by E B Corbin
“You’re not the only one,” Henry said. “There was a guy, a Sioux, on my SEAL team. He was fearless, and one of the best trackers I ever saw. Can’t say I ever understood him completely no matter how hard I tried to include him in social activities. He kept mostly to himself, never joined us for a fun night out, but we depended on him to get the job done. I liked him; we all did.”
Henry stared out the window, his eyes glazed over. “He talked about joining the Shadow Wolves when his tour was over. I hope he did, he was exceptional.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Sam said. “They’re a pretty elite group at ICE and still rely on traditional tracking methods despite all the new gadgets available.”
Henry nodded. “Last I heard, they were going to Uzbekistan to train border guards. I meant to look him up when I got out but never got around to it.”
“You can still do it,” Sam said. “There’s not too many of them. Only about fifteen, I think. Can’t be too hard to locate him.”
“Maybe I will someday.” Henry mumbled the words with a shrug and brought his attention back to Sam. “But the point I’m trying to make is that you understand Native Americans more than you realize. At least you appreciate what you don’t know.”
“I read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee in high school, and it made quite an impression on me. Until then I had no idea about the awful treatment the Indians received at the hands of the white man. But I don’t know much about modern-day Native Americans.” She gave a tiny grin. “I tried to become friends with some of the Apaches in my class, but they had their own clique and I was never accepted into it. They were wary of me. I guess I can’t blame them.”
“Don’t feel bad about that.” Henry tapped his spoon against the red Formica tabletop. “From what I understand, it was almost impossible for the white men who wanted to befriend the Indians back in the nineteenth century to be one hundred percent accepted, but the tribe was never rude to them and let them participate as much as they wanted.”
Sam nibbled her sandwich. “I believe it. The kids at my school kept a polite distance, as much as they could, but there were racist white students who picked on them. I could never understand it. But I didn’t do anything to try to stop it, either. I’m not proud of that.”
“You were a kid. Most people don’t like it, but they’re too busy trying to blend in to interfere.” Henry put down the spoon and reached for her hand across the table, ignoring any boss-employee awkwardness.
“Well, I’m not a kid anymore, and I need to see what I can do for those people at Warm Springs.” She glanced at their intertwined fingers without really seeing them.
Henry kept his gaze on her face. “I’m sure White Cloud appreciates your willingness to help him. It might be difficult for him to get anyone at the FBI to take him seriously. It certainly was a problem for Toby.”
“No guarantee it won’t be for me, too.” She knew she should pull her hand away, but the warmth of his hand against hers felt too good.
Henry noticed the two officers returning to their cruiser and the gray sedan pulling away. “Looks like the cops are letting him go.”
“Maybe they put enough of a scare into him that he’ll stay away from us, at least for the rest of the day.” Sam used the excuse to pull her hand from Henry’s so she could watch until the sedan disappeared down the street. She turned back, expelled a short breath, and grimaced.
“He didn’t seem like the type who scares easily,” Henry said. “We still need to be alert.”
Sam nodded and pushed her empty plate away. Henry had finished his corned beef and fries long before.
“Do you want dessert?” She needed to say something to take her mind off the ever-present danger.
“No, but if you do, get it to go.” Henry’s dimple appeared again.
Sam shook her head even though she thought the lemon meringue pie looked good. “Are you ready then?”
“We have to get White Cloud’s lunch. Why don’t you call him while I pay the bill and see about our takeout order?” Henry slid out of the booth before Sam could respond.
After she summoned the taxi, she joined Henry at the register, her eye still on the case containing the pie. But she saw White Cloud pull up to the front of the diner and refused to make a pig out of herself. She didn’t need the pie, and their waitress was busy making googly eyes at Henry as she rang up their bill.
Sam took the to-go bag and grabbed Henry’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
“I need to get a receipt.” Henry patted her hand on his arm. “My boss is a stickler for things like that.”
When they were settled in the taxi, White Cloud said, “Your friend is no longer with us.”
“We saw,” Henry said. “Did you call the police?”
“Me? No, I would do no such thing.” He checked for oncoming traffic both ways before he pulled out. “I do not know why they sent him away. Perhaps he was in a no parking zone.”
“They don’t usually make you get out of the car with your hands up for something like that. They just wave you along.” Sam struggled to get her seat belt fastened.
“You do not know how hard-core the Portland Police can be,” White Cloud said. “They are very structured.”
Sam had to agree, remembering how by-the-book the first homicide detective they’d ran into was when they first arrived. James Munroe didn’t bend much, unlike his partner, Mark Matthews. It was Matthews whom Henry contacted, and Sam wasn’t surprised that the detective took him seriously. She had thought Munroe was the anomaly, but if White Cloud was to be believed, Matthews was the odd man out.
Deciding it didn’t matter, Sam turned her thoughts to the upcoming meeting with Pete Singer. They needed the FBI’s help. The three of them could not bring down a white supremacist group and its allies, to say nothing of the politicians involved, without some assistance.
