CHAPTER 16
After breakfast next morning, Jack and I couldn't quite nail down a number when it came to how many of the "old geezers" we should ask to our little confab in the woods. Jack said, "I'll just take a coin out of my pocket at random and we'll use the date stamped on it to determine how many we invite."
"What? –like, one thousand nine hundred and seventy-nine?" I asked incredulously.
Jack shook his head. "No. If it's a twentieth-century coin, we use the 'one' and whatever the last digit is, zero through nine; that way, we'll end up with anywhere from ten to nineteen guests. But, if it's a twenty-first century coin, we just invite twenty people—no more, no less."
I nodded. "Sounds good. Let's see what Fate gives us . . ."
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. It happened to be one of the more recent—and highly collectible—state quarters. "Twenty," Jack said simply. Then he sighed. "I was kind of hoping for a 1984, or something."
"Hey, it was your idea. . . We can always scrap it and do fourteen, if that's what you want."
"No, no. As you said, it was my idea, so I'm gonna stick to it."
"Okay. So, do you wanna write the telegram? –or search the Rolodex?"
"I'm probably better acquainted with Dad's oldest and closest friends than you are, so I think I oughta search the Rolodex while you compose the telegram."
"OK; you got it. BTW, I think Dad has one of those electronic speech programs on his computer. We might be able to find a way to use it when we call Western Union, so the voice of whichever one of us makes the call will never be recognized."
"Why would Dad have something like that on his computer in the first place?"
I shrugged. "To make anonymous calls to dangerous people, maybe? I don't know. He likes to take risks, but he's not crazy."
Jack nodded. "Makes sense. Dad's always liked going after the sensational stories. If he has to make a few insinuations and push some dangerous buttons, he's not afraid to do it."
"Exactly. So, let's get busy then, shall we?"
It only took us about an hour to get everything done. Jack had picked out twenty good names—the majority of which even I recognized—and I had a telegram composed that wouldn't set us back too terribly much, financially speaking. I decided to have it signed "P & G B", for Peter and George Beckham. Jack approved.
When I'd finished with the telegram and Jack had a list of names and addresses, he vacated Dad's desk chair and invited me to sit down and try out the speech program. I put on the headset and activated the program. It worked great. I could say whatever I wanted and it came out sounding like a real person, but not like me. I was able to adjust the timbre of the voice as high or as low as I wanted it. I chose to go just a little bit deeper than my natural voice. If I'd gone too deep it wouldn't've sounded quite as natural, and I really didn't want to go higher.
Jack nodded as he listened to me practice reading the telegram into the headset. "Sounds good," he told me. "So, can you talk into that headset and into the phone at the same time?"
"I'm gonna put the phone on speaker. My voice will still sound deeper, but the mike won't be in the way. . . We'll need to be completely still while I'm on the phone, though, so there won't be any background noise to interfere with my conversation. . . That's the only problem with putting it on speaker: it's so sensitive, it picks up everything that's going on in the room."
"Tell you what: I'll leave the room; that way you can make your call in peace."
As he started to leave, I said, "Um, Jack, what're we gonna charge this to?"
"Well," he said, looking thoughtful, "since we're doing twenty, and since we're supposed to be rescuing our father from terrorists, why don't we charge ten to my Homeland Security account and ten to your NSA account? Tell the Western Union people that Peter is paying for half on his card, and George is paying for half on his card."
"So, which of our cards is Dad's and which one is Uncle George's?"
"Mac, it doesn't matter! It's just our alibi."
"Oh, yeah, right." I couldn't believe how much cleverer Jack was being at this time than I was. I wondered if it was a fluke. But then, I hadn't been around my brother all that much, so I had no idea just how intelligent he really was. Yes, he'd been a jock; but, that hadn't kept him from making the grade at the Academy. I finally realized I'd been underestimating my brother's intelligence for years, just because he chose not to be overly techno-savvy.
"When our respective accountants get the bill," I asked him, "what shall we tell them the charges to Western Union were for?"
