In each interview he hinted there were more big revelations to come about the assassin only known as Jeff Duncan, but at this point he was pretty much relying on his senior colleague to make that happen.
Catherine did have a couple of potential leads. She had been checking her e-mail just before seven this morning, filtering through the messages she could put off till this whirlwind of publicity passed and trashing the items from the usual suspects of nut jobs who sent her long missives any time she posted an article. During this morning’s scroll through her messages she held on to five e-mails that looked like they needed her direct attention. Three were from intelligence community contacts of hers offering context about her most recent article, although none of them promised very much. Indeed, they looked more like people trying to get on her bandwagon this week by getting mentioned in a follow-up article, and less like people who had significant information to offer.
The other two e-mails were from unknowns. One claimed to have intelligence about the people killed on Brandywine Street, insisting they were not, as she and Andy had reported, Aryan Brotherhood drug dealers, but rather NSA technicians operating some sort of illegal domestic listening post.
This sounded like complete nonsense to Catherine, but the sender of the e-mail seemed intelligent enough. She decided she’d feel him out with a few follow-up questions before deciding whether or not to set up a phone interview.
The fifth potentially promising e-mail to arrive this morning, however, had her especially curious. It came from an address that looked randomly generated—all numbers and letters—and the sender’s message was both specific and compelling.
Ms. King, I read your article regarding the death of Lee Babbitt and Max Ohlhauser, and want you to know the intel you received from the Agency is a lie. I am a former Agency support technician in the SAD, and familiar with the case. Your obvious source was D/NCS Carmichael, but you may have also spoken to others, such as Jordan Mayes, Carmichael’s second-in-command in NCS. CIA has its own agenda and is using you to promote it. I am prepared to establish my bona fides via e-mail by telling you nonclassified information regarding the Agency and its activities, as well as specifics of the actions that have taken place since the man being sought arrived in D.C. Saturday evening last.
After I satisfy you that I am familiar with the parties involved in your investigation, however, I will require a face-to-face meeting to provide you with more information. To put you at ease, you are welcome to choose the time and place of this meeting.
Respectfully, A friend
The sender of this e-mail knew Carmichael’s name, which meant he might well have been an Agency employee, although this was out in open sources if one knew exactly where to look.
But what most interested King about the message was the sender’s understanding of the protocol of the tradecraft she used when interviewing sources in the clandestine world. Asking for general nonclassified information was exactly how she would initiate a conversation with someone claiming to work in a top secret position, and getting specifics about the event under investigation was her way of establishing relevance.
She decided quickly that “A friend” warranted an immediate response.
Below the message were a phone number and a URL link, and when Catherine clicked on the link it took her to a secure mobile messaging service called RedPhone. This told her the sender knew his stuff, as RedPhone was one of only a very few off-the-shelf communications systems available that were, at least according to the experts she’d spoken to, completely secure.
She already had RedPhone on her mobile, ready to use any time a source demanded it, so she opened it up and typed in the number.
She sent a text first, asking a few follow-up questions, and she received a reply within seconds. When she was satisfied the other party was, in fact, familiar with the workings of the CIA and not just some kid in Cincinnati wasting her time, she called the number.
A man answered with a relaxed and pleasant enough voice, but the conversation was stilted, chiefly because it was clear the person on the other end did not want to be talking on the phone at all. She asked him two questions about the chain of command on a CIA Special Activities Ground Branch support unit, and he answered both with ease, even giving her information she didn’t know, but could readily accept as accurate.
She then offered to meet in a public place with the former CIA technician, and the man on the other end agreed, but as he did so he told her something that made her blood run cold.
“We’ll have to be very careful. I’m not supposed to be talking to you, and Denny Carmichael is having you followed.”
“What? How do you know?”
“Last night I saw your tail when you came home.”
“How do you know where I live?”