Stratagems Page 7

  Kyle dropped his gaze, remembering Charlie, then decided not to discuss him. It was simply too depressing. “They gained access to our computers.”

  “Not unusual,” Kurt agreed.

  “They wiped two of them clean.”

  Kurt leaned forward so fast he almost fell out of his chair. “What?”

  “They destroyed my hard disk. And Charlie’s.”

  “Did you see them do this?”

  “No. They made me leave once they got in. Tim saw them.”

  Kurt reached across the desk, grabbed the phone receiver and punched the red button at the bottom. “Nancy, get Dex in here on the double.”

  Kyle grinned. The guy’s name wasn’t really Dex, but it stuck when Charlie started using it as a lark. As it turned out, the name was well deserved. Dex knew the location of every business, restaurant, store and who-knew-what-else within fifty miles. Charlie had been after the location of some off-the-wall computer store and Dex came up with it out of thin air, so Charlie dubbed him Dex in honor of the Yellow Pages. The nickname caught on in short order and Dex actually seemed to warm to the title.

  “Dex followed security procedures to the letter,” Kurt said. “If they’re responsible for property damage, intellectual or otherwise, I’ll make sure they hear about it.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  Kyle hesitated, trying to piece together his scattered thoughts. “I think they were looking for something. It’s like they knew what they were looking for even before they arrived.”

  Kurt reached for the phone again. “Nancy, bring me the visitor file.” He punched the red button once more, leaning back in his chair. “Why do you think that?”

  “Things they said. The questions they asked, but more the way they acted. Or rather one of them acted. Don Metzgar.”

  Kurt shook his head slowly. “I know some of the FBI guys locally, but I’m not familiar with him.”

  Kyle produced a little smile. “That’s okay. You wouldn’t have liked him.”

  Kurt managed a grin, interrupted by Nancy walking through the door, a thick file clutched in her hand. She set it on the desk, gave Kyle a wry glance, then left as quickly as she entered. Kurt opened the folder and pulled out the first stack of papers, a clip attached to the upper left corner. He thumbed through every page, reciting the names of each agent: Jason Slocum, Don Metzgar, Marco Vallo and Remos Kadner. Agent Conan finally had a name, Marco, and it seemed rather fitting at that. A total of four agents and Kyle had met them all. Kurt turned another page. “United States District Court. It seems everything’s in order.” Kurt read further. “To Jason Slocum, Federal Bureau of Investigation, and any authorized officer of the United States. It says here, near the bottom, that if any property is taken, they have to leave a copy of the warrant along with a receipt.”

  Kyle thought briefly. “I can see them asking questions. And if they thought we had something on our computers that might lead to Charlie’s killer, then why not simply ask? They must have gone through a lot of agony to get a warrant.”

  “Oh, I don’t figure they suffered too much grief. This is the FBI, mind you. Sometimes they grab a warrant for good measure, in case they can’t induce cooperation. Look at it from their perspective. They waltz in here and don’t know a soul. They must suspect Charlie’s death is related to something, or someone. If they walk in without a warrant, and we refuse, any one of us could destroy evidence while they round up a judge.”

  “That’s another thing,” Kyle said, leaning forward, “they were the ones who destroyed the evidence. Not even evidence. They casually blew away two computers.”

  “Take it easy. I guarantee I’ll get to the bottom of it. I think I want you to make a...”

  Kurt was cut short by the appearance of Dex. He walked in the room without knocking, marched up to the desk and glanced down at Kyle. He stood five-foot and about ten inches, hair totally white and him not nearly fifty.

  “Yes, sir.” His voice was haggard, as if he’d run clear across town.

  “Who checked in the FBI agents this morning?”

  “Cliff, sir. He copied their identification, verified their photos and called the number.”

  “Which number?”

  “It’s written there, sir,” Dex said, pointing to the letter sized paper with a photocopy of Jason Slocum’s ID and information on the top. Off to the side, written in blue ink, was a phone number. The photo showed that Jason was definitely the guy Kyle had talked with, although the image was bright and washed out, but he could make out some noticeable details.