In order to make herself seem more legitimate, she called and asked for Pete Singer before they reached the building and had to deal with the grumpy guard again. After going through a few levels of subordinates, she reached the SAC.
He’d been brought up to speed by Jim Cunningham and told Sam he’d be happy to meet with her but that there wasn’t much he could tell her except that they deemed the evidence not very credible.
They were too close to let the opportunity slip away. If she could talk them into changing their minds, she had to take the chance even though she knew it was unlikely. If nothing else, she might learn something she didn’t know about the situation.
She used her sweetest voice. “I so much appreciate you taking the time to see me. I’m about five minutes away right now. Do I need to give the guard any special instructions?”
When Pete Singer told her arrangements had already been made to let her through, Sam thanked him and hung up quickly.
They arrived at the guard booth a few minutes later, and the guy immediately waved them in to a designated parking area for visitors.
“Looks like we’re expected, if not welcomed,” Sam said when the taxi pulled into a spot.
“I will wait here for you,” White Cloud said.
Sam didn’t argue this time. She agreed it might be easier for her to deal with the SAC as an ex-agent. She hoped her old boss had some good things to say about her so the Singer guy didn’t think she was a flake. She wriggled out of the back seat only to bump into Henry, standing with his arms crossed.
“I’m coming with you,” he said in a tone that left no room for discussion.
She argued anyway. “I should be able to handle it by myself. I used to be one of them.”
“I can’t protect you from a taxi sitting in the parking lot.”
“I doubt I’ll be attacked inside a federal building.”
“There could be a mole in the office.”
She laughed. “Well, even if there is, he or she is not going to grab me in front of everyone in the building.”
Henry shrugged. “It’s always better to have two sets of eyes and
ears. You never know what could happen.”
In order to appease him, Sam took his arm and began to lead him to the entrance.
Henry pulled up short. “Wait. We need to leave our guns with White Cloud.”
They certainly did. She’d forgotten about the .44 at her waist and the .38 in the ankle holster. Deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, she removed not only the weapons but also the holsters. Pete Singer didn’t need to know she was walking around armed.
They passed through the metal detectors without a problem and were given visitors badges and directed to the elevator bank for the fifth floor. Henry stayed close, uneasy with all the curious eyes peering at them.
Chapter Eleven
Pete Singer turned out to be nothing like Sam expected. He was only an inch or two taller than her own five feet eight inches, and one of those men whose slight frame made him appear younger than his years. He had thick brown hair and penetrating eyes, neither brown nor hazel but more like burnt sienna. He didn’t smile but led them to his office without giving away his thoughts.
He directed them to two chairs in front of his desk and sat behind it, his elbows resting on top with his hands clasped together under his chin. “So, what can I do for you? Jim Cunningham tells me you have a few questions about a USB drive we received a couple of weeks ago.”
Sam glanced at Henry, to signal that she would do the talking, then leaned forward. “We were wondering if you were doing anything about it. A friend of ours is quite concerned.”
“There’s not much to be done.” Pete dropped is hands to the desk and sat back. “I sent two agents out to the bar where the meeting supposedly went down and they couldn’t corroborate the meeting.”
“They weren’t very discreet, from what I heard.” Sam was determined to get some information from the man, no matter how circumspect he might be.
Pete Singer offered a sardonic grin. “They were new recruits. I didn’t have any experienced agents free. We’ve had a problem lately getting good men, and women, to join the bureau, so we take what is given to us. You should understand. Jim said he tried hard to get you to change your mind about leaving. They still haven’t found a replacement for you.”
Sam showed no surprise even though she hadn’t known her position was still open. Her former boss never mentioned it to her. She left the bureau close to a year ago and expected them to have no trouble filling her spot. Although when she thought about it, she hadn’t had a recruit in her department to train in several months before she left. She had attributed it to the vast number of opportunities in Silicon Valley and other places for a good IT person.
She knew the number of trainees was down in the last couple of years but she never stopped to think how it would affect the field offices. The best and brightest were assigned to D.C., while the marginal recruits were sent out to unsuspecting places. “So you took the word of some green agents and did nothing.”
“I didn’t say that. We know the white supremacists are trouble waiting to happen and are keeping an eye on them. We tried to get an undercover agent to infiltrate one of the groups, but it didn’t work out. I’m short-handed as it is and can’t cover everything I’d like.”
“But it seems there’s a real danger to the Native Americans on the Warm Springs Reservation.”
Pete Singer nodded. “We alerted the police on the reservation, and they’re keeping an eye out for any suspicious activity. If they see or hear of anything, they’ll let us know.”
Henry sat forward again, his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers intertwined in front of him. “What about the politicians involved. That Buckley character’s aide was named on the recording.”
“We have to be careful with that. The person is only addressed by his last name. We can’t be positive it’s the same Patterson who works for Buckley. We can’t accuse a state senator of something without irrefutable evidence. And we need something more than a scratchy conversation on a USB drive. Have you listened to the recording?”
