The Backup Asset

…72

The thirty-six hours Bob McLeod spent in federal detention had left marks on his face, his clothes, and his entire appearance. His hair and beard were grimy and unkempt. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his dirty hands ran through his hair and over his face almost obsessively. He had slept, the little he’d been allowed to, in his suit, and that looked crumpled and dirty, the fine, designer, wool fabric reduced to a rag.

By contrast, the FBI agent seated across from him at the small, metallic table looked fresh and almost content, sipping steaming coffee from his tall cup and showing slight irritation in his eyes when reviewing McLeod’s file.

McLeod decided to break the silence.

“You’re still not going to allow me my right to an attorney?” he spoke almost defiantly.

“Traitors have no rights,” Agent Weber replied indifferently, almost casually.

“How long are you gonna keep me here?” McLeod protested, slamming his hands on the tabletop as much as his chained cuffs allowed him. “You can’t keep me like this forever.”

“That is correct,” Weber confirmed, not even looking at McLeod and continuing to read the excerpt from prior interrogation sessions. “But you seem to be forgetting you were caught in an act of espionage and treason, and that voids all your rights under the Patriot Act.”

McLeod fell silent for a while, them whispered, “Gitmo?”

“No. We’ve recently closed that facility, but we have others, just as capable of handling our country’s traitors, maybe even better, because no one really knows they exist. Everyone knew about damn Gitmo… It was becoming such a drag to deal with all that public outrage. That’s over, done with. We have new locations.” Weber sipped some more coffee, then continued, “For example, we have a new facility specialized for people who won’t talk at all, for traitors who just fail to understand their situation. They make things hard for us? Then we make things hard for them… And, of course, we have to keep such operations offshore, in places so deep and dark no one ever hears the screams, and no one ever counts the bodies.”

McLeod shuddered and swallowed hard. His defiance was all gone; he sat crouched, with his shoulders forward and head bowed. Then he spoke quietly.

“What do you want to know?”

“For starters, I want to know details on every piece of information you stole, and who you gave it to.”

McLeod hesitated. He must have known that an admission of treason was not going to help his case much. For a logical, cold-blooded thinker as he obviously was, he must have known by now he was finished anyway. He might as well cut his pain and get this phase over, done as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Treason carried an unavoidable death sentence. If McLeod didn’t know that by now, Weber was determined to reiterate that point and help him make up his mind to talk.

McLeod sighed and started talking in a low, almost casual voice.

“I had access to three classified files — SECRET, TOP SECRET, or above— all about the laser cannon installation on Zumwalt-class destroyers, or about the cannon itself. I copied all three and took the information home.”

“Go on,” Weber said.

“Then I prepared several deliveries.” McLeod cleared his throat, continuing, “I wasn’t going to hand out everything in one deal. I milked it for all it was worth.”

“So, you’re just a regular Judas, a traitor for money?”

McLeod smiled bitterly. “That’s what you think, huh? How simple it is for you ignorants to slap a label on someone and find peace with your conscience, no matter how wrong you are. Amazing… Ignorance is bliss.”

“Then tell me, what am I missing?”

“You haven’t asked the most important question: why? Why did I decide to risk my life and my freedom to give these people information? I couldn’t care less about their ideology.”

“OK, I’ll bite. Why?”

“A few years ago I filed a patent for a new navigation stabilization system, one that could be used on Navy vessels, and also adapted to any aircraft. My invention introduced variable geometry controlled by environmental sensors. In short, the vessel would change its hull properties depending on currents and wind direction, bringing significant gains in speed, fuel efficiency, and stability. Do you even know how important that is, how much of a game changer? I guess I’m safe to presume not…”

“Yes, you are. Go ahead, I’m all ears,” Weber replied dryly, immune to McLeod’s biting arrogance.

“The patent was filed under joint authorship, me and Walcott Global. It wasn’t the first patent that I filed under these circumstances.”

“Then what happened?” Weber asked, while his interest piqued.

“A couple of months ago I heard it on TV, on the fucking TV no less, that Walcott had sold my patent to Endeavor Aviation for 157 million dollars. Nicely done! I didn’t even know about it.”

“Then what did you do?”

“At that point I was still a solid citizen,” he said with a disgusted scoff. “I went to see my boss about it, then Human Resources. They all said the same thing, that all my work was work for hire, that I was being paid every two weeks, and that they didn’t owe me anything. Fucking bastards!”

“I understand you were upset—”

“Upset? I was frantic! What a difference 5 percent would have made for me, for my life, while they wouldn’t even have felt it. Even 1 percent; I’d have taken that 1 percent and be eternally grateful. But no… the fucking greedy parasites, the leeches, sucking every ounce of someone’s value and paying pennies for it. They had the arrogance to think they could own my brain. They only pay for eight hours of my time during each business day. They don’t even come close to paying for everything this has to offer,” McLeod finished his tirade pointing his right index finger at his temple.

“Then what did you do?”

“I decided to make them pay a different way, if I couldn’t negotiate with them. I thought maybe there was someone else out there willing to pay me, while I taught the leeches a lesson in humility and fair compensation. That’s why I didn’t hand out all the documents at a time.”

Weber’s anger was getting harder to control. He couldn’t believe the entitled arrogance in that asshole.

“Did you ever stop to think you were betraying your country, Mr. McLeod?”

“My country can take it, Agent Weber. This country is full of brilliant schmucks like me who’ll invent new gizmos every day and get paid next to nothing for it. That’s what makes America great, isn’t it?”

Weber stood abruptly and exited the interview room, afraid his mixed feelings would cloud his judgment in there. He had spent his entire life serving his country, and nothing disgusted him more than a traitor. He could have wrung that arrogant bastard’s neck himself in there, with his bare hands. Yet, in the back of his mind somewhere, he could feel the man’s frustration and see his point. Maybe McLeod wasn’t the only guilty party in this game… Maybe Walcott could have done things a little differently too, although Walcott had never broken the law; only McLeod had.

But if that were entirely the case, why didn’t Mason Armstrong find any evidence of this situation anywhere in McLeod’s file, Human Resources debriefings, or during the interview with his manager?