Conspiracy

103

Telach came down to the briefing room to personally tell Rubens that they had located the computer the Secret Service agent had used the night before.

“It looks like she erased and overwrote what she had been doing,” Telach told him. “We may be able to recover the information if we retrieve the drive.”

“Then let’s do that. Have Lia explain what is going on,” said Rubens. “But only as much as is absolutely necessary.”

“They’ll probably ask for a subpoena.”

“Of course.”

Rubens nodded to Jackson as Telach left the room. Jackson continued updating the others.

“Tolong is the obvious suspect,” Jackson said. “He and the other Marine on the patrol. He was immediately suspected. But then he goes on patrol and dies. So if I were to suspect someone, it would be Gordon. Anyone could have found the money if Tolong had kept it among his personal things. We have to check the unit where he was, and any other unit that could have come in contact with him.” Most of the analysts were actually computer scientists or cryptologists, but if someone had walked in off the street he would probably have thought he had stumbled into an artists’ convention. There were tie-died sixties-style T-shirts, torn jeans, a leather-fringe jacket, and what appeared to Rubens to be a full baseball uniform. Body piercings made dealing with the security protocols a major daily hassle, so aside from a few earrings — on the men, for the most part — there were none. Tattoos were also covered, though Rubens suspected there were a good variety under the shirts and other clothing.

Hairstyles were a different matter. Desk Three’s best cryptologist, a young woman two years out of Princeton, sported a green Mohawk. The team’s resident weapons expert, a thirtysomething Marine sergeant on semi-permanent loan to the agency, had a shoulder-length ponytail.

“What about Gordon?” asked Angela DiGiacomo. “Maybe Tolong told him where the money was before he died.”

“Good point.” Jackson beamed at the young woman.

“There must have been one other person involved in the conspiracy,” said Rubens. “That person feels cheated somehow, and is now out for revenge.”

“Or wants all the money to himself,” said Jackson. “But if that’s our working theory, then we have to assume that Senator McSweeney was involved in the original theft. He’s the one who made the assignments. He controlled the initial investigation, at least from the Marines’ side. He’s got to be involved up to his neck.”

“Appearances deceive!” said Johnny Bib.

Everyone, including Rubens, turned to Johnny Bib, await-ing an explanation for his outburst. But none was forthcoming.

“Are you reminding us to keep an open mind?” Rubens asked. “Or have you thought of something specific?”

“Open mind.” Johnny Bib grinned, then leaned back in the chair and stretched his legs. “What if Forester and Gordon really did commit suicide? What if the assassin has nothing to do with the theft of money? Two equations — common algebra.”

“Mr. Bibleria is quite right,” said Rubens, glancing at Jackson. “It is possible that these things are not related, and that in fact we do not have all the information here.”

“We are missing critical information,” added Johnny Bib. “The addition of a variable may change our answer set entirely.”

Rubens listened as Johnny Bib divvied up new assignments, most of which involved searching records thirty and forty years old for possible clues and connections. The session over, the analysts filed out. They were a noisy bunch, talking and joking and in one or two cases even singing.

“Thank you for translating,” Jackson told Rubens.

“Yes. Mr. Bibleria occasionally gets carried away with his meta phors.”

Marie Telach was just coming down the hall as Rubens stepped out.

“Come with me to the Art Room,” she said. “You won’t believe what’s on Fox.”