Once She Knew Page 12

  “Hold it. You’re telling me that the FBI is keeping an eye on websites and who’s looking at them, and they came after you because of something you might have looked at?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Rick spoke for the first time. “Lady, have you heard of the NSA? The FBI’s Carnivore, or its newer incarnations? Echelon?”

  Claire shook her head in bewilderment. Rick looked disgusted. “Boy, you ivory tower types really get me. It’s like you live in a bubble.”

  “So enlighten me.” Claire fought to keep sarcasm out of her voice.

  “NSA. National Security Agency. The government group in charge of international surveillance. They’ve got a six-billion-dollar budget, and more employees than the FBI and the CIA combined. And they keep a very low profile.”

  “All right, if you say so.”

  “Echelon is a worldwide surveillance network that intercepts private communications. Phone, cell phone, e-mail, fax. It’s been around for a while. The story is that it’s supposed to help track terrorists and drug traffickers.”

  “You’re telling me they can eavesdrop on anyone, anytime, anywhere?”

  “Just about. They can do it—that is, they have the capability. But not the capacity. Practically speaking, they’ve got what you might think of as filters. They’ve got a couple of lists—a watch list, for people or organizations they want to keep an eye on, and a keyword list. Like, if they pick up something with ‘bomb’ in it, they’re going to flag it.”

  Claire struggled to wrap her mind around the whole idea. “But . . . the sheer volume of communications must be incredible! And you say they can intercept voice communications?”

  Rick nodded. “The bottleneck is translating them. But if the buzzword is there, then the conversation is stored somewhere, and eventually someone will get around to it. That might explain why it took them so long to track down Jonathan.”

  “But does the NSA talk to the FBI?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, at the moment there’s a sort of firewall between them: but the FBI had Carnivore, which they used to watch e-mails and online activity in this country. That’s what was called a ‘packet sniffer.’ Cute, huh? You can set up a filter looking for the same kind of specific information, and they can keep track of what websites you visit, what you look at. Who you e-mail. What you download.”

  “But,” Claire sputtered, “is this legal?”

  “Sort of. The party line is, if the FBI has a reasonable suspicion that someone is engaged in criminal activities, they can request a court order. They have to have a good reason, but suspected terrorism is definitely on their list. It doesn’t get used a lot, but it’s out there.”

  “But,” Claire countered, “that’s invasion of privacy! It’s not right!”

  “Matter of opinion. The technology exists, and people are using it.”

  Claire fell silent, her brain scurrying to recall what websites she might have looked at, in all innocence. Anything that might have called attention to herself. She was more shaken than she wanted to admit. Why wasn’t there more public outcry about this?

  Her brain seemed to be working too slowly. “But, Jonathan, you told me you didn’t use the computer at Annabeth’s house. So why would they come looking for you there, now?”

  “Look, Claire, I told you that I don’t know if that’s why the FBI was there,” he responded. “I’m guessing. I just acknowledge the possibility, and it was public knowledge that I’d be at Greenferne this month. Or maybe it took them this long to sift through what they’ve picked up. I do know that I’ve been looking online at stuff that they’re interested in. But if you recall, I wasn’t thinking very clearly once the agent went down—I just got out fast, and ended up at your cabin—I didn’t stop to ask questions, or to read the warrant. Sure, I could have gone straight to the police or the FBI then, and maybe I should have. But things happened, and here we are.”

  Claire bounced to her feet, unable to sit still. “What the hell have you dragged me into? And why shouldn’t I call the FBI right now and tell them you’re here? How do you know they won’t listen to you? You arrogant son of a bitch—what makes you think you know how to handle this?” And why on earth did she think that Jonathan and Rick wouldn’t do whatever it took to shut her up, if she didn’t play along? She was too mad to care.

  Jonathan stood too, his eyes on a level with hers. “Claire, please, just listen to me. The problem is, I’m hearing things that make me very nervous. That’s why I had to stay out of custody. And that’s why I really needed to get together with Rick, find out what he’s heard.”

