“Just an idea, but the Verizon Center is on F Street and 6th in DC. Our WFO is on F and 4th. I could call over, and follow up with the paperwork later. Let me call the SAC or ASAC in the NCR Squad and…”
“What’s a sack?” Chris asked.
“Oh, the SAC? SAC means Special Agent in Charge. Pronounced ‘sack’. Sorry with the acronyms. I guarantee we got an Agent in the National Capitol Region Squad that’s a Special Events Liaison to the Verizon Center.”
Each FBI Field Office had a designated team of FBI Agents to liaison with their professional sports team or teams, in addition to the sports facility that hosed them. Sometimes it was a retired Special Agent that was employed there, or a retired police officer, but there was always someone who wore a shield that could talk police work for items like this one.
“Let me make a couple calls, all right? At a minimum, the boys in the… in the Counterterrorism Division will be in the office still, and we can have a few guys go meet Stevens at his seat at the Caps game in a few minutes. A favor. From me,” Vic suggested.
“Huh. Really? How long would it take to get your guys together?” Chris said.
Vic looked up at the World Clock, saw it was early evening, and laughed. “Normally, this would take a week turnaround for something like this. They would only spring into action if it were, say, a time sensitive counterterrorism threat. But… my guys in the old office are either still there at work and wrapping things up, or… most likely getting ready to go to the hockey game themselves. You know, going out for a beer.
“Are you sure, Vic?”
“Forgetaboutit. One call to da WFO and we may… may have Stevens in minutes.”
Chris thought about it, and figured he had nothing to lose. If this was small potatoes, he lost nothing because it was free. If it was big, if Lee was a big fish, then they all had plenty to gain. “Let’s verify Stevens’ cell number so we can locate him, and see if he’s even there at the game. If your guys get a StingRay location hit, and Stevens is sitting there eating his Cracker Jacks and drinking a Cream Soda, you’re on.”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” Vic answered.
Chris cracked his knuckles, and thought some more. “Okay. Yeah, okay. Do it.”
Ford Stevens loved the excitement of hockey, the fanatical fans, the adrenalin of the players following the puck, checking each other, and the electric feel of the indoor arena. Even as a young kid playing street hockey, he loved the winter sport then, just as much as he did now. The Caps were always his favorite team, most likely ever since his father’s job with Shell Oil brought him to DC to live on a few occasions. Even when they weren’t in DC, they were sometimes in locations that had hockey teams with a robust fan base, like Calgary, Canada.
He scanned his phone screen into the Verizon Center entrance using the Mobile Ticket QR code system, and walked into the arena along with thousands of others. Entering on 6th Street was convenient for both people watching and pre-game viewing, which was why Ford chose this entrance. The Capitals Marketing Team had players signing autographs, leading to the Fan Team Store for merchandise, leading to the beer booth stands. Ford stopped into the Fan Team Store, looking for a little stuffed animal for Emily, but did not want to carry it around the arena if she wasn’t there yet. Embarrassing, he figured.
Ford bought an Old Dominion Lager draught and made his way to Section 101. The players were not on the ice yet, but the pre-game music was blaring, and kiddie hockey players were doing circles around each goal. The flood lights were circling, and Ford could feel his inner organs move to the strong base music. He loved it.
A hockey fan, white male in his 40’s, alone, squeezed into his row and sat down a few seats over from Ford around seat 4 or 5, wearing a #8 Alexander Mikhailovich "Alex" Ovechkin Caps hockey jersey. He and Ford exchanged hellos. More people filled the seats both in front of him, as well as in back of him, before the game started.
Ford was reflecting on the fire back at Ellsworth, now that he had a free moment, thinking of what the outcome would be from the Board. He continued to be quite bothered by the incident, and was hoping that they wouldn’t pin the mishap on him. After all, he did sign for the aircraft in the ‘book’, meaning he owned it until he signed again and returned it. Certainly, there was nothing he could do to prevent the ground mishap, and it was an accident, but the Air Force did not always think like that. Someone was always responsible.
Ford sat thinking for about ten more minutes when he was interrupted by something in the aisle next to him. Two men in their 40’s wearing navy dark suits, in good physical fitness shape, appeared next to his seat on his left and stood in the aisle. At the same time, the man with the Caps hockey jersey sitting a few seats down who just squeezed past Ford, stood, and walked towards him in the row. In total, three men surrounded Ford in a few short seconds.
“Sir, are you Ford Stevens?” asked one of the men in the aisle.
“Maybe. Who the fuck are you?” asked Ford in return, not wanting to identify himself right away. Who the hell are these guys, he’d thought immediately.
“I’m FBI Special Agent James Collins, and this is FBI Special Agent William Roberto. Next to you is Special Agent Gary Klein,” said Agent Collins. Collins opened up a folded black leather wallet from his suit jacket pocket that encased his credentials, his creds, which included a tin shield and an identification card that read ‘FBI’ in large blue letters.
“Are you Air Force Captain Ford Stevens?” he asked again.
Some of the fans were more concerned that they could not see the kids on the ice, so they started to lean around the men standing. The loudness of the people in the seats and pre-game music contributed to others in the crowd not seeing and hearing what was going on.
“Yeah. I’m Ford Stevens. Why?”
“Captain Stevens, would you please come with us? We would like to ask you a few questions in another room here at the Verizon Center. It should only take about 15 minutes,” Agent Collins said.
Ford thought about what his options would be, and immediately figured it must be related to the ground mishap. Oh, boy. Perhaps there was a connection with the snow plow driver and criminal activity? he thought. “All right. I have a friend coming to meet me. My girlfriend. I need to get back here to the seat in no more than 10 or, ah, 15 minutes.”
“It won’t take long, Captain. Thank you.”
The FBI Agents did not say anything to Ford as they escorted him up the aisle. Ford was sure people thought he was being arrested. The lead Agent led them down the hallway past the vending window counters selling food and drinks, and into the Verizon Center Corporate Suites section. The retired FBI Agent who worked Verizon Center law enforcement liaison unlocked this Suite for them since it was not being rented for the night. Two of the suit Agents entered the room, then Ford, and one Agent in the hockey jersey in trail.
Ford was still wondering what the heck the FBI wanted with him. He has traveled all around the world, with his family and with the military, and has never had an issue with law enforcement. “Am I under arrest for something? Is this related to the snow plow driver?” Ford asked.
“Not exactly,” Collins answered.
The FBI Agents did not answer, and looked at him eye to eye. The silence was deafening. There were 18,500 ice hockey fans screaming at the top of their lungs outside, music blaring, but Ford could hear his heart beating inside this Suite.