The Special Agent Jana Baker Spy-Thriller Series

A Communique Intercepted

1

A Communique Intercepted

Headquarters, Federal Bureau of Investigation, J. Edgar Hoover Building, 935 Pennsylvania Avenue NW, Washington, DC.

“Is this the intercepted communiqué that NSA sent over?”

“Yes, sir,” the junior FBI agent said as he held up a printout.

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Steven Bolz read the document. “What makes them think this communication is any more important than the thousands of others they’re intercepting? Al-Qaeda has been sending messages like these for the last nine months.”

The junior agent pulled against the neckline of his starched white-collar shirt and shifted in his seat.

Bolz looked at him. “Who sent this over?”

“Came in on the secure line, sir. The NSA analyst said it had gone through channels, and that it was level ten.”

“Level ten? All this communiqué indicates is a series of coordinates. And you said these coordinates correspond to places spread out across the Middle East? That’s not a level ten, that doesn’t even rate a level five in my book. Get him on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bolz took the receiver and waited for an answer. After the third ring, what sounded like a teenager’s voice answered, “NSA operation center, this is Knuckles.”

“Did you say your name was Knuckles?” Agent Bolz said as he placed one hand on his hip.

“Oh, Agent Bolz, you must be calling about that level ten. How can I help, sir?”

“How old are you? Oh, never mind. Did you do the analysis on this communication?”

“No, sir, one of my people did. I’m the senior supervisory duty analyst, sir. My duties are to ensure the veracity of claims made by analysts on my team.”

“You’re in a supervisory role? You can’t be more than fifteen years old. How did you get this job? Look, son, we don’t have time to track down every communication made by a terror network. There are too many, you’ve got to narrow it down more than that.”

Sitting in the vast NSA command center at Fort Meade, Maryland, Knuckles rubbed his chin, a chin that could barely produce peach fuzz. Those around him would say he looked fourteen years old, maybe fifteen on a good day. But those same people had come to respect him the way a student respects a professor.

“Agent Bolz, I’ve personally analyzed over eleven thousand intercepts from terror cells all over the world. I am the senior-most member of the terror watch group. I train NSA analysts and personnel from all over the intelligence community. And that includes the intelligence services of our allies. My age is not in question here, sir. Not to mention the fact that my section chief, Bill Tarleton, reviewed the communiqué before we sent it to you. If you are second-guessing the importance of this communication, I’d suggest you take a closer look at the identity of the US citizen in question, then call me back.” The line went dead.

Agent Bolz’s mouth hung open and he stared at the receiver.

“Well that little son of a b***h. Call him back? I’ve been at the bureau longer than he’s been alive. Who does he think he is?” Bolz turned to the junior agent. “All right, run the identity of the US citizen in question. Check it against the terror watch list, see if he’s in the NCIC database, then check him against Interpol.”

“Already done, sir,” the junior agent said as he handed another piece of paper to Agent Bolz. The young man’s hand shook, yet Bolz did not notice.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” Bolz studied the paper. “Well I’ll be damned.” His eyes traced further and further down the sheet. “The chief financial officer of Petrolsoft? Good God. That’s a multibillion-dollar corporation. No wonder NSA put priority on this. We never get an intercept with people of this type communicating to anyone on the terror watch list.”

“Sir?” The young agent said. “What does Petrolsoft do?”

“Giant software conglomerate, Wall Street darling. Then a few years back they purchased several manufacturers of oil-well-drilling equipment and other equipment needed in oil production facilities. I own some shares myself.” Bolz rubbed his temple, lost in thought. Then, just under his breath he said, “Now why is the CFO of a multibillion-dollar oil conglomerate conversing with Al-Qaeda?”