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“HEY, JAYDA, HOW ARE you feeling today?”
“I’m fine,” I grumped as I plopped a battery-driven fan onto my desk and pointed its little gust of air at my face.
“Okaaaay.” Stung, Chantelle flounced back to her workstation.
We both knew I was lying, and we both knew why: I didn’t want to talk about how I felt.
Work that morning went pretty much as usual. I didn’t have the ambition to do more than the bare minimum the job required. Still, I needed to tag the other two SPOs with nanobugs, so I dragged myself off to the restroom at lunch, ditched my badge in a paper towel dispenser, and ran over to Safety and Security to look at their shift schedule. One of the SPOs I was seeking was out on patrol; the other was detailed to a SCIF.
There was no way I was going to chase after another patrol car in this heat. Although the SCIF was two buildings away, it was the lesser of two evils.
Jayda Cruz.
“Yes, Nano?”
We have detected something of concern.
“Oh?”
An IT employee has accessed your video and badge tracking data. He has been monitoring and reviewing your movements.
“You fixed the files though, right? They don’t show anything out of the norm?”
We did alter the files, Jayda Cruz. However, this employee viewed the data both before and after we adjusted the files. We believe he downloaded video footage of your activities before the film was corrected.
“Downloaded? Downloaded to where?”
We deduce it was a cleverly disguised flash drive, quite contrary to NSA policy, and no longer on the NSA premises.
I jogged down the hall to the nearest exit on the way to the SCIF. Out the door, around the next building, off to the right toward my objective.
“Which employee, Nano?”
He goes by the name of Rob Tellerman.
I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. “Rob! Goes by? What does that mean?”
It is not his real identity, Jayda Cruz. It is a good cover, but not as good as yours.
I stopped where I was: Someone was monitoring my movements. Someone planted at the NSA. Planted to watch me?
Our tradecraft training rang in my ears: In any and every situation, to believe your identity is unknown and to act accordingly is potentially deadly. Again, your mental state must never presume that your identity is uncompromised, just as you must never assume your plan is foolproof. Surveillance detection, then, becomes the way you live—or the way you die.
I picked up my pace and reached my destination. The SPO stood at an access control point. Only individuals with the proper clearances and who had been preapproved to use the SCIF would get by him. I eased up behind the guy, sent the nanobug array to him with a wave of my fingers, and crept to the nearest exit.
I hot-footed it back to my building and to the restroom to fetch my badge, pondering the nanomites’ revelations, trying to decide what to do about them. I rounded the restroom’s hairpin curve entrance, becoming visible as I did so.
“Hello, Jayda.”
I swung around at Kiera’s greeting, schooling my face to act surprised but not guilty. “Oh. Hey, Kiera. How are you?”
She cozied up to me wearing a smug, shrewd smile. “Oh, I’m fine, but I think we need to talk, Jayda, don’t you?”
“Uh, what do you mean?”
“We’ve been watching you. You’re very good, but you’ve made mistakes. Now I want to know who you really are.”
“Huh?”
“Say, where’s your badge, Jayda? Did you . . . lose it?”
I looked down. “Oh, crud. I must have left it—”
“Oh, look! I found it.” She held up a lanyard and let my badge dangle from it. “You left it in that paper towel dispenser over there.”
I shook my head. “In the what?”
Nanomites launched themselves at my command.
“Why would I—Kiera, that’s sounds crazy.” I leaned toward her. “Say, are you okay?”
She scoffed. “Don’t play games. It’s you—” She blinked twice in slow motion, then her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed in my arms. I dragged her to a wall and sat her down against it.
“Nano, you know what to do. Take out about twenty minutes’ worth.”
They went to work removing the last twenty minutes of synapses in Kiera’s brain. Someone would find her unconscious in the restroom and call for help. I wanted to be far away when that happened.
More tradecraft admonitions pounded in my head. “Your contingency plan will either save your life or end it—which is why contingency planning must be one hundred percent complete, ready, and waiting.”
I left the restroom under the nanomites’ cover. When Kiera woke up, she wouldn’t remember a thing about lurking in the restroom to ambush me, but her partner would. I didn’t have much time to fix that.
