The Shack series

Chapter 38

They'd quizzed each other over and over. Room numbers, hallway turns, the number of flights of stairs, how many steps in each flight, locations of maintenance closets, parking garage details. Emergency exits, power outlet locations. Escape routes, exfiltration routes.

Tess had even chased down the type of capacitor in the stairwell emergency light sets so they "wouldn't have to wing it like that one time."

I didn't ask, and they didn't volunteer details. Tess muttered something about "if you don't know, you can't testify about it."

They even religiously repeated a mantra I had heard since I was a junior agent. "Good operations are smoke and mirrors. They aren't easy; they just look easy because the effort and planning are done beforehand."

One last gear check and they loaded up.

I'd frankly rather have had Delaney drive than Mackenzie, even though I was certain Mackenzie was competent and well trained. I'd had enough drivers to recognize that Delaney was one of the extremely rare few with an innate talent and a natural rhythm with machines. You can't train that; it's just wired in the nervous system. Once you've seen a few ugly motorcade incidents, you really start trying to find those rare few.

Makenzie was just more believable; she had height and a naturally closer-to-adult look that would draw less attention as a driver. Delaney still looked like she should be sitting on a telephone book. The Girl Scout uniform made her look even younger.

The drive into the city seemed to take forever, but Mackenzie handled the insane DC traffic as if she'd been driving in it all her life, eventually pulling into a parking garage a few blocks away from the Hoover Building.

*****

Tourists...

*****

We processed into the FBI at the visitor center along with several other visitors; senior citizens with a case of curiosity, congressman-sponsored tour groups and even a large high school group from Georgia.

The Girls Scout "legend" was a brilliant choice. With cranky senior citizens and deliberately obnoxious high school seniors, a small group of well-behaved Girl Scouts working on an achievement escorted by an actual cleared contractor was practically a breath of fresh air. We slipped through with minimal scrutiny.

Whatever strings Spooky had pulled worked perfectly.

As the girls' designated escort, I had no trouble taking them in, and while the woman in charge of processing followed every protocol perfectly, there was no reason for her even to suspect a problem.

We started working our way through the displays. The girls asked carefully thought-out questions about every display, taking careful notes -- even Delaney. While I expected her questions to veer toward the b****y and more graphic displays, she asked several serious questions about the lines of jurisdiction between the FBI, state agencies, and county level law enforcement.

With the key card, it wasn't particularly difficult to slip from the public access area into the bureau itself.

We might as well have been invisible. While everybody we passed noticed us, they had no real interest in us. Admittedly, I would have probably reacted the same way except to maybe stop and introduce myself and voice some platitudes about citizenship and community service. Friendly engagement with visitors, after all, was a policy that I had implemented at the Bureau as a form of public relations.

All things considered, that made encountering Emma all the more ironic.

We'd just rounded the corner to head for the stairs when we walked right into her. And, of course, per policy, she promptly stopped what appeared to be a heated discussion with a White House liaison officer I vaguely knew and began talking with us.

Tess's reaction was flawless. "Ma'am, aren't you the executive assistant director for the National Security branch?"

Emma gave a perfect smile. "I take it you've studied the Bureau." She looked over at me, apparently with no recognition at all. "If you have a moment, I can talk with them for a few minutes. I was due at a meeting five minutes ago, but they won't start without me. So we can talk unless you have a schedule to keep."

The White House Liaison gave a sour grimace and did everything but stamp his foot impatiently, which made it easy for me to shake my head. "We have plenty of time."

That earned me a slight side-eye from Tess when she realized she wasn't the only one with a talent for accents and voices. It'd been a while, but I easily slid into an old Connecticut accent, which oozed good schools and affluence, although not at Emma's Swiss boarding school level. I kept my voice a bit higher, with a slight quaver, the voice of retirement. It was far from my normal central Virginia accent. She showed no sign of recognition at all.

Emma had one of her aides grab an empty briefing room and gave what I, at least, considered an outstanding bit of community engagement, despite the fact that I really wanted to be almost anywhere else.

The girls played their parts, asking typical questions and mostly looking fascinated. Delaney asked the usual question we get from kids. "Have you ever had to shoot someone?"

Emma didn't so much as twitch. It's a common question; it would have been a little unusual if none of the girls had asked it or at least thought of it. Each agent handles it differently. Emma gave a solemn nod. "When I had to, to save myself or someone else. It isn't something I'm particularly proud of, but it had to be done."

"My Dad was a Soldier; he says the same thing. Sometimes you have to do what has to be done." There was a depth to Delaney's voice, perfectly in synch with Emma's solemn tone. For that moment, they sounded eerily alike.

