Taking Over
“So you’re the newbie everyone keeps talking about.” He was an old man with a bald head crowned by white hair. He sat down uninvited and ordered a Ruben and fries from a passing waitress. He didn’t need the fries.
“Am I? I didn’t know I was talked about.” Henderson didn’t like unwelcome company. From the old man’s self assured smirk to his slightly too tight uniform, he reeked of career bureaucrat. The kind of man that put his job security above the mission. The kind of man that ate lunch here in the Officer’s Club every day out of a sense of entitlement. Henderson ate here today because he had to get out of the office. He loved the work, but his colleagues…. The entire bunch wished to be the man across the table from him.
“Sure you do. They say you can see to truth of things. They say that’s how you found that Romulan spy aboard your ship.” The old man’s sandwich came. He shook a generous amount of salt of the fries then poured a small lake of ketchup on one side of the plate.
“That’s not what they say.” That was not the type of thing that ended hushed conversations in the words ‘he’s coming’ around Henderson’s office.
“No. No it isn’t. But it was you that found that spy. You put together the pieces, something none of those half wits could do.” The old man was right about that. Henderson had put it all together, and that is what made his new colleagues despise him. They saw him as more of a threat to them than any Romulan spy. A Romulan spy would only rob them of secrets, where Henderson could rob them of a promotion. It was amazing how hard work threatened people.
“They never really got the chance. There’s only so much you can do behind these walls. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” This was also true. Henderson had been interning on the ship’s medical staff when he had caught the Romulan spy and been recruited by Starfleet Intelligence. He had been top notch at diagnosing patients. Oddly, most patients don’t tell the complete truth about what’s ailing them. They hide symptoms that scare them, or try to tell the doctor what they think he wants to hear. But Henderson had a way of getting to the truth of things, and it had always helped him with diagnosis. Now is helped him as a junior analyst in Starfleet intelligence. It wasn’t all that different.
“Too bad he got away before he was arrested.” The old man sighed. “Tell me something, do you love the Federation?” He took another greedy mouthful of fries in between bites of his sandwich.
“What kind of question is that?”
The old man shrugged. “A lot of people in this line of work are narcissists. They love being right over any sense of patriotism.”
“Well I’m in it for the Federation.” The question was ridiculous. Henderson’s distaste for the old man made him loose his appetite for the turkey club in front of him.
“A true believer, huh? So what do they have you working on?”
“I can’t tell you that, it’s compartmentalized information.” Did he have no respect for the work done here? How could this man congratulate him for catching a spy then ask questions he knew Henderson could not answer.
“It’s just you me and the corned beef here kid. Trust me when I tell you that I am read in to your compartment. That aren’t many secrets the Federation can keep from me.”
“I have no way of knowing that.” The curtain had fallen on the old man’s game. Whatever it was Henderson didn’t want any part of it. “If you’ll excuse me I must be going.”
------------------------------
Why hadn’t he asked for the old man’s name? Because he had a better chance of getting a straight answer from that Romulan Spy. What was he doing? He couldn’t concentrate on his work.
He started to watch the holocast again. It was a foreign policy speech by Senatorial candidate from Chetris. Her name was Kimara Cretak, and he would lose the election. The polls confirmed it and Henderson’s colleagues told him Cretak would never be anything more than a mid level public servant. This morning it had seemed so clear, Henderson knew that this woman would not disappear from Romulan politics, but now he wasn’t so sure. He considered watching it again. He believed if you listen to anyone long enough, they’ll tell you everything you want to know. But he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept wondering to that infuriating old man.
It bothered him. It wasn’t idle conversation. He had been sought out. Or was this job making him paranoid? He shut off his workstation and decided to go home early.
------------------------------
Jennifer met him at their restaurant on the waterfront later that evening. “What’s wrong?” She asked, sitting down across from him.
Henderson sighed, “Work.”
She reached a hand across the table and grasped his. “Don’t let those people get to you. Soon enough you’ll be in charge of that office. Or maybe they’ll send you off across the galaxy, charming secrets out of alien women.”
“You’re making fun.” He pouted a little too much to be serious.