I struck out for IT. It was lunchtime and the IT department was empty—except for Rob. As I crossed the threshold, I sent the nanomites. They flew across the room and Rob jerked, quivered, then fell forward; I caught his head before it bounced off his keyboard. I helped him to lean back against his seat while the nanomites got to work shredding synapses.
We can in no way mitigate for his preceding memories, Jayda Cruz. He will remember prior instances of monitoring your movements.
“I know, Nano. That’s why we need to figure out who these two people really are as soon as possible.”
When they had finished with Rob, I asked them to wake him up. As soon as his eyes began to flicker, I dashed off toward Safety and Security. It took the nanomites fifteen long minutes to alter the badge tracking data to show I’d spent my lunch in the cafeteria and amending video to back my badge’s movements. They used old video to show me walking into the cafeteria, inserting me behind a crowd of other employees. They had to fabricate a tiny clip of me sitting behind a post that blocked the camera’s angle, and a similar bit to show me walking out. Under the nanomites’ direction, I left Safety and Security, ran to the cafeteria, and exited at exactly the time the fabricated clip showed me doing so.
When I returned to my desk in the Repository, I was fatigued, famished, and stressed beyond belief. I’d blown the primary axiom of spy craft: Don’t give yourself away.
And now my mission at the NSA was in jeopardy.
***
I EXITED THE BASE AT the end of my workday and sent my car onto the highway on autopilot. My mind was preoccupied with what I would say to Gamble—and how he would react.
A buzz announced the arrival of a text. “Nano. Read the text, please.”
Jayda Cruz, the text reads, ‘Your prescription is ready for pickup at CVS Pharmacy, 8640 Guilford Road, Columbia, MD 21046. Our pharmacy hours are Monday through Friday, 9 a.m.–9 p.m., Satur—’
“Okay. Got it. Thanks.” I’d think about how the nanomites managed to get the prescription later.
“Nano, dial Gamble, please.”
Gamble picked up the second ring. “Yes?”
“I blew it, Gamble.”
I poured out what had happened and what info I had on Kiera Colón and Rob Tellerman—which wasn’t much other than the addresses HR had on file. “The nanomites told me that Rob’s ID is phony, so I imagine that Kiera’s is, too.”
Gamble was upset, but he didn’t berate me. Instead, he said, “You have enough on your plate. Let me handle this from my end.”
I was happy to let him.
***
I WENT THROUGH THE CVS drive-through and picked up a 90-day supply of hormones (the prescription written by a Dr. Sommers) and went home to Zander. I wanted to stay in and mull over the situation at work, but he reminded me that the Celebrate Recovery meeting was that evening.
“Let’s get something to eat. We’ll talk, then head over there,” he suggested.
“Yeah. Okay. Let me take one of these pills first.”
We called in an order for two large, deep-dish pizzas and two salads from a local pizzeria. They were ready when we got there, which left us some time to sit and talk while we scarfed down our dinner.
I told Zander what had happened, blow by blow. He marveled at how quickly I’d responded but, unlike Gamble, he was upset and worried.
“Who do you think these people are?”
“I have no idea yet. I hope Gamble can figure it out.”
We left the pizza joint and arrived at the church just as the assistant leaders were unlocking the fellowship hall where the group met.
“Hi. You must be Zander and Jayda. I’m Tom Peters; this is my wife, Becky.”
After chatting for a few minutes, we went inside with them and helped set up chairs. I followed Becky into the kitchen. While she made coffee and lemonade, I arranged cookies on a plate.
“I’ve never been to a Celebrate Recovery meeting before. Zander has, but it’s all new to me.”
“Well, Celebrate Recovery is something like AA, only it is specifically Bible-based and is for every kind of addiction. It is also for the family members of addicts.”
The meeting was eye-opening for me. Tom called everyone together and we sang a couple of worship songs. When we were done singing, Tom led us in a Bible study. I appreciated the study. I had thought it would be about some aspect of addiction; instead, it focused on deepening our relationship with the Lord.
Then we broke into two groups, pulling our chairs into tight circles in opposite corners of the fellowship hall—guys in one circle, gals in the other. The women’s circle had only five participants—Becky, myself, and three others. The men’s circle, on the other hand, had fifteen or so participants.
