The Spy Files Read online

  THE SPY FILES

  KENNETH EADE

  For Misha, my partner in inspirational walks

  The way things are supposed to work is that we’re supposed to know virtually everything about what they (the government) do; that’s why they’re called public servants., They’re supposed to know virtually nothing about what we do; that’s why we’re called private individuals.

  ― Glen Greenwald

  Arguing that you don't care about the right to privacy because you have nothing to hide is no different than saying you don't care about free speech because you have nothing to say.

  ― Edward Snowden

  PROLOGUE

  Dr. Simon Chan was working late in the lab. It was nothing unusual – working late was part of his daily routine. But he had stayed long past his usual 11 p.m. quitting time. Chan was no ordinary scientist, and this was no ordinary lab. It was the Silicon Valley secret innovations lab of MSoft Corporation, the software and computer giant. The lab required top secret employee clearance, and was run by the former Deputy Director of DARPA, the Department of Defense’s research department responsible for inventing the protocols that serve as the foundation for the Internet.

  Chan ignored the growling of his stomach as he continued to work on the source code for MSoft’s newest program. He didn’t remember when he had last eaten and it wasn’t really that important. He was the company’s brightest engineer, a graduate of the University of Hong Kong and a former member of their famous Software Engineering Group, and he was always inventing new innovative software products that would enable the company to far outshine their competitors at Google. As Chan stared at his computer screen, he heard a strange noise, like a rattle, from the corner of the room, and he turned his head.

  “Who’s there?”

  Chan’s call echoed through the empty lab, bouncing off the shiny floor and the rows of dark computer terminals. He attributed the noise to being just his imagination, or perhaps that rattling in his head that sometimes occurred when he had spent too long at work. Either way, he took it as a sign that his brain couldn’t function anymore, so he decided to call it a day. A few hours sleep and then he could go at it again in earnest. He followed the company’s security protocols for logging out, gathered his things, turned off the lights, and closed and locked the lab door.

  Chan exited the building, and went into the deserted parking lot, with his hand on his stun gun. He always carried it for protection ever since the time he was mugged in a grocery store parking lot. When he reached his car and put his hands in his pockets for his keys, he discovered that he had left them behind.

  I’ll just run back and get them.

  When Chan approached the lab, he could see that the lights were on.

  That’s strange. I’m sure I turned them off. Maybe it’s the janitor.

  He unlocked the lab door and startled the man who was sitting at his station. Chan’s monitor was illuminated.

  “What are you doing there?”

  The man rose from his seat, and looked to his right and then to his left, deciding whether to run or stand his ground. Chan approached him.

  “I’m calling security. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Just back off, Chinaman, and I won’t have to hurt you.”

  Chan put his right hand on his stun gun, searching for the nerve. With his left hand, he picked up the phone and started to punch in the number for security with his thumb.

  “Put it down, Chinaman.”

  Chan looked up to see the man pointing a gun right at him. He set down the phone slowly.

  “You’re going to shoot me?”

  “Just walk away and nobody gets hurt. Just walk away. You didn’t see anything.”

  Chan took two paces back. He bent to pick up his briefcase.

  “Leave it. Just keep moving.”

  Chan let go of the handle of the briefcase. The man approached him slowly. Chan took another two steps back, and the man took several steps forward. Chan put his hand on the door, and the man gently pushed him through it.

  Taking his chance, Chan rotated, slammed the taser against the man’s body and let it rip. The man dropped the gun and staggered back, bracing himself against a table. Chan came back into the lab and lunged for his briefcase. With a surge of energy and anger, the man tackled Chan, slamming him back against a lab table. Chan fell hard, hitting his head.

  Chan lay there still. The man panicked, and felt his carotid artery. There was no pulse.

  Oh, shit. What a mess. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Brent Marks awoke to the loud purring of his orange and white cat, Calico, who was sitting on his chest, giving him an acupuncture massage through the bed sheet. As he opened his eyes, the cat licked his nose with her abrasive tongue, then mewed and launched a jump off his chest and the bed with one thrust.

  “Thanks, Calico. With you around I never need an alarm.”

  Brent looked over at Angela. She looked as angelic as her name, peacefully sleeping. He resisted stroking her auburn hair and kissing those porcelain cheeks. It was Saturday, she had had a rough week, and, if Calico allowed it, he would let her sleep.

  Calico’s mewing increased in frequency and intensity as Brent swung his stiff legs over the edge of the bed and slipped his feet into his slippers.

  “Shh! You’ll wake her up!”

  The cat slinked between Brent’s legs as he pulled on his bathrobe. Obviously, she had slept on the robe most of the night. It was almost as warm and fuzzy as the cat herself. Brent ran the obstacle course into the bathroom with the cat creating hurdles around his feet.

  “Come on, Calico! Give me a break!”

  The mewing continued as he brushed his teeth, and the routine culminated in a mad race to the kitchen with Brent taking up the rear.

