The computer file folder was titled “SBM,” for Sarah Beth McCulley. It resided on a thumb drive that had been hand delivered to Artemis Grange by his limousine driver, who had retrieved it from a dead-drop location and had no idea what the drive contained or who it came from. Grange knew, of course, because he had paid handsomely for the freelance forensic computer investigator’s time, effort, tradecraft, and above all, discretion. Due diligence was never cheap, but it was always a worthwhile investment. For a reason he couldn’t yet put his finger on, Grange’s recent conversation with Wells had left him with an uneasy feeling.
Grange used his special purpose laptop to view the files. The computer had no Internet connection, Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, or any other exploitable link to the outside world. It was an island unto itself, digitally speaking. His investigator had organized the files in a specific order and Grange viewed them in sequence.
The first file was labeled with a date: February 15. It was a low-quality video with a grainy picture, taken with insufficient background lighting. The setting was an opulent study or lawyer’s office; the subject kept moving in and out of the frame, which remained stationary, and Grange couldn’t make out the man’s identity. The video was obviously taken through the built-in camera on the subject’s computer, probably recorded without the man’s knowledge using a cheap and popular computer virus.
The subject spoke in hushed tones. He used politician-speak, a combination of lawyerese and business school quackery that years of DC experience had taught Grange to decipher. The man was talking about mitigating risks, minimizing exposure, influencing outcomes, encouraging other players to re-evaluate their positions, and achieving a favorable end game. He was trying very hard to communicate something without saying the words.
The man leaned forward, bringing his face into full view. Square jaw with puffy cheeks, a florid nose, intense blue eyes set close together, a large forehead, hair parted just a bit too far down the side of his head and chemically fixed in place. Grange recognized him immediately: Senator Oren Stanley.
The other participant in the conversation wasn’t visible and was barely audible. Grange thought he recognized the second man’s voice but he wasn’t certain. It wasn’t possible to hear all the questions he was asking and a great deal of nuance was lost in the poor audio, but it was clear that the invisible conversant was pushing Oren Stanley toward a decision.
The first video ended and Grange felt disappointment. He hadn’t heard anything conclusive. Oren Stanley had done a great job evading questions, communicating general intent, leaving the other guy to make the logical leaps and assume the risks.
The second file in the folder was a PDF. Grange read its contents, which were very technical. The document detailed characteristic consonants and vowel lengths and formants and pace and intonation and sibilance. It was a voice analysis of the two men involved in the videotaped conversation. The voice expert mathematically compared the voices in the video with several verified samples to arrive at his conclusion: the conversation in the video was between Oren Stanley and Alexander Wells, the president’s director of national intelligence.
Grange pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. A secret meeting between the senator and the DNI was not unheard of, but Grange had a feeling the information in the investigator’s file folder was pointing in a disturbing direction.
Grange moved on to the next file, which was an audio recording dated February 17. Stanley and Wells were speaking quietly. Judging by the ambient noise and muffled high-frequency content, it was an in-person conversation, probably recorded by a virus on one of their smartphones. Idiots.
“Given the situation, I have something we need to consider,” Stanley said. “A very distasteful thing. Something a man wouldn’t normally entertain.”
Grange heard a grunt from Wells.
“It can’t be just another DC tragedy,” Stanley said. “Those are a dime a dozen, and it would backfire. Everything would intensify and Homeland would step up their investigation.”
“So it needs to have shock value,” Wells said.
“It needs to bring the investigation to a full stop.”
Silence, then Wells: “How do we stay insulated from the blowback?”
“We leave no one alive to answer questions.”
“Two deaths?”
“Can you think of any other way?” Stanley said.
More silence.
“Homeland is closing in,” Stanley pressed. “We need to do something.”
“You have people in mind for this?”
“I do.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“It has to be someone close to us, otherwise there will be suspicion,” Stanley said.
“I can’t think of anyone in your camp whose death would arouse any sympathy,” Wells said.
Stanley chuckled at the barb, then his voice became serious. “But you bring up an essential point. There are no innocents in this game but the women and children,” he said.
A chill ran down Grange’s spine. He rewound the player and listened again to be sure he had heard Stanley’s statement correctly. Unbelievable.
“Jesus,” Wells said as Grange resumed the playback. “You can’t be serious.”
“That’s why we’re having this conversation,” Stanley said. “Go home and think about it. Tell me if you can think of any other way. We won’t move until we both agree.”
“Who the hell would even consider doing a job like this?”
“We have a double, a Muslim guy with a large family in Damascus,” Stanley said. “We’ll suggest word might get out back home about his divided loyalties if he doesn’t take the assignment.”
“The fundamentalists would go crazy.”
“I’m confident it won’t come to that.”
“You think this guy will march to his own death?”
“You know how these guys are,” Stanley said. “Death before dishonor. And the family angle is compelling, I think. His family would all know the reason why they were getting their fingers sliced off one at a time. Imagine the shame the guy would feel.”
“I don’t know,” Wells said.
“I don’t know either. That’s why I want you to think about it. If you can come up with a better idea, I’m all ears.”
The audio ended and Grange sat in silence for a moment. It wasn’t just Stanley who had gone rogue. Bile rose in his throat and his face settled into a grimace.
He moved on to the next file, a picture of a man sitting alone at what looked like a public library carrel. The man had dark skin and black hair and seemed to be in his mid-thirties. He wore a gray jacket, black jeans, and white sneakers. In the man’s hand was a handwritten note. Grange zoomed in on the note and studied its contents. The note listed days, times, and events:
M–F: 8–12, school
M, W, F: 4:30–5:30, swimming lessons
T, Th,: 6:00–7:00 p.m., ballet
Saturday: 5:30 p.m., Littlefield Park
Littlefield Park. Grange nodded grimly to himself. He knew the location. It was where Tariq Ezzat and Sarah Beth McCulley had died during the Homeland op on February 25.
He opened the last file, another photo of the man in the library but taken by a different surveillance camera. There were computer-generated squares, circles, and lines drawn over various features on the subject’s face. The facial-recognition software’s conclusion appeared beneath the photo. With over ninety-nine percent confidence, the computer determined the photo’s subject to be Tariq Ezzat.
Grange closed his laptop and sat back in his chair. He laced his fingers together and rested them over the monk-like bald spot on top of his head. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment before opening them again. There was only one conclusion to be drawn: Alexander Wells and Oren Stanley had conspired to murder Sarah Beth McCulley.