important than what you agree about, and they strung him along forever, then rushed him, and because he didn’t want “small details” —like proper security!— to be in the way, all the normal security just got peeled off like a guy trying to finish a dogsled race and throwing off his camping stuff, then his spare food, then his water, then his coat—and now the blizzard hits.
So the whole time, as they sacrificed all his security, our brave good-hearted goddam fucking naïve Samuelson kept reassuring everyone that he wasn’t afraid, and nobody said, “But, sir, it’s not just the danger to you , and the reason you’re not afraid is that you’re a fool.”
Radio silence; going out without the direct-to-satellite transmitters, when it turned out they didn’t have one on short notice; not flying one out
ASAP because another plane landing at Sentani might have drawn attention; who the hell’s brilliant idea had that been?
Three real stupid temporary solutions. Or were they stupid ? Did they all come from the same place?
Shit. All three from one Samuelson advisor, Atela Pawhan, formerly Mary Davis. Back when she was Davis, she’d been briefly married to a guy who was now identified as a sometime stringer on the edge of the il’Alb il-Jihado network. Pawhan had a cousin, Lorenzo Bell, who worked in the secured storage where they kept the encrypted direct-to-satellite boxes—
She had almost posted round those people up, now, before she saw the screen title: BELL GROUP, IDENTIFIED MEMBERS AND DISPOSITIONS.
Duh.
The reason it was all there on one screen for her to find was that the FBI had already tried to arrest Pawhan and Bell about an hour ago. They found Pawhan dead in her apartment, which had been trashed in a way that fit the script for “surprised an intruder.” Bell had extensive gambling debts, and a suicide note, to go with being found hanging from his showerhead. The feebs didn’t believe either, of course, and were searching their apartments to see if they could find some clue to their controllers.
An IM glowed in the corner of her screen: L. Plekhanov, NSA.
Lenny! Aside from being her source for cryptology, and the only reason Arnie Yang could read Daybreak’s messages, Leonardo Plekhanov was also responsible for the last three dates she’d had—each about a month apart. She looked around for his wheelchair, and then spotted the thick, wraparound glasses surrounding Lenny’s outsized square head above his tiny shoulders; she waved, and he raised his small, twisted left arm at her, smiling.
His message said, shitload more relevant stuff 2 read B4 strt. back 2 wrk, Beautiful. Bell Org prolly= no clues.
Okay, this is seriously weird. how U know?
clenched fists, rubbing back of neck, uncanny analyst ability, sherlock holmes-like attn 2 detail! He turned his wheelchair to give her the full effect of his big grin. also i can read the files backward on yr screen cuz not opaqued.
Addressing me as Beautiful is not exactly opaque either. She took the time to type that one all the way out. Hunh. Assuming the whole world didn’t blow apart, wonder if he’s got anywhere to watch the Series tonight, and if he likes brats baked with sauerkraut? And the Angels, of course.
She put her mind back on the briefing; sheesh, her old tai chi coach would be all over her for the bad case of monkey mind she was developing today. Center, breathe, be in the flow . . .
Heather felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying good coffee in a comfortable chair, reading about Our Man In Jayapura trapped in that office over a bank. The supplementary data noted that he was twenty-seven years old and on his third assignment with the Foreign Service. At least someone else somewhere had an early career experience that actually sucked worse than mine.
The report noted that he’d destroyed the confidential documents and erased all computer files, standard practice for a consul in his situation, and that his morale was assessed as
So the whole time, as they sacrificed all his security, our brave good-hearted goddam fucking naïve Samuelson kept reassuring everyone that he wasn’t afraid, and nobody said, “But, sir, it’s not just the danger to you , and the reason you’re not afraid is that you’re a fool.”
Radio silence; going out without the direct-to-satellite transmitters, when it turned out they didn’t have one on short notice; not flying one out
ASAP because another plane landing at Sentani might have drawn attention; who the hell’s brilliant idea had that been?
Three real stupid temporary solutions. Or were they stupid ? Did they all come from the same place?
Shit. All three from one Samuelson advisor, Atela Pawhan, formerly Mary Davis. Back when she was Davis, she’d been briefly married to a guy who was now identified as a sometime stringer on the edge of the il’Alb il-Jihado network. Pawhan had a cousin, Lorenzo Bell, who worked in the secured storage where they kept the encrypted direct-to-satellite boxes—
She had almost posted round those people up, now, before she saw the screen title: BELL GROUP, IDENTIFIED MEMBERS AND DISPOSITIONS.
Duh.
The reason it was all there on one screen for her to find was that the FBI had already tried to arrest Pawhan and Bell about an hour ago. They found Pawhan dead in her apartment, which had been trashed in a way that fit the script for “surprised an intruder.” Bell had extensive gambling debts, and a suicide note, to go with being found hanging from his showerhead. The feebs didn’t believe either, of course, and were searching their apartments to see if they could find some clue to their controllers.
An IM glowed in the corner of her screen: L. Plekhanov, NSA.
Lenny! Aside from being her source for cryptology, and the only reason Arnie Yang could read Daybreak’s messages, Leonardo Plekhanov was also responsible for the last three dates she’d had—each about a month apart. She looked around for his wheelchair, and then spotted the thick, wraparound glasses surrounding Lenny’s outsized square head above his tiny shoulders; she waved, and he raised his small, twisted left arm at her, smiling.
His message said, shitload more relevant stuff 2 read B4 strt. back 2 wrk, Beautiful. Bell Org prolly= no clues.
Okay, this is seriously weird. how U know?
clenched fists, rubbing back of neck, uncanny analyst ability, sherlock holmes-like attn 2 detail! He turned his wheelchair to give her the full effect of his big grin. also i can read the files backward on yr screen cuz not opaqued.
Addressing me as Beautiful is not exactly opaque either. She took the time to type that one all the way out. Hunh. Assuming the whole world didn’t blow apart, wonder if he’s got anywhere to watch the Series tonight, and if he likes brats baked with sauerkraut? And the Angels, of course.
She put her mind back on the briefing; sheesh, her old tai chi coach would be all over her for the bad case of monkey mind she was developing today. Center, breathe, be in the flow . . .
Heather felt a twinge of guilt for enjoying good coffee in a comfortable chair, reading about Our Man In Jayapura trapped in that office over a bank. The supplementary data noted that he was twenty-seven years old and on his third assignment with the Foreign Service. At least someone else somewhere had an early career experience that actually sucked worse than mine.
The report noted that he’d destroyed the confidential documents and erased all computer files, standard practice for a consul in his situation, and that his morale was assessed as
Similar Books