I remembered my conversation with Mackenzie. More than ever, I was sure Delaney had been forced to make those final decisions, probably more than once.

"We do our best to avoid those situations, but we can't all the time." She gave a practiced, slightly sad smile. I doubted she actually regretted pulling the trigger when she had to, any more than I did, but it was the right thing to say; although, perhaps not with these particular young women.

"It doesn't happen as often as it does in the movies. Most agents go through their whole career without ever having to engage in a firefight with a suspect."

Despite the obvious impatience of the White House liaison officer, Emma took her time and talked to the girls for a solid twenty minutes. Part of that was probably to piss off the liaison officer, but most of it was just, well, Emma. She believed in the FBI at a level that was beyond dedication; she fiercely wanted the FBI to be what it should be, what it aspired to be, beyond politics or petty bureaucratic concerns.

She sent her aide to her office to bring back FBI lapel pins; she solemnly pinned them first on the girls and then on me before making her apologies for having to leave for her meeting.

We waited until they were out of sight before moving to the stairwell.

I had an almost irresistible urge to break out in a very un-deputy-director-like giggle but managed to bring it up short. The girls chattered loudly and excitedly about how cool it was to meet the EAD for National Security. But the excitement never quite reached their eyes; deadly cold and serious, they scanned relentlessly.

Tess did a silent count before checking around the corner and gesturing us into the stairwell.

We walked up slowly as I lectured about the history of the FBI. If anyone ran into us, we'd just keep going and project that we had every right to be where we were.

Michael used to joke that if you want to be left alone in the Army, carry a clipboard and look busy. Anyone with any sense will stay clear just to avoid getting dragged into whatever task you've been tagged with.

Not everyone in the FBI was as enthusiastic as Emma about the engagement policy I had put into effect. Most would simply walk by an obvious officially sponsored tour and try desperately not to make eye contact to avoid getting pulled in and disrupting their already packed schedules.

I was careful to keep my "voice" in character. Regardless of what the movies show, it is extremely difficult to maintain a fake accent or voice pattern over any real length of time, even with professional training. Like Tess, I'd always been a natural mimic, but even with that advantage, I could only push it so far.

The fact that I was basically giving part of the speech I gave to every FBI Academy class was both good and bad. All too easy to remember, but all too easy to fall back into my natural voice and speech pattern.

It was also pointless as we didn't run into a single person. I could take some justifiable pride in that; one of my few contributions to the girls' planning process. The FBI, like every other large bureaucracy, has patterns. Work hours, lunch times, external drivers, distribution of subordinate and implied tasks, along with the driving need for internal communications, all work to force most meetings into a relatively narrow band. At times, the halls are crowded with passers-by. There are also times, even inside the FBI, that you'd never know that anyone worked there. Emma running late had been a fluke of timing.

We reached the door, and I prayed for two things; that the key card would work and that no meeting had been scheduled for the room. It was rarely used, but bad luck happens, and coincidences can kill.

I scanned the card, held my breath and pushed the door open.

Empty.

The energy-saving motion-detecting lights kicked on as I stepped in. The room smelled a little musty in that oddly specific way; that peculiar smell of an abandoned room.

It was the perfect place for Michael to have left me a message. I figured he had probably put it on the shared folders on the computer.

I smiled as I headed for the computer kiosk; all I had to do was figure out the name of the file or folder. We'd shared a lot of secrets, a lot of private thoughts. We practically had our own secret language. I knew it would be something I'd recognize instantly.

Long time lovers can do that. Build those private worlds that only they know.

I... I stopped.

The kiosk was empty. The various data lines, audio and video cords, USB and other cords were sitting randomly across it, like tentacles of some dead ultra-modern sea creature.

Delaney came up on my left and stared at the empty space where the computer was supposed to be. "Fuck."

"Fuck." I echoed her. She was clearly a bad influence on me. But then, even on reflection, I couldn't think of a better word to use.

Mackenzie visibly deflated as she took in the view of the empty kiosk. Tess moved slowly and looked around darkly. "Was that the only computer?"

"Yes." I sighed and stared at the ceiling. "That was it."

I felt the walls closing in. I'd been wrong on every count. We'd have to exfiltrate, and then I needed to find a way to get out of the US. I was putting everyone I came in contact with at risk.

What the hell was I even thinking? Teenage girls playing bodyguard? Sneaking into the FBI with Girl Scouts? Jesus.

I looked around. Delaney was watching the door, jaws clenched, struggling to keep her annoyance in check. Mackenzie was putting on a brave face, but I could see she'd taken a hit.