Don't Sleep in the Subway
Chapter 48

Copyright© 2015 by RWMoranUSMCRet

(The FBI Investigates My Travel)

I finally reached a point after my return from the past when I felt that both my feet were planted firmly on the ground and I could attend to all those little things I had been putting off because I was not certain how long I would remain in this time period.

I know that sounds like a phony issue but I have to be honest and say that it was uppermost on my mind ever since the return and I still had little moments of panic attack when I think the conditions are ripe for me to transition into another time era. One of the factors that disturbed me the most was that I knew I had absolutely no control over how far back I went into the past or the future for that matter. The added uncertainty of where I would be deposited was another element of risk that bothered me almost as much.

It was almost a full year now and I have to admit I have been unable to firm up any sort of meaningful relationship with a member of the opposite sex and that was an issue that made my entire physical outlook on life less than optimal. At least, I had been successful in consolidating the funds from the past into safe repositories right here in New York City and in an alternate site in London with a sister institution that was the picture of complete discretion. I paid close attention to the fact that all transfers were perfectly legal under the laws of finance and banking and double-checked to make certain all taxes and fees were paid on time.

The very fact that I had taken all of these extra precautions to stay out of the sight of the authorities was why I was taken completely by surprise by receiving a summons to report to the Federal building downtown to discuss some unspecified matters of “concern” to the Federal government. I was positive it was not the Internal Revenue Service, the Federal Reserve or even the folks that monitored the internal affairs of the great nation at the Department of Justice.

I have to admit that the last agency I suspected of having any interest in me at all was the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The FBI had only taken an interest in me only one time when I came on their radar due to some unusual transactions related to black market activities in the Balkans. It was true that I had some knowledge of the affair, but I was not involved in any way, shape or manner and they soon understood that from their preliminary inquiries. Fortunately, they lost interest in me almost immediately and I was able to continue with my plans to invest in certain stocks.

Inside the lobby of the building, I paused at the clearance window and was given a visitor badge that was clearly marked “FBI section only” filling me with a premonition that all was not kosher in government circles.

The directional signs indicated that the elevators to the FBI section were in the rear of the building and could not be accessed from the ones in the main lobby. I followed the blue line to the bank of elevators in the back and pressed the button that said “FBI Reception Station”.

Everything on that floor was glass and steel.

It was like living in a fish bowl.

I was positive I would not like working in a place like that because your every motion was probably recorded and broadcast to monitoring rooms connected to the central security system. The receptionist gave me a small slip that informed me I was now referred to as Case 432 and I wondered if they already had 431 problems to take care of on that bright, but cold spring day.

Several other potential FBI persons of interest or actual suspects in some nefarious plot were sitting nervously around the waiting room and I speculated right away that the entire area was under video and sound surveillance to glean additional background details on the visitors. That thought prompted me to sit somewhat at a distance from any other subjects and I made a point of keeping my mouth shut even when a pretty young thing smiled at me with a tentative look that was unmistakably inviting.

Eventually, the light above the entrance door blinked 432 – 432 – 432 with an incessant repetitiveness that bordered on neurosis. I put the silly “People” magazine down on the glass top table and walked into the inner sanctum with what I hoped looked the movement of an innocent man. The words for “I am not guilty” kept running through my mind in Russian because I always found them to be stimulating to my thought patterns.

I was surprised that my FBI case worker was a young woman in her early twenties.

The name-plate on her desk was in brass inscribed simply S.I. Julie Longbranch and I assumed the S.I. stood for special agent.

“May I have your case number slip, sir?”

I handed her the little piece of paper that said “432” with no other explanation and she stapled it to the file in front of her. I could see there was a picture of me at a lecture and another of me at a firearms show down at Madison Square Garden taken only the month before. I noticed the file was filled with newspaper clippings and various written documents that looked suspiciously like reports entered from interviews and other sources.

Just as I suspected young Miss Julie started off by trying to soften me up with your typical “We Know All” technique and always referring to the partially hidden file before asking me a specific question. Her implication each time was she was only asking the question out of simple courtesy because she already had the answer and just wanted to confirm it for the record. I had done the exact same thing many times running down a list of interrogation techniques to gather intelligence in the field from various sources. I breathed a sigh of relief because it meant they didn’t know much of anything and were just scratching around for tidbits of information to fill in the gaps of their investigation.

 
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