By the time Chip had parked at Bellevue Hospital, he’d gotten no hits from the NSA search program. “This could take time,” he said.
“We don’t have time,” Ben said. “Any way to speed it up?”
“Not without the risk that my incursion would be discovered, in which case I’d be blocked from their mainframe, and a couple of guys with guns would come looking for me.”
“Stick with it, and hope I get lucky inside.”
“You’re going to need someone to play the role of a lawyer, so I’m coming with you this time,” Chip said.
They went into the main building and took an elevator downstairs to the morgue, where a woman in jeans and a white shirt was at a desk behind the counter.
“May I help you?” she asked, getting up and coming to them.
“We’re here to identify the remains of Donald Imani, who was killed in a traffic accident earlier today,” Ben said.
“His sister asked if I could stop by for her,” Chip added.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “The decedent apparently has a lot of friends and relatives, and I’ll tell you the same thing I told his uncle: Mr. Imani’s parents will be arriving in the morning to claim the body.” She started to turn away.
“Excuse me, Miss,” Chip said. “My name is Chip Faircloth. Lieutenant Commander Faircloth, Naval Office of the Judge Advocate in Washington, D.C. And actually, we’re here under orders. The decedent may have been carrying material sensitive to an investigation we’re involved with.”
The woman wasn’t impressed. “What information?”
“It’s classified.”
“Bring me a court order.”
“May I have your name, please?”
“Margaret Singer.”
“If need be, Ms. Singer, I’ll order an investigation into your apparent attempt to impede a federal inquiry. I could have people here within the hour.”
The woman said nothing.
Chip nodded. “Someone will be in touch with you and your superiors later this afternoon.” He turned to Ben. “We’re wasting our time here, Captain,” he said. “Let’s go.”
They were halfway to the door when the woman stopped them.
“Wait,” she said.
They pulled up short and turned around.
“I don’t want any trouble,” she said. “I’m just trying to do my job, is all.”
“The same as us,” Chip said.
“May I see some ID?”
They went back to the counter and Chip produced his U.S. Navy identity card.
The woman copied it on a machine under the counter and handed it back. She phoned someone named Larry, who came out a minute later in a white lab coat.
“These gentlemen would like to look at the belongings of Imani, Donald A. If they wish to take something away with them, have them sign a four fifty-one.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Larry said. He was a young man with a broad smile, which Ben thought unusual in a place like this.
He led them back past an autopsy room, to the refrigerated area where bodies were kept in drawers stacked three high in a dozen rows. He opened a middle one four rows along, a puff of refrigerated fog rising.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll be just down the hall on your way out.”
A clear plastic bag with Imani’s bloodied clothes plus a large manila envelope were lying at his feet on top of the sheet.
Ben took out the envelope and opened it. Besides a wallet, seventy some dollars in bills and change, a small plastic holder with toothpicks, another with dental floss, there was a small black flash drive with the word SCANDISK printed on one side and SCANDISK CRUZER 408 plus some other symbols and numbers on the other side, and a narrow strip of paper with a string of numbers and letters on the bottom.
“That it?” Chip asked.
“Nothing else is inside.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here, this place gives me the willies,” Chip said.
Ben pocketed the device, and on the way out they stopped at the kid’s desk where Chip signed for it, and then they went through the double doors to the front desk.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Margaret asked.
“Yes, we did,” Chip said. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome, just don’t mention my name.”
Back at the car Chip powered up his laptop and accessed the NSA program, but no hits had shown up yet. “What do you want to do next?”
“Bring up the call Hardy made on his landline to this Russian.”
“All he wanted to know was if they’d found the flash drive, but then the call ended,” Chip said. He pulled up the call and played it back.
“Again,” Ben said.
Chip did it again.
“The guy is definitely Russian, and he talked like a soldier.”
“We knew that already.”
“What was the area code of the number?”
“Six four six,” Chip said. “And I already checked, it’s in Manhattan, not Brighton Beach. Could mean she’s in town and not across the river in Brooklyn.”
“She’s in Brighton Beach.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Chip glanced at his laptop screen, numbers on the NSA site scrolling up so fast they were nothing more than a blur, with pauses every now and then before the search continued.
“What now?” he asked.
Ben glanced at his watch. It was just four-thirty. “We’ll find a place to hunker down until you get a hit.”
“Okay, where?”
“Brighton Beach,” Ben said. “But first give me the pistol.”