CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Billups”
Tuesday evening and Wednesday morning.
The Canadians had delivered him to a U.S. “aid mission” in Zejtun from where he was airlifted to an aircraft carrier and from there to Ramstein where he was debriefed. A team of psychiatrists observed him, much as psychiatrists were now observing Stella’s client Lester Durant, the Below the Beltline Sniper. All field ops were subject to psychological evaluation.
Otto insisted they’d been betrayed. The Agency conducted a thorough investigation and could find no evidence of a leak. When Otto asked if anyone else had survived they wouldn’t respond.
In the end it was adios and thanks for your service. Don’t let the screen door hit you on the way out.
Convinced he was about to get whacked, Otto disappeared. He melted away. He traveled the nation. He never approached the land he owned in Colorado. He spent the next six months underground frequently changing identities. He watched. He waited. He used library computers and cyber cafes. Despite not owning a computer he was thoroughly conversant with the technology, at least up until six months ago. He learned by clicking and doing. He learned to spot a certain type who also frequented these venues: hackers. He could spot a hacker a mile away. They were all men. They were all pierced and tatted and wore anti-conformist badges, wired on Red Bull and coffee.
The silence re: Operation Firebrand was unnerving. He searched for other members of the team but they seemed to have disappeared as well. As if someone were stalking them.
Whoever set them up must have deemed him no threat. He was damaged goods, not worth the hit. Discredited. A loon. He had no valuable intel.
He’d relived the mission a thousand times in his head.
Was Ghaddafi really the target, or was it the laptop? Was Hornbuckle in on it? He must have been. But Hornbuckle too had disappeared.
Lying in the Best Western, Otto used an old Jedi mind trick to turn his own off: he counted thylacines. Finally he fell asleep.
In the morning, Otto fed Steve a can of horse meat, put on khakis, a plain gray t-shirt and a gray sports coat, locked his pistol in the room safe, had breakfast in the cafe, put Steve in the service harness and walked the two blocks to FBI HQ at 8000 E. 36th St, across the street from Humberto Uribe Park. The foyer contained an information desk front and center, behind that a series of stanchions forming an aisle leading to a metal detector, and beyond that the elevators. An armed agent in a blue blazer sat in a folding chair next to the metal detector. The lobby was active at nine a.m. with agents coming and going.
The information officer was a no-nonsense middle-aged woman in a blue blazer with nametag Special Agent Maureen Fassbacht. Her eyes followed him across the foyer until he stood in front of her.
“Good morning. Otto White to see Special Agent Lon Barnett.”
“One moment please.” The woman picked up a telephone and spoke. She replaced the receiver and reached beneath the desk for a laminated card that said ‘VISITOR’ attached to a lanyard.
“Please put this on and step back through the metal detector.”
The other agent had Otto and Steve step through the detector, then asked Otto to empty his pockets. Otto complied. Wallet, wintergreen Certs and a steel folding knife with a four-inch blade. The man wanded Otto and the dog. He gestured for Otto to pick up his belongings but held on to the knife.
“You can claim this on the way out. Wait here. Someone will come down and get you.”
Otto sat on a marble bench against the wall. Eight elevators, four facing four, opened and closed. A man in a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a dark blue tie held in place with a tiny American flag clasp exited the elevator. His eyes fixed on Otto and he beelined over. He was stocky, middle aged, with a shaved muscular head.
Otto stood.
“Agent White?” he said offering his hand. “Lon Barnett. Who’s this?”
“This is Steve.”
“What kind of service dog is he?”
“Steve is a tracker. He goes where I go.”
Barnett held the elevator door for them. A young woman with a briefcase cooed over Steve and petted him. They got out on the eighth floor.
“I’ll be your liaison for both the FBI and Homeland Security,” Barnett said leading them down a hushed hallway with offices on both sides. They entered a large foyer with “SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE NORMAN BILLUPS” etched in the glass. Beneath the blue and gold FBI symbol mounted on the oak wall sat an attractive young secretary. “Go right in. The director is expecting you.”
The director had a big corner office overlooking the park and the Platte River. Billups was a big man with a full head of curly white hair and mustache who rose from behind his gunmetal desk and came around to greet them. He wore a banker’s striped dark blue three-piece and had a grip like a lumberjack. He stooped to pet Steve.
“Mr. White, thank you for joining us. Please have a seat.”
Otto and Barnett sat in upholstered oak chairs facing the desk. Steve sat at Otto’s feet.
“We’ve set up a command center for you. You’ll be working with Lon here and Gus Alvarez. Gus is a tech guy. Computers, special equipment, ask Gus. I understand you need to be brought up to speed. How much do you know?”
“Senator Darling died from spontaneous human combustion. He’s the sixth case this year, and there is speculation that this is terrorism.”
“That’s true. Thus far we have been able to identify thirty-three possible cases of spontaneous human combustion since 1998. There may be others we don’t know about. We know of a couple in Russia, a couple in the Middle East and one in Hong Kong. Do you have any preliminary thoughts?”
Otto spread his hands. “Only that it takes an enormous amount of energy to consume a human body down to ash. A modern crematorium must generate 1,700 degrees for three hours. These ‘spontaneous’ combustions occur in a matter of minutes. I’ll need a physics guy to run simulations.”
“That’s Gus,” Barnett said.
“Gus was instrumental in the development of the Army’s long-range microwave weapon,” Billups said.
“Dossiers on all the victims.”
“In your computer,” Billups said. “We have video on two of the combustions. They’re disturbing. Anything you need you let us know. You’re being comped, by the way. Where are you staying?”
“Best Western up the street.”
“Save all your receipts.” Billups opened his top desk drawer and took out a small gray phone, which he passed to Otto. It looked like a compact. “This is called an Ocelot. Beryllium powered. You can send and receive from anywhere on earth without being traced or eavesdropped. We call them Ocelots because they use some kind of oscillating signal. This is your phone. Mine, Lon’s and Gus’ numbers have been preprogrammed. It cannot be tracked. So don’t lose it. This will all go smoother if you’re a federal agent, so if you don’t mind, please stand.”
Otto stood. Billups produced a Bible from his drawer and came around the desk. He set the Bible on the desk as he faced Otto. “Please place your hand on the Bible.”
Otto did so, raising the other.
Billups held up a laminated eight by ten card. “Please recite the Oath of Office.”
“I, Otto White, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”
Billups held out his hand again. “Congratulations Agent White.”
Barnett rose, shook Otto’s hand and slapped him on the back. “Welcome to the shop.”
Billups reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a black leather badge holder bearing the bright gold shield-shaped badge with an eagle on top. Agent #32,677. Otto slipped it into his inside jacket pocket.
“Agent Barnett will take you through credentials, get you squared up. Did you bring a weapon?”
“I have one locked in the safe in my hotel room.”
“I really don’t think you’ll have a need for it.”
“That’s fine.”
“Again, Mr. White, on behalf of the agency and the country, thank you. Lon, will you show him the ropes?”
***