But there were some things that even the director of national intelligence could not simply erase from the record.

One of those was foremost in his thoughts right now—which meant, he was sure, that it was also foremost in Gray’s. It would not be easy for the rogue agent to obtain. He had seen the facility for himself; security through obscurity was backed up by security through physical barriers—and beyond them, physical force. But if anyone could do it …

“Admiral!” A familiar voice caught his attention. He looked around, seeing Baxter hurrying into the kitchen. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes,” Harper replied with irritation. He addressed
the Secret Service agents. “All right! The situation’s under control. Go back to your duties.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the first agent asked. “If there’s been a security breach, we should—”

“You’ve got your orders, Agent,” he snapped. “Is my car here yet?” After summoning Baxter, he had called back his chauffeur.

“Yes, sir. It just got here.”

“Good. Take its driver to wherever he needs to be. Mr. Baxter will handle everything from now on.”

The agents were clearly unhappy about surrendering authority, but had little choice except to follow his orders. They filed out.

Baxter regarded the PERSONA equipment with grim dismay. “Did Gray use the machine on you?”

“I don’t know—I don’t remember,” Harper replied. “Which means I have to assume that he
did
, and then wiped my memory.”

“Son of a bitch,” the former marine muttered. He went to the table, staring at the gear upon it … then with a snarl threw the PERSONA device to the hard floor. The screen broke loose and skittered across the tiles. He was about to do the same to the recorder unit—then his eyes widened as he saw what was inside. “Sir—Gray’s disk! It’s still in the recorder.” He pulled out the memory module and held it up.

“Why would he leave it behind?” Harper wondered, before the answer came to him. Of course—as soon as Gray had been imprinted with his memories, he knew that the secondary alarm hadn’t been deactivated and had to make a hurried departure before the Secret Service arrived. So he had been forced to abandon something vital … “Destroy it.” Baxter gave him a look of puzzlement. “Smash it! Now!”

Baxter dropped the disk to the floor and stamped on it, grinding it under his heel. The plastic shell cracked and split, exposing densely packed microcircuitry. Another blow and it broke in half, silicon splinters scattering.

Harper regarded the destruction, satisfied. “There are only two pieces of evidence against me, and that was one of them. As for the other one … come on. We need to get to Suitland.”

He marched for the door, Baxter hurrying to catch up. “Why?”

“Because,” said Harper, grim-faced, “there’s a federal secure data storage facility there. It’s the only place Gray can get proof about what happened in Pakistan.”

Shock crossed Baxter’s craggy face. “You told me all the files had been destroyed!”

“They have. But there’s something that’s impossible to delete—the activity logs.” Seeing Baxter’s blank look, he explained: “Every time a file is created, accessed, edited, or deleted on the USIC network, the system notes it in a log—along with the identity of the person who did it, and the terminal they used. It’s a security measure: If the same login is used in two different locations at the same time, say, the computer raises an alarm.”

“So how does that prove anything?”

“Because,” growled Harper, “it shows that I personally accessed and altered the file that was given to Gray to pass on to al-Qaeda—Easton’s itinerary.”

They exited the house. Baxter’s black Suburban was parked nearby, blue lights flashing. Behind it was the empty Cadillac. “But the actual file was deleted, wasn’t it?” said Baxter.

“It doesn’t matter. The logs establish a chain of contact between me and Gray immediately prior to his mission in Islamabad. If Gray gets hold of them and passes them on to the wrong person, we’re finished. Even without the files, the logs provide enough evidence to start an investigation. And there are plenty of hard-nosed little bastards who’ve been waiting for the chance to attack me.”

“People like Sternberg?”

“He’s top of the list, yes.” Harper spotted someone in the SUV. “Who’s your driver?”

“Reed.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“You can trust all my men, sir.”

“Good. You drive my car, and tell him to clear the way for us. Oh, and I need a phone.” Baxter went to the Suburban and issued instructions, returning with Reed’s cell phone and giving it to Harper. The two men got into the Cadillac, the DNI taking the backseat. The vehicles set off. “Are your teams still in the field?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get them there too. I want Gray and Childs dead before the cops or anyone else get involved.”

“On it.” Baxter took out his phone, and was about to dial a number when it rang. He answered it. “Baxter. Yes? Okay, hold on. The admiral’s here with me.” He put it on speaker. “Sir, you should hear this.”

“We got a hit on Dr. Childs’s credit card,” said the man at the other end of the line. “It was used at a hardware superstore in Brentwood.”

“How long ago?” Harper demanded. Brentwood was in eastern DC, some five miles northwest of Suitland. If Gray was going there, he had a considerable head start.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Why wasn’t I told immediately?” asked Baxter.