“This time is for sharing our victories, our struggles, and our prayer requests,” Becky explained. “We break into separate groups because sharing can be daunting enough without compounding it with members of the opposite gender.”
She glanced at me. “By the way, we always remind everyone that what is said in Celebrate Recovery stays here. This is a place of trust and confidentiality. We don’t repeat what is shared, even with our spouses.”
I nodded my understanding.
Over the next hour, I listened to the women talk about their issues, their walk with the Lord, their families, and their needs. We shared Bible passages and prayed for each other.
I was mostly quiet and observant until Becky asked me, “Do you have any prayer requests, Jayda?”
To myself I answered, Boy, do I.
If I’d told them what was really burdening my heart, I might have blurted, “Well, shucks. You see, I’m on assignment for the President of the United States. I’m supposed to uncover the remains of this conspiracy to end his life and steal the presidency. No biggie—but, golly gee, today I totally blew my cover, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”
I had to settle for “You know, I would appreciate prayer for my work. I’ve started a new job and am finding it . . . tricky.”
Without comment, they began to pray for me. I was first amazed and touched—then the discouragement and self-flagellation fell from me like flakes of rust. I was strengthened; my heart was encouraged.
The two groups came together at 8:30, and the meeting ended with a time of visiting over punch and cookies.
I enjoyed it all.
I needed this, this friendship and care, Lord. Thank you.
***
GAMBLE ENTERED THE office where he spent most of his days and logged into the FBI’s database. He hoped to identify the crack Jayda suggested he’d find in Rob Tellerman’s ID. It took him all of two minutes to run Tellerman’s name and come up against a security flag: Rob Tellerman’s profile was classified and locked.
“Huh.” He ran Kiera Colón’s name. Same result.
He glanced at the addresses he’d scribbled down during his call with Jayda. Then he grabbed his keys and headed out.
***
KIERA AND ROB SAT AT the table in Rob’s apartment, poring over the printed screenshots and watching the video clips that defied the screen captures. Kiera was nursing a headache and was in a foul state.
Rob was reluctant to aggravate Kiera in her present state of mind—except . . . except nothing about the afternoon made sense anymore, and he couldn’t let it go.
“I called you,” Rob mumbled, “and told you that her badge had been in the women’s restroom off the cafeteria for more than fifteen minutes.”
“And I let my supervisor know I wasn’t feeling well and went to the restroom to wait for her.”
“Well, so what happened then?”
“I already told you. I made it to the restroom and was ready to ambush her . . . and then I don’t recall anything until I woke up with paramedics standing over me.”
She rubbed the spot on her forehead that seemed to ache from deep within. “I’ve never passed out like that before—and now you say the video feeds and badge tracking data have all changed. Again. If I didn’t have a vague remembrance of finding her badge in one of the paper towel dispensers before I blacked out, I would accuse you of making the whole thing up.”
Rob cleared his throat. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“Something similar happened to me.”
Kiera cracked one eye in his direction. “What do you mean?”
“I was monitoring your badge and hers. Just like you said, both of your badges were in the restroom.”
“And then?”
“And then I woke up and Cruz’s files had been altered.”
“Except for these screen captures.” Kiera touched one of the printouts. “If it weren’t for them . . . You were smart to do this, Rob.”
It was the first, albeit reluctant, compliment she’d paid him. He didn’t know how to respond.
“Let’s recap,” Kiera went on. “This Jayda Cruz somehow evades video detection and runs around campus unseen. While she’s out doing whatever she’s doing, she either turns off her badge or leaves it hidden in the restroom so what she’s up to can’t be tracked. Afterward, she hacks into the system and changes all the data?”
“See, that’s super puzzling, Kiera. Nobody could hack the video and badge systems and change their data as quickly and completely as she does in mere minutes. I couldn’t do it that fast. It’s . . . spooky.”
“You know what’s really spooky, Rob? Waking up missing minutes of your life. That. That is what’s spooky. And speaking of ‘spooky,’ that has to be what we’re dealing with: A world-class spook—but for whom?”
