by Kirk Russell
“How will it go?” Jace asked.
“He’ll resign then apologize to all Americans or some crap like that and get admitted to a cushy drug rehab program. He won’t do any real time.”
Jace watched Mara flinch at that.
“Hold on for a second,” Wycher said. “I’ve got a radio call to answer. I’ll be right back.”
Mara muted the phone so they could talk as they waited for Wycher to return.
“Metro has told us what’s what,” Jace said, “but they haven’t showed us enough. We’ve seen photos and video but no hard evidence.”
Mara stayed quiet.
When Wycher returned, Mara freed the mute button.
“That was my captain,” Wycher said. “He wants our bust plan cleaned up more, but it’s going to go down fast when it happens.”
“Hey, Wycher, what’s your cell number?” Jace asked. “Give it to me, and I’ll text you mine.”
“You already did.”
“Have you still got it?”
“Dunno. I clear them if I don’t recognize or need the number.”
“Give me yours