  Breakfast time.

  Brent poured kibble into the cat’s bowl and looked at the clock. On a week-day, he would have had to hurry out the door.

  Saturday. No court. No appointments. What a relief!

  “Looks like I get to eat breakfast today too, Calico.”

  He looked at the cat as if he expected a response. She didn’t look up, but the purring continued, in between crunching.

  Brent cut some fruit and took it out onto the balcony. The morning chill bit into him, but it was pleasant to sit on the terrace and look out at the harbor. As he sat there, he couldn’t think of a better place to be. He loved Santa Barbara. It was perfect contrast to the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles, where he had spent the earlier years of his practice. Having paid his dues with the long hours and competitive world of lawyering, he had been successful enough to relocate to a more peaceful place, where he had established the practice of his dreams: civil rights. He also found that his Spanish background had come in handy here as well, and it felt good to practice his Spanish, which had always been limited to conversations with his father.

  Brent’s father, Jose Marquez, had immigrated from Spain before he met Brent’s mother and started a family in Southern California. When Brent was growing up, Jose had changed the family name to “Marquez” because Brent had taken so much flack at school from bullies who thought he was Mexican. Now his heritage was an advantage.

  As he sat on the deck enjoying the spectacular view, he thought about his plans. He had cleared his schedule for a ten day trip to Hawaii in a week. It wasn’t easy for Angela to get away. Being an FBI agent, she was not as flexible as Brent was. A little calendar juggling with his private law practice and he could be off in the blue in a matter of days.

  Everything was planned. The ring, the presentation. Angela was the one who would finally break Brent’s bachelorhood habit.

  If she says yes.

  Already, she had
been spending practically every night at his house. They hadn’t discussed it much, but it had been a few years, and it seemed marriage was the next logical step.

  “Having breakfast without me?”

  Brent turned to see Angela at the doorway in her robe. Her arms were folded.

  “It’s so cold out there! Why don’t you come back to bed?”

  What an irresistible invitation!

  “I don’t see how I could refuse that.”

  Brent put his arms around Angela and kissed her as he came back into the house.

  It can’t get any better than this.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monday came sooner than expected or appreciated. It was Brent’s least favorite day of the week. As he left the safe haven of his home for the hurly-burly of the office, he “switched himself on.” Brent unlocked the door to his office. His secretary, Melinda Powers, had come in early and was at her post, typing away.

  “Morning, Mimi. You’re in early for a Monday.”

  “Hey, boss. Yeah, just wanted to catch up while it’s quiet. You usually come in late on Mondays.”

  Melinda was young enough and cute enough to be mistaken for a dumb blonde instead of the savvy legal assistant she had proven herself to be. She was more of a paralegal than a secretary. Brent could delegate little things to her, like proposed court orders and small research projects, and she did them with skill and a minimum of supervision.

  She’s right. After all, I am allergic to Mondays.

  “Do we have anything today?”

  “Michael Fine at 11:30.”

  “The journalist?”

  “Yes, you don’t remember?”

  “I think so.”

  “He wanted a free consultation. On the Freedom of Information Act.”

  “That’s right. Might be interesting. Anything else?”

  “That’s it for today.”

  A light day. Good.

  Brent settled into the office, but he couldn’t stop thinking about next week. He opened his Internet browser and checked on his Hawaii reservations. He slid open his desk drawer, removed the small black box, and popped it open. He held the white gold ring with the solitary diamond up to the light and watched it glisten and sparkle. Everything was ready.

  ***

  Michael Fine was a young journalist with an attitude. He had been fired from his job at the Los Angeles Times and had found his place in the “alternative press” of Dissident News. There was just no other place for him. He was a round peg in a square hole, an investigative journalist in a world of corporate media owned journalism.

  Brent had never met Fine before, but his reputation was well known. Hated by many government agencies because of his excessive use of the Freedom of Information Act to draw out and publicize sensitive government information, he had been told by the Pentagon: “We’ll give you the documents, so long as you never file another FOIA request again.” He was a kindred spirit. A man against the grain. A fish swimming against the current. He seemed to live by the epigraph in Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451: “When they give you lined paper, write the other way.”

  Fine had come into Brent’s office unaccompanied. He was a man who worked alone. He was dressed like a college student, in a “Linkin Park” T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of worn-out sneakers. A little on the nerdy side, with a small round face on which he had probably ill-advisedly placed a pair of round “Harry Potter” glasses, he had an amiable smile, and Brent liked him right away. He extended his hand and Brent took it.

  “Michael Fine.”

  “Brent Marks. Have a seat, Mr. Fine.”

  “Please, call me Mike.”

  Fine took a seat in the hard wooden chair opposite Brent’s desk.

  “Alright, Mike. How can I help you?”

  “I want to sue the Department of Justice, the NSA and the FBI.”

