Zero Game - Brad Meltzer [122]
“It’s really that bad?” Lowell asked, motioning to the red file folder in his assistant’s hands. Outside Lowell’s office and across the adjacent conference room, two receptionists answered the phones and put together his schedule. William, on the other hand, sat right outside Lowell’s door. By title, he was Lowell’s “confidential assistant,” which meant he had security clearance to deal with the most important professional issues—and, after three years with Lowell, the personal ones as well.
“On a scale of one to ten, it’s Watergate,” William said.
Lowell forced a laugh. He was trying to keep it light, but the red folder already told him this was only getting worse. Red meant FBI.
“The fingerprints belong to Robert Franklin of Hoboken, New Jersey,” William began, reading from the folder.
Lowell made a face, wondering if the name Janos was fake. “So he’s got a record?” he asked.
“Nosiree.”
“Then how’d they have his fingerprints?”
“They got ’em internally.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Their staffing unit. Personnel,” William explained. “Apparently, this guy applied for a job a few years back.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nosiree. He applied.”
“At the FBI?”
“At the FBI,” William confirmed.
“So why didn’t they hire him?”
“They’re not saying. That one’s too high up for me. But when I begged for a hint, my buddy over there said they thought the application was sour.”
“They thought he was trying to infiltrate? On his own, or as a hired gun?”
“Does it matter?”
“We should run him outside the system—see if he—”
“Whattya think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”
Lowell forced another grin, gripping the armrests of his leather chair and fighting to keep himself from standing. They’d worked together long enough that William knew what the grip meant. “Just tell me what you found,” Lowell insisted.
“I ran it through a few of our foreign connections . . . and according to their system, the prints belong to someone named Martin Janos, a.k.a. Janos Szasz, a.k.a. . . .”
“Robert Franklin,” Lowell said.
“And Bingo was his name-o. One and the same.”
“So why’d they have his prints over there?”
“Oh, boss-man, that’s the cherry on top. He used to work at Five.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Martin Janos—or whatever his real name is—he used to be MI-5. Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.”
Lowell closed his eyes, trying to remember Janos’s voice. If he was British, the accent was long gone. Or well hidden.
“When he joined, he was barely a kid—just out of college,” William added. “Apparently, he had a sister who was killed in a car bomb. That got him sufficiently riled up. They brought him in as a straight recruit.”
“So no military background?”
“If there is, they’re not saying.”
“He couldn’t have been too high on the totem pole.”
“Just an analyst in the Forward Planning Directorate. Sounds to me like he was staring at a computer, stapling lots of papers together. Whatever it was, he spent two years there, then was fired.”
“Any reason why?”
“Insubordination, surprise surprise. They put him on a job; he refused to do it. When one of his superiors got in his face about it, the argument got a little heated, at which point young Janos picked up a nearby stapler and started beating him with it.”
“Wound a little tight, isn’t he?”
“The smartest ones always are,” William said. “Though it sounds to me like he was a powder keg to begin with. Once he leaves, he goes out on his own, finds some work for the highest bidder . . .”
“Now he’s back in business,” Lowell agrees.
“Certainly a possibility,” William said as his voice trailed off.
“What?” Lowell asked.
“Nothing—it’s just . . . after Her Majesty’s Service, Janos is gone for almost five years, reappears one day over here, applies to the FBI under a new ID, gets rejected for trying to infiltrate, then steps back into the abyss, never to be heard from again—that is, until a few days ago, when he apparently uses all his hard-trained skills to . . . uh . . . to smash the side window on your car.”
Letting the silence take hold, William