"You tell them you were following leads on suspected terrorists. Nothing came of any of them, but you did your best to track down what you were given."
"Jack, I think I've seriously underestimated your intelligence and your cleverness."
"The cleverness developed over years of dealing with military brass and bureaucratic red tape," he replied. "You learn to be creative if you don't wanna end up in trouble every time you turn around."
I nodded. "True enough. I've had some experience in that area, too; but, most of my creativity has been aimed at the terrorists I've had to deal with while undercover."
"And that's a whole 'nother kind of trouble," said Jack.
"Yes, it is. . . Now, if you'll hand over your Homeland charge card and leave the room, I'll make the phone call."
It was still early when I hung up the phone: not even 10:30 yet. I called Jack back into the room. "So, do you want me to show you how to create documents and doctor photographs?" I asked him.
"Yeah. Just show me the ropes; then you can go ahead and leave. It'll take some time for you to get across town to the café near where Jamie works—especially with the lunch-hour traffic."
"You're probably right."
So, Jack stood looking over my shoulder, watching as I showed him how to use the cut-and-paste method to alter photos or documents. When I finished my demonstration, he was smiling. "This is gonna be fun!" he said.
I shrugged. "If you say so." I then got to my feet and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, Jack. I'll probably see you in a couple of hours. If you have any trouble, wait till I get back and I'll give you a hand."
"If I have any problems," he said with uncharacteristic confidence. Maybe, having a desk job for the last few years, he'd learned a few things. He was certainly more computer savvy than he'd ever been before.
"See you later, bro," I said, waving as I left the room.
"Yeah. Later." Jack was already engrossed in his new pet project. I just hoped he didn't do any serious damage to Dad's computer . . .
(*)
I had a good long talk with Jamie over lunch, in spite of the fact that she did, indeed, want to get back to work as soon as possible. It turned out we really liked each other—a lot. And there was a certain amount of mutual respect in there, too—which is important in any relationship. I finally decided to flat-out ask her if she'd continue seeing me if I moved home to Denver.
"Sure," she replied. "I think I'd like that. But . . . won't your environmentalist friends back in California miss you?" There was a teasing lilt in her voice and the trace of a smile on her lips.
"Oh, I think they'll be able to manage without me."
As much as I wanted to, I couldn't tell Jamie what I really did for a living—not yet, anyway. If I was lucky, I'd never have to tell her. I didn't want to put her in danger, if I could help it. . . Someday—if and when the terrorists I'd been tracking were finally brought to justice—I could tell Jamie my story—all of it. I sincerely hoped so. I don't enjoy keeping secrets from people I care about—including all my so-called "tree-hugging" friends.
"So, what will you do when you move here?" Jamie asked me. "There are environmental groups here, too, of course. But they're not nearly as active as the ones on the West Coast. . . At least, you don't hear as much from or about them . . . ."
"Jack has suggested I get a job with Homeland Security . . . says he'd put in a good word for me."
Jamie looked puzzled. "Do you have the background to work for Homeland Security?"
I nodded. "I used to be a cop—worked undercover in a high-stakes bunko squad."
"Is that how you got into the tree-hugging business?"
"Sort of. It's kind of complicated."
A crooked smile appeared at the corner of her luscious mouth. "You're not really an environmental activist, are you?" she asked pointblank, but in a barely audible whisper. "You're still working undercover—trying to figure out which of all those groups are legitimate and which ones are out to bilk good but naïve people out of their life savings."
I decided to come clean—at least partly. I whispered, too. "That's how it started, yeah. But it's a lot more complicated than that now. I was recruited by a government agency, although I can't tell you which one. National security and all that crap. . . You know how it is."
She nodded slowly and the smile was gone from her face. "Does it have to do with terrorists? . . . I read somewhere that some people in the government suspect that terrorists are gathering and laundering money through charitable organizations and environmental groups. Is that what you do? –you pretend to be one of them so you can find out if there're terrorists behind the scenes somewhere?"
