Page 5 of Into the Gray Zone

We left the GW and wound around the Iwo Jima memorial, eventually pulling into a parking garage for a building owned by Blaisdell Consulting. It was four stories tall and looked like every other lobbyist building in DC, but this was the headquarters for the Taskforce. Like Grolier Recovery Services, Blaisdell Consulting was a cover.

Creed pulled up to the entrance door inside the garage and said, “Here you go. Wolffe’s inside the conference room waiting on you.”

I sighed and said, “What about the team? Knuckles, Brett, and Veep? Are they called in as well?”

My “employees” at GRS lived all over the United States, but I wasn’t going to do anything without them. Creed said, “Yeah, Knuckles and Brett are here. Veep is still on the way.”

Which made some sense, because Knuckles and Brett lived in DC. Veep was a vagabond who couldn’t decide where he wanted to end up. He used to live in Charleston, like me, but then moved to Montana for some reason.

I muttered under my breath, then said to Creed, “Well, get us in, then.”

Technically, GRS had nothing to do with Blaisdell Consulting, so we didn’t have the proper credentials to walk right in. With its DC connections, the last thing we needed was something like an overzealous congressman or journalist digging into who was allowed access and why, as the Taskforce itself was most definitely operating outside the bounds of the U.S. Constitution.

Creed, on the other hand, was a card-carrying employee of Blaisdell and reported here daily, so he had the badge and RFID pass to get us through the security protocols.

Creed said, “I told you: I’m headed home. Wolffe is waiting for you in the SCIF, and you know the non-badge procedures.”

Jennifer and I exited the vehicle and watched it drive away. I said, “This is a lot of work that could have been done over an encrypted Zoom call.”

She said, “Yeah, makes you wonder why they told us to pack for four days.”

I said, “At least it has nothing to do with Russia. You know this month’s code, right?”

We had a method to protect both the cover of Blaisdell Consulting as well as the members inside. Each month two different phrases were promulgated to all the various cover organizations, which was your bona fides to get through the door. One phrase just proved that you belonged, were fine, and needed to come in. The other phrase would relay that you were under duress and trying to enter against your will.

Jennifer said, “Uhhh... no, I don’t.”

As Creed’s vehicle exited into the sunlight I snapped back to her and said, “You don’t know the code? Youalwaysknow the code.”

As for me, I thought the whole thing was a little overboard and neverpaid attention to the pass phrases. The camera would show us both standing alone, and we were a known quantity. I mean, if Ireallywanted to enter, I’d kidnap Creed and force him to use his physical badge. That would negate the whole stupid dance, but nobody listened to me.

Jennifer said, “Don’t blame this on me. You don’t know it either.”

Which was true. I said, “Marge will never open the inner door without it.”

While the outside of the door to the building looked like any other, in fact, it was a trap to keep any nefarious actors from conducting a strike. Comprised of bulletproof glass, it had two doors—an outer one where you’d talk into a camera, and an inner one, which let you into the building proper. Once inside, you were trapped if you couldn’t prove why you were there, the outer one locking you into a glass cage.

Jennifer said, “Call Wolffe or Knuckles. Tell them to come down.”

“Creed said he was in the SCIF, and if he is, he won’t have his phone on him. Neither will Knuckles.”

SCIF stood for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility and was basically a room designed to prevent any eavesdropping from malicious actors. As such, nobody using it was allowed to bring in a cell phone.

Jennifer said, “Use the old code. Marge will open it when she sees me behind you.”

Marge was Blaisdell Consulting’s office receptionist, and she took her job seriously. She’d worked here since the Taskforce had been created, and I wasn’t so sure she hadn’t developed dementia. Sometimes it was hard to tell whether she was crazy or just cranky.

I said, “If we don’t know the code, she might believe we’re here under duress and lock us in.”

“The old one and the camera should work. I mailed her cookies last Christmas. She’ll let us in.”

I shook my head, opened the door, and said, “So the magic entrance to this top-secret clandestine counterterrorism force is a bunch of chocolate crinkles?”

She entered behind me and said, “If it works, it works.”

She let the door close. I heard it click and turned to the camera, saying, “If not, this is going to be embarrassing.”

I pressed the button and stared into the camera. I heard, “Yes? May I help you?”

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