Aim And Fire

was going to sit on that report for the next few months. I don’t understand why he told me that, then rushed it upchannel so fast.”

“So you haven’t heard? Gilliam’s taken the credit for your report internally. He’s saying it was his idea from the start, and that you had expanded it only under his explicit direction.”

“What? That’s totally untrue! I can’t believe he’d stoop to…” Tracy trailed off as she replayed the conversation in her mind. “Oh, my God.”

Not catching her last words or the incredulous look on her face as she sank into her chair, Mark kept talking.

“What I can’t believe is why he thinks you won’t contest his version of events—I mean, by all rights, he should be trumpeting your work on the project all over the place. This is low, even for him.”

“Because he knows I won’t say anything, that’s why.”

Tracy shook her head in despair. “At our meeting yesterday, he said that my app for the fusion center was being approved, and asked if I’d thought about where I wanted to be stationed. He claimed he’d put in a good word for me. Like an idiot, I said I was looking at the Virginia center. If I speak up now, he’ll be sure to kill any chance I have of getting the assignment. There must be something else going on above us that we don’t know about.”

“What, you mean like everything? All I can say for sure is that I can smell the stench of backroom wheeling and dealing from here.” Mark spun around in his chair and woke up his computer. “I’m just sorry you got caught in the cross fire, or whatever’s going down with this.”

“Yeah, me, too—maybe I’ll get lucky, and can work this into that fusion center assignment anyway. After all, he needs me to remain quiet about this, as well, else I could raise a big stink about it.” She raised the steaming cardboard cup of coffee with a malicious grin. “Thanks for the java, by the way.”

“I figured you’d need it, especially after you saw that headline.”

Tracy killed the screensaver on her computer and scrolled through her e-mails. The first one from Gilliam was as terse as ever, making her brow furrow in annoyance.

Send all related data on sewage-contamination analysis to me ASAP.

He hadn’t even bothered to sign it. Now Tracy’s blood began to boil. It’s bad enough that he snakes this report from me—now he’s treating me like his personal secretary, she fumed. She compressed the hundreds of pages of technical analysis she had used to generate her report into a single file and sent it off, wondering all the while why he had requested it, since there was zero chance he’d even be able to comprehend it, much less utilize it in a manner that would make any sense. “I hope he chokes on it,” she muttered.

Still angry, she scanned through her other messages, sorting items that needed immediate attention from the usual stream of interoffice detritus that flowed around the system. One message in particular caught her eye—a summary report and attachments from the El Paso Customs and Border Protection office. She opened it, scanned it quickly and then began researching.

Like many analysts at DHS, there were certain topics Tracy kept track of on a more-than-professional basis, and one of her hobbies was missing nuclear weapons. As soon as she began delving into the data package from Agent Nathaniel Spencer, she thought he was on to something.

Accessing her files on Sepehr al-Kharzi, she reviewed what she had learned about him. He had been attempting to procure nuclear materials for three years prior to his death in a warehouse explosion in Texas. But who could say if it had been his remains recovered from the wreckage—there was no way of testing what was left by fingerprinting or dental records, since nothing was on file for him. This Nathaniel Spencer had been the last one to see the man alive, and his suspicion that the terrorist was actually alive and up to something again was a good start. But if all he had was a gut feeling, that and her own twinge about this wouldn’t buy them a cup of coffee. The problem was that there was no hard evidence except for the e-mail message he had sent, which could very well be someone else using the name as a pseudonym.

Playing her hunch, she brought up the last picture of al-Kharzi, a grainy airport shot taken about four years earlier, and tasked her computer to search for any matches to anyone entering the country within the past thirty days who resembled the photo. Even attached to the DHS mainframe, this would take hours to compile, so she tackled other paperwork while waiting for the scan to finish. With literally millions of faces to review and compare using the biometrics face-scanning software, she could be waiting for the rest of the day—if she was lucky.

With noon approaching, and no matches in sight, she stretched her arms above her head and contemplated taking her lunch break when her computer suddenly chimed. She leaned forward to see the notice.

“Biometric match on subject—sixty-six percent.”

She compared the data from the new picture—taken with a hidden camera at an unmanned border crossing near North Dakota three days ago. That familiar thrill of discovery fluttered in her stomach. Could this be him?

She studied the two photos side by side, magnifying them as much as she could without sending them over to the lab for refinement. It looks like him, but these damn camera angles make it so hard to see, she thought. If he was alive, he had certainly kept a low profile, since his name hadn’t come up on any recent watch lists. But how hard would they be looking for a dead man? Still, a man who resembled a suspected target was crossing the border illegally, and the program, which was twitchy on the best of days, had still managed a sixty-plus percentage of accuracy.

The call was hers to make, and she did, preparing an e-mail to the department heads at intelligence and analysis, the Domestic Nuclear Detection Office, U.S. Customs and Border Protection, the Transportation Security Administration, the Border Patrol office in El Paso and, as an afterthought, her immediate superior. She outlined the possibility that a known terrorist had not been killed in the Texas warehouse explosion, and had instead entered the United States approximately ninety-six hours ago, and may be intending to carry out an attack on infrastructure, possibly involving nuclear material. All DHS personnel should be on the lookout for Sepehr al-Kharzi or any of his known associates.

When she got to that point, however, Tracy brought herself up short. She had just put forth all of the evidence she had, and had based it on what? Two grainy photographs and a Border Patrol agent who’d gotten hold of an e- mail from a supposedly dead man. Was she about to cause an alert across all of the departments over these few scraps?

The issue with Gilliam was one matter, but was she willing to risk her career over a cobbled-together analysis based on incomplete data? Of course, the suspect had been in the U.S. for more than ninety-six hours, and if he was planning something, that was more than enough time to get started….

Although relatively young in the analysis field at thirty-one, Tracy had learned the first lesson of intelligence gathering—cover your ass. If she was going to buck the boss on this, she had damn well better have a good excuse for going over his head, and the window of entrance into the U.S. was it. If it was nothing, she could simply claim that his being here for so long undetected was cause for concern.

Her index finger poised over the enter key, Tracy weighed the consequences of sending the message, then stabbed down. “Screw it,” she muttered.

She stood up and nodded at Mark’s back. “I’m going to grab some lunch. If you hear a scream from Gilliam’s office, that’s probably my fault.”

“Tracy, what did you do?” Mark asked, but she was already on her way to the drafty cafeteria.

WHEN SHE RETURNED FROM lunch, Mark looked even more worried than usual. “Gilliam wants to see you now. ”

“Of course he does.” Tracy checked her makeup and made sure there were no crumbs on her suit jacket. She was sure he knew she was back at her desk. If she was going to be chewed out, she might as well make him as upset as possible. Who knew—maybe he’d do something that would be grounds for a lawsuit. “Mark, I may not be long for the department. If I’m escorted out, it’s been great working with you,” she said.

“Aw, Trace, you didn’t go and get yourself fired, did you?” Mark shook his head. “If you land a cushy private- sector job, remember your friends, ’kay?”

“If my fiance had anything to say about it, I’d already be gone.” Her phone rang, and Tracy knew who was on the other end. She straightened up, ignoring the flashing light and insistent tone. “Here goes everything.”

She walked to her superior’s office and knocked.

“Come in.”

Feeling like a condemned prisoner about to face her own judge, jury and executioner, Tracy opened the door and strode in, planting herself squarely in front of Gilliam’s desk. “I received a message that you wished to see me,