CIA. This was a domestic event. The
FBI’s domain.
But for
the work these scientists did.
It was
their work that had raised red flags for him when he was reading the stack of
newspapers he analyzed daily. For that was his life. Day in and day out, to
read. Newspapers from around the world, Echelon intercepts for keyword
combinations he had created, blogs, websites—if it had words, he read it. Then
there were the videos, the audio recordings. It never ended.
It was
exhausting.
And he
wouldn’t change a thing.
A
girlfriend might be nice.
He
leaned back in his chair and peeked to see if Sherrie White was still at her
desk.
Nope!
She was
a hot little number he had had his eye on since she arrived a couple of months
ago. Eventually he’d wire up the courage to ask her out for coffee. Even down
to the cafeteria for a coffee and a muffin. He always saw her coming back with
other coworkers. Sometimes as a group, sometimes one on one. And every time it
was a guy, he found his chest tighten in jealousy.
She’s
waaay out of your league.
He
frowned and patted his stomach. It was flat. It wasn’t a six pack, but he kept
in shape. He had always dreamed of being a field agent, but unfortunately it
probably wasn’t in the cards. He was too valuable as an analyst, and he wasn’t
sure he had the balls for it.
He took
a whiff of his pits and winced. No wonder you’re single. He had to start
bringing a change of clothes to work and showering downstairs if he was going
to keep up these all-nighters. He looked at his watch, then opened up one last
Echelon intercept.
His
eyebrows shot up when he saw who the conversation was with, the caller
identified as “Jason”, most likely “Peterson, Jason”, but the receiver
positively identified as his mother, “Peterson, Kathleen”.
“Hi,
Mom, it’s me.”
He
scanned the rest of the message, printed it off, then raced to his boss’
office, praying he was still here. He rounded the corner and found the aide’s
desk abandoned for the day, but inside the closed office, a light still glowed
under the door.
He
knocked.
“Enter!”
Leroux
sighed in relief, then pushed open the door, poking his head inside.
“Sir,
got a minute?”
Leif
Morrison, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, waved him in.
“What
are you still doing here?” the greying but fit man asked, leaning back in his
chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his fingertips.
“You
know me, sir,” said Leroux, shrugging, “just going through some intercepts.”
“And I
assume since you’re gracing me with your presence, you found something?”
Leroux
nodded and handed over the Echelon intercept. Morrison scanned it then pushed
it back.
“What am
I looking at?”
“Remember
the three scientists who drowned fishing last week?”
Morrison
nodded.
“Well,
I’ve been trying to find out what really happened.”
“After I
specifically told you not to.”
Leroux
paused, trying to recall if the wording of the order might save him.
“Never
mind, go on,” said Morrison.
Leroux
resumed. “This”—he shook the paper—“is the first proof we have that one of them
is still alive.”
“Send it
to the FBI. Let them deal with it.”
“But,
sir, the source of the call is foreign.”
“Which
is why we have INTERPOL.”
Leroux
could feel the argument slipping away. “But, sir, I’m sure there’s more to
this. The wife—”
Morrison
made a motion with his hand, cutting off the conversation, and apparently
Leroux’s throat.
“FBI is
handling the case. Send it to them. If they need our help, they’ll ask for it.
I don’t want any jurisdictional bullshit on this, I’m sorry. Things are way too
delicate right now for rogue analysts to be spying on our own citizens as part
of some unauthorized op.” He leaned forward. “Are we clear?”
Leroux
nodded, his chest tight, his stomach in butterflies. He couldn’t recall ever
being chewed out by the boss—this one or any
FBI’s domain.
But for
the work these scientists did.
It was
their work that had raised red flags for him when he was reading the stack of
newspapers he analyzed daily. For that was his life. Day in and day out, to
read. Newspapers from around the world, Echelon intercepts for keyword
combinations he had created, blogs, websites—if it had words, he read it. Then
there were the videos, the audio recordings. It never ended.
It was
exhausting.
And he
wouldn’t change a thing.
A
girlfriend might be nice.
He
leaned back in his chair and peeked to see if Sherrie White was still at her
desk.
Nope!
She was
a hot little number he had had his eye on since she arrived a couple of months
ago. Eventually he’d wire up the courage to ask her out for coffee. Even down
to the cafeteria for a coffee and a muffin. He always saw her coming back with
other coworkers. Sometimes as a group, sometimes one on one. And every time it
was a guy, he found his chest tighten in jealousy.
She’s
waaay out of your league.
He
frowned and patted his stomach. It was flat. It wasn’t a six pack, but he kept
in shape. He had always dreamed of being a field agent, but unfortunately it
probably wasn’t in the cards. He was too valuable as an analyst, and he wasn’t
sure he had the balls for it.
He took
a whiff of his pits and winced. No wonder you’re single. He had to start
bringing a change of clothes to work and showering downstairs if he was going
to keep up these all-nighters. He looked at his watch, then opened up one last
Echelon intercept.
His
eyebrows shot up when he saw who the conversation was with, the caller
identified as “Jason”, most likely “Peterson, Jason”, but the receiver
positively identified as his mother, “Peterson, Kathleen”.
“Hi,
Mom, it’s me.”
He
scanned the rest of the message, printed it off, then raced to his boss’
office, praying he was still here. He rounded the corner and found the aide’s
desk abandoned for the day, but inside the closed office, a light still glowed
under the door.
He
knocked.
“Enter!”
Leroux
sighed in relief, then pushed open the door, poking his head inside.
“Sir,
got a minute?”
Leif
Morrison, National Clandestine Service Chief for the CIA, waved him in.
“What
are you still doing here?” the greying but fit man asked, leaning back in his
chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on his fingertips.
“You
know me, sir,” said Leroux, shrugging, “just going through some intercepts.”
“And I
assume since you’re gracing me with your presence, you found something?”
Leroux
nodded and handed over the Echelon intercept. Morrison scanned it then pushed
it back.
“What am
I looking at?”
“Remember
the three scientists who drowned fishing last week?”
Morrison
nodded.
“Well,
I’ve been trying to find out what really happened.”
“After I
specifically told you not to.”
Leroux
paused, trying to recall if the wording of the order might save him.
“Never
mind, go on,” said Morrison.
Leroux
resumed. “This”—he shook the paper—“is the first proof we have that one of them
is still alive.”
“Send it
to the FBI. Let them deal with it.”
“But,
sir, the source of the call is foreign.”
“Which
is why we have INTERPOL.”
Leroux
could feel the argument slipping away. “But, sir, I’m sure there’s more to
this. The wife—”
Morrison
made a motion with his hand, cutting off the conversation, and apparently
Leroux’s throat.
“FBI is
handling the case. Send it to them. If they need our help, they’ll ask for it.
I don’t want any jurisdictional bullshit on this, I’m sorry. Things are way too
delicate right now for rogue analysts to be spying on our own citizens as part
of some unauthorized op.” He leaned forward. “Are we clear?”
Leroux
nodded, his chest tight, his stomach in butterflies. He couldn’t recall ever
being chewed out by the boss—this one or any
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