Gray raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”
“Through Kate Adams, the DOJ lawyer I was working with, sir.”
Simpson stepped forward. “I’m Jackie Simpson, Secret Service.”
“Tom Hemingway.”
“Nice to meet you, Tom.” She gazed appreciatively at the handsome Hemingway until she caught Alex scowling at her.
“I was just showing them Patrick Johnson’s office and explaining what he did for us,” Gray said. “They’re investigating his death on behalf of the Service.”
“If you’d like, sir, I can take over from here. I know you have a meeting.”
“Tom knows much more about computers than I do,” Gray said. That wasn’t exactly true, but Gray had never been one to boast of his strengths, because that very hubris often turned them into weaknesses.
“Don’t forget to tell your father what I said, Jackie.” Then Gray left them.
“So what exactly are you looking for?” Hemingway asked.
“Basically an understanding of what Johnson did here,” Alex answered. “Secretary Gray said that he oversaw the data files on terrorist suspects.”
“That’s right, among other things. I guess the best way to describe it is that he and the other data supervisors are like senior air traffic controllers making sure all the pieces go together smoothly. The databases are constantly being updated with fresh intelligence. And we’ve streamlined things too. The FBI, DEA, Homeland Security, ATF, CIA, DIA and others each had its own database. There was a lot of overlap and wrong information and no way for one agency to thoroughly access another agency’s files. That was one of the problems that led up to 9/11. Now it’s all maintained here, but the other agencies have 24/7 access.”
Alex spoke up. “Isn’t that a little risky, putting everything in one place?”
“We have a backup center, of course,” Hemingway said.
“Where is it?” Alex asked.
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
Well, I saw that one coming.
“And keep in mind that our system didn’t replace the Bureau’s AFIS,” said Hemingway, referring to the FBI’s fingerprint identification system. “We’re after terrorists, not pedophiles and bank robbers. We also bought several private firms that specialized in intelligence data mining and other areas of technological expertise.”
“NIC bought private companies?” Alex said.
Hemingway nodded. “Government doesn’t have to reinvent the wheel any more than the private sector. The software literally digs into trillions of bytes of information in numerous databases and builds patterns, suspect signatures and behavior and activity models that can be used in investigations. Our agents have handheld devices, like PalmPilots, that allow them instant access to these databases. With a single query they can access all relevant information about a subject. It’s incredible stuff.”
“How do you effectively oversee an operation this big with people constantly firing stuff at you?” Alex asked.
“When all the other agencies’ files came over, it created quite a backlog to work through. And between you and me, there were some glitches, and the system actually crashed a couple of times. But it’s all running smoothly now. It was Johnson’s task and others here to oversee that and also to ensure the accuracy of the data input. It’s very labor-intensive work.”
“So not so speedy,” Alex said.
“Speed is useless if the information is wrong,” Hemingway countered. “While we try to keep everything as up-to-date and accurate as possible, perfection, of course, is not attainable.”
“Could you show us some file examples?” Simpson asked.
“Sure.” Hemingway sat down at Johnson’s desk and put his hand in a biometric reader. Next he hit some keys on the computer, and a face appeared on the screen along with a fingerprint and other identifying data.
Alex was suddenly staring at himself, along with seemingly everything he’d ever done since coming out of his mother’s womb.
“Underage drinking conviction,” Simpson said, reading one of the sections.
“That was supposed to have been expunged from my record,” Alex snapped.
“I’m sure it was expunged from the official record,” Hemingway said. “How is your neck by the way? Looks like a nasty injury you suffered.”
“You’ve got my medical records? What the hell happened to privacy?”
“You must’ve neglected to read the fine print on the Patriot Act.” Hemingway hit some more keys and another search field came up. He said, “You go to the LEAP Bar a lot.” He pointed at a list of credit card purchases from that pub. “I’m sure the presence of the lovely Kate Adams is a factor.”
“So every time I use my credit card you know what I’m up to?”
“That’s why I always pay in cash,” Hemingway said smugly.
He typed in some more commands, and Jackie Simpson’s photo, digitized fingerprint and basic information sheet came up. She pointed at one line. “That’s wrong. I was born in Birmingham, not Atlanta.”
Hemingway smiled. “See, not even NIC is infallible. I’ll make sure it’s corrected.”
“Do you have any bad guys in there, or do you just spy on cops?” Alex asked.
Hemingway punched some more keys and another face sprang up. “His name is, was, Adnan al-Rimi. He was killed by another terrorist in Virginia. You can see that al-Rimi has been confirmed as deceased. That’s what the little skull and crossbones symbol in the upper right-hand corner signifies. A little corny and I’m not sure who came up with that idea, but it’s pretty clear as to a person’s current status.” Hemingway opened a drop-down window. “You can see the fingerprint image here. We were able to positively ID al-Rimi from his digital prints, which we had on file.”
“Did Johnson have any information that would be valuable to someone?”
“I think in broad terms everyone who works at NIC would have information that could be valuable to an enemy of this country, Agent Ford. That’s why we run background checks and perform a rigorous vetting process.”
“Can’t do any better than that,” Jackie Simpson said.
“But didn’t Patrick Johnson’s sudden wealth raise red flags here?” Alex asked.
Hemingway looked chagrined. “It should have. Heads will roll for it.”
“But not yours,” Alex remarked.
“No, that wasn’t my responsibility,” Hemingway answered.
“Lucky you. So if the drugs weren’t Johnson’s source of income, you’re saying it’s unlikely that he could have been selling secrets from here?”
“Unlikely but not impossible. But the drugs were found at his house.”
“Do you mind if we talk to some of Johnson’s co-workers?”
“I can arrange that, but I’m afraid your discussions will have to be monitored.”
“Wow, just like in prison, only we’re the good guys,” Alex said.
“We’re the good guys too,” Hemingway shot back.
An hour later, after they’d spoken to three of Johnson’s colleagues, Alex and Simpson learned that none of them really knew Johnson on a personal level.
After they’d collected their guns, Hemingway escorted them out. “Good luck,” he said before the automatic doors shut behind them.
“Right, sure, thanks for all your help,” Alex groused.
They walked back to the car while two army grunts toting M-16s followed.
“Either one of you guys wanna hold my hand in case I suddenly go berserk?” Alex asked before turning back around and marching on in disgust.
“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” Simpson said.