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someone had followed them there, shot out Decker’s tire, assaulted him, and taken it. So someone was watching them. Or else they had been watching the old house.
He heard a buzzing sound and looked down. It was Jamison’s phone. He didn’t recognize the number and the caller ID came up as unknown, so it wasn’t on Jamison’s contact list.
He heard the shower running. He could have just let it go to voicemail, but decided to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Nancy Billings. I was calling for Alex Jamison or Amos Decker with the FBI?”
“I’m Amos Decker.”
“Oh, hi. I’m a teacher at the school where Anne Berkshire worked as a substitute. I understand you might have some questions for me. I’m sorry to be calling so early, but I have to leave for work soon.”
“No, that’s no problem. Could we meet after school?”
“Yes. I have to go home and let out the dog, but there’s a Starbucks near where I live.” She gave him the address and they set a time.
He called Bogart and filled him in on what had happened with Agent Brown. Next he told him about Billings and the meeting later that day.
Bogart said, “I’ll start following up on the military whistleblower angle. I know that’s Brown’s bailiwick, but I have some contacts there too. And the FBI investigated and the DOJ prosecuted a great many whistleblower cases over the years.”
Decker clicked off and put his phone in his pocket. He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and brushed his teeth. He came out at the same time Jamison did. She was wrapping a scarf around her neck.
“Did you eat?” she said.
“No. Slipped my mind.”
“Wow, the old memory is just crapping out on you,” she said dryly. “That’s okay. We can get something on the way in to Hoover.”
“Nancy Billings called. She worked with Berkshire at the school. I’ve arranged for us to meet her after she finishes at school today.”
“Hopefully, she can tell us something helpful.”
When they opened the exterior door to their building, Harper Brown was standing there. She wore jeans, boots, a black turtleneck, and a brown leather jacket. She held up a bag.
“Bagels. And I’ve got coffee in the car.” She glanced at Jamison. “But not enough for you.”
Jamison said, “We were about to head out to run down a lead.”
Brown looked at Decker. “DIA HQ. Whistleblower files. You in or out? There won’t be a second offer.”
“Can’t Alex come with us?”
Brown shook her head. “I had a hard enough time getting permission for you to come out. We can’t have a tagalong.”
Jamison bristled at this comment but said, “Okay, Amos, I’ll let Bogart know about this when I get in to the office.”
“I’ll fill you all in on everything when I’m done at DIA.”
“Well, to the extent they’re cleared to hear it,” said Brown, staring at Jamison.
Staring directly at Brown, Jamison said, “And I’m sure I’ll do the same, so long as you’re cleared for it.”
They drove off, leaving Jamison standing in the parking lot. She shook her head, apparently trying to clear her thoughts.
“Maybe I should just go back to being a journalist,” she said to herself.
CHAPTER
35
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.”
