The office went quiet. Stuyvesant said nothing.
‘So will you authorize it?’ Froelich asked.
Stuyvesant shrugged. ‘You shouldn’t be asking. You should
have just gone ahead and done it regardless.’.
‘Not my way,’ Froelich said.
‘So don’t tell anybody else. And don’t put anything on paper.’
‘I wouldn’t anyway. It would compromise effectiveness.’
13
Stuyvesant nodded vaguely. Then, like the good bureaucrat
he had become, he arrived at the most important question of all.
‘How much would this person cost?’ he asked.
‘Not much,’ Froelich said. ‘Maybe nothing at all. Maybe
expenses only. We’ve got some history together. Theoretically.
Of a sort.’
qhis could stall your career. No more promotions.’
¢Fhe alternative would finish my career.’
“You were my choice,’ Stuyvesant said. ‘I picked you. There
fore anything that damages you damages me, too.’
‘I understand that, sir.’
‘So take a deep breath and count to ten. Then tell me that it’s
really necessary.’
Froelich nodded, and took a breath and kept quiet, ten or
eleven seconds.
‘It’s really necessary,’ she said.
Stuyvesant picked up his file.
‘OK, do it,’ he said.
She started immediately after the strategy meeting, suddenly
aware that doing it was the hard part. Asking for permission had
seemed like such a hurdle that she had characterized it in her
mind as the most difficult stage of the whole project. But now it
felt like nothing at all compared with actually hunting down her
target. All she had was a last name and a sketchy biography that
might or might not have been accurate and up to date eight
years ago. If she even remembered the details correctly. They
had been mentioned casually, playfully, late one night, by her
lover, part of some drowsy pillow talk. She couldn’t even be
sure she had been paying full attention. So she decided not to
rely on the details. She would rely solely on the name itself.
She wrote it in large capital letters at the top of a sheet of
yellow paper. It brought back a lot of memories. Some bad,
most good. She stared at it for a long moment, and then she
crossed it out and wrote UNSUB instead. That would help her
concentration, because it made the whole thing impersonal. It
put her mind in a groove, took her right back to basic training. An unknown subject was somebody to be identified and located.
That was all, nothing more and nothing less.
14
Her main operational advantage was computer power. She
had more access to more databases than the average citizen
gets. UNSUB was military, she knew that for sure, so she went
to the National Personnel Records Center’s database. It was
compiled in St Louis, Missouri, and listed literally every man or
woman who had served in a U.S. military uniform, anywhere,
ever. She typed in the last name and waited and the enquiry
software came back with just three short responses. One she
eliminated immediately, by given name. I know for sure it’s not
him, don’t I? Another she eliminated by date of birth. A whole
generation too old. So the third had to be UNSUB. No other
possibility. She stared at the full name for a second and copied
the date of birth and the Social Security number onto her
yellow paper. Then she hit the icon for details and entered her
password. The screen redrew and came up with an abbreviated
career summary.
Bad news. UNSUB wasn’t military any more. The career
summary dead-ended five whole years ago with an honourable
discharge after thirteen years of service. Final rank was major.
There were medals listed, including a Silver Star and a Purple
Heart. She read the citations and wrote down the details and
drew a line across the yellow paper to signify the end of one era
and the start of another. Then she ploughed on.
Next logical step was to look at Social Security’s Master
Death Index. Basic training. No point trying to chase down
somebody who was already dead. She entered the number and
realized she was holding her breath. But the enquiry came back
blank. UNSUB was still alive, as far as the government knew.
Next step was to check in with the National Crime Information