  “Where’d you get this number?”

  “Agent Slocum.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “Cliff.”

  “Why didn’t you use the main number in the Rolodex?”

  “Cliff did, twice. It was busy, so Jason provided an alternate number. The man on the other end answered FBI. Everything was in order. They were here to ask questions regarding Charlie’s death.” When he said this, he slipped Kyle another glance, then looked away.

  Kurt took the paper and dialed the number. No answer. He looked back to Dex. “I want both you and Cliff to write detailed reports within the hour.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “After that’s done, I want you to interview every employee who was seen by them.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me. I want to know every question asked, and I want them by lunch.”

  Dex offered a nod, but didn’t deliver one of his ‘Yes sirs.’ He turned abruptly and left the room.

  Kurt picked up the receiver again and dialed another number, one he obviously knew well. Someone on the other end answered. Kurt spoke firmly into the receiver. “Norm Alexander, please. This is Kurt Brady from Allied Professional Computer Consultants.” Soon Norm was on the other end.

  Kurt explained the situation in less than two minutes without interruption, followed by a strained silence as Kyle witnessed Kurt’s face slowly grow pale. He slumped in his chair, barely able to hold the receiver to his ear. More silence and Kyle began to grow nervous, his stomach in a knot. Perhaps the agents had found something after all. Maybe someone he worked with was involved in Charlie’s death. All varieties of ideas swarmed in his imagination as he waited. Kurt finally spoke, offering details about the identification badges and behavior of the agents themselves, then laid the phone to rest.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Kurt wavered. He was deep in thought, looking like a man pondering unlimited possibilities in mere seconds. He stared at Kyle, his mood somber. “That was Norm Alexander, the SAC.”

  “SAC?” Kyle repeated.

  “Special Agent in Charge. Each regional office has one SAC, except for the larger cities that have more. I happen to know the one here.”

  “And?”

  It seemed Kurt was struggling with deciding whether to tell Kyle what he knew or just keep it to himself. “He said no agents had been sent by his office, and if they were from somewhere else, he would know. As it is, they don’t know anything.”

  Kyle’s mouth dropped a bit. Of all the scenarios that flew through his mind, that was not one of them. The identifications had been impeccable, at least from someone who had only seen similar IDs on the “X-Files” and way back when he was only 12. He had never seen a search warrant, not even on television, but it looked official enough, down to the rubber stamp that recorded the date and time filed in District Court.

  “Then who were they?”

  Kurt’s head slowly shook. It was clear he’d never been through this situation either, and that alone bothered Kyle. When Kurt had handled drug situations, he was firm and in control. Now there was uncertainty.

  “So, what happens now?”

  “Now the real FBI becomes involved. They’ll be here within the hour. You better tell your group, and prepare them for another round of questions.”

  Kyle stood. “You gotta be kidding?”

  Kurt stood
as well. “I don’t think you realize what’s going on. If they weren’t real investigators, that means they were probably involved with Charlie’s death, if not directly responsible.”

  Kyle slowly fell back into his seat. He hadn’t really considered that scenario, or maybe just didn’t want to entertain the idea, even for a moment. Impersonating an FBI agent was probably a federal crime and the photos of the imposters were sitting in front of him. The notion that he actually talked with the people who may have killed his best friend made him feel nauseous.

  “So, what happens now?” Kyle asked.

  “I’ll fax these documents to the FBI office downtown, then inform the general manager. He’ll probably gather his staff and invite general council. It might get ugly. This thing goes deeper than Charlie. It could hurt the business. And like it or not, it all points to your department, and perhaps even to you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dwight Patterson looked pensively out the window as nine-thirty came and went. From his small, rented warehouse he could barely catch a glimpse of Sandia Crest through the tiny hole the landlord had the audacity to call a ‘window with a splendid mountain view.’ Splendid my ass, he had thought as he handed over cash for two months’ rent, but he didn’t dare say it aloud. The idea was to keep a low profile, not stand out.

