“Agreed.”
“You left it in place?”
“Yes. No point in announcing our discovery until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“The one near the back bumper is the same?”
“Not at all. That’s where the situation gets interesting. The other one is a common off-the-shelf item. Not even worth taking a picture of. Same old shit used by BCI. Same old shit that anyone with a few hundred bucks can order from their favorite Internet spy store. So what the fuck’s going on here? Any ideas, Sherlock?”
“I’d like to send the photo of the small one to Wigg.”
“I already did.”
“Good. She knows this stuff inside out. And her new position can only help.”
“Agreed. Any thoughts in the meantime?”
“Sure, but that’s all they are—thoughts. The two devices being that different from each other suggests that they were placed by separate entities.”
Madeleine gave him a look. “Entities?”
“I don’t know what else to call them at this point. We may be dealing with two agencies, two units within one agency, sanctioned or unsanctioned investigators, et cetera. The only thing that’s clear is that there’s a technology gap between them.”
“In the meantime,” said Hardwick, “you want to fill us in on your get-together with Pardosa’s girlfriend?”
Gurney spent the next quarter hour recounting the details of the meeting.
Hardwick zeroed in on the phone call Pardosa had received. “Seems like that set the whole thing in motion, or at least set him in motion.”
Gurney nodded his agreement. “We need to pursue the ‘someone he knew from camp’ angle. His parents ought to be able to tell us what camp he attended as a kid and when. They might even know the names of campers he was friendly with. You think you can look into that?”
Hardwick coughed and spit into his handkerchief. “Giant pain in the ass and probably a dead end. But what the fuck else am I—?” He was interrupted by his own phone.
He glanced at the screen, looked surprised. “Christ, that was fast. It’s Wigg.”
He thanked her for getting back to him, then listened for a minute or so before speaking up again. “Hold on a second, Robin. I’ve got Gurney here. Let us get to a more private spot so I can put this on speakerphone.” He turned to Gurney and Madeleine. “How about we move outside to your car?”
Madeleine looked skeptical. “Our bugged car?”
Hardwick assured her that the scanner had detected no audio bugs, just the trackers. They headed out to the car, still parked under the overhang, and took the same seats they’d occupied earlier. Hardwick switched on his phone’s speaker. “Okay, Robin. You want to repeat what you started saying a minute ago?”
“I was asking if you’re certain the photographed device was gathering geopositioning information and then transmitting it.”
Although Gurney hadn’t seen Robin Wigg for well over a year, her distinctive contralto voice brought her vividly to mind. A wiry, athletic redhead with an androgynous look and manner, her age might have been anywhere from thirty to forty. She was smart, laconic, professional.
Hardwick answered her question. “According to the scanner you lent me, there’s no doubt about it.”
“Dave, the device is still affixed your car?”
“Correct. We don’t want to remove it yet.”
“You just want to know more about it?”
“Right. How advanced it is, et cetera.”
“And what that might tell you about the people who placed it?”
“Right. I’m also wondering, have you ever seen anything like it before?”
The question generated a pregnant silence. Sensing that he’d crossed a subtle line, he added, “Whatever you’re comfortable telling us would be helpful.”
“How much detail do you want on the technical issues involved in this level of miniaturization?”
“Only as much as will help us understand what and who we’re dealing with.”
“Okay. What you have there is two generations beyond what most law enforcement agencies would consider state of the art. Ninety-nine percent of the surveillance operatives in the world wouldn’t even know that such a device exists.” She paused. “You getting the picture?”
“Jesus,” said Gurney. “What’s something like that doing attached to my car?”
“I’m not trying to sound dramatic, but it’s pretty clear you’ve gotten yourself on the radar screen of an adversary with serious resources.”
“How much would that little item cost?” asked Hardwick.
“A lot,” said Wigg. “But the real barrier isn’t money. It’s access.”
“We’re talking about some kind of high-level spook shit?”
There was another silence, as pregnant as the first.
Gurney sensed that Wigg had told them all she was going to, and that pushing it further would be counterproductive. “Thanks, Robin. This has been very helpful. I appreciate it.”
“Let me say one last thing. Be extremely careful. Anyone deploying that kind of technology is playing in a league way beyond what you’re used to.”
Wigg’s parting comment led Gurney back to the question of who was responsible for BCI’s fixation on Richard Hammond—a question he’d been relying on Hardwick to pursue. “Just wondering, Jack . . . any progress in discovering who upstairs might be guiding the way Fenton is handling the case?”
Hardwick leaned forward from his position in the backseat. “That’s an amazingly timely question. Fenton’s chain of command was the subject of that phone call I was in the middle of when you came into the hotel lobby.”
“What did you find out?”
“That Gilbert Fenton’s reporting line has become a tad obscure. He’s been on ‘special assignment’ ever since the discovery of Hammond’s connection to the apparent suicides.”
“Is this ‘special assignment’ just outside his regular unit, or outside BCI entirely?”
“Nobody seems to know for sure what’s going on, even the people who always know everything.”
“But . . .?”
“There’s a rumor that he’s been taken under the wing of the interagency liaison for national security issues.”
Madeleine turned in her seat to face Hardwick. “National security? What does that mean?”
“Ever since 9/11 its meaning has been expanded to mean whatever the nasty little storm troopers in charge of it want it to mean.”
“But in this case . . .?”
“In this case, who the fuck knows what it means?”
Madeleine made a face. “Are you saying that someone concerned with national security thinks that Richard Hammond is some kind of terrorist? Or spy? That makes no sense!”
Hardwick let out a humorless laugh. “Very little of what they think or do makes sense—until you see it as a way of inflating their own importance. Then it all makes perfect sense.”
She stared at him. “You’re completely serious, aren’t you?”
“Don’t get me started. I’ve run into too many of these self-important, power-mad fuckheads with their self-serving bullshit. The so-called Patriot Act, Homeland Security, and all the corporate pigs sucking on that giant tit have done more damage to this country than Osama bin Laden could ever have dreamt of doing. Bottom line? America has fucked itself up, down, and sideways. Spooks are running the show now—with unlimited access to your personal life.”
Gurney waited to let the momentum of Hardwick’s anger abate. “Apart from Fenton’s reporting-line change, were you able to find out anything else?”
Once again Hardwick hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into his soiled handkerchief. “I picked up a few tidbits that might be relevant. For example, prior to joining the state police Fenton did three tours of duty in the army—the final one in army intelligence.”