The building was located eight miles west of downtown Salt Lake City. Four stories tall and standing alone on West Amelia Earhart Drive. Painted in a dark beige hue, it appeared even darker beneath the empty night sky.
Salt Lake’s former FBI headquarters was a shell of its former self. As were many other government departments across the country. All were gutted physically and financially from the collapse, leaving the Salt Lake location to now house several different government entities at once. Some familiar and some not.
The main entrance, positioned under a large overhang, was moderately lit, and quiet when the Mercedes approached from one side of the long circular drive. It stopped as the only car in front, and the driver’s-side door was hastily flung open.
Dressed in a wool coat and dark pants, Duchik climbed out and slammed the door behind him without looking back. In a forceful stride, he approached and pressed a badge against the glass sensor located to the right of the oversized double glass doors. Just long enough to hear the door’s internal locking mechanism disengage.
Once inside, he walked to the elevator and rode it to the fourth floor, where in the same quick stride he passed several offices until reaching an unmarked door near the end of the hall. Once again, he used his badge to enter, stepping into a large, almost empty office space.
Duchik waited until someone rolled their chair back and looked out through an open doorway.
“You Duchik?”
“Yeah.”
The other man motioned Duchik forward and rolled back out of sight.
Once inside, the man motioned for Duchik to close the door, and grabbed a thick folder from his desk, but held on to it as he studied the image on Duchik’s badge.
“First, you are aware that Arizona is a nontracking state, correct?”
“I am.”
“Okay.” The man nodded and flipped the folder open. “As long as you know.”
Duchik did not care about Arizona’s laws. Nor did he like having to outsource some of his intelligence gathering. But the NIH didn’t have its own cybersecurity department. Entire departments had been reshuffled over the years to eliminate administrative overlap, which also had the unfortunate side effect of leaving operational holes in other areas. The more Duchik had to employ services outside of his inner circle, the more risk he assumed as a result by way of exposure.
“I printed out most of the information you wanted on Rachel Souza and Henry Yamada. Home addresses, phone numbers, financial information, and travel habits. Some of which I’m guessing you already have.…”
“Did you track their phones?”
“I tried. They’re both turned off. Their last recorded locations were together, outside of Las Vegas.” The analyst searched for a printed map and, upon finding it, placed it on top to show Duchik. “Both cars have been located. Souza’s in an empty parking lot in downtown Flagstaff and Yamada’s a couple blocks away from the address you gave me of the lab.”
Duchik continued listening with no reaction.
“In addition to their addresses, I’ve also provided the addresses of Souza’s parents near Boston and Yamada’s mother in San Francisco. Don’t think you’ll need those, though.” The man then spun back around to face his computer screen. “You said you wanted a fix on some trucks.”
“Yes.”
A window was opened on the screen, and the analyst commenced typing in a flurry of keystrokes. “Well, from the security-camera footage I have, it looks like they were onsite when your convoy left.”
Inside the window, another image from an overhead satellite appeared and, a few moments later, began zooming in. Accelerating as it enlarged the country’s southwestern terrain and then gradually slowed as Flagstaff’s tiny city streets became visible and filled the screen. Until finally, the zoom slowed to a crawl and began to scroll, moving just outside the downtown area until revealing the location of Duchik’s laboratory.
The exterior of the building was now clearly visible, as was the street, including the three large pickup trucks.
Freezing the image onscreen, the analyst pointed. “These are the trucks?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and noted the time. “Time is three twelve P.M. and seven seconds. Commencing playback.”
Standing in the small office behind the younger man, Duchik watched the scene unfold. Similar to what he’d seen from his own cameras, but this time from overhead. Doors on the trucks opening, and men with rifles jumping out. Rushing forward as Reiff and the others emerged. Souza, Yamada, Masten, and one of the other men, who had previously disappeared inside with Souza.
Together, the group proceeded toward the trucks, followed by their armed escorts, until all three vehicles were boarded and sped away.
“I can’t make out a positive ID from overhead, but I believe two of those in the video were Souza and Yamada.”
Duchik nodded.
“If true, you’re not going to find them in California or Maine.”
“What else?”