  Brent tried to conceal his excitement as he listened to Fine outline his case against the government for violation of the Freedom of Information Act. This was the type of case he had always dreamed about.

  “I just want them to follow the law. They’re stonewalling me on the documents I’m requesting, and it’s an important story.”

  “I understand. What is the story?”

  “It’s about government surveillance. Nobody in the government is talking. They say it’s a case of national security.”

  “Of course. The national security of spying on U.S. citizens.”

  “That’s right. So, as is my usual practice, I have filed multiple Freedom of Information Act requests with the DOJ, the FBI, the NSA and the CIA. And now they’re stalling.”

  “I’ve heard that it takes a long time to get documents.”

  “It shouldn’t. The Act says 20 days. But, sometimes it takes months or even years. That’s why I need an emergency motion to release the records right away. Congress will be voting on the ratification of a secret information-sharing agreement with the EU that hasn’t even been disclosed to the public yet, so the story I’m working on is right now. The FBI has refused to produce the records. Here’s what they said after my appeal.”

  Michael slid a paper over the desk to Brent.

  We cannot produce the records requested because they are located in an investigative file which is exempt from disclosure pursuant to 5 USC 522(b)(7)(A).

  “So, their objective is to stall you until Congress has voted and the issue is moot.”

  “Exactly. Can you help me?”

  “Well, I’m going on vacation next week, but I can do my best to get up to speed on your case and file the motion before I leave.”

  “Works for me. Now, about your fee.”

  “It’s not cheap.”

  “I’m a freelance reporter.”

  “And I’m a freelance lawyer.”

  “I have a small litigation fund, but you’re going to have to put me on a payment plan. Arguing with the government isn’t very profitable, but I’ll get you paid.”

  “No problem.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Time raced by as Brent worked on his motion for Fine, sorting out Freedom of Information Act cases to support their cause. He looked at the clock.

  No more time.

  Brent packed up his laptop and stopped at Melinda’s desk on his way out of the office.

  “Mimi, I’m going to need your help if I’m going to get to Hawaii next week.”

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “I need you to drop everything you’re doing and find out as much about the Freedom of Information Act as you can.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “Pleadings, motions, court orders – every time the government has been nailed, I want to know about it.”

  “No problem, boss. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to meet Jack. Could you please tell Angela I’ll probably be late this afternoon?”

  “Sure.”

  ***

  Jack Ruder’s usual “office” was Sonny’s Bar and Grill on State Street. Brent often met him there for meetings, which could be anything from a brainstorming session to a slap on the back and a couple of brewskies. Jack was an ex-FBI agent who exuded a “cop” look, despite the efforts he tried to conceal it. He was definitely not suited for undercover work. Perhaps it was the many years he had put in for the LAPD before joining the bureau. These days, he worked as a private investigator, and he was one of Brent’s closest friends.

  Jack was seated at the corner table, poring over some files, when Brent came in. Brent strolled over to his table quietly and slid into the seat opposite Jack.

  “You think I didn’t see you come in, don’t you?”

  “Of course you did, Jack. You’re a cop.”

  Brent extended his hand and Jack shook it, firmly.

  “I’m not a cop anymore.”

  Brent smirked at that comment.

  “You’ll always be a cop.”

  A waitress stopped by and set a cocktail napkin on the table in front of Brent.

  “Ge
t you anything?”

  “Corona, please.”

  She nodded and walked away. Jack spoke without looking up from the file.

  “Been reading about your new client, Fine.”

  “Tell me.”

  Jack glanced up.

  “Old drug arrest, rehab, fired from the L.A. Times in 2005.”

  “Drug related?”

  “No. Seems his colleagues thought he was a bit full of himself.”

  “He’s a pretty smart guy.”

  “Smarty pants, maybe. He’s been a real pain in the ass for the government. I’d say they’re looking to toast him.”

  “You would know, G-Man.”

  Jack looked up at Brent and frowned. The waitress set a bottle of Corona with a lime sticking out of the neck in front of Brent.

  “Haven’t been that for a long time. Seriously, Brent, you should tread lightly if you decide to take this case.”

  “Already took it.”

  Brent looked back and forth, cupped his hands over his mouth and whispered, “They all think you’re watching them. You can’t wash the cop off you.”

  “Very funny. So, have you thought about what Angela might say about this?”

  “About what?”

  “Suing the FBI.”

  “It’s the law, Jack. When the government breaks the law, they have to toe the line.”

  “I get that, but how do you think she’ll react?”

  “We keep our business and personal lives separate.”

  Jack grimaced. “Whatever you say.”

  “You’re such an optimist.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next few days blended into each other as Brent put together the FOIA complaint and ex parte motion for Michael Fine. Melinda’s research gave him a nice head start on the motion. When all was ready, he sent it down with the attorney service to the federal courthouse on Spring Street in Los Angeles for filing, after which it would be served on the government. Then, they would wait for the Court’s decision on the motion.