“You ordered us to get a list of anything Dr. Childs or Agent Gray bought. The manager was uncooperative and wouldn’t give it to us without a warrant. We had to wait for an FISC judge to issue one.”

“Well?” said Harper impatiently. “What did they buy?”

“I’ve got the list here, sir. It’s, uh … odd.”

“Just read it out!”

“Yes, sir. The card was used to buy a compressed air cylinder, a pressure relief valve, an inner tube, a six-foot length of PVC pipe, a hundred feet of rope, a light fitting, five pounds of lead shot, some air hose, a bicycle pump, a roll of duct tape, and, ah … two footballs.”

Harper and Baxter exchanged bewildered looks in the mirror. “Footballs?” the latter asked.

“Yes, sir. American footballs, not soccer.”

“Okay,” said Harper in acknowledgment. “If there’s any further activity on their cards, inform us immediately.”

“Footballs?”
echoed Baxter as he closed the line. “What the hell do they want with two footballs?”

SUITLAND, MARYLAND, UNITED STATES

Adam surveyed the large, windowless building from the rooftop of its darkened neighbor. The blocky structure’s sole relief from anonymity was an unassuming plaque reading
WALTER J. GORMAN FEDERAL DATA REPOSITORY
; beyond that, the only signage consisted of warnings against trespass. The presence of a US government facility here would draw no comment—the town of Suitland, a short distance outside the southeastern boundary of the District of Columbia, was home to several minor agencies including the Census Bureau, and not far from the sprawling Andrews Air Force Base.

Even by bureaucratic standards, he knew, the Gorman Building was dull. It was in essence a glorified digital box-room, one of several around the country built to store tape and disk backups of the gigabytes of information churned out by the American governmental machine every day. Most of the data it contained was humdrum, barely of interest even to the people who created it.

But one file had now become extremely important.

“So how are we supposed to get in there?” said Bianca. A high fence topped with razor wire surrounded the entire site. She put down a bag containing some of the items the pair had bought. “And what does Levon’s puzzle have to do with anything?”

“You’ll see,” Adam replied, making mental calculations.
The gap between the two rooftops was about sixty feet over the Gorman Building’s parking lot, but he needed something secure on the far side …

There was a cluster of boxy air-conditioning units set back from the roof’s edge. He squinted, trying to make out more detail in the low spill of light from the street-lamps. Lines of shadow became visible: a slatted grille covering an air inlet.

“Pass me the duct tape,” he said, picking up the yellow plastic pipe and propping it on his rooftop’s A/C ductwork. As Bianca opened the bag, he lined the pipe up with the distant grille. Harper had many years earlier served as a gunnery officer aboard a destroyer; Adam now used that experience to bolster his own military training. It was a straightforward matter of judging distance and angles of arc to hit the target—the complicating factor was the nature of his “gun.”

Bianca watched as he set to work, securing the pipe in position with the strong adhesive binding before starting to connect together the cylinder of compressed air, the deflated inner tube, and the valve with lengths of hose and more tape. “Oh, I get it!” she exclaimed as the purpose of the random assemblage suddenly became clear. “You’re making a sort of air cannon.”

“That’s right. It fills the inner tube with compressed air from the tank. Then when it reaches a certain pressure, the relief valve”—he tapped the brass device—“blows and lets it all out in one go.”

“Firing the footballs?”

“Yeah. I’ll put the lead shot in them to give them some weight, then use the pump to inflate them just enough to fill the pipe without sticking in it. Then I attach the rope and the grappling hook.”

“The
hideous
grappling hook,” said Bianca, eyeing the ornate three-armed chandelier. “Will it be strong enough?”

“It’ll do what I need it to do,” he assured her. “When
the pressure valve opens, it’ll shoot the ball across to the other roof, and pull the rope with it.”

“Then you climb across to the roof?”

“I climb across, yeah.” His oddly smug smile told her that there was more to his plan than he was going to tell her for now. “Go back to the car. We’ll need to move fast.”

“Do you know what you’re looking for inside?”

“More or less. There’s a WORM disk—”

“A what?”

“WORM—Write Once, Read Many. Like a bigger and more durable recordable CD. It’s got the logs that prove Harper switched the fake itinerary for the real one.”

Bianca looked across at the Gorman Building. “When you say ‘more or less’ … does that mean you don’t know exactly where it is? How many disks do they have in there?”

“A couple of million.” Her face fell. “Don’t worry—Harper knows how to get it.”

“I hope they haven’t changed the filing system,” she said. “Okay, I’ll be in the car. How long will you be?”

“I don’t know. Keep watch—you’ll know what to do when you see me.” He turned back to his improvised cannon as Bianca reluctantly headed for the ladder.