got a shovel.
4
People often observed that Special Agent Martin Cundieffe bore an uncanny resemblance to the nerdy, bespectacled character actor Wally Cox, if Wally Cox had gone bald before age twenty-five. He looked like the kind of guy who never gets laid, who has no friends excepting other geeks on the Internet, and who still lives with his parents. All of which was true, and all of which made Cundieffe the kind of FBI agent Hoover would've been proud to have in his service. Cundieffe never tired of being treated like a naive weakling, because he never tired of being underestimated. It opened doors that stayed closed to those who looked like they knew what they were doing. Opening doors, learning secrets, made Martin Cundieffe tingle. It was all he knew or needed of physical pleasure.
Right now, as he was passing through the third of five checkpoints in the nearly deserted corridors of the Federal Building in Los Angeles, on his way to an emergency briefing with officers of the Navy at five in the morning, he felt an especially strong tingle that zapped through his mind, undiminished by the hour, let alone by his section chief's order that he sit in on the meeting, and do nothing else. Deputy Assistant Director Wyler, head of the counterterrorism section, at least did not underestimate Martin. Lane Hunt, the special agent in charge of the LA field office's counterterrorism squad, was in Riverside, following up on a bank robbery by Aryan militiamen, but Wyler had asked for him, Martin Cundieffe, the unit's resident bookworm.
In the half-hour since he'd received the call to go in, he'd compiled a file of all recent suspected anti-government activity in the western United States, cross-referenced by military service, as per Wyler's instructions. It wasn't as complete or as updated as Martin would've liked—he'd simply printed out the thirty-six dossiers he'd had activity on in the last six months—but it would more than suffice for scaring the Navy brass out of their shorts, if that was what they wanted.
Cundieffe reached the fourth checkpoint and presented his photobadge. A guard in dress blues took it, scanned it through a reader and held it up to his face like a bar bouncer. Cundieffe obligingly smiled the lopsided, squinty grin that matched the photo and was rewarded with a wave-through.
Although he'd never had occasion to deal directly with the Navy himself, Cundieffe could read sailors as well as he could anyone else, which was extremely well. These checkpoints were more cobbled together than his report; this sudden case of paranoia, on top of the emergency meeting itself, painted a picture of a fat old man waking in the night on his soft mattress in his big bed in his sprawling mansion, convulsing with terror at finding its veil of security penetrated—and something missing. Cundieffe had a good idea of what he'd be hearing this morning by the time he reached the fifth checkpoint, where he presented the sealed envelope delivered by special courier four minutes after the call. The secrecy agreement within it was more Byzantine by half than anything he'd seen before, and the ink on it smeared under his hand. He'd found five glaring typos just glancing at it.
When he saw who else was waiting at the door to the briefing room, it snapped into place. Ted Atherton, the Assistant Deputy Director of Investigations leaned against the door frame, sharing a whispered joke with Wyler. Behind them stood an irritable-looking man whose ID tag marked him as CIA. A craggy older man with a silver beard and a black military uniform regarded him with biblical contempt, and scowled blackly at Cundieffe's hapless grin. Cundieffe fell in behind this last man after wordlessly passing a copy of his report to his boss. One by one, they passed the Marine at the door.
He was even more stunned by who wasn't here. Over two-thirds of the seats in the briefing room were empty. The Special Agent in Charge of LA was absent,
4
People often observed that Special Agent Martin Cundieffe bore an uncanny resemblance to the nerdy, bespectacled character actor Wally Cox, if Wally Cox had gone bald before age twenty-five. He looked like the kind of guy who never gets laid, who has no friends excepting other geeks on the Internet, and who still lives with his parents. All of which was true, and all of which made Cundieffe the kind of FBI agent Hoover would've been proud to have in his service. Cundieffe never tired of being treated like a naive weakling, because he never tired of being underestimated. It opened doors that stayed closed to those who looked like they knew what they were doing. Opening doors, learning secrets, made Martin Cundieffe tingle. It was all he knew or needed of physical pleasure.
Right now, as he was passing through the third of five checkpoints in the nearly deserted corridors of the Federal Building in Los Angeles, on his way to an emergency briefing with officers of the Navy at five in the morning, he felt an especially strong tingle that zapped through his mind, undiminished by the hour, let alone by his section chief's order that he sit in on the meeting, and do nothing else. Deputy Assistant Director Wyler, head of the counterterrorism section, at least did not underestimate Martin. Lane Hunt, the special agent in charge of the LA field office's counterterrorism squad, was in Riverside, following up on a bank robbery by Aryan militiamen, but Wyler had asked for him, Martin Cundieffe, the unit's resident bookworm.
In the half-hour since he'd received the call to go in, he'd compiled a file of all recent suspected anti-government activity in the western United States, cross-referenced by military service, as per Wyler's instructions. It wasn't as complete or as updated as Martin would've liked—he'd simply printed out the thirty-six dossiers he'd had activity on in the last six months—but it would more than suffice for scaring the Navy brass out of their shorts, if that was what they wanted.
Cundieffe reached the fourth checkpoint and presented his photobadge. A guard in dress blues took it, scanned it through a reader and held it up to his face like a bar bouncer. Cundieffe obligingly smiled the lopsided, squinty grin that matched the photo and was rewarded with a wave-through.
Although he'd never had occasion to deal directly with the Navy himself, Cundieffe could read sailors as well as he could anyone else, which was extremely well. These checkpoints were more cobbled together than his report; this sudden case of paranoia, on top of the emergency meeting itself, painted a picture of a fat old man waking in the night on his soft mattress in his big bed in his sprawling mansion, convulsing with terror at finding its veil of security penetrated—and something missing. Cundieffe had a good idea of what he'd be hearing this morning by the time he reached the fifth checkpoint, where he presented the sealed envelope delivered by special courier four minutes after the call. The secrecy agreement within it was more Byzantine by half than anything he'd seen before, and the ink on it smeared under his hand. He'd found five glaring typos just glancing at it.
When he saw who else was waiting at the door to the briefing room, it snapped into place. Ted Atherton, the Assistant Deputy Director of Investigations leaned against the door frame, sharing a whispered joke with Wyler. Behind them stood an irritable-looking man whose ID tag marked him as CIA. A craggy older man with a silver beard and a black military uniform regarded him with biblical contempt, and scowled blackly at Cundieffe's hapless grin. Cundieffe fell in behind this last man after wordlessly passing a copy of his report to his boss. One by one, they passed the Marine at the door.
He was even more stunned by who wasn't here. Over two-thirds of the seats in the briefing room were empty. The Special Agent in Charge of LA was absent,
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