“His name was Leroy Craven,” Monica said. “That’s what we’d known him as. Then years later he reappears and has a different name.”
“People change their name,” Walker said. “Maybe he didn’t like Leroy?”
“People change their name when they get a new identity because they’ve gone to prison,” Monica said flatly.
Walker leaned back as the waitress refilled his coffee, and he ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, and Monica ordered porridge.
“He did five-and-a-half years at Lompoc. That’s a federal prison, minimum security. I searched news files and found nothing. Nothing was reported of him attending court or being sentenced. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“Yes,” Walker said, interested. “Federal crime, could be cyber related. Hacking?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Did you get a release date?”
“No,” Monica said. “I know—I thought the same thing you are right now—was it something he and Jasper did at college? Hacking something and getting caught?”
“Did Jasper do that sort of thing?”
“I’ve no idea. But they were tight. He was always away at college. Then the Army. Then the obsession, when it came—but he was working for the NSA by then.”
“You didn’t try using your security clearance to access Craven’s prison records?”
Monica added milk to her coffee, stirred it with a plastic stick and sipped it, then shook her head.
“No,” she said. “The days you could do that kind of thing are well and truly behind us, especially since 9/11 and with all the streamlining of databases that Homeland Security has implemented. My access would be recorded, along with every file in the system that I touched, every email and phone call that I’d make around it . . .”
“You’d lose your clearance,” Walker said.
“Yep,” she said. “And as much as I want to know, it’s not worth losing my job and reputation over.”
“Maybe now it is?” Walker said.
Monica sipped her coffee and smiled. Their food arrived. She added sugar to the porridge and stirred it.
“No,” she said. “We don’t need to do that. We can visit him. Craven. Or, should I say, Paul Conway, as he’s now known.”
“You know where he is?”
Monica nodded. “It’s easy to find someone’s address nowadays. Find out where they’re registered to vote, what car and house they have in their possession, basic credit check, all kinds of info.”
“Is it far from here?” Walker said, eating a loaded fork full of eggs.
“Not far, though it may take a while, the way you drive that car,” Monica said, smiling.
Walker could see that the idea of potentially getting somewhere in the search to help her brother had brightened her mood. Progress.
“By the way,” she said, eating, “I’m not some gluten-free-organic-flavored-air-eating hipster.”
“Never for a second crossed my mind,” Walker said. “You don’t have the post-ironic beard to pull it off.”
•
General Christie opened the file on Josiah Walker.
Graduate of the Air Force Academy. Like all candidates he obtained a Bachelor of Science. Sub-majored in politics and history. Academically brilliant. His father had attended too. At the time of his enrollment he was nineteen, six-two and 200 pounds. On graduation he was six-three and 245 pounds. Played quarterback for the Falcons, which wasn’t that much below a starting position in a low-ranked NFL team. He could have had a career in the pro league, was approached by scouts after the finals, but instead he went into the 24th Tactical and deployed to Afghanistan, the first of three tours, along with two in Iraq. If he’d stuck around, Walker could have been closing in on the rank of Brigadier General; he had the pedigree and aptitude to end up with a long and easy career, but instead he chose the most dangerous job in the Air Force, then bugged out when he was promoted to desk staff. Then he joined the CIA.
PT results were outstanding. Middle-distance awards, but not much of a fast runner. Strong swimmer. Mesomorphic body type that responded quickly to stimulants, hence the bulk gained and prowess on the football field.
Walker was proficient with all small arms, expert on the pistol. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat.
The 24th Tactical. An Air Commando, and then some. Walker trained with SEALs and Delta. He had worked with them and the CIA, and everyone else.
Postings in Germany, Japan, Korea. Wounded three times, with three Purple Hearts. Silver Star. Air Force Cross.
Retired a Lieutenant Colonel when he was being sent away from front-line duties and into training.
At least, that’s what it looked like, on the surface.
But then Christie read the Agency’s human resources file of Walker’s acceptance. He had undertaken similar aptitude tests to those from the AFA, plus a raft of others, Agency specific.
The psychologist had made copious notes. Walker passed and was accepted, obviously, but there were notes, detailed ones, seven pages worth. War had changed Walker, was the summary. It was usual for a person’s responses to change over ten years—maturity, life lived. But this was beyond that.
Walker had become obsessive, a trait he hadn’t shown before.
Obsessed with justice, with seeing a task done right, with getting the job done no matter what the personal cost. Most people want to think that they can fix wrongs. Walker knew that he could.
Hence, the final recommendation was that Walker be considered as an officer in the Agent Provocateur area. An AP.
A rare—exceedingly rare—position in the modern CIA. Not just a case officer recruiting agents and running a network. His role was to seek out the nation’s opponents and then destabilize, degrade and destroy.
He joined the CIA’s National Clandestine Service. That file was a separate one, and Christie would read it next. She went through the last notes, the citations for the awards. The citations for the Air Force Cross were redacted, which meant it involved secrets. Probably working with the Agency . . .
Christie crosschecked that file, which included the times during Walker’s ten-year Air Force career that he had worked alongside CIA officers in Afghanistan and Iraq.
Jed Walker. Ten years in the Air Force, eight in the CIA and a brief twelve-month stint in the State Department before going off the grid until the New York Stock Exchange incident. The Vice President was a close ally and friend.
So, what’s he doing with Monica Brokaw?
General Christie picked up the phone and called Langley. Maybe the CIA still had a leash on this guy . . .