  “But aren’t people watching him too?”

  “They see only what I want them to see,” Rick said.

  Jonathan cut in, “It looks like something may be happening soon, maybe even in the next week or two. If we went to the FBI now, we would get tied up in some endless bureaucratic nonsense, and we’d lose our chance to do anything about it.”

  “What are we supposed to be doing about it?” Claire protested. “You think something big may be happening, but you don’t know when or where, or who’s running the show. And you think you can stop it? You are nuts! Let the FBI, or Homeland Security, or somebody who knows what they’re doing handle it!”

  Jonathan and Rick exchanged guarded glances again, before Jonathan answered. “Claire, I can see how it looks. But I think things are coming to a head. We believe that it’s going to happen in New York.”

  “Oh, yeah, great. That makes it all perfectly clear. What’s your plan? Wander around the city and look for terrorists?”

  “Claire,” Jonathan said in a tone that matched hers, “I don’t have a plan! That’s why I need some time with Rick, to see what he’s come up with. Look, I’m sorry! How many times do you want me to say that? I need to get to New York and talk to Annabeth, hope that she can clear me, and maybe give me a clue about why the FBI was at her door.”

  Claire took a deep breath, and then another. How could she have been so naive, so trusting? Could she believe anything that Jonathan had said? And what on earth were they supposed to do about it? He was right about one thing: she was in this up to her neck, through her own stupidity. The only thing she could do now was to help him straighten this out, ASAP.

  She stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to call my friend.”

  “Claire—wait! I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Can you trust this person?”

  “Look, pal, you don’t exactly have the right to ask that. I had to take your buddy Rick here on faith, so cut me a little slack. The short answer is, yes, I’d trust Leah over almost anyone else I know, and that includes my own family. I certainly trust her more than I trust you.” She turned to Rick. “Can I use your phone?”

  Rick shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Nobody’s going to trace the call anyway.”

  “Fine. Where is it?” Mutely, Rick pointed toward the living room. Maybe he wanted to give her some privacy—or maybe he planned to listen in on the wireless phone that sat on the kitchen table. Claire didn’t care. She stalked into the front room to make her call.

  17

  In the living room Claire found the phone, a black model that looked as old as the house. Breathe, Claire. Be calm. Yeah, right. She was still pissed at Jonathan for getting her into this. One minute she was minding her own business, enjoying her solitude, and getting some work done; the next minute she was the target of a national search by who knew how many federal agencies. And then Jonathan kept springing these little surprises on her. Now there was a terrorist plot? Was he telling the truth? All of it, or just as much as was convenient for him?

  It was, she admitted grudgingly, in part, somehow, just a little, her own fault. She could have called the cops the minute Jonathan stumbled into her cabin and collapsed in a soggy puddle—if she could have found a working phone. She could have called them at any time after that. She could have told them face-to-face, when the officer had driven up to the cabin, or when
the FBI agents had knocked on her door. She could have walked away, on more than one occasion. So why hadn’t she?

  Because you think you’re smarter than everyone, and because of that you’ve done something incredibly stupid. Because as soon as she turned him in, somebody would have dug up their prior connection, and as Jonathan had said, that would drag her into the tar pit and she wasn’t sure how she could climb out.

  This wasn’t helping. As Jonathan had astutely pointed out, she was in it now, and she needed to figure out the next step. That meant they were going to New York to try and set up a clandestine meeting with Annabeth. She had to talk to Leah. Thank heavens Leah’s was one of the few numbers she knew by heart. She picked up the phone and dialed. She refused even to contemplate what she would do if Leah wasn’t home, or was on vacation, or had moved, or was living with someone . . . With a mounting sense of panic, Claire listened to the phone ring, once, twice, three times.

  “Hey there!” Leah’s voice sang out. “Who’s this?”

  Claire could hear more than one voice talking in the background—live, not the television or radio. And from Leah’s uncharacteristic exuberance, Claire guessed she had been drinking. But she had no alternatives.

  “Leah, it’s Claire.”

