Fisherman’s Cove, it would have sounded outrageously paranoid. Besides, Venice should have known better.
Jonathan pressed his thumb to the print reader and winked at the camera. When the lock buzzed, he pushed the door open and entered the hive of activity that was Security Solutions. As usual, it appeared that he was the last to arrive. You got to do that when you owned the place.
“Good morning everyone,” he said to the room. A few people spoke a greeting in return, but it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan turned left inside the door and approached Charlie Keeling, another member of the guard staff. The two guards on duty split their time between guarding the front door and guarding the entrance to the Cave.
“Listen, Mr. G,” Charlie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I owe you an apology for this morning. Rick and I never should have helped with those boxes, but I couldn’t think of another way. Won’t happen again.”
Jonathan smiled. “I appreciate that, Charlie.” All was forgiven.
“Hey, JoeDog,” Charlie said. He patted his chest with both hands—a spot on his vest just above his slung MP5—and JoeDog planted her forepaws there, thus earning another ear rub.
Charlie buzzed the door and Jonathan and JoeDog both stepped into the Inner Sanctum. The beast made a beeline for her favorite leather chair near the fireplace in Jonathan’s office while her nominal master peeled off and headed for the War Room.
The teak conference table was buried in stacks of what had to be fifty file boxes, each of them marked with a sticker from the FBI proclaiming them to be SECRET: EYES ONLY.
“Holy shit,” Jonathan said.
“Welcome to my world.” Venice sat on the far side of the stack, the top of her head barely visible. “How many times do I have to remind you to be careful what you ask for?”
Jonathan stepped to the table and peeled the lid off a box, revealing file folders. Lots and lots of file folders. “I guess I underestimated the number of her enemies.”
“Oh, I think this is a more comprehensive file than just enemies,” Venice said. “This is essentially every person Yelena Poltanov ever talked to while she was in the United States.”
Jonathan gave a low whistle. “This will take days.”
Venice didn’t answer.
Jonathan pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and started paging through the box nearest him. From what he could tell, the files were organized by date. He started fingering through a box that seemed to span the month of March, 1985—part of the month, anyway. A counterespionage agent codenamed Watchdog had been following Yelena’s every move and taking annoyingly complete notes. As a random sample, Yelena had entered the chemistry lab at 09:54 and emerged in the company of two unknown students at 11:42. From there, she’d proceeded to the campus cafeteria, arriving at 11:57.
“Oh my God,” Jonathan said. “Imagine the poor SOB who had to read through all this minutiae and analyze it.”
“Your tax dollars at work,” Venice said.
Jonathan pulled out one of the rolling chairs that surrounded the conference table and sat. “We need context,” he said. “We don’t have the time to read through this stuff cold and figure out the cast of characters.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ve got nothing.”
“Then keep reading.”
“Have you called in Boxers for this?” Jonathan asked.
Venice laughed. “Right. This is definitely in his wheelhouse.”
Jonathan wanted to argue, but what was the point? Boxers’ attention span in fact did not lend itself to hours of document analysis. Still, it would be nice to have the extra set—
“Bingo!” Venice announced.
“What?”
She held aloft a compact disk. “An index. I’ve been looking for it. The feds always index boxes of files like this.” She swung around to her computer terminal as she spoke, opened the cup holder, and inserted the disk. “I’ll put it up on the wall,” she said.
Her fingers tapped
Jonathan pressed his thumb to the print reader and winked at the camera. When the lock buzzed, he pushed the door open and entered the hive of activity that was Security Solutions. As usual, it appeared that he was the last to arrive. You got to do that when you owned the place.
“Good morning everyone,” he said to the room. A few people spoke a greeting in return, but it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan turned left inside the door and approached Charlie Keeling, another member of the guard staff. The two guards on duty split their time between guarding the front door and guarding the entrance to the Cave.
“Listen, Mr. G,” Charlie said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I owe you an apology for this morning. Rick and I never should have helped with those boxes, but I couldn’t think of another way. Won’t happen again.”
Jonathan smiled. “I appreciate that, Charlie.” All was forgiven.
“Hey, JoeDog,” Charlie said. He patted his chest with both hands—a spot on his vest just above his slung MP5—and JoeDog planted her forepaws there, thus earning another ear rub.
Charlie buzzed the door and Jonathan and JoeDog both stepped into the Inner Sanctum. The beast made a beeline for her favorite leather chair near the fireplace in Jonathan’s office while her nominal master peeled off and headed for the War Room.
The teak conference table was buried in stacks of what had to be fifty file boxes, each of them marked with a sticker from the FBI proclaiming them to be SECRET: EYES ONLY.
“Holy shit,” Jonathan said.
“Welcome to my world.” Venice sat on the far side of the stack, the top of her head barely visible. “How many times do I have to remind you to be careful what you ask for?”
Jonathan stepped to the table and peeled the lid off a box, revealing file folders. Lots and lots of file folders. “I guess I underestimated the number of her enemies.”
“Oh, I think this is a more comprehensive file than just enemies,” Venice said. “This is essentially every person Yelena Poltanov ever talked to while she was in the United States.”
Jonathan gave a low whistle. “This will take days.”
Venice didn’t answer.
Jonathan pushed up the sleeves of his sweater and started paging through the box nearest him. From what he could tell, the files were organized by date. He started fingering through a box that seemed to span the month of March, 1985—part of the month, anyway. A counterespionage agent codenamed Watchdog had been following Yelena’s every move and taking annoyingly complete notes. As a random sample, Yelena had entered the chemistry lab at 09:54 and emerged in the company of two unknown students at 11:42. From there, she’d proceeded to the campus cafeteria, arriving at 11:57.
“Oh my God,” Jonathan said. “Imagine the poor SOB who had to read through all this minutiae and analyze it.”
“Your tax dollars at work,” Venice said.
Jonathan pulled out one of the rolling chairs that surrounded the conference table and sat. “We need context,” he said. “We don’t have the time to read through this stuff cold and figure out the cast of characters.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I’ve got nothing.”
“Then keep reading.”
“Have you called in Boxers for this?” Jonathan asked.
Venice laughed. “Right. This is definitely in his wheelhouse.”
Jonathan wanted to argue, but what was the point? Boxers’ attention span in fact did not lend itself to hours of document analysis. Still, it would be nice to have the extra set—
“Bingo!” Venice announced.
“What?”
She held aloft a compact disk. “An index. I’ve been looking for it. The feds always index boxes of files like this.” She swung around to her computer terminal as she spoke, opened the cup holder, and inserted the disk. “I’ll put it up on the wall,” she said.
Her fingers tapped
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