As though in response, the analyst clicked on each truck as they began moving in the video and the overhead image automatically zoomed back. Shrinking the area slightly while highlighting the three targets in a pale yellow.
Together, both men watched the vehicles turn and move quickly through city streets, making their way through multiple intersections until eventually reaching a freeway on-ramp.
The young man turned in his seat to face Duchik. “This part is a little boring. They stay on Interstate 40 almost the entire time until reaching Kingman a couple hours later.”
“And then where?”
“That’s where it becomes a problem. Because it gets dark.”
Duchik squinted. “What do you mean?”
“Unfortunately, we don’t have the same infinite recording capabilities like the old days, and this satellite doesn’t have thermal imaging, so it’s harder to track objects at night. Especially moving objects. We have to rely on things like headlights and ambient reflections to maintain a target.”
“Fine.”
The analyst frowned. “That’s also where we have trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because these three trucks turned off their lights just before reaching Kingman.”
Duchik’s eyes narrowed.
The analyst sped through the recording before slowing down again near the end. In the darkened video, Duchik watched as the bright headlights from all three vehicles disappeared almost at once.
He stared in irritation. “So, what, that’s it?!”
“Just for the moment. We can use some AI to compute likelihood from the point we lose them. Basically, a range of possibilities given speed, distance, most likely direction, and possible interaction with other cars. But that takes time as the computer crunches through all the possibilities.”
“How much time?”
“I’ve already started the process, so hopefully not more than a few hours. The good news is that it’s pretty accurate and should be able to reduce it down to just a few prospects.”
Duchik continued staring at the screen while he crossed his arms. After another few minutes, he said, “Anything else?”
“A few things,” the man replied. “For one, while it can be a challenge to figure out where the vehicles went, that doesn’t mean we can’t still track backward to find out where they came from.”
Duchik’s eyes suddenly jumped from the computer screen. “Where?”
“Nevada. Just outside Vegas. From three different residences. One in Pahrump and two in Henderson. Along with Henry Yamada’s car in tow.” The analyst opened another window and another video showing Duchik. “Their first stop was at a small house in Pahrump. Belonging to a Devin Waterman, which matches the name in Rachel Souza’s email that you forwarded.”
“Who is he?”
The analyst tapped the folder. “I printed his information out. Waterman is retired army, as are the owners of the other two trucks.”
What connection would Souza and Yamada have to these retirement-aged vets?
“Did they go to all three houses?”
“Yamada and Souza? No, just the one. The two other trucks met them en route back to Flagstaff.”
So they went to Waterman, and Waterman called the others. Duchik continued to think it through. It was Waterman and his friends who helped rescue Reiff. But why? What were Souza and Yamada trying to do? What were they trying to gain by protecting the man? Leverage? Maybe for their own safety. Safety from Duchik. But they didn’t even know who Duchik was. Then again, maybe they didn’t have to know, he thought. As long as they knew that someone else was behind it all. And not Masten.
Masten!
Masten had far more reason to get Reiff out, and he was in far more need of leverage if he knew things were about to be shut down. And Nora had said that Masten had figured out Duchik’s identity. He could have put enough pieces together.
“I need to know where those trucks went.”
The man opened a drawer and withdrew a plain, prepackaged cell phone. “Here. Take this. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
He reached out and took the phone.
“If you need something else, call me.”
Duchik watched the man straighten the papers and close the thick folder. Securing it with a strap. “It was everything I could find that was relevant.”
“Thanks,” replied Duchik, taking the case and turning for the door.
“Including some stuff on Reiff.”
Duchik’s hand was on the handle when he suddenly stopped. “What was that?”
“John Reiff,” the analyst answered. “The other name you gave me.”
Duchik turned from the door. “I thought there wasn’t anything on him.”
“There wasn’t. Not in the current system. But I was able to retrieve some things from one of the older systems.”
“I thought the old data was corrupted. From the cyberwars.”
“It is, but not all of it. Some of the old databases still contain pieces of retrievable data, and luckily some information on your friend Reiff.”
Duchik lowered his gaze. “Like what?”
“Like divorce papers,” the man replied. “And a birth certificate. It appears he has a daughter. Who is still alive.”