“So, you think this is a valid one? And if so, what have you learned that we can put to use?”
“In doing those four cases, I discovered two things that seem to be heuristic — rule-of-thumb. One is that the first list of suspects is always wrong, too extensive, and most times only peripherally related to the event.” She held up two fingers.
Zeichner noticed she had what was called a French manicure with the ends shaded white. They complemented and drew attention to her smooth hands and fingers. Fact is, he realized, she had long slender fingers that seemed almost too long. She wore a small diamond on the middle finger of her left hand.
“And second is that as the investigation goes along, if you haven’t narrowed the scope so tight”—she held her thumb and finger slightly apart—“that you are certain who the primary suspect is, then you have to go back to the first list. He or she is most likely on that list, or someone with a strong personal or professional relationship to someone on that list is your true suspect.”
“We have a primary suspect,” Gainer interjected.
“I know.”
“It’s a professor…”
“You mean a Ph.D., don’t you?” she corrected Zeichner.
“Yes, you’re right. He has a Ph.D. in aeronautical engineering.”
Gainer laid the folder on the desk. “The photographs tell us who the suspect is,” he said.
She nodded. “I know.”
Zeichner nodded. “Kevin, you’re right. Only one person could have been in the position to have taken those photographs.”
“Based on my review of your notes, I don’t think we have to go back to the first list, sir. I discussed this with the boss before I departed Washington. She thinks as you do. Dr. Kiang Zheng meets the right profile.”
“He is also the only person who has continuous access to the mainmast, which is the only place some of these photographs could have been taken,” said Zeichner.
“They were taken during the day,” Gainer added.
“And no one noticed anything unusual or reported it,” Zeichner added.
“But he is first-generation American-born,” Gainer added. “America has never had a first-generation American become a traitor.”
“I guess Benedict Arnold doesn’t count,” Montague countered.
“He’s not on board Sea Base,” Zeichner said. “And it was before America was born. It was more during the birthing process.”
Gainer and Montague smiled.
“Wasn’t he born in England?” Gainer asked.
“No. He was born in Connecticut, but he died in England.”
“So, Agent Montague — Angela — I guess we can’t just march up there and arrest our good doctor based on these photographs and our investigation?”
“No, sir, and I know you know we can’t. While we have evidence marking him as the prime suspect, we need concrete proof. We don’t have the final link of seeing him in the act of doing it. The boss wants us to catch him in such a way we have the proof necessary to ensure a conviction.”
“I would be very surprised if you didn’t have a plan for ferreting out our good doctor; otherwise, Headquarters wouldn’t have sent you. And from your reference to the boss, I presume you mean the Director.”
“Yes, sir. Director Mullins sends her respects. Apparently, you and she have served together in a prior assignment.” “Long time ago.” He patted his stomach. “Before I grew my friend here.” Now, why in the hell did he say that? Men say the most asinine things when they’re around beautiful women. Why didn’t he just find a fire hydrant and hike his leg like a dog?
“She was very complimentary about you, sir.”
Well, you know how to lie well, Agent Montague, he thought. He and Mullins never got along on their assignment. She was notorious for taking credit for successes and shoveling failures onto others. The bodies of her fellow agents lay along the side of her career. To her credit, Mullins made director by hard work, even if she used a little Teflon politics along the way.
“Well, she deserves congratulations for the recent appointment,” he said. “The Director worked very hard for the position. She was about your age when she and I first crossed paths. But that’s another story, Angela. Why don’t you tell us your plan for catching the good doctor?” He leaned forward and nodded at her. “That is, assuming we have an agent of a foreign power on board Sea Base.”
She pulled her briefcase forward and lifted it into her lap. The weight pulled the pantsuit tight against her thighs. Zeichner thought Gainer was going to pass out from lack of breath. He’d talk with the young agent later.
“In fact, I do have a recommendation for you, sir.” She pulled a second folder out, laid it on the desk, and stood. “If I could show you.” She stood, opened the folder, and started sorting the papers inside it on top of the desk.
Gainer nearly fell out of the chair getting to his feet. Zeichner stayed seated, focusing on the papers and trying not to look at the top of the loose blouse. Montague started to explain, her voice strong and sure. In minutes, all three agents were focused on the papers, and by the time she finished, he knew she was easily a future contender for Mullins’s job. Thankfully, he’d be long retired by then. The plan was simple and it would work. The tidbit on Benedict Arnold marked her as a student of history. This idea showed she knew how to use history to their benefit.
The C-130 had already flown off by the time the three of them emerged on top of Sea Base. At the far end of the runway, two F-22A Raptors revved their engines, and in seconds were speeding down the center of Sea Base. Moments later, they lifted off. The three NCIS agents watched the planes as they flew straight ahead for about a mile before turning on their tails and zooming up and out of sight.
“Has Air Force headquarters given permission to do this?” Zeichner asked.
She shook her head. “They’d never approve. Besides, Mr. Zeichner, if we do it right, they’ll never know.”
They started walking toward the group of Air Force pilots standing along the flight line.
He had heard that statement so many times during his career. He glanced at her as she walked slightly ahead, black pumps peeking out from beneath the pants. Maybe she wasn’t a future Gloria Mullins. Then again, there weren’t many directors— male or female — who had the street smarts of Gloria.
FOUR
Ten minutes after taxiing and lining up, Johnson and Franklin were blasting down the runway. The two Raptors lifted off simultaneously. The last hundred feet of Sea Base runway rolled rapidly beneath them as the two F-22A Raptors flew straight, Franklin following one aircraft length behind on the left as they ascended slowly.
“Wheels up,” came the voice of Major Johnson over the private circuit between her and Franklin.
Franklin acknowledged the unnecessary command, hitting the switch. The end of the runway passed beneath him. The slight drone of hydraulics vibrated through the cockpit as the wheels rose. The aircraft vibrated slightly when the three sets of wheels locked into the body of his Raptor. Out of sight beneath him, the three sets of wheels had merged into the fuselage, rough metal doors closing over them, restoring the smooth aerodynamic shape of the stealth fighter.
Wheels down affected the stealth of the Raptor, but once they were hidden inside the fuselage, the aircraft body disappeared from radar detection. Radar signals were only good if they hit something and returned to the point of origin. Finding the Air Force stealth fighter on radar was near impossible because radar signals were distorted away from the sender, sent out in every direction but the one back toward the sender.