  Leah let out a whoop. “Hey, girl, where the hell are you?”

  “Leah, shut up and listen. You hear me? Do not talk.”

  Leah answered in a more cautious voice. “Gotcha. What’s going on?”

  “You must have seen the news?”

  “Well, duh. Hard to miss.”

  “It’s not what it looks like. You’ve got people there, right? Can you get rid of them?”

  “Just a few friends, nothing big. Uh, yeah, I think they’re going on to dinner. I can beg off. Where are you?”

  “Look, I don’t think you need to know. Let me call you back in an hour, and I can fill you in. Oh, wait—has anyone been asking you about me?”

  “What, like friends?”

  “No, I mean the FBI, the cops. Has anybody put you and me together yet?”

  “Uh, no. Why would they?”

  Claire ignored her question. “Good. Don’t worry—I’m fine, but things are kind of complicated. I’ll explain it all to you when I call back, okay?”

  “Got it. I’ll get rid of these guys and I’ll stay off the phone. And I’m really glad you’re all right. Later, babe.” Leah hung up.

  Even though she’d only taken one baby step forward, Claire felt immeasurably relieved: finally she had someone on her side. Leah would help, Claire was sure of it. She checked her watch; it would be after ten by the time she could call back. Slowly she walked back to the kitchen.

  Jonathan and Rick had been engaged in a heated discussion, but both pairs of eyes turned to her as she walked in. “Well?” Jonathan said.

  “She’s home, but she had people there. She’s going to get rid of them, and then I’ll call her back.” Claire sat down and picked up her unfinished drink, then swallowed it in one gulp.

  “Great, fine, but who is this woman, and what’s she going to do for us?” Jonathan demanded.

  Claire glared at Jonathan. “Leah is my best friend. She was my college roommate for three years, and we shared an apartment in graduate school for a couple of years after that. Then she decided that grad school was a bore, took a master’s, and got a job in New York. She’s one of the smartest people I know. Anything else you need? Her GPA? Her shoe size?” Or her security clearance, if she has one? Although maybe she does. I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “No, no, that’s fine. It’s probably better if I don’t know too much—as long as we can trust her.”

  “You can, absolutely. What’s the plan on our end?”

  “Rick’s got to go to work tomorrow. We figured we’d brainstorm tonight, see what we can find out on the Web. If you can set up when and where to meet this Leah tomorrow, we can work backward from there. Does that suit you, ma’am?”

  Now he was being snide. “Fine,” Claire said between clenched teeth. “I’m going to call Leah at ten. I’ll be in the living room.” Let them clean up the kitchen. Claire turned quickly and strode to the living room, where she started looking for something to read. Rick’s interests were narrow: there was little that appealed to Claire. She made a note to pick up something more to read, if they got to a train or bus station. She’d almost finished with Nora, much to her surprise.

  At ten, Claire dialed Leah’s number again. This time Leah answered on the first ring. “Claire? Is that you? The caller ID’s coming up as unknown.”

  “Just as well. You don’t need to know where I am.”

  “Claire Hastings, you sound like something out of a bad novel. Okay, can I assume you’re not being held prisoner by this what’s-his-name?”

  “His name’s Jonathan Daulton, and, no, he’s not holding me hostage. He never was. It’s just a big ridiculous misunderstanding. Look, before I get into this—are you sure nobody’s come around asking about me? I mean, you are my best friend.”

  “I’m flattered, but no, nobody seems to care. Sorry—does that shatter your ego?”

  Claire smiled. Leah always knew how to push her buttons. “No, I can live with that.”

  “So, spill. What the hell is going on? Wait—this Jonathan guy isn’t just pulling some ridiculous publicity stunt to promote a new book or anything? Didn’t he write something big a few years ago?”