I must've turned pale, 'cause she reached across the table, took my hand, and said, "I'm not going to tell anyone, Mac, I promise! I work for the government, too, you know. And I have a pretty high security clearance."
I smiled stiffly, exhaled breath I didn't even know I'd been holding. "You're too smart for your own good, Jamie. If I didn't know your family as well as I do—if we'd just met—I'd be suspicious of your directness and have you checked out. I'd have to. I couldn't take the chance that you might be an undercover operative yourself—an enemy undercover operative."
She let go of my hand and retracted her own. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm Darla's niece, huh?" She returned to eating and broke eye contact.
"I didn't mean to upset you by that remark, Jamie. I was just telling you the way it is for me. My job is dangerous; my life is always in jeopardy . . . Think about it for a minute. Suppose you had a breakthrough in the project you're working on and it suddenly became viable. Don't you think the government would send in strong-armed military types, lock the place up tighter than a drum and shut out anyone who didn't have the highest level of security clearance possible? Of course they would! And you'd probably never again be able to talk about the project—not with your parents, not with Darla . . . and certainly not with me, even if I do work for the government myself, albeit a different branch. Each arm of the government is, to a greater or lesser degree, autonomous. We all—you, me, Jack—answer to a different person or committee of some kind that's in place for specific needs and purposes. Do you think I'd be offended if, all of a sudden, you couldn't discuss your work with me anymore?"
She looked up. "Okay, I see your point. You wouldn't be offended because you'd understand. You've been there. I get it. Sorry I took umbrage. It was childish of me."
I shook my head. "No," I assured her, "it was just a misunderstanding. I was trying—very clumsily, I'm afraid—to tell you that I do trust you, because of who you are. I was being as open and honest about this whole situation as I can be under the circumstances. Except for my handlers, no one but you and Jack even have the slightest inkling of what I do. It's that covert."
"I shouldn't've asked about it in a public place like this, Mac. I'm sorry."
I shrugged. "No real harm done. But we'd better refrain from talking about it publicly again; and even when we're talking in private, we'd better make sure we're clear."
"You mean . . . no electronic surveillance or anything like that?"
"Precisely. Being a government agent makes you paranoid, I'm afraid. About the only time I'm not on my guard is when I'm with you. Great time for me to get caught napping."
"So, if you took a job at Homeland Security here in Denver, would your work be more or less dangerous than what you're doing now?"
I shrugged. "I don't know for sure, but I'd wager less dangerous . . . unless, of course, I opt to continue working undercover. I wouldn't have to though, you know. Homeland has a lot of people, doing a lot of different things. I could be a computer geek and analyze data. . . That's another one of my many and varied talents."
Jamie gave me a soft smile and then looked at her watch. "Omigosh! It's after one! I've gotta get back to the lab. We're running simulations of various wormhole theories on the computers all this week. I'm due to present mine at two. I need to get it ready!"
She stood up; and, being the gentleman that I am, I got to my feet, too. Grabbing her handbag, Jamie pulled out a ten-dollar bill and placed it on the table. "That's for the tip," she said. "It's the least I can do." She then took my hand, looked into my eyes, and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Call me, Mac. I'd like to spend some more time discussing . . . your future—in Denver." Then, with a last, small smile, she turned and left the café.
"That is one remarkable woman," I said softly to the air around me. Seeing Jamie leave, the waitress turned up with the check. I took it and headed for the cash register and the exit.
(**)
Since Mac was late returning from his lunch date with Jamie, I went ahead and continued working on producing the "evidence" that I would be planting in my favorite hollow tree.
So far, I considered, I'd done pretty well, stopping for only about twenty minutes to have a light lunch at noon.
In my mind, I had replayed the pertinent parts of the discussion Darla and I had had in her office that first day, when we'd talked about "James Kelsey" and the "evidence" he'd gathered about the supposed "terrorists" who'd ostensibly kidnapped Dad. I remembered how I'd imagined the evidence would look, and then I did my best to reproduce those images.
