Nate Kenyon - Day One

Hawke stared through the screen door at the men, his heart pounding so hard he thought they might see it, and tried to pretend he had just woken up from a nap.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

“Just a few questions.” The larger of the two stepped forward and stuck a badge up to the screen that read: Homeland Security Investigations and Special Agent. He had gray hair and eyes that never left Hawke’s face. “Five minutes of your time, please, to clear something up. It would be a big help.”

Thank God Robin wasn’t home. She had gone shopping for a crib with her mother at one of those outlet stores for yuppies, rooms full of shiny white furniture and rows of gleaming strollers. Robin’s father was there, though, puttering around somewhere in back where the house backed up on to the park, planting hostas in the shade of the big maple tree. Hawke would have to get these men out of the house quickly.

He nodded and stepped aside to let them in, leading them into the small living room with its couch and love seat and corner cabinet full of display plates and glass figurines. The dog groaned and slapped his tail on the floor, then laid his head back down, too old and fat to be bothered with getting up.

“Can I get you anything? Water?”

“We’d like to talk to you about the recent theft and leak of classified CIA documents to several news outlets,” the other special agent said. “Thought you might be able to point us in the right direction. We understand you know a few of the possible players, maybe shared some screen time with them, am I right?”

Hawke shrugged, trying not to swallow against the cotton coating his throat. “I really don’t know anything about that,” he said.

“But you read about it, right?” The larger one scratched his head, as if confused. “I mean, it’s national news. International, to be more accurate. I’d be shocked if they hadn’t heard the story in fucking Siberia. You know what I mean.”

“Sure.”

“And you’re an expert in computers,” the other one said, taking up the lead. “Some say a genius with them.”

“I’m a journalist. I work for the Times. ”

“Sure,” the tall one said. “But your blog. I read it. Tried to, anyway. Over my head. You’re a technological genius, am I right? Seems like you might know where we should be looking.”

“You’re aware of the”—the other one pretended to reference notes on his handheld—“hacker group Anonymous? ‘We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.’ Quite the tagline.”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s just a bunch of kids messing around.”

“Well, these kids have taken down the servers of some of our largest corporations. Caused millions in lost revenue, hacked government networks all over the world. We’re hearing they were involved with the CIA hack attack, too.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Sure.” The tall one looked around the house, as if appreciating the ambiance. “Cute little place. Doesn’t look like your style, though. You been here long?”

“It’s my in-laws’ house. My wife grew up here.” Like they didn’t know.

The tall one nodded again. “More and more young people doing that these days. You’ve been married how long?”

“Five months. We’re starting a family. This is only temporary.” Hawke didn’t know why he’d said that.

“You probably wouldn’t want them to know we were here,” the other agent said, as if they were all friends conspiring to put together a surprise party. “Mind if we take a quick look at your computer? Standard procedure, just crossing the t’ s. Faster we do it, faster we can go.”

“Don’t you need a warrant for that sort of thing?”

The tall man studied him for a long moment, the atmosphere between them suddenly going cold. He glanced at his partner. “We can do that,” he said. “If it’s necessary. But it complicates things, you understand. This is a courtesy visit. You cooperate, we’re out of your hair. Otherwise, we might have no choice but to think you’re hiding something.”

Hawke led them to the basement, watched with folded arms as they put on gloves and poked around his desk, checked the trash can, went through drawers and closets. As they went on, they grew more serious, and he got progressively more uncomfortable, as if witnessing his own funeral. He knew they wouldn’t find anything; he’d been careful whenever he had done anything that might have crossed the line, and all his communications with Rick had been through public terminals. Even Hawke’s cell calls were safe; he used Voice over IP, and the pulse was routed through enough servers and switchbacks to make it impossible for the best hacker to trace. But the feeling persisted, and when he thought of Robin coming home and finding this he felt the sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

The smaller agent went into a crouch to poke at the jumble of shoes at the bottom of Hawke’s closet, and his jacket opened up enough to expose the butt of a gun in a holster strapped to the man’s side.

When the tall one began bagging Hawke’s laptop, he stepped in. “Hold on a minute—”

“These things,” the agent said, shaking his head. “I can’t make heads or tails of them. They’re like little alien pods, you know? But we’ve got guys back in the lab who can go over this thoroughly, make sure you’re clean. It’s a supervised environment, better that way for everyone. We’ll return it safe and sound in a couple of days, max.”

“You got a problem with that?” The other agent had come up behind him, the sudden aggression unnerving. “Because an innocent man has nothing to worry about, you know?”

Hawke remembered the glimpse of the gun. “I need it for work.”

“We’ll have it right back to you, good as new. A couple of days.” The tall one finished sliding the laptop into the plastic Baggie. “That’s it, Frank. Let’s go grab some coffee.” He turned to Hawke, stuck out a hand. “Much appreciated, Mr. Hawke. We apologize for the inconvenience. Your name came up a couple of times….” He shrugged. “You know how it is. Covering our bases.”

He showed them to the door. They thanked him again and the tall one handed him a business card. “Your father,” he said, as if making an offhand remark. “He was a writer, too?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just curious. His name came up with yours. Runs in the family, I guess. The writing, I mean. A gift for words, that’s a real talent.”

“If you say so.”

“He died kind of young, didn’t he?”

“My father was a drunk. We weren’t very close.”

The agent nodded. “Look, I want you to know, you’re not a suspect in this case,” he said. “But I think you might be able to help us track down the people responsible.”

“I don’t know what you mean. I told you, I’m a journalist for the Times. I know a lot of people. It’s my job.”

The tall one studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Obstruction of justice carries a stiff penalty, Mr. Hawke. Give us a call if you remember anything.”

They went out to the gigantic SUV that sat at the curb, terribly out of place in the neat but modest suburban street. Most of the neighbors drove Hondas and Ford sedans.

When Hawke closed the door softly and turned back, Robin’s father was standing in the kitchen by the back door. “Something I should know?”