“Naw, you read it to me. It’ll be faster if you pick out the important stuff.”
“Suit yourself.” She flipped the first page. “Douglas Carl Matcliff the Third, born 1969, Fairfax County Hospital, mother Mary, father, obviously also Douglas, attended Langley High School, graduated 1987. Enlisted in the marines right out of school, looks like more to get a piece of the G.I. Bill than anything else. Served his three years, got an honorable discharge then matriculated from George Mason University with a degree in Economics in 1996. He applied to Fairfax County Police Academy, was accepted first round. We picked him up in 2003, put him through the Academy at Quantico, and he was assigned to Headquarters under Supervisory Special Agent Anne Carter.” She stopped, took a sip of her beer.
“Plum assignment, working with Anne Carter. She was a mover and shaker, smart, attractive, articulate, able to lead and a solid investigator, one of the ones the brass keep their eyes on.”
“Like you?”
She smiled wide, which made her dimples show. “You’re too kind. Doug caught her eye while he was at the Academy, and he attached himself to her, knowing full well as her star rose, so would his. And they were both rising. When all this went down, Anne was about to be moved to the New York Field Office as an ASAC in the Criminal Investigative Division up there. That’s the big leaping-off point, New York CID.”
“Until Eden made everything go south.”
She flipped a page. “Not exactly true. It didn’t stop Anne. She was on record saying it was a bad idea to send Doug undercover, knowing he wasn’t ready, but she was overruled. It was her boss who got yanked and sent out to run one of the Midwest field offices, and Anne went on to New York without a blemish.”
“Interesting. So tell me, how could an upstanding guy like Matcliff, with all his training from the marines, the Fairfax County Police and the FBI, get roped into a religious cult? Did he have a record of being a spiritual guy?”
She looked at the file. “Episcopal, nonpracticing. Nope.”
“Do you think it’s possible he was kept against his will?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. He clearly got out the first chance he had.”
“What was his MOS in the marines?”
“MOS?”
“Military Occupation Specialty. It’s what they do. Like Xander—you met him earlier—was an infantry guy. Eleven Bang Bang, they called his group. But he was also a sniper.Rangers are known for multiple skills.”
“Oh. Let’s see. Matcliff was Field 0621—a radio operator.”
“Which answers nothing. Okay. Consider the Spanish Inquisition over for now. Let’s start looking at these captures, see if we can find his checkins.”
They split the box in two, worked for an hour, devouring the pizza, highlighting anything that looked interesting. There were pages and pages of old SIGINT electronic traffic, and Fletcher hadn’t seen anything that seemed remotely tied to Doug Matcliff, Eden or Kaylie Rousch.
Jordan tossed her glasses onto the stack of papers, stretched and yawned. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. This is the old email database system. They shut it down several years ago. Our newer versions are much more comprehensive, and easier to scan.”
Fletcher went to sip his beer, realized it was empty. He reached for another, and Jordan handed him the opener. He cracked the lid. “There’s a reason this box was left for you. We just need to figure out what it is. There’s probably a codex we’re missing, something that will translate this stuff.”
She looked at him as if he’d said the most brilliant thing in the world.
“What?”
“Fletch, you’re absolutely right. We need to find the patterns in the communications, and use a key to unlock it.”
“And here I was, just tossing it out there.”
“No, you’re onto something. So where do we find the key? Is it in the names, the dates, the addresses?”
He looked down at the paper he was holding. It was an email sent in to the FBI’s old private email system. “The FBI uses code names for cases, right?”
“Absolutely. Just like the military. Ensures privacy, a sense of pride in the mission, all that good stuff. Why?”
“What was the code name for Matcliff’s cult infiltration?”
“Operation Hierarchy.”
He looked up from the paper. “Seriously?”
“Hey, I didn’t name it.”
“What was Matcliff’s code name?”
She flipped through the file. “Saxon.”
Fletcher grinned. “At least that makes sense. He went to Langley High School. Their mascot is a Saxon.”
“A Saxon?”