  He had phoned Remos over 30 minutes ago and told him to get his team out of the Allied building as soon as possible. Having Santiago, Dwight’s right hand man, tail the head of Allied security from his home turned out to be a good idea after all. They anticipated he would be out of the office until eleven, but the way things panned out he headed back sooner. Santiago placed a call to Dwight as soon as Kurt’s meeting downtown broke up, then he in turn rang Remos on the phone, and things were set in motion. Once Kurt arrived, the chances of the truth emerging increased exponentially.

  The warehouse was Santiago’s brainchild. Although they had several rented offices scattered around town, the large expanse near the airport made the operation safer. Jets rumbled overhead all during the day and well into the evening, with only a few scattered in the late hours of the night, and Dwight felt comforted by the distraction. It served as a constant reminder he could evaporate at a moment’s notice without a trace. Given the right signal, he could be out of the warehouse and at the United ticket counter in less than ten minutes. That was his escape plan, and Santiago was the one who deserved the thanks. It was also Santiago who had connections across the country, the one who brought Jason and his team on-board three weeks ago when they started following Charlie. The whole Charlie mess left them vulnerable, and the charade at Allied put their necks out much further than he had ever dreamed. He was at a precipice, the point of no return, no turning around and no going back. They were committed and he was determined to see it through.

  A car horn blew outside near the massive door. Dwight moved across to the other side, slapping the green button on the wall. A motor rumbled to life and the large metal door slowly rose into the ceiling of the warehouse. Dwight’s men drove inside, parked in the far corner and cut the engine. Dwight hit the red button and the door clamored down on its wobbly rollers, the bright morning sun fading until it was totally extinguished, the dark gloom of the warehouse being restored.

  Jason, Don, Marco and Remos entered the office, heading straight for the coffeepot. Dwight was eager to hear the details. Jason opened with them providing their FBI identifications to the Allied guard on duty, who reacted exactly as Dwight had predicted – he ran photocopies and called the local FBI number. On Jason’s cue via cell phone Santiago, with the aid of a few others, briefly tied up the FBI lines with worthless inquiries, making it impossible for the guard to get through. Jason then produced the card with the phony number scribbled across the top that Dwight had provided earlier. The guard fell for it and called Santiago’s cell phone, one that had been illegally cloned only a week before, leaving no trace.

  The others watched and nursed their coffee while Jason gave his debrief. The operation had gone smoothly. They questioned many of Charlie’s coworkers and it was Jason’s opinion that none of them knew anything about Charlie or what he was working on, with one exception.

  “Who would that be?” Dwight inquired, his interest piqued.

  “The manager of the department, Kyle Randall. He’s a real smart ass, and as it turns out, Charlie’s best friend. I don’t think he’s gonna sit still.”

  “How many computers did you erase?”

  “Two,” Jason said. “Charlie’s and Kyle’s.”

  “And the network?”

  Jason shook his head.

  “What?” Dwight’s eyes became thin slits as he glared across the table.

  “The network wasn't accessible. We were going to do it later, hoping it would come up, but then Remos came in and we had to leave.”

  Dwight closed his eyes and sighed. “Most of what concerns us resides on the network.”

  Jason didn’t falter. “It was out of our hands.”

  Dwight pondered for a bit, closing his eyes once again. He realized if it was down then it was down, but that left another hole, just waiting for someone like Charlie to walk through. Wiping the PCs was more diversionary than anything else. It would keep them guessing as to what could have been stored on them to cause one of their employees to be silenced. At the same time, wiping them was precautionary in case any of the files from the network had been transferred. In Dwight’s eyes, only half the job had been accomplished.

  “Did Metzgar plant our little surprise?”

  Jason nodded.

  Dwight slowly opened the lower right-hand drawer and pulled out a large, rectangular Tupperware container, setting it on top of the desk. “I want all your guns, IDs and anything else we assigned to you."