Several photos off the internet—along with doctored copies of a few documents Homeland had confiscated (which, after close scrutiny, were revealed to be little more than grocery shopping lists and schedules for private tutoring lessons)—were all put together using the cut-and-paste method Mac had shown me.
Once I'd printed them up, I worked on making them look authentic: like they'd been read, used, and carefully studied by at least a dozen different people. I even put a few food stains and grease spots on them here and there. Then I placed them carefully in a plastic zipper bag in as organized a fashion as possible, being careful to wear gloves all the while I was handling each item.
About the time I was sealing the bag, Mac walked in. "Sorry I'm late, Jack. Jamie and I kinda got into some stuff."
"Not a problem," I said. "I went ahead and did it without you."
Being the thick-headed dolt that I often am, I didn't even really hear that last part, or you can be darned sure I would've questioned my brother about the "stuff" that he and Jamie had gotten into. I was, however, caught up in a moment of pride in my own accomplishment and held up the bag of goodies for my little brother to see. "Voilà!" I said.
Mac's mouth dropped open and he stared. "You did it? –all by yourself?"
I shrugged. "Once you showed me how, it was a piece of cake. The hardest part was finding the right pictures and documents to use. None of it's really all that important, of course. It's basically stuff that we suspected was terrorist-related, but wasn't. I used my password to get into Homeland's files and downloaded what I needed. Then I cut and pasted, and . . . voilà! –instant evidence!"
"So, the telegrams have been sent and the 'evidence' is ready to go," said Mac. "All's that left to do, then, is find a map and get everything up to O'Shaughnessy's and to the tree."
"Well," said Jack, "since I put the evidence together, and I'm gonna be the one driving up there with the stuff, how about you look for a map while I go pay Darla a short visit? I haven't seen her since last night. I need a quick fix."
"Jack, it's not gonna take me that long to find a map. You could just wait and stop in and see her before you head up into the mountains. . . ."
I sighed. "All right, I'll wait. . . But you were late getting back from your lunch date with Jamie, and I'd like to spend at least as long with Darla as you did with her niece."
"I told you, Jack: Jamie and I got into some stuff. The time kinda . . . got away from us."
"What stuff? What're you talking about?"
"Jamie figured out that I'm not a 'tree-hugger'—that I work undercover."
Mac then told me the gist of the conversation he and Jamie had had. Needless to say I was a bit dumbfounded.
"Just like that, she put two and two together and came up with you working undercover. . . Man! That woman is frighteningly intelligent!"
"That's what I told you! I'd never be able to keep anything from her. She would know if I was being less than open and honest. . . Still, I think I'm falling for her, Jack. I think I'm gonna take your advice and put in an application at Homeland. Do you think they'd let me have a desk job?"
"They will if I recommend it. . . Of course, you'll have to submit a résumé—preferably one that doesn't mention the NSA."
"Won't they find out about that sooner or later, anyway? I mean, don't they do extensive background checks on everyone who applies for a job there?"
"Yes, of course they do. But, you've been in deep cover all these years. . . As far as most people know, you're a tree hugger. I found out the truth because—despite our differences—I know more about your character than most other people do; I dug deeper. There's no need for anyone else at Homeland to learn everything. People who are environmentally and socially conscious—particularly ex-bunko cops—aren't excluded from working for Homeland. When they interview you, just tell 'em you decided there are better ways of protecting the world than just looking out for the welfare of the ecosystem."
"So, you think my background as a fraud investigator will come in handy?"
"No doubt. . . Now, little brother, go get us a map!"
Saluting, my brother replied, "Yes, sir, Admiral Beckham, sir!"
I playfully soft-punched him in the jaw. "Knock it off. Just do what you're told to do. If I can't go see Darla for a little while yet, I'm gonna call her on the phone. She has the sweetest voice . . ."
Mac rolled his eyes, shook his head, and headed once again to Dad's computer.