  “No, and yes. But I gather he’d rather forget that. No, Leah, I hate to say it, but I think this is more serious than that. The FBI really is looking for us, and for the moment, we don’t want them to find us. And there’s something else, that’s sort of related, that I really need to talk to you about, but I don’t want to do it on the phone.” And not until I get a lot more information. “Listen, can I stay at your place for a day or two, until this all gets sorted out? I know it’s asking a lot, under the circumstances, and you should understand that. It could mean your job, or even criminal charges.”

  “You’re not doing anything illegal or dishonest, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then no problem. I’ll take your word over the government’s any day. I know you, and I don’t like them. How long will it take you to get here?”

  “Well, I’m in another state right now. I was thinking maybe tomorrow, after work? So you can go to work, like you would normally.” Do I remember what normal is like?

  “All right. You want me to leave you a key? Or am I supposed to sneak you in through the cellar? What?”

  “Leah, I’m kind of new to all this skulking stuff, and I really don’t know. Can’t I just ring your doorbell like an ordinary person? You don’t have surveillance video in your lobby or anything, do you?”

  Leah snorted. “You’ve seen this place. We barely have lightbulbs in the lobby. And half the time the front door lock’s busted. You come ahead—sixish, maybe? I’ll make sure to be here.”

  “I will owe you forever.”

  “Ha. You already do.”

  “Oh, by the way. I look, uh, kind of different.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Leah giggled. “Oh, I gotcha. Disguise, huh? This should be fun. I can’t wait.”

  Claire was swamped with a sense of gratitude. “Leah, I can’t thank you enough. And I don’t have to tell you, don’t say anything to anyone, all right? You haven’t heard from me, and you haven’t seen me in months.”

  “Which is true, pal. But don’t worry, Leah’s mom didn’t raise no stupid kids. I’ll see you tomorrow. And if your plans change, just leave me a message, huh? I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  Any more than she was going to worry anyway, Claire added to herself. “Will do. Later, babe.” She hung up. There: one piece had fallen into place. Now they just had to get through the next twenty hours and get themselves to New York. Wait a minute: had she mentioned to Leah that Jonathan was traveling with her? Apparently not. She’d think about that later.

  She made
her way back to the kitchen, where Rick and Jonathan were busy making diagrams on a pad of paper. Jonathan at least looked up when she came in. “All set?”

  “Yes. After six tomorrow. She hasn’t heard anything from anybody.”

  “Great. We’re going to head upstairs, see what the news is. The FBI must be mad as hell at this point, and that can’t be good.”

  “Uh, sleeping arrangements?” Claire could recall only the one bed upstairs—Rick’s—and the second room filled with equipment.

  “The sofa in the living room opens out,” Rick answered.

  Great. Claire thought it looked as old as she was. But it was one step up from sleeping on the floor. “Sheets?”

  Rick looked nonplussed. “What? Oh, yeah, right. I’ll see what I can find.”

  That did not bode well, but they hadn’t signed on to this tour for the luxurious accommodations. They were fed, and they were safe, and they had access to information, and that was the best she could hope for right now. And she was so tired that it probably didn’t matter if there were sheets, clean or otherwise.

  Jonathan had not come downstairs when Claire fell asleep to the muted sound of voices above. They did not sound happy.

  18

  Claire awoke to yet another dim and unfamiliar room, and absorbed only slowly that Rick had just bumbled past the foldout bed on his way toward the bathroom and kitchen. Jonathan was sleeping next to her, one arm thrown across her, dead to the world. She hadn’t even noticed when he had come to bed. Great: she’d slept with him for the last three nights, and as far as she could remember, sleeping with a man was supposed to be a lot more fun. I must be out of practice. She felt exhausted, and she didn’t want to move.

  Idly she studied Jonathan’s face. Asleep, and now that the beard was gone, he looked a lot younger—and not at all like a candidate for terrorist agent or kidnapper. And, she had to admit, he was a good-looking man. Drunk though she might have been that dismal night, at least she had good taste. She hadn’t picked up a toad, just because he was breathing and in the right place. And somehow that lapse of judgment had led her here, years later, which made no sense to her at all, unless she chose to believe that she was being punished by an angry universe for that one uncharacteristic mistake.