  Coffee cups landed on the desk as the men fished out all the items on Dwight’s list. Each echoed inside the container with a loud thud, one after the other. When they were finished, the Tupperware was heaping – three small, black wallets with FBI IDs in each, four hand guns (two .38s and two .45s), car keys, office keys, credit cards, two official-looking warrants and a host of small cosmetic camouflage appliances – tiny scars, colored contacts, sideburns, Marco’s mustache, fake moles and a few oddities. Dwight used both hands to place the container back in the drawer, replaced by four white envelopes laid across the desk, each with a name printed across the front.

  “Gentlemen, it’s been nice doing business with you. Inside each of these is the agreed upon amount, plus your plane ticket.”

  Jason was the first to snatch his up, ripping the envelope open immediately. He removed a stack of cash and a Southwest Airline ticket. He counted the money, but Dwight didn’t worry. It was all there. Jason got thirty-thousand, the rest twenty-five. If they had been normal workers doing a normal job it would average over two hundred dollars an hour, often for nothing more than sitting in a car. As far as Dwight was concerned, a hundred-and-five thousand dollars hit the budget pretty hard. It was an unplanned expense, although he could ask for more money if things became desperate. The client had already made that very clear, but discouraged it nonetheless.

  The others followed suit, eagerly thumbing through their money. The plane tickets went virtually untouched, although they were on different airlines – one on Southwest, one Delta, and the remaining two on United. Two were headed for Las Vegas and it was likely the money would be gone before the day was over.

  Dwight peeked at his watch. It was now a quarter ‘til ten. “Gentlemen, your flights leave in an hour. Ian will be here shortly to drive you to the airport. It’s not likely any of us will meet again, so enjoy the money and forget we ever met.”

  Jason looked up and smiled. He had confided to Dwight that he was banking his cash and heading straight for another job in Vermont. Dwight didn’t really care, but accommodated him in any event. Dwight had much grander plans in mind, which he chose not to entrust with Jason, or any of the temps for that matter. Theirs would pale in comparison.
>
  A door opened and closed from inside the warehouse, two figures emerging. Santiago walked in, taking position next to Dwight, Ian Reyes remaining behind, leaning against the doorframe.

  Dwight looked over to Ian. “Escort our friends to the airport.”

  Ian didn’t say a word as he turned and headed back outside, the temps following behind in isolated conversations. Soon Dwight and Santiago were alone, Dwight relaxing in the chair once more, Santiago perching himself on the edge of the desk.

  “I don’t know about you,” Dwight started, letting out a weary breath, “but I’m glad they’re gone. It was making me nervous.”

  Santiago smiled. He was a small man, especially evident when he stood next to Marco. Yet, in spite of his size, he didn’t intimidate easily. He had been with Dwight nearly two years, and their relationship worked well for the most part, Dwight being the elder of the two by a good decade. Santiago was from Mexico, originally, and blended well in Albuquerque. He spoke Spanish fluently, which came in handy on many occasions even though English was the predominant language. Their talents complemented one another and that delighted Dwight no end – he had the contacts in the government while Santiago associated with a seedier element, most of whom were flying out within the hour.

  “So, what’s next?” Santiago asked.

  Dwight thought for a second before answering. “Have Ian tail Kyle Randall, but at a distance. It’s a sure bet the real FBI are getting involved, and if they put a tail on Kyle also, I don’t want Ian to get in the way.”

  “No prob,” Santiago answered in his thick, Mexican accent.

  “Since we’re pretty sure the FBI will intervene, we can also expect a call from Rudy sometime today.”

  “You think he’ll blow the whole thing?”

  Dwight shook his head, glancing up at Santiago. “Are you kidding? He wants to collect that FBI pension someday. I’ll tell him things got out of hand, that Charlie’s death was an accident. He did pull a gun first. If that doesn’t work, we’ll use more forceful persuasions.”