“What exactly did you tell the police when they found you?”
“I stuck to the story Kidwell ordered me to tell if we ever ran into trouble.” Vochek looked out the window. They drove past brightly painted taquerias and Mexican bakeries, the lots full of commuters and workers grabbing breakfast and coffee. “That I work for Homeland Security on a classified project and cannot discuss my assignment. Repeat as needed.”
“The local police have come to Jesus,” Pritchard said. “It has been explained to them that the shootings bear on a highly secretive operation relating to national security. They’re keeping their mouths shut and responding to our requests for assistance. FBI has charge of the official investigation. They only know that yours and Kidwell’s work was classified and is not to be publicized. You will have to give them a statement later today, but I’ve already written it for you.” Pritchard handed her the morning edition of the Austin paper and she scanned the story.
A photo of Ben Forsberg stared back at her. The story described a brazen attack on an office rented by Homeland Security in downtown Austin. One agent slain, one survived, two contractor security guards assigned to the building killed. Three suspected attackers were dead. All three men were unidentified but, the paper suggested with a nod toward terror, were described as Arabic. This followed hours after two shootings downtown, one of a software programmer, the other of a man at a parking garage who remained unidentified but had a Canadian passport and fit the description of a known assassin from Northern Ireland. Forsberg, a local businessman, was missing; the paper darkly hinted that he might have information on the attackers—he was described as a person of interest to the police. A state official warned about terrorists bringing their fight to American soil. A spokesman at the Washington headquarters of Homeland Security had no immediate comment. Neither did the FBI.
“There’s no mention of the man who attacked me. Does everyone think the gunmen committed suicide?” Vochek couldn’t keep the acid out of her voice.
“Of course not,” Pritchard said. “This job is aging me faster than my teenagers. Tell me everything.”
Vochek did. Pritchard had the disconcerting habit of listening to detailed accounts with her eyes closed. When Vochek finished, Pritchard opened her eyes.
“This man was looking for a woman named Teach. Do you have any idea who she is?”
Vochek shook her head. “But I’m real interested in her.”
“Why?”
“Because he is.”
Pritchard leaned back against the leather. “A statement from Homeland’s going to be issued shortly. We have identified the three Arabs as being part of a new terrorist cell. They attacked the new Austin facility because of scant security.”
“Is that true?”
“Well, I’m told that there’s been increased cell phone chatter to make Homeland and FBI believe that terror organizations are trying to create more cells here. Al-Qaeda, Hezbollah, a couple of small but ambitious groups like Sons of the Sword and Blood of Fire. The gunmen might be Lebanese but we don’t have confirmation yet.”
“So why say they’re terrorists until we’re sure?”
“Because we need the cover. Four more people died at a lake house near Austin. Three of them were Arabs as well. If we say it’s a terror cell, then we don’t have to explain in much more detail; the idea of hired guns from Lebanon attacking our office creates more questions, actually, than saying terrorists did it. Because here’s the next problem. This was the fourth corpse.” Pritchard slid a picture toward her. The young guy was bespectacled, skinny, with a bitter expression on his face, unhappy at having his picture taken.
“Who is he?”
“His name was David Shaw. He was a black hat hacker, suspected of breaking into a Department of Defense network. His hacker name was Big Barker. He was awaiting trial when he vanished a year ago.”
“How does he connect with the Arabs?”
“Other than lying dead with them on a floor, I’ve no idea.” Pritchard tented her fingers, put them against her lip.
Vochek tapped Ben’s picture on the paper. “I did not mention him to the police.”
“Ben Forsberg became a falling row of dominoes. The Austin police listened to Kidwell’s recording of Forsberg—the one left in the interrogation room. They know Kidwell suspected him of involvement in the Reynolds murder. Then when Forsberg’s name went out on the wire, the media searched on his name, hit accounts of his wife’s death. The press got ahold of him and he’s the only answer they’ve got.”