enhanced but he didn’t have faith that the campus police, although part of the Washington State Patrol, had the horsepower to do it to FBI quality. He pointed at the computer. “Make a copy for yourself. I want to take the original with me.”
As the words came out, Fisher wanted to take them back, but before he could Helms shot back, “Don’t start that shit with me. We have the capability of enhancing images too.”
Fisher considered how best to smooth things over but decided to hell with it. “Aw Jesus, here we go. Look, I’m tired and you don’t want me to take this to the next level. You do, and you’ll lose, and that’ll waste everybody’s time. We can do a better job with it. You know it and I know it. In the end, isn’t that all we want? Right?”
The room fell silent. The female officer stayed seated with her eyes diplomatically glued to the screen instead of turning to watch her superior officer’s face grow deep crimson.
Fisher added, “You got other cameras at the entrance to the garage or the road approach?”
Helms nodded. “Yep.”
“I want the originals of those too. Oh, while you’re at it, make yourself a copy of the note they left.”
4
N IGEL FEIST STROLLED north along the waterfront, past the Edgewater hotel with the huge red neon E on the roof. By now he was certain he hadn’t picked up a tail. At the bulkhead connecting the pier to Myrtle Edwards Park he leaned on the railing and listened to the steady rumble from the massive concrete grain elevator feeding a freighter’s holds. Spotlights lit up the ship’s rust-streaked hull and he could read the white lettering on the stern: The Voyager. Allegedly from Panama. Feist didn’t believe it. Figured the vessel was probably Russian owned and operated out of Vladivostok. He checked his watch and decided to wait a few more minutes before making his phone call.
The smell of brine and seaweed triggered memories of the two-bedroom flat close to the Cairns Harbour where his old man ran a barely profitable SCUBA dive operation and Mum jockeyed drinks for tourists at the local casino. Hated the town. Couldn’t wait to escape to see the world. Now he can’t imagine living away from the ocean. Funny, the decisions that chart the course of a life.
Instead of participating in the high school graduation ceremony, he walks into the small, cramped local Royal Australian Navy recruiting office.
The lieutenant looks up from reading the newspaper. “May I help you?”
With excitement filling his chest, his mind dreaming of foreign ports, he says. “I want to enlist.”
The smiling officer points to a chair next to his desk. “Well, then, have a seat.”
“Feist. A word with you in my office.” Nigel follows the officer into the sparse room. “Close the door.” They stand facing each other. “Son, your aptitude test scores are outstanding. I know your goal is to become a naval officer, but have you ever considered intelligence analysis?”
Stunned, Nigel stares at him, his mind flashing through the James Bond movies he loves to watch.
“Well?” the officer asks.
“Are you serious?”
“Would I joke about such a thing? Right, I’m absolutely serious. I’m offering the chance to be an analyst for our Defense Intelligence Agency.”
Unaware of the difference between analyst and operative, he immediately says, “I accept.”
First day on the job, it takes Nigel only eight hours of plowing through intercepts to realize how mind-numbing this end of the intelligence business is. By day two, he hates the job. But a contract is a contract and he is a man of his word, so he puts in his time. Not, however, without making the most of it. His position allows him to befriend three field operatives. They, in turn, teach him the tradecraft of intelligence gathering. Fuck analysis. Information gathering rules!
Feist checked his watch again. Time to call.
Now several feet closer to the rumble of the grain elevators, he faced the