“Only half fun.” She laughed. Then she squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes. “You know you’re smarter than those people, don’t let them bother you.”
“I know, and I’m not.” He assured her. He looked across the restraint at nothing in particular. “It’s just this man I met a lunch. The things he said, they just didn’t sit well with me.”
“Didn’t sit well how?”
“I don’t know. It was like…. Like Stephan DeSeve.”
Jennifer took her hand back and rolled her eyes. “Not everyone is betraying the Federation to the Romulans, Lu-“
“Please don’t call me that.” He cut her off. “You know I don’t like that name.”
“Fine. But the job is making you paranoid.” She opened her menu and looked over the entrees.
“I wasn’t paranoid with DeSeve. Had anyone believed me he wouldn’t have escaped to Romulus.” Henderson huffed.
“Can we please discuss something else?” Jennifer asked.
“I’m sorry.” He said. The rest of the meal passed cordially, but Jennifer left soon afterwards.
------------------------------
Henderson went for a walk along the waterfront and tried to collect his thoughts. Was he just paranoid? Was the job getting to him?
“I don’t like you talking about me.”
Henderson jumped and found the old man from the Officer’s Club standing behind him. “Who are you?”
The old man smiled. “Why are you so interested in Kimara Cretak?”
Paranoid my ass, Henderson thought. “So you’re with them.”
The old man laughed. “I’m a Subdirector with Starfleet Intelligence.” The old man pulled out an ID and handed it to Henderson.
“We have the same first name.” Henderson said.
The old man took back his ID. “You never use yours. Come on, let’s get some ice cream.” The Subdirector didn’t need the ice cream, but Henderson dutifully purchased a cone and joined the old man’s indulgence.
“I’ve never heard of your Section.” Henderson said.
“It’s compartmentalized information.” The old man smiled. “We’re the folks that act on the information your Section produces.”
“Why did you sit down with me at lunch?”
“Consider all of this part of an interview.” The old man took a greedy lick of his ice cream and crunched into his cone. “You don’t want to stay in that analysis office forever, do you? Tell me about Cretak.”
“She’s not done.” Henderson finally said. “She’ll run again and again if she has too. She has the bankroll and the stubborn ambition to soldier on. It might take twenty years, but the electorate will shift back to her isolationist line of thinking.”
“Should she be eliminated?” The Subdirector asked in between licks of his vanilla cone.
“Why?” Henderson asked. “She’s a fanatical patriot, but her policies keep the Romulan Star Empire closed off. At present, the only political alternative encourages Imperial expansion.”
The Subdirector smiled. “You take the long view on things. That’s a rare talent. Most of your colleagues chance the news headlines to discover what the press already has.”
“Why are you so interested in Cretak?” Henderson asked.
The Subdirector chuckled and licked some stray ice cream off his lip. “I’m not. I’m interested in you.”
Henderson wasn’t surprised. Their lunch had felt more of an interview than idle chat. He realized that’s what bothered him. He hated being tested without his knowledge.
“What do you think of Senior Coordinator Rowan?” The Subdirector turned slightly and began walking up a side street away from the waterfront.
“He’s the only other person working in my office that is concerned more with the job than a promotion. Not to over use the word, but he too is a patriot. He’s been in his position for longer than I’ve been alive. His only ambition is to provide the Federation with the most accurate and thorough analysis of the threats it faces.” Henderson looked around the dark street they had started up. It was a residential area, but it was late and few of the tightly packed houses had any lights on.
“Maybe once.” The Subdirector crunched down the last of the ice cream cone and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Is this were we finally get to the point?” Henderson asked annoyed. He felt like he was being tested again.
“Nearly. Watch the house across the street.”
Henderson and the Subdirector stood in the shadows and watched. The house was old, or atleast designed to look that way. It matched the 20th century architecture which kept in line with the feeling the waterfront tried to suggest a block away. It was a narrow two story brick affair with a bay window on the first floor and a little ally of what had been called a driveway when it was built. The wood trimmings were white, the lights were off, and the scene disappointingly devoid of action.
