DIA’S SPRAWLING HEADQUARTERS was at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. It was located on the east side of the Potomac River, and across that body of water from National Airport. The Potomac cut a path northwest, with the far shorter Anacostia River snaking northeast.
At the entrance Decker received a visitor’s badge and went through the security protocol. On one wall was the seal of the agency, a flaming torch of gold on a background of black with a pair of red atomic ellipses encircling a globe.
Brown pointed to it and said, “Flame and gold represents knowledge, or intelligence, as we like to call it. The black equals the unknown.”
“And the red?” asked Decker.
“Scientific aspects of intelligence.”
“Is it that scientific when you’re dealing with people?”
“Maybe more than you know.”
They passed a wall with names on it. Decker stopped and stared at it. Brown, who had been walking down the hall, came back to stand next to him.
“Torch Bearers Wall,” she said. “The people on here have been awarded the highest honor for service to DIA and the country. We also have a memorial wall in the courtyard with the names of the seven DIA personnel killed on 9/11 during the attack on the Pentagon.”
Decker pointed to one name on the list. “Colonel Rex Brown. Any relation?”
“My father,” said Brown, before heading off again.
Decker fell in step behind her.
“Think you’ll end up on the Torch Bearers Wall?” he said.
“I’d rather that than the memorial wall.”
“What’d your father do to be on the wall?”
“Classified.”
She opened a door and motioned Decker inside. He stepped through and gazed around at three walls of computer screens all alive with pictures but no sound. Brown closed the door behind her.
“We have around-the-clock watch centers everywhere literally taking in everything of significance going on all over the world. This is just a bit of feed from some of those operations.”
“Impressive,” said Decker as he sat down in a chair set around an oval conference table. “And how does this help us?”
The door opened and a man came in. He was about six feet tall with burly shoulders, massive arms and thighs, and close-cropped graying hair. His military cammies seemed unable to fully contain his muscular physique. And he wore a scowl.
“Agent Brown,” he said gruffly.
“Colonel Carter,” she said pleasantly. “This is Amos Decker with the FBI.”
“Highly irregular. Couldn’t believe it when I got the email. Man hasn’t even passed his FBI security clearance, much less DIA protocols.”
“The whole case is a bit irregular,” said Brown. “But we feel Decker is vital to getting to the bottom of this.”
“It’s your professional funeral.”
“Just working a case,” retorted Brown. “And I’ll use any asset I have to get to the truth. And Decker is a hell of an asset.”
For the first time, Carter looked at Decker, who was wearing the same clothes as yesterday: wrinkled jeans, a stained sweatshirt, and a rumpled windbreaker. His hair was uncombed and jutted out every which way. And he hadn’t shaved, so his five o’clock shadow was prominent.
Carter looked at Brown in disbelief. “What the hell! Does he work undercover at the FBI?”
Decker stirred and said, “No, but I did brush my teeth for the meeting.”
Carter stared at him for a few seconds and then slammed his electronic notebook down on the table and sat. Brown slipped into a seat on the other side of Decker and took out a notebook and pen.
Carter started tapping keys on his notebook and the screens on the wall all went dead except for one. “Whistleblowers,” he said. “Starting from A and going to Z.” He looked at Decker. “There’s a lot, so try to keep up.”
“Do my best,” mumbled Decker, staring at the live screen.
On the screen there appeared a photo of a man.
“Karl Listner,” said Carter. “From 1986. Military contract with a company we won’t be disclosing to Mr. Decker. Listner was the liaison. He found out about certain irregularities and came forward.”
“Our person’s name is Anne,” interjected Decker. “So do you have any non-males doing the whistleblowing?”
Carter looked sharply at Brown. “I wasn’t given those parameters.”
“Sorry, Colonel, this was all done in a rush.”
“Of course it was, which is why this guy is sitting here. And when you rush you screw up, but that’s not my problem. It’s yours.”
He hit some more keys. “Okay, we have fifteen possibilities.” He glanced at Decker. “Aren’t you going to write any of this down?”
“I’m good,” said Decker.
Carter visibly rolled his eyes, gave Brown a seething look, and turned back to the screen.
* * *
Hours later they had run through all of the whistleblower files. Brown turned to Decker and said, “I didn’t see anything helpful. Not even any of the peripheral players could be Berkshire.”
Decker nodded. He turned to Carter. “There’s a mistake in your files.”
“Impossible,” barked Carter.
“Frame sixty-four and frame two hundred and seventeen. Sixty-four says Denise Turner was stationed in Islamabad in July 2003. Frame two hundred and seventeen says it was Faisalabad. You might want to pick one.”
Decker got up and walked out.
Carter hit some keys and brought up the frames in question.
“He was right,” said Brown thoughtfully as she looked at the screen.
“Sonofabitch got lucky,” Carter shot back.
“Don’t believe that for a minute.”
She rose.
Carter said, “Who the hell is that guy?”
Brown stared after Decker. “Still trying to figure that out myself, Colonel.”