Sam shook her head, not daring to look at Henry and see “I told you so” written on his face.
“Well, if you had, you’d know that there’s nothing on there that gives a clue as to where or even when this all went down. No judge would issue a warrant without more specifics.”
She pushed her hair behind her ear. “What about financials? They can’t be getting their hands on Javelin missiles for nothing. The money has to come from somewhere.”
“Unless they stole them,” Henry said.
“If they did, the Army or Navy or some military faction would have reported it. We’d know if some missiles went missing,” Pete said.
“I was in the Navy. I know sometimes things don’t get reported as they should. Some supply facility could be trying to save face.”
Singer nodded. “It’s possible. You tell me where, and we’ll look into it. As it is now, we don’t have any leads except for that recording.” The SAC let out a long breath. “Look, we’re not trying to be difficult, but our hands are tied without more to go on. We’re still trying to live down that episode at Ruby Ridge and the ATF didn’t help things getting us involved at Waco. I’d be lucky to be reassigned to Nome, Alaska, if I started something without irrefutable proof.”
Sam knew about those confrontations and the horrible outcome of each, although both happened before her time at the FBI. She could understand Singer’s reluctance to step into something that could turn out to be a fiasco as bad as those two. She slumped in her chair. “So what kind of proof do you need to get involved?”
“Definitely more than we have.” Pete Singer picked up a pen and tapped it against the desktop. “We can check into Buckley’s acquaintances, but we have to be careful. If he gets a hint that we’re looking into him, he’ll cause a commotion. We can’t afford any more negative attention drawn to us.”
“I still think you need to see Buckley’s financials. If there’s something wonky, can’t you arrest him for tax evasion or something? That’s how they got Al Capone.”
He smiled for the first time since they’d started the discussion. “Miss Turner, I know that played a big part in the charges brought against your father, too. But it doesn’t always work. You know that. It would be pretty stupid of him to use his personal accounts to fund this type of thing.”
“But he could have used political contributions, overseas accounts, or dummy corporations. That much money had to come from somewhere. If it was political contributions, it would definitely be a crime.”
As Sam spoke, an idea came to her. She had no doubt she could locate the money and trace its origin. It might take a bit of time, though, and she didn’t know how much time they had.
“I can see the wheels turning in your head. Don’t even think about it.” Pete rubbed his forehead. “Look, I understand your concern, I really do, but you’ve got to realize that we need a warrant to delve into his private matters. No judge is going to grant us permission to go on a witch hunt. And that’s what they’d try to make it out to be.”
“What if an anonymous source supplied you with financial information?” Sam knew that she and Henry would be able to hack into the senator’s accounts and take a look.
Singer’s jaw twitched as his gaze drilled into Sam. “Unless that anonymous source was willing to vouch for the information in person, and was someone close to the senator, like his accountant or bookkeeper, we couldn’t use anything. You must know that.”
Sam pretended to agree, but she wasn’t going to give up on scrutinizing the senator’s accounts.
Henry cleared his throat. “What if I can infiltrate the group? What kind of evidence would you want?”
“You forget, they know what you look like,” Sam said.
“Only those three goons from yesterday. If I run into them, I can apologize. Pretend I see the light.” Henry dismissed her concerns with a wave and studied the agent’s face. “I can try to get whatever you need.”
Pete Singer rubbed his chin. “I don’
t know. It would still be information supplied by a civilian.”
“Don’t you deal with confidential informants all the time?”
Singer nodded. “Not all the time but often enough. It might work. But it would be dangerous. My hands are tied if you get into trouble with the group.”
“I can handle myself.” Henry sat back and crossed his arms. “Tell me what you need.”
The agent stared at the wall over Henry’s shoulder. “A video would be good… but it would have to be one that clearly identified the time and place.”
“Wouldn’t the date stamp give you the time?” Henry said.
“Those can be manipulated. No, it would have to be something else. Something that was shown in the video.”
Henry gave a quick nod. “Okay, I can start recording before I enter the building. That would give you a clear shot of the location. I’ll figure something out to get the time and date. Maybe ask somebody at the meeting for the time or talk about what day it is.”
“That might work.” Singer sat back in his chair, keeping both hands stretched out on the desktop in front of him.
Sam leaned forward in her seat, turning her head to Henry and letting him know by her tone that she did not like his plan at all. “Too much could go wrong. You’d be in a room full of hostile men. Even you can’t take on dozens of them alone. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ll be careful. If I can’t get the information we need the first time, I’ll go to a second meeting.”
“I doubt they’d discuss their plans at a general meeting. Most of those people will be angry white men, without a job and with little money. They probably don’t have a clue what the organizers are planning.” Sam didn’t even want to consider the danger Henry would be facing.
“Then I’ll figure out who the leaders are.” He leaned forward, mimicking Sam’s posture. “Sam, if we don’t do something, the people on the reservation will be in grave danger.”
Pete Singer waved his hands. “Hold on. I haven’t agreed to anything.”