A quarter of an hour had passed when there was finally a sign of movement from the dark shadows of the driveway. Henderson’s hear rose and sank as the moving object darted out into the light and turned out to be nothing more than a raccoon. He was about to tell the Subdirector goodnight and leave for the comfort of his waiting bed when the driveway shadows stirred again. This time a man emerged. He wore a trench coat and a hat pulled low on his brow, but Henderson indeed knew him. It was Senior Coordinator Rowan.
They waited silently as Rowan walked quickly up the street several bocks before disappearing around a corner. The Subdirector broke the silence. “Let’s see what he’s done.”
The two men crossed the street and went up to the front door. The Subdirector pulled out a lock cipher and they front door was soon open.
------------------------------
The house was compact, but had the space was efficiently used. The front door opened into a sitting room, filled with the mementos of someone else’s life. The subdirector was by no means a small man, but he moved quickly and efficiently. He had a new device in his hand and was running it over the room in a disciplined pattern.
“What are we looking for?” Henderson asked. He felt uncomfortable. They had just broken into someone’s house.
“Low power encrypted Starfleet signals. The most likely signal to come from a bugging device the Coordinator would have access to.” The Subdirector continued his search.
“Whose house is this?” Henderson asked.
“Check the mantle.”
Henderson did. He was surprised to find a photo of a man he knew. It was that Sheridan fellow from the Electronic Intercepts Section. The man had given him the holocast of the Cretak speech, pick up from a broadcast on Romulus. “I know this man.” He said.
There was a bleep from device in the Subdirectiors right hand. With his left, he reached under the end table by the couch and retrieved a small transmitter. He tossed it to Henderson. “It appears my suspicions are confirmed. Rowan is bugging the homes of intelligence officers.”
Henderson looked over the transmitter in disbelief. “But why? There has to be a reason.”
“Now we get to the point, Mr. Henderson. Senior Coordinator Rowan is spying on the Federations’ spys. He is either working for a foreign power, or he’s lost it and is working for himself. I almost suspect the later, when you’ve been in the job as long as you come to demand a certain amount of control and carry a certain degree of paranoia.” The Subdirector explained.
“You want me to watch him. Find out who he’s watching and who he’s working for.”
“You have a way of seeing to the truth of things Mr. Henderson. Well done.” The Subdirector led the way out the door and they parted ways for the evening.
------------------------------
Over the next weeks Henderson threw himself into the task he had been assigned. Jennifer was angry. He had little time for her. What he uncovered was overwhelming. Rowan was indeed keeping tabs on other intelligence officers. He had agents under surveillance in nearly every section.
Spend as much time looking for threats to the Federation as Rowan; you could start seeing threats everywhere. Henderson actually felt his pride a little hurt. How could he miss something this big? He had realized DeSeve was a spy and he wasn’t even looking for one. How could he have missed the treachery of Rowan?
Henderson was still serving as one of Rowan’s analysts, but the man gave no indication of guilt. Perhaps it was as the Subdirector said, Rowan could be a narcissist and truly believe his actions and his actions alone where the best for the Federation. It didn’t feel right, but any other line of reasoning he tried defied the evidence.
Henderson continued the investigation. He relied on his tried and true techniques. He listened and observed, trusting that eventually those he listened and observed would tell him everything. It was slow coming, but as he always did, he eventually found a way of seeing the truth of things.
------------------------------
“Your report is ready?” The Subdirector had elected for them to meet in private on this occasion. The subject of their conversation was, after all, a sensitive one.
“It seems that Senior Director Rowan is monitoring members of nearly every section of Starfleet Intelligence.” Henderson placed his report on the table and slid it across to the Subdirector. “The only sections he doesn’t not monitor members of are mine, which he leads, and yours.” Henderson reported.
The Subdirector skimmed the report and smile. “This is excellent, enough evidence to put him away for the final short years of his life.”
“That’s not all I found, sir.” Henderson said.
“Oh?” The Subdirector looked up from the report. There was a knock on the door and Henderson accepted a tray from a club waiter. It had the same lunch they had met over, a turkey club for Henderson and a Ruben with fries for the Subdirector.
“It appears that each person he monitored had one thing in common.” Henderson let the silence between them play out, and watched the ever present smugness drain away from the Subdirector’s face. “Each one of them was in contact with you.”
