Chapter 130: J-7 Fault Report
Marino Jenkins shouldered his toolbox and hefted the forty-pound portable line analyzer, apologizing continuously to the customer standing in the doorway. Despite the embarrassment of the situation, he couldn't suppress a flicker of professional pride.
This should have been a routine line repair, ten minutes, maybe fifteen at most. Instead, his analyzer had died mid-diagnostic, forcing him to troubleshoot the old way: testing each connection point by hand, working through every possibility step by step. The work had stretched past an hour.
Even so, he'd moved fast. Marino was certain that fewer than thirty technicians in all of Washington could have matched his speed working without equipment like that.
The customer proved understanding enough, signing the stack of service forms without complaint before waving him off and closing the door. Marino lingered on the front steps for a moment, staring at the brass house numbers gleaming under the porch light.
If the General Services Administration hadn't eliminated his department, if he still drew a steady government paycheck, he might have been the homeowner instead of the hired help trudging away with broken tools.
Nine-fifteen by his watch. Time to call it a night. This had been his final job of the day, before the equipment failure complicated everything.
Walking back toward the dispatch company, Marino ran through his earnings. Seven dollars total for the repair. The company would extract their sixty-one percent commission, materials had cost eighty cents, leaving him with exactly $1.93.
Maybe he could check if the hamburger cart outside Union Station was still operating and grab a couple of burgers for dinner. His stomach had been reminding him he hadn't eaten since noon.
At the dispatch office, Marino submitted his paperwork and received unwelcome news. His previous job had generated a customer complaint, and company policy mandated a ten percent deduction from his commission.
There went dinner. And tomorrow's breakfast.
Marino pressed his lips together but said nothing. Didn't protest, didn't even ask what the complaint was about. He pocketed the reduced payment, gathered his equipment, and turned toward the exit.
The clerk processing his paperwork seemed genuinely surprised. "No more jobs tonight? You're calling it quits pretty early, aren't you?"
Marino raised the defunct analyzer with a tired smile. "Equipment's shot. Might as well head home and get some rest."
"That's a real shame," the clerk replied, and there was genuine regret in his voice.
"I've got a shopping mall line repair sitting here, thirty dollars. With your speed, you could probably wrap it up in an hour, maybe less."
Marino paused, feeling the pull of temptation. Thirty dollars represented real money, enough for meals and maybe even a small fund to get his analyzer repaired. But after thinking it through, he shook his head. Working with faulty equipment was just asking for more complaints and more deductions down the line.
The clerk set the order aside and offered a parting warning.
"Watch yourself out there. Two FBI agents came by this afternoon and took our entire contractor roster. Sounds like someone had some kind of accident."
Marino stopped cold. "FBI agents? What kind of accident?"
The clerk glanced toward the boss's closed office door, then leaned closer and lowered his voice. What followed was an embellished account of Theodore and Bernie's visit, heavily seasoned with the clerk's own speculation and theories.
In his version, the FBI was conducting a major espionage investigation. Their interest in the contractor list suggested they believed a communications technician was somehow involved, possibly helping foreign agents steal classified government research.
"Alien research," the clerk added with the certainty of someone who'd convinced himself of his own theories. "I swear that's what they were talking about!"
Marino had no interest in extraterrestrial conspiracies. "Did the boss give them the list?"
"Of course he did! These were FBI agents!"
Marino fell silent, processing this new information. After a long moment, he asked, "Did they say anything else? Or did they just take the list and leave?"
The clerk studied Marino with newfound interest. Office gossip had never previously captured Jenkins's attention; the man was usually all business.
"They talked privately with the boss for a while. What I told you is all I could overhear from out here."
Leaving the building, Marino felt his unease growing with each step. He stopped to question several colleagues about the FBI visit, receiving a variety of accounts and interpretations.
Most of the workers showed little interest in the drama. Gossip couldn't pay rent or put food on the table, and they had families to feed. They exchanged brief comments before hurrying back upstairs to check for new job postings.
Marino bid them goodnight and began walking slowly through the darkening streets. His mind churned with possibilities and fears, and before he realized it, his feet had carried him to Union Station's main entrance.
The hamburger cart had vanished for the evening.
Marino set down his equipment and retrieved a coin from his pocket. He inserted half of it into the pay phone's slot, heard the familiar spring mechanism engage, then quickly withdrew it, an old trick that granted him a free local call.
He dialed a number from memory and waited through several rings. Finally, a professional voice answered: "FBI Investigation Department duty office. How may I help you?"
Marino hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. "I'm... I'm looking for Agent Bernie Sullivan."
"Agent Sullivan is not in the office. Please leave your name and contact information."
A long silence stretched between them. Marino realised his mistake; it was past ten o'clock on a Sunday evening. Normal government employees, except those pulling duty shifts, had long since departed for home.
"Are you still there?" the voice inquired.
Marino snapped back to attention and hung up without another word.
He felt adrift, carrying an anxiety he couldn't quite express. His gaze drifted back toward Union Station's interior, and his eyes filled with desperate longing.
The money was rightfully his. He'd earned it through skill and hard work, and he needed it desperately, especially with his analyzer broken, which would cripple his earning capacity until he could afford repairs.
But he didn't dare retrieve the cash, not now. The FBI visit to his dispatch company couldn't be mere coincidence. They were hunting someone, and somehow the trail had led them to communications contractors.
Walking into that station might mean walking straight into federal custody. Whatever others might think, Marino was convinced the FBI was closing in on him.
He paced the station entrance repeatedly, his mind racing through options, until inspiration struck. There was a way to test his theory.
Returning to the phone booth, he dialed another number, the conductor's direct line.
One hundred eighty seconds passed before the call disconnected automatically.
Perhaps the conductor was busy and hadn't heard the ring. Marino tried the number again.
Still no answer.
This time he didn't hesitate. He hung up the receiver, grabbed his equipment, and hurried away without looking back.
The whole world seemed aligned against him. Government departments had always been notorious for their inefficiency, but when it concerned him personally, they'd suddenly discovered both urgency and competence.
Was that because FBI agents were involved?
Meanwhile, back at their apartment, Bernie studied the bank manager's supplemental list with growing frustration. The names were few and far between, and most entries consisted of brief physical descriptions rather than proper identification.
"Very tall, smelled of something." "Blind in one eye, elderly man."
"Wearing a cotton coat of indistinguishable colour, emitting a foul odour, smelled like a public restroom."
"Glasses held together with tape, spoke incoherently."
The intelligence read more like informant reports than legitimate customer records.
Bernie cross-referenced what little information they had against their list of fourteen suspects. No matches emerged.
They'd barely gotten settled when the telephone rang. The FBI duty officer's voice came through crisp and businesslike.
"AT&T just transmitted a notification. There's been a J-7 fault report logged on circuit DC-1708."
Bernie grabbed a pencil from the side table. He understood the implications immediately.
Their target was still active, still working, still confident enough to continue his operations despite the net closing around him.
The hunt continued.
[End of Chapter]
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