Джозеф Файндер - The Switch

John looked sidelong at Nicole.

“How many does this even make since Snowden?”

“Um,” John said.

But Will didn’t wait for his answer. “What the hell is going on with you people? Another NSA screwup? My God, you guys leak like a, a salad spinner.” He considered saying something about Huggies diapers and how they didn’t leak, but he decided that not everybody had baby on the brain. “You sure as hell are better at collecting secrets than keeping them. And let’s not even talk about 9/11.” Will knew that the NSA shouldered the primary blame for not catching the September 11 terrorists, and that this was more than a sore point for the agency. “As you well know, my boss pretty much controls the purse strings for you guys. Every intel budget, every program — she decides thumbs-up or thumbs-down. She can yank those purse strings or she can just snip them off. So what I want to know is: This new leak — do we have something to worry about?”

“Not at all, sir. Nothing at all to worry about. We don’t need to take any more of your time.”

Tanner drove to the office, making a few extra turns, taking a circuitous route. Just in case he was being followed. Though in truth he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t.

In the afternoon, when it had been five hours since his meeting with Brent Stover, he gave in to his anxiety and called the guy, on his work number. Calling his mobile phone seemed a little too aggressive. He reached a woman named Linda who seemed to be his assistant, or maybe an assistant for a group of FBI officers. She said he was out of the office and that she’d take a message for him. A couple of hours later he tried Stover’s mobile. He got a recording of Stover saying, “Please leave a message.” He did.

At seven he left another message on Stover’s cell phone.

The next morning, Tanner was up early. He checked his e-mail and wondered for the first time whether anyone — “they” — might have tapped his Internet connection. He didn’t even know if that was possible.

He decided to go into work early. Sal the roaster might be at work — he kept long hours, by his own choice — or he might have to open the place, which he rarely had to do.

At seven thirty, before getting into his car, he called Brent Stover’s mobile phone. This was the third time. He got voice mail again. And he wondered: Was it possible Stover was just too busy to get back to him? If that was the case, leaving another message would be obnoxious. He ended the call before the beep. Then he called Stover’s office number and got a voice mail message. It was too early for the office there to open. He didn’t leave a message.

He wondered whether Stover was avoiding him for some reason. Maybe he was too busy with FBI casework and meetings and paperwork to have checked into the classified documents Tanner had told him about.

Sure... but Stover had sounded alarmed at what Tanner had told him. He had sounded intensely interested, and it wasn’t an act. It didn’t seem plausible that he’d drop it when he got into work.

There must be a good reason he was avoiding Tanner’s call.

At eight thirty he called Stover’s work number from his office landline. Linda answered.

“Yes, Mr. Tanner, good morning. He’s in a meeting, but I can take a message.”

Tanner left Stover a second message and told her it was important. “How long does that meeting go on for?” he asked.

“Usually no more than an hour. Half an hour to forty-five minutes, max.”

“Okay. Well, he’ll know what this is about, but please tell him I need to talk with him soon.”

“I will,” she said, pleasantly.

At ten thirty, he called Stover’s FBI line and got Linda again. “Is there a good time to reach him? I don’t want to keep bothering you.”

“I’m giving him the messages, sir,” she said testily.

“I appreciate that. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

“I understand,” she said. “He’s a very busy man.”

“Is there a good time to reach him, do you think?”

“I’m sorry, sir, all I can do is give him your message.”

“So he knows I’ve been calling.”

“I don’t know whether he’s seen the messages, sir. I’ll tell him you called again.”

Tanner had his own meeting to get through, with Karen. At the end of it he asked if he could borrow her cell phone. She looked surprised — she could see his on his desk — but said sure.

She unlocked her home screen and handed it to him. As soon as she’d left the office, he called Brent Stover’s cell phone.

Stover answered right away. “Yeah?”

“Brent, it’s Michael Tanner, and I want to apologize for hounding you.”

“Yeah, uh, Michael, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m really awfully busy, I’m sorry, best of luck.”

There was a click. He had hung up.

Tanner was stunned. The FBI guy was avoiding him, that was clear, but why?

I’m afraid I can’t help you.

What did that mean

Brent Stover left work at six, Tanner remembered him saying.

At quarter of six, Tanner was standing outside the glass doors to a small lobby area and a bank of elevators in One Center Plaza. There was a constant surge of people, mostly government workers, leaving work for the day. Some looked bedraggled and unhappy; some were voluble and boisterous.

At five minutes after six, Brent Stover came out of a crowded elevator.

This was sort of like stalking, Tanner knew. But it was justified.

He waited for Stover to emerge from the glass doors, saw he wasn’t talking to anyone, and approached him.

Stover saw him. A flash of panic on his face. Subtly, he shook his head.

Tanner came closer, and Stover said, quietly, “Not here.” His eyes darted upward and to his right. Tanner saw a surveillance camera mounted on the building face high above, and his stomach twisted.

Stover kept walking, Tanner following at a distance.

Stover crossed the street in the direction of the sandwich shop where they’d met the day before. Tanner waited a few seconds and then crossed. Stover was still within view, walking past the Starbucks and down the street. He seemed to be leading Tanner. He certainly wasn’t trying to lose him.

Stover rounded the next corner and then turned into an alley. He stopped beside a Dumpster. As soon as Tanner came up to him, Stover spoke to him quietly and quickly. “Do me a favor, Tanner, and turn off your phone.”

“What the hell is going on?” Tanner said.

“Here’s what’s going on. I got a wife and four kids who depend on my salary. I got a pension. I got a career. I got a life. And they’re shutting me down.”

“Who’s shutting you—”

“I cannot touch this. Please, just forget my name and never call me again.”

“Will you explain to me what you—”

“I don’t know what you did, but please — just stay away from me. This conversation never happened. Don’t contact me again. Please.”

There was something deeply unnerving about seeing a man like the normally stolid Brent Stover so visibly frightened.

This conversation never happened. Don’t contact me again. Please.

What the hell had the FBI agent discovered? What had he been told?

And what was this about turning off his phone? Tanner wondered whether it was true that you could be tracked via your mobile phone. He’d heard that somewhere but had never given it much thought.

But he kept his phone turned off just in case.

He stopped at a convenience store and bought three prepaid cell phones. He had to be reachable, had to stay in touch with the office, yet he couldn’t use his iPhone any longer. He returned to Carl’s house in Newton, warily — parking down the street and around a corner and walking back to the house. Was he being followed? He didn’t think so. Not that he could tell, anyway.