“My section keeps in contact with all others as a matter of course. All you have proven is that Rowan is investigating me.” The Subdirector replied.
“The problem, Subdirector is that you seem to be the only member of you section. In fact, your section appears nowhere in Federation record.”
“We pre-date Federation record.”
“I know, and it’s a very good red herring. Thirty sections of Starfleet intelligence and you introduce yourself as Section Thirty-one. You, however, refer to Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-one of the old Starfleet charter rather than Starfleet Intelligence’s actual bureaucratic structure.”
The old man smiled. “It seems you have a talent of seeing to the truth of things Mr. Henderson.”
“I suppose so. I don’t believe any of the people working for you know what you look like. Rowan was following your people to dead drops. I have not seen any of your people spend even the most fleeting moment with you.”
“You should feel honored. You intrigue me.” The Subdirector took a bite out of the Ruben in front of him.
“You intrigue me as well, sir.” Henderson smiled to himself as he saw the Subdirector loose momentary interest in his sandwich and fires. He really didn’t need the fries.
Henderson continued, “As far as your people know you, you are just a name, Luther Sloan.”
Sloan put down the Rueben. “So?”
“You believe in nothing but the righteousness of yourself. You are one the narcissists you warned me about on our first meeting.”
“Section Thirty-one is necessary for the survival of the Federation. We shape the threat, we shape the policy. Rowan has been an obstacle to that goal. His particular sense of patriotism cannot understand the necessity of Section 31.”
“Your desire for consolidated power is also an obstacle to Section 31’s goals. Rowan will be dealt with, and so will you.”
The man put down his sandwich and flashed a wicked grin. “What can you do against me?”
Now it was Henderson’s turn to smile. “It’s just you, me, and the corned beef here.”
The Subdirector could feel his throat contracting. The corned beef! He couldn’t breathe. He had been right. Henderson would make a great addition to the cause.
“None of your minions knows your face. We share our first name, why not the last? ” The young man smiled over the old man’s body as it gasped for air. He leaned in close to the Subdirector’s ear and said, “My name is Luther Sloan.”
“So you’re the newbie everyone keeps talking about.” He was an old man with a bald head crowned by white hair. He sat down uninvited and ordered a Ruben and fries from a passing waitress. He didn’t need the fries.
“Am I? I didn’t know I was talked about.” Henderson didn’t like unwelcome company. From the old man’s self assured smirk to his slightly too tight uniform, he reeked of career bureaucrat. The kind of man that put his job security above the mission. The kind of man that ate lunch here in the Officer’s Club every day out of a sense of entitlement. Henderson ate here today because he had to get out of the office. He loved the work, but his colleagues…. The entire bunch wished to be the man across the table from him.
“Sure you do. They say you can see to truth of things. They say that’s how you found that Romulan spy aboard your ship.” The old man’s sandwich came. He shook a generous amount of salt of the fries then poured a small lake of ketchup on one side of the plate.
“That’s not what they say.” That was not the type of thing that ended hushed conversations in the words ‘he’s coming’ around Henderson’s office.
“No. No it isn’t. But it was you that found that spy. You put together the pieces, something none of those half wits could do.” The old man was right about that. Henderson had put it all together, and that is what made his new colleagues despise him. They saw him as more of a threat to them than any Romulan spy. A Romulan spy would only rob them of secrets, where Henderson could rob them of a promotion. It was amazing how hard work threatened people.
“They never really got the chance. There’s only so much you can do behind these walls. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.” This was also true. Henderson had been interning on the ship’s medical staff when he had caught the Romulan spy and been recruited by Starfleet Intelligence. He had been top notch at diagnosing patients. Oddly, most patients don’t tell the complete truth about what’s ailing them. They hide symptoms that scare them, or try to tell the doctor what they think he wants to hear. But Henderson had a way of getting to the truth of things, and it had always helped him with diagnosis. Now is helped him as a junior analyst in Starfleet intelligence. It wasn’t all that different.
“Too bad he got away before he was arrested.” The old man sighed. “Tell me something, do you love the Federation?” He took another greedy mouthful of fries in between bites of his sandwich.
“What kind of question is that?”
