C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

Jax scooped up the documents and turned toward the door. “Then I’ll burn them. One of these days, some lazy idiot in ODIS is going to get me killed.”

He suddenly froze.

“What?” said Tobie, watching the smile that spread slowly across his face. “What is it?”

He turned, the offending documents held up in one triumphant fist. “AODIS. That’s it.”

She shook her head. “What is AODIS?”

“The Archives for the Office of Documentation and Identity Support,” said Matt. “They’re the guys who supply field agents with their legends.”

“Their whats?”

“Their legends. You know-their cover stories. Life histories, documents, pocket litter. That stuff. They do the same thing for defectors and anyone else the Government wants to bring in on the sly. They’ve been around since the days of the OSS and TSD.”

She knew what the OSS was-the Office of Strategic Services, the forerunner of the CIA. But…“What’s TSD?”

“Technical Services Division,” said Jax, shoving the debris of Jason Aldrich’s legend into the pocket of his jacket. “That’s what ODIS used to be called. Their name might have changed, but that’s about it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mudd inked our man Kline’s name into those old leather-bound ledgers himself.”

“Mud?” Tobie looked from one man to the other. “Am I missing something?”

“Herman Mudd,” said Matt. “Otherwise known as the Bowling Ball. He’s in charge of the legend archives. And Jax is right: if the Company manufactured new IDs for the really dirty guys they brought in through the ratlines, then you can bet fifty miles of red tape that some bureaucrat made a record of it.”

Tobie said, “But that information would be classified, too, right?”

Matt shook his head. “All the operational files and documents are classified. But the receipts they made Kline sign for his new birth certificate and social security number? That’s pure administrative shit.”

Tobie pushed up from her chair. “So all we need to do is go to this legends archive, and we’ll be able to track down where Martin Kline went, right?”

She watched the excited animation drain from Matt’s hairy face. “There’s a problem,” she said. “What? They’re not open on Saturday?”

Jax squinted up at the buzzing fluorescent light overhead and said nothing.

It was Matt who answered her. “Oh, they’re open. Mudd practically lives down there. The problem is, Jax had a little run-in with the Bowling Ball a couple of years ago.”

“A little run-in? What kind of a little run-in?”

“Let’s just put it this way: if anyone from Division Thirteen goes near Herman Mudd with this request, we can kiss our information good-bye.”

“So how do we get our hands on this stuff?”

She realized both men were now looking at her. “Me? Why me? I’m with Division Thirteen, too. Remember?”

“Yeah, but the Bowling Ball doesn’t know that.”

“Why do you keep calling Mudd ‘the Bowling Ball’?”

Jax smiled, and turned toward the door. “You’ll see.”

By the time Rodriguez reached Rock Creek Park, the first flakes of snow had begun to drift down from the heavy sky. He cut quickly through the trees, to where the wide arch of Boulder Bridge soared over the rocky stream, the bridge a swath of hard gray against a quickly whitening backdrop of slender, snow-covered beech and gently rolling hills.

The snow did not please him. But the flakes were big and wet, and would soon melt. He would like to have arrived sooner, to set up an early watch; but Colonel Sam Lee had not yet arrived.

Stationing himself in the shadow of the bridge’s abutment, Rodriguez had not long to wait before the Colonel came hurrying down the path toward him. Reaching the bridge, Lee looked around nervously, his shoulders hunched, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his parka. Rodriguez watched the man pace nervously back and forth, and decided the General was right: Lee was becoming a danger.

Rodriguez stepped from behind the stand of dogwood that grew near the end of the bridge. Colonel Lee was about to become the victim of another mugging in Rock Creek Park. Jax stood at the entrance to the Grand Ballroom of the Renaissance Washington Hotel, where a myriad of tiny white lights sparkled above linen-draped round tables set with gleaming white china. Emaciated women in haute couture and wicked high heels mingled with self-satisfied men in hand-tailored Italian suits or ribbon-encrusted uniforms, their voices a low roar of polite chitchat or earnest networking. Vast urns of peach-colored roses and orange lilies filled the air with a heady perfume and served as an unwelcome reminder that today was Halloween.

Jax paused next to his former stepfather. “Don’t you get tired of this sort of thing?”

Paul Ginsburg laughed. “Some people enjoy getting shot at. I enjoy…this.”

Jax’s gaze fixed on the far side of the room, where Sophia Talbot, luminous in Armani green silk, laughed with the current secretary of the treasury, who just happened to be ex-husband number five. “Isn’t it awkward, constantly finding yourself in the same room with your ex-wife and her various other ex-spouses?”

“Actually, we’ve formed something of a club.”

Jax made an incoherent sound deep in his throat and said, “Better introduce me to the General, quick, before she sees me.”

General Gerald T. Boyd turned politely at their approach. He was a big man, well over six feet, with the brawny torso and tan, weathered face of a man who believed that just because he’d reached the rank of lieutenant general was no reason to stop jumping out of airplanes and charging over obstacle courses with the toughest of his men.

“It’s a privilege to meet you, General,” said Jax, shaking his hand. “A real privilege.”

“Excuse me,” said Ginsburg, moving on.

“I ran into an old associate of yours the other day,” said Jax, when the General made as if to turn away. “A mercenary by the name of Carlos Rodriguez.”

The General swung back to face him. The faint, polite smile of a politician never left his lips, but his eyes were cold and hard and decidedly hostile. “I think the Major prefers to think of himself as a private military company contractor.”

“Any idea who’s contracting his services these days?”

“Right now? No.”

“What can you tell me about him?” said Jax, lifting a mimosa from the tray of a circling waiter.

“Rodriguez? He’s a fine soldier, and an outstanding American. I’ve never known him to take on an assignment he couldn’t accomplish. Why do you ask?”

Jax took a slow sip of his drink. “I’m afraid Rodriguez and his boys have been involved in some recent incidents that weren’t exactly laudable.”

“Oh? Where was this?”

“Kaliningrad.”

Jax watched the General’s face. Boyd had obviously learned long ago to control every muscle of his face, every gesture, every nuance of stance and movement. But he couldn’t hide the gleam of lethal rage that flashed in the depths of his steel-gray eyes. “You must have him confused with someone else.”

“I don’t think so.” Jax raised his glass and took another swallow. “You’re certain you’ve no idea who he might be working for?”

“Sorry. I can’t help you.” Boyd shifted his gaze to the far side of the room. “Excuse me.”

Jax was still standing there, sipping his mimosa, his gaze following the General’s determined progress across the crowded room, when Ginsburg walked up to him.

“Think he’s involved?” said Ginsburg.

Jax drained his glass. “He’s involved.”

Like Division Thirteen, the archives of the ODIS lay deep in the basement of the Old Building at Langley. The air was dank, the false ceiling of stained acoustical tiles low, the fluorescent lights humming an endless, maddening note. Tobie walked up to a high, battered counter and peered over it. From here she could see rows and rows of ladened metal shelves that stretched endlessly into the gloom. No one was in sight.