Rob shivered. “Are we in over our heads, Kiera? Do we need to ask for help?”
Kiera didn’t answer; Rob figured she was running the situation in her mind—including just how nuts their chain of command would label them if they reported what they’d seen and experienced.
A knock sounded on Rob’s apartment door. Rob jerked, but Kiera slowly reached into her purse and pulled out her Glock 21.
She tipped her head at Rob and crept to one side of the door. Rob stood to the other side. When Kiera nodded, he asked, “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Special Agent Ross Gamble. FBI. I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Tellerman.”
Kiera frowned. When she jutted her chin, Rob demanded, “Put your credentials to the peephole.”
Rob, then Kiera, studied them. Kiera gave Rob another nod. He stood behind the door and she moved behind him. Rob opened the door partway but blocked the entrance.
“Thank you, Mr. Tellerman.”
“What can I do for you, Agent Gamble?”
“May I come inside?”
“I don’t see why you can’t ask me what you want from there.”
Gamble smiled. “That depends. Do you want your neighbors to hear me ask who you really are, Mr. Tellerman?”
Kiera signaled Rob with a tap on the shoulder. He opened the door. As soon as Gamble stepped inside, Rob closed it. Kiera, not altogether convinced of Gamble’s identity, moved out from behind Rob and leveled her gun at Gamble.
Gamble nodded amiably. “Oh, good. You’re both here.” He looked around. “Nice place, Rob. May I sit down?”
Rob cut his eyes at Kiera, who nodded.
“I guess.”
“Great.” Gamble settled himself in a side chair. “Well, you’re probably wondering why I’ve come calling.” He glanced at Kiera. “Would you mind putting that away? I’m sure you know how to handle a firearm, but I’d feel better if it were pointed elsewhere.”
“How about I just keep it handy?” Kiera lowered the gun to her side and moved across the room, about ten feet away. “Now, what do you want?”
“What? No polite conversation? No ‘getting to know you’? Just cut to the chase?”
She nodded.
“All right, then. A funny thing happened to me today. Oh, wait. I guess funny things happened to you guys today, too. Am I right?”
Rob and Kiera did not move.
“Okay. As I was saying, a funny thing happened to me today. You see, I ran your names in the FBI database and, shazam! Both your files came up classified—which is significant in two respects, don’t you think? No opinion? Aren’t you curious? No?
“Well, here it is. One, I knew before I searched the database that your IDs were fake and, two, the fact that your fake IDs were classified tells me why: Both of you are FBI, working undercover. And I’ll bet,” Gamble looked from Rob to Kiera, “I’ll bet that your assignment is to look into the disappearance of Wayne Overman. He vanished without a trace, and the disappearance of such a high-level NSA executive—one privy to so much classified information—raises national security concerns. How am I doing so far?”
“Haven’t a clue what you’re babbling about.”
“Why, sure you have. The thing is, I have a similar assignment . . . only my assignment comes from higher up the chain of command—a lot higher up.”
Kiera scowled. “I’m a lowly clerical worker. A government contractor employee. Haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about, Agent Gamble.”
Gamble stood, causing Kiera to put both hands on her sidearm and lift it.
“I’m a nice guy, so let me spell it out for you two—in the nicest of ways, of course: I’m warning you to lay off a certain mutual acquaintance, one of your coworkers.” Gamble dropped his good-natured façade. “You either stop monitoring her movements, or the next ‘request’ you receive will be more, shall we say, strongly worded.”
This time Kiera looked uncertain.
Gamble pointed at Rob. “Your purview, Mr. Tellerman, is the IT help desk at the NSA—IT, not Safety and Security. Safety and Security functions do not fall into your network permissions, and they frown upon unauthorized intrusions.
“Just so you know, should you venture into NSA video surveillance or the badge tracking system again, your management at the NSA will be apprised of your activities—including how you downloaded files to a contraband device. I think you’ll lose more than your job and clearance, don’t you?”
He flicked a brow at Kiera. “This is your first and only warning: Back off.”
On his drive home, he called Jayda and left voice mail. “I’ve handled the situation. Your friends at work shouldn’t be a problem from here on out. I’ll fill you in when we meet next.”
~~**~~
