that Thao Duong might be involved in. Another compared the phone numbers against intercept lists, looking for people whom the NSA or other agencies were already monitoring.
Two facts emerged from the analysis: Friends of Thao Duong had made wire transfers totaling over one hundred thousand dollars within the last week. Another set of friends had connections with the shipping industry, and with China.
The one thing that did not show up was connections to government officials outside of the agricultural ministry. As omissions were often more important than inclusions, this was noted as well.
Gallo also used a tool that compared the network of connections he had compiled to other known organizations, including al Qaeda. The tool tested how similar this network was to different profiles — in other words, did it look like a terror organization or a Girl Scout troop?
The tool worked on the theory that groups with the same goal tended to work in the same way. To use a very simple example, the members of a bowling league would tend to meet once or twice a week at a specific location within driving distance of their homes. They would generally purchase certain specific items — bowling shoes and bowling balls, for example. Most would fit a specific demographic, and would group themselves with others of an even tighter demographic on their team — the under-30 league, or the under-40 league, for example.
Rarely could the tool definitively identify what a network was or ga nized to do. It didn’t in this case, though some form of international commerce or trade was suggested. Its real value was suggesting other areas of inquiry. According to the tool, there should be more bank transfers as yet unde-tected. It also suggested that, based on the call patterns, Thao Duong was an important member of the network, but not the top person. Several other individuals — or nodes, as the program called them — were highlighted for in-depth investigation. Beyond looking for criminal and public records pertaining to them, the analysts would look at financial records, transaction lists such as credit card charges, and anything else they could find. Gallo handed off the list to the analysts, asking that they compile profiles. Several were in America.
Within two or three minutes of sending the request via e-mail, he got a phone call from Segio Nakami, the number two on the Desk Three analytic team. Almost the exact opposite of Johnny Bib, Nakami was considered eccentric at the Agency because he wasn’t eccentric.
“Robert, you’re asking for profiles?” said Nakami.
“Yeah, I got this thing going for Rubens in Vietnam.”
“There are Americans on the list.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you looking for?”
Gallo explained what he was doing.
“Did you fill out the papers?” asked Nakami when he finished. By “papers,” Nakami meant legal requests; the forms were actually done electronically.
“I thought, like, I didn’t have to because Rubens said go.”
“No, you have to fill them out.”
“Um, it’s going to like take two hours.”
“Are you on real time?” asked Nakami.
He meant, was Gallo supporting a mission, where the information was needed right away or in “real time”? Except that Nakami didn’t mean that all, because he knew very well that Gallo wasn’t down in the Art Room.
“No,” said Gallo.
“I’m sure Mr. Rubens didn’t want you to bypass procedure,” said Nakami. “Let me know if there’s a problem.” Stinking lawyers, thought Gallo, reaching to bring up the proper screen.
58
“Bottom line, forester was a burnout. He was never going anywhere in the Ser vice. His wife was giving him the boot.
And he had this personality — he’d just basically given up on things. The only exception to that was his girlfriend, and frankly, that seems like it was pretty one-sided.” Special
Agent John Mandarin leaned back on the park bench in front of the Danbury town hall, where Lia had arranged to meet him. “That’s why he killed himself.”
“So you think I’m wasting my time checking into Forester’s death,” said Lia, recapping in a sentence what Mandarin had taken five minutes to explain.
“Look, it’s not my time, so I can’t tell you what to do,” said Mandarin. “But off the record, I think the director—” Mandarin stopped mid-sentence. Lia followed his glance toward two young women walking across the street.
“They’re underage,” snapped Lia.
“Just looking,” said Mandarin lamely. “The thing is, it was pretty obviously a suicide. Staging that — it’s real easy in the movies, OK? But in real life, those things happen a certain way. When I was a policeman for a while I saw two of them. Which is a lot. And I’m not the only one who thinks that. The FBI came over as soon as the state police figured out the guy was a federal agent. There was no jurisdictional backbiting here, no finger-pointing. We were called and we came. Believe me, if there had been any sign of anything other than suicide, somebody would have seen it.”
“So if it’s all so obvious, why isn’t the case officially closed?”
“You mean why is the director still asking questions?” Mandarin smiled. “I think the director was kind of shook by it. Frey was Forester’s first boss, showing him the ropes. Or supposed to. I think he felt guilty about it.” Mandarin shook his head. He had a slightly older woman in his sights now, good-looking, with tight, expensive jeans.
Lia resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.
“Frey had a reputation as a real hard-ass,” said the Secret Service agent finally. “That’s how he got to where he is now.
He came down hard on people. Too hard, probably. He stuck a couple of things in Forester’s file early on. Little things, but, you know, anyone looking at them sees whose initials are at the top there, and they’re going to figure that this guy is not on the chosen list, if you know what I mean.”
“Frey held him back?”
“No. Not on purpose. He probably thought he was doing him a favor.” Mandarin laughed. “I worked with Frey when he was one of us. Yeah, I’m that old.” He laughed again, even harder. “Very, very, very competent guy. The guy you want watching your back, believe me. The President can trust him. But tough on the help. Kicked me in the butt more than once.”
“The state police report noted the chain wasn’t locked on the door.”
“Ehhh. Not a biggie.”
“There were no prints on the doorknob, which seems strange,” Lia pointed out. “Not even Forester’s.” Mandarin held his hand out in front of him. “Door was a handle type. I go to open it, I push down, odds are I don’t leave a print. Spring brings it back behind me. Everybody obsessed with forensics, but a lot of times in the real world things don’t follow a script.”
Mandarin leaned back on the bench, stretching.
“I’m only holding the case open because not all the reports have come back yet. I’m not pushing for them to come back,” he added, giving her a sideways glance. “Because I have better things to do, if you get my drift.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m in a no-win position. The big boss wants me to find that it wasn’t suicide. Everybody else in the world tells me it was.” Mandarin shook his head. “I’m sorry. He killed himself.
I don’t like to think of it myself, but that’s the bottom line.”
“Even if it was a suicide,” said Lia, “he’s our only connection to Vietnam.”
“I guess. I don’t buy the whole overseas-conspiracy thing.”
“Why not?”
