“Your consultant, your call. How do you propose to work this?”
“I’ve been instructed to put the technical assets of the Bureau at your disposal and to offer professional advice on the course of the investigation whenever I see an opportunity to be helpful. It’s your case, and it will remain so until and unless certain exigencies arise that trigger a wider national security interest.”
That little speech sounded rehearsed to Cam, but the sheriff thanked McLain for the Bureau’s offer of help, then suggested to Cam that the three of them adjourn to the MCAT office. Once there, Cam saw that Kenny was back. He called him over and asked him to get Ms. Bawa set up with a computer terminal. He took McLain into his personal office, took off his gun belt, and invited McLain to make himself comfortable.
“You have been bending over backward to be nice,” Cam said without preamble. “I appreciate the hell out of it, but how come?”
McLain smiled. “First of all, we really do have a full plate
these days with this antiterrorism mission. And second, now that Butts has been abducted, we think it’s just about guaranteed we’ll see a second execution.”
“The first one was a grisly novelty,” Cam said.
“Yes, but a second one is going to nudge the liberal establishment into high dudgeon. Inquiring minds are gonna want to know: Hey, you guys on this, or what?”
Cam laughed. “And that’s what you meant by ‘certain exigencies’? If the political shit storm reaches a critical mass, you guys will step up?”
“Something like that,” he said with a smile. “Assuming it’s real.”
“Yeah, that’s one of our problems,” Cam said. “It could be a damn hoax.”
“What’s MCAT?” McLain asked.
Cam told him. “Interesting approach,” McLain said. “You okay with us being here like this?” he asked.
“Hell yes,” Cam said. “I was just telling the sheriff that we ought to hand this sick puppy off to the Bureau right now.”
“He good with that?”
“Not entirely,” Cam said. “He feels that since we—and that means a guy in my shop—actually lit the fuse on this thing with a screwup, we should be the ones to ‘unscrew’ it, as he quaintly puts it.”
“I can understand that,” McLain said.
Cam told him what the sheriff had said about a possible division of labor. McLain agreed immediately. “What’s first?” he asked.
“We like James Marlor as the possible doer, and we’ve been looking. But of course now our urgent priority is to retrieve Deleon Butts. We have very little to go on, other than it was a hooded guy in a pickup truck, using an automatic rifle but shooting blanks.”
“Yeah, blanks. We heard about that. Any leads?”
Cam shrugged. “The city cops have a full-court press going in certain neighborhoods, but you know how that goes.”
“And you’ve found no trace of the other guy, Simmonds?”
“Only on the Web. And that’s a problem, of course, because we don’t habeas a corpus.”
McLain frowned but didn’t say anything. Cam switched to his problem with having Ms. Bawa involved. He told him of her sentiments on what should have happened in the courthouse square.
“She told me the same thing,” he said. “Refreshing, isn’t it?”
It was Cam’s turn to smile.
“She’s a piece of work,” he said, “both technically and personally. She’s worked for the Bureau before, with our counterterrorism folks. Technically, she’s beyond good. She keeps a brace of mainframe IBM computers in her home office and connects to the Web with her own T-one line.”
“English?” Cam said. “T-one?”
“That means a huge data pipe. The word broadband doesn’t adequately describe it. She says she never deals directly with the Web. She interfaces with her mainframes—she calls them her ‘tigers’—and they go out on the Web.”
“Sounds a little scary. This is in Charlotte?”
“Right. She’s a professional consultant. Adheres to Bureau guidelines
“I’ve been instructed to put the technical assets of the Bureau at your disposal and to offer professional advice on the course of the investigation whenever I see an opportunity to be helpful. It’s your case, and it will remain so until and unless certain exigencies arise that trigger a wider national security interest.”
That little speech sounded rehearsed to Cam, but the sheriff thanked McLain for the Bureau’s offer of help, then suggested to Cam that the three of them adjourn to the MCAT office. Once there, Cam saw that Kenny was back. He called him over and asked him to get Ms. Bawa set up with a computer terminal. He took McLain into his personal office, took off his gun belt, and invited McLain to make himself comfortable.
“You have been bending over backward to be nice,” Cam said without preamble. “I appreciate the hell out of it, but how come?”
McLain smiled. “First of all, we really do have a full plate
these days with this antiterrorism mission. And second, now that Butts has been abducted, we think it’s just about guaranteed we’ll see a second execution.”
“The first one was a grisly novelty,” Cam said.
“Yes, but a second one is going to nudge the liberal establishment into high dudgeon. Inquiring minds are gonna want to know: Hey, you guys on this, or what?”
Cam laughed. “And that’s what you meant by ‘certain exigencies’? If the political shit storm reaches a critical mass, you guys will step up?”
“Something like that,” he said with a smile. “Assuming it’s real.”
“Yeah, that’s one of our problems,” Cam said. “It could be a damn hoax.”
“What’s MCAT?” McLain asked.
Cam told him. “Interesting approach,” McLain said. “You okay with us being here like this?” he asked.
“Hell yes,” Cam said. “I was just telling the sheriff that we ought to hand this sick puppy off to the Bureau right now.”
“He good with that?”
“Not entirely,” Cam said. “He feels that since we—and that means a guy in my shop—actually lit the fuse on this thing with a screwup, we should be the ones to ‘unscrew’ it, as he quaintly puts it.”
“I can understand that,” McLain said.
Cam told him what the sheriff had said about a possible division of labor. McLain agreed immediately. “What’s first?” he asked.
“We like James Marlor as the possible doer, and we’ve been looking. But of course now our urgent priority is to retrieve Deleon Butts. We have very little to go on, other than it was a hooded guy in a pickup truck, using an automatic rifle but shooting blanks.”
“Yeah, blanks. We heard about that. Any leads?”
Cam shrugged. “The city cops have a full-court press going in certain neighborhoods, but you know how that goes.”
“And you’ve found no trace of the other guy, Simmonds?”
“Only on the Web. And that’s a problem, of course, because we don’t habeas a corpus.”
McLain frowned but didn’t say anything. Cam switched to his problem with having Ms. Bawa involved. He told him of her sentiments on what should have happened in the courthouse square.
“She told me the same thing,” he said. “Refreshing, isn’t it?”
It was Cam’s turn to smile.
“She’s a piece of work,” he said, “both technically and personally. She’s worked for the Bureau before, with our counterterrorism folks. Technically, she’s beyond good. She keeps a brace of mainframe IBM computers in her home office and connects to the Web with her own T-one line.”
“English?” Cam said. “T-one?”
“That means a huge data pipe. The word broadband doesn’t adequately describe it. She says she never deals directly with the Web. She interfaces with her mainframes—she calls them her ‘tigers’—and they go out on the Web.”
“Sounds a little scary. This is in Charlotte?”
“Right. She’s a professional consultant. Adheres to Bureau guidelines
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