The old man shrugged. “A lot of people in this line of work are narcissists. They love being right over any sense of patriotism.”
“Well I’m in it for the Federation.” The question was ridiculous. Henderson’s distaste for the old man made him loose his appetite for the turkey club in front of him.
“A true believer, huh? So what do they have you working on?”
“I can’t tell you that, it’s compartmentalized information.” Did he have no respect for the work done here? How could this man congratulate him for catching a spy then ask questions he knew Henderson could not answer.
“It’s just you me and the corned beef here kid. Trust me when I tell you that I am read in to your compartment. That aren’t many secrets the Federation can keep from me.”
“I have no way of knowing that.” The curtain had fallen on the old man’s game. Whatever it was Henderson didn’t want any part of it. “If you’ll excuse me I must be going.”
------------------------------
Why hadn’t he asked for the old man’s name? Because he had a better chance of getting a straight answer from that Romulan Spy. What was he doing? He couldn’t concentrate on his work.
He started to watch the holocast again. It was a foreign policy speech by Senatorial candidate from Chetris. Her name was Kimara Cretak, and he would lose the election. The polls confirmed it and Henderson’s colleagues told him Cretak would never be anything more than a mid level public servant. This morning it had seemed so clear, Henderson knew that this woman would not disappear from Romulan politics, but now he wasn’t so sure. He considered watching it again. He believed if you listen to anyone long enough, they’ll tell you everything you want to know. But he couldn’t concentrate. His thoughts kept wondering to that infuriating old man.
It bothered him. It wasn’t idle conversation. He had been sought out. Or was this job making him paranoid? He shut off his workstation and decided to go home early.
------------------------------
Jennifer met him at their restaurant on the waterfront later that evening. “What’s wrong?” She asked, sitting down across from him.
Henderson sighed, “Work.”
She reached a hand across the table and grasped his. “Don’t let those people get to you. Soon enough you’ll be in charge of that office. Or maybe they’ll send you off across the galaxy, charming secrets out of alien women.”
“You’re making fun.” He pouted a little too much to be serious.
“Only half fun.” She laughed. Then she squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes. “You know you’re smarter than those people, don’t let them bother you.”
“I know, and I’m not.” He assured her. He looked across the restraint at nothing in particular. “It’s just this man I met a lunch. The things he said, they just didn’t sit well with me.”
“Didn’t sit well how?”
“I don’t know. It was like…. Like Stephan DeSeve.”
Jennifer took her hand back and rolled her eyes. “Not everyone is betraying the Federation to the Romulans, Lu-“
“Please don’t call me that.” He cut her off. “You know I don’t like that name.”
“Fine. But the job is making you paranoid.” She opened her menu and looked over the entrees.
“I wasn’t paranoid with DeSeve. Had anyone believed me he wouldn’t have escaped to Romulus.” Henderson huffed.
“Can we please discuss something else?” Jennifer asked.
“I’m sorry.” He said. The rest of the meal passed cordially, but Jennifer left soon afterwards.
------------------------------
Henderson went for a walk along the waterfront and tried to collect his thoughts. Was he just paranoid? Was the job getting to him?
“I don’t like you talking about me.”
Henderson jumped and found the old man from the Officer’s Club standing behind him. “Who are you?”
The old man smiled. “Why are you so interested in Kimara Cretak?”
Paranoid my ass, Henderson thought. “So you’re with them.”
The old man laughed. “I’m a Subdirector with Starfleet Intelligence.” The old man pulled out an ID and handed it to Henderson.
“We have the same first name.” Henderson said.
The old man took back his ID. “You never use yours. Come on, let’s get some ice cream.” The Subdirector didn’t need the ice cream, but Henderson dutifully purchased a cone and joined the old man’s indulgence.
“I’ve never heard of your Section.” Henderson said.
“It’s compartmentalized information.” The old man smiled. “We’re the folks that act on the information your Section produces.”
“Why did you sit down with me at lunch?”
“Consider all of this part of an interview.” The old man took a greedy lick of his ice cream and crunched into his cone. “You don’t want to stay in that analysis office forever, do you? Tell me about Cretak.”
