The Destroyed

CHAPTER 30

WASHINGTON, DC

Helen Cho called back exactly thirty-seven minutes after Peter had hung up with her.

“I don’t know what you were expecting, but I doubt this was it,” she said.

“What did you find?”

“I shouldn’t even tell you. In fact, I probably should be calling the FBI and having you detained somewhere for just asking about this.”

“I told you I’m working for the government.”

“For former senator Mygatt,” she said.

“And Green. He still gets his paycheck from the same place you do.”

“Green,” she said, letting his name linger for a moment. “Ironic in either case. If I call the FBI, they’ll check with him first, and what do you want to bet I’d get put in the cell right next to yours?”

“Helen, what did you find?”

There was a long pause. “Have you ever heard of something called Project Cancer?”

“No.”

“Neither had I until fifteen minutes ago, thank you very much. Were you ever involved in any extraordinary rendition cases?”

Everybody in the intelligence world, at least those on the front lines in high-level positions like Peter and Helen, had been involved in the transfer of citizens from one country to a secret prison in another. The post-9/11 years had been a busy time. “A few. Is Project Cancer part of that?”

“First of all, the project is a rumor. It never existed. But hypothetically, if it did, it would be a variation on the theme.”

“What kind of variation are we talking about?”

She paused once more, then, as if reading from a book, she told him exactly what kind.

When she finished, he was speechless.

“Hypothetically, of course,” she said into the silence.

“Of course.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment, the full weight of what she had described filling the connection between them.

“And behind it all?” Peter finally asked.

“I did say ironic, didn’t I?”

Mygatt and Green, he thought. “How sure?”

“Let’s just say if it were an election, no one else is running.”

Dear God.

“Listen carefully,” she said, then gave him an email address, followed by a string of letters and numbers. “Do you have it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m sure I won’t be hearing from you about this again.”

She hung up.

Though the computers in his secret office were extremely secure, he didn’t for a second consider using one of them. To check the email account Helen had given him, he needed complete anonymity.

He went back downstairs, extracted an empty black accounting case from the closet that would typically have been used for linens, and left the building. Two streets away, he caught a cab that took him on a short ride to a neighborhood he hadn’t visited in over a year. He walked for several more blocks before turning down an alley.

Sixty seconds later, he was standing in front of a garage that was part of a three-unit townhouse complex only a few blocks from Georgetown University. As far as the residents knew, the electricity meter box along the side was solely for tracking each unit’s power usage. While the meters did do that, the box itself had an additional function.

Peter slipped a key into the lock on the side of the box. Others had keys to this lock, too, but his was the only one that turned in the other direction.

With a low clunk, the entire box hinged open from the wall. The back appeared to be a metal plate with another keyhole near the bottom. He stuck in the appropriate key, turned it, and opened the panel.

Mounted inside were two Dell laptop computers, two pouches containing all necessary wiring, and two thin, handheld printers. The laptops and printers had never been used before. To stay fully charged, each tapped into the electric supply running through the meter box. If anyone found them and tried to find their owners from the serial numbers, they would have discovered that the machines were listed as never having passed Dell quality control, and had been recycled.

Working quickly, he removed one computer, one pouch, and one printer, and placed them in his accounting bag. He closed the panel. If he ever needed another disposable computer, he’d be back. If not, well, who knew if anyone would ever find the remaining machine.

He walked to a park fifteen minutes away, and went directly to the bench where he knew he wouldn’t be seen from the street. There were only a few others in the park, most taking their dogs on a late evening stroll.

He used a cable from the pouch to connect the computer to the printer, and fired them both up. After that it was a simple matter of joining one of the many Wi-Fi networks broadcasting from the homes surrounding the park. He picked one at random, used the preinstalled software to hack past the password protection, and went to the website where Helen had set up the email account.

It was a well-used trick. Sign up for a free account, write an email with whatever secret message needed to be conveyed, but instead of sending it, just save it as a draft. The intended receiver of the message would also have the email account information. That person would then sign on, open the draft folder, and read the message. There would be no trail of the email being sent, no warning light flashing in some NSA data collection center, no indication of anything going on at all because in the virtual world, the email never went anywhere.

Helen’s draft folder contained a single message.

What is your definition of domestic terrorism? Someone who sets off a car bomb on a crowded street? Someone who targets a country’s leaders for death? Someone who calls for the overthrow of the government? Someone who advocates change?

The slope is slippery.

Peter frowned. It was the same philosophical question the intelligence community had been grappling with for decades. If anyone had come up with a definitive answer, he hadn’t heard it.

He clicked on the picture file attached to the message.

There was a delay as the appropriate program was launched.

Peter stared at it for a moment, unsure of what it meant. He recognized the face, but the name wasn’t coming to him right away. Whoever it was, it had been a while since Peter had Wait.

He did know who it was, but that didn’t really help him understand why Helen had sent it to him. He reread her message, and looked at the face again.

Project Cancer.

Cancer.

As the realization of what Mygatt and Green had done dawned on him, the skin on his face felt as if it had been suddenly pulled tight against his skull.

Holy shit.

If he was right, he wasn’t just sitting on a powder keg. He was straddling a hydrogen bomb.