“She’s not done.” Henderson finally said. “She’ll run again and again if she has too. She has the bankroll and the stubborn ambition to soldier on. It might take twenty years, but the electorate will shift back to her isolationist line of thinking.”
“Should she be eliminated?” The Subdirector asked in between licks of his vanilla cone.
“Why?” Henderson asked. “She’s a fanatical patriot, but her policies keep the Romulan Star Empire closed off. At present, the only political alternative encourages Imperial expansion.”
The Subdirector smiled. “You take the long view on things. That’s a rare talent. Most of your colleagues chance the news headlines to discover what the press already has.”
“Why are you so interested in Cretak?” Henderson asked.
The Subdirector chuckled and licked some stray ice cream off his lip. “I’m not. I’m interested in you.”
Henderson wasn’t surprised. Their lunch had felt more of an interview than idle chat. He realized that’s what bothered him. He hated being tested without his knowledge.
“What do you think of Senior Coordinator Rowan?” The Subdirector turned slightly and began walking up a side street away from the waterfront.
“He’s the only other person working in my office that is concerned more with the job than a promotion. Not to over use the word, but he too is a patriot. He’s been in his position for longer than I’ve been alive. His only ambition is to provide the Federation with the most accurate and thorough analysis of the threats it faces.” Henderson looked around the dark street they had started up. It was a residential area, but it was late and few of the tightly packed houses had any lights on.
“Maybe once.” The Subdirector crunched down the last of the ice cream cone and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“Is this were we finally get to the point?” Henderson asked annoyed. He felt like he was being tested again.
“Nearly. Watch the house across the street.”
Henderson and the Subdirector stood in the shadows and watched. The house was old, or atleast designed to look that way. It matched the 20th century architecture which kept in line with the feeling the waterfront tried to suggest a block away. It was a narrow two story brick affair with a bay window on the first floor and a little ally of what had been called a driveway when it was built. The wood trimmings were white, the lights were off, and the scene disappointingly devoid of action.
A quarter of an hour had passed when there was finally a sign of movement from the dark shadows of the driveway. Henderson’s hear rose and sank as the moving object darted out into the light and turned out to be nothing more than a raccoon. He was about to tell the Subdirector goodnight and leave for the comfort of his waiting bed when the driveway shadows stirred again. This time a man emerged. He wore a trench coat and a hat pulled low on his brow, but Henderson indeed knew him. It was Senior Coordinator Rowan.
They waited silently as Rowan walked quickly up the street several bocks before disappearing around a corner. The Subdirector broke the silence. “Let’s see what he’s done.”
The two men crossed the street and went up to the front door. The Subdirector pulled out a lock cipher and they front door was soon open.
------------------------------
The house was compact, but had the space was efficiently used. The front door opened into a sitting room, filled with the mementos of someone else’s life. The subdirector was by no means a small man, but he moved quickly and efficiently. He had a new device in his hand and was running it over the room in a disciplined pattern.
“What are we looking for?” Henderson asked. He felt uncomfortable. They had just broken into someone’s house.
“Low power encrypted Starfleet signals. The most likely signal to come from a bugging device the Coordinator would have access to.” The Subdirector continued his search.
“Whose house is this?” Henderson asked.
“Check the mantle.”
Henderson did. He was surprised to find a photo of a man he knew. It was that Sheridan fellow from the Electronic Intercepts Section. The man had given him the holocast of the Cretak speech, pick up from a broadcast on Romulus. “I know this man.” He said.
There was a bleep from device in the Subdirectiors right hand. With his left, he reached under the end table by the couch and retrieved a small transmitter. He tossed it to Henderson. “It appears my suspicions are confirmed. Rowan is bugging the homes of intelligence officers.”
Henderson looked over the transmitter in disbelief. “But why? There has to be a reason.”
“Now we get to the point, Mr. Henderson. Senior Coordinator Rowan is spying on the Federations’ spys. He is either working for a foreign power, or he’s lost it and is working for himself. I almost suspect the later, when you’ve been in the job as long as you come to demand a certain amount of control and carry a certain degree of paranoia.” The Subdirector explained.
“You want me to watch him. Find out who he’s watching and who he’s working for.”
“You have a way of seeing to the truth of things Mr. Henderson. Well done.” The Subdirector led the way out the door and they parted ways for the evening.
------------------------------
Over the next weeks Henderson threw himself into the task he had been assigned. Jennifer was angry. He had little time for her. What he uncovered was overwhelming. Rowan was indeed keeping tabs on other intelligence officers. He had agents under surveillance in nearly every section.
Spend as much time looking for threats to the Federation as Rowan; you could start seeing threats everywhere. Henderson actually felt his pride a little hurt. How could he miss something this big? He had realized DeSeve was a spy and he wasn’t even looking for one. How could he have missed the treachery of Rowan?
Henderson was still serving as one of Rowan’s analysts, but the man gave no indication of guilt. Perhaps it was as the Subdirector said, Rowan could be a narcissist and truly believe his actions and his actions alone where the best for the Federation. It didn’t feel right, but any other line of reasoning he tried defied the evidence.
Henderson continued the investigation. He relied on his tried and true techniques. He listened and observed, trusting that eventually those he listened and observed would tell him everything. It was slow coming, but as he always did, he eventually found a way of seeing the truth of things.
------------------------------
“Your report is ready?” The Subdirector had elected for them to meet in private on this occasion. The subject of their conversation was, after all, a sensitive one.
“It seems that Senior Director Rowan is monitoring members of nearly every section of Starfleet Intelligence.” Henderson placed his report on the table and slid it across to the Subdirector. “The only sections he doesn’t not monitor members of are mine, which he leads, and yours.” Henderson reported.
The Subdirector skimmed the report and smile. “This is excellent, enough evidence to put him away for the final short years of his life.”
“That’s not all I found, sir.” Henderson said.
“Oh?” The Subdirector looked up from the report. There was a knock on the door and Henderson accepted a tray from a club waiter. It had the same lunch they had met over, a turkey club for Henderson and a Ruben with fries for the Subdirector.
“It appears that each person he monitored had one thing in common.” Henderson let the silence between them play out, and watched the ever present smugness drain away from the Subdirector’s face. “Each one of them was in contact with you.”
“My section keeps in contact with all others as a matter of course. All you have proven is that Rowan is investigating me.” The Subdirector replied.
“The problem, Subdirector is that you seem to be the only member of you section. In fact, your section appears nowhere in Federation record.”
“We pre-date Federation record.”
“I know, and it’s a very good red herring. Thirty sections of Starfleet intelligence and you introduce yourself as Section Thirty-one. You, however, refer to Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-one of the old Starfleet charter rather than Starfleet Intelligence’s actual bureaucratic structure.”
The old man smiled. “It seems you have a talent of seeing to the truth of things Mr. Henderson.”
“I suppose so. I don’t believe any of the people working for you know what you look like. Rowan was following your people to dead drops. I have not seen any of your people spend even the most fleeting moment with you.”
“You should feel honored. You intrigue me.” The Subdirector took a bite out of the Ruben in front of him.
“You intrigue me as well, sir.” Henderson smiled to himself as he saw the Subdirector loose momentary interest in his sandwich and fires. He really didn’t need the fries.
Henderson continued, “As far as your people know you, you are just a name, Luther Sloan.”
Sloan put down the Rueben. “So?”
“You believe in nothing but the righteousness of yourself. You are one the narcissists you warned me about on our first meeting.”
“Section Thirty-one is necessary for the survival of the Federation. We shape the threat, we shape the policy. Rowan has been an obstacle to that goal. His particular sense of patriotism cannot understand the necessity of Section 31.”
“Your desire for consolidated power is also an obstacle to Section 31’s goals. Rowan will be dealt with, and so will you.”
The man put down his sandwich and flashed a wicked grin. “What can you do against me?”
Now it was Henderson’s turn to smile. “It’s just you, me, and the corned beef here.”
The Subdirector could feel his throat contracting. The corned beef! He couldn’t breathe. He had been right. Henderson would make a great addition to the cause.
“None of your minions knows your face. We share our first name, why not the last? ” The young man smiled over the old man’s body as it gasped for air. He leaned in close to the Subdirector’s ear and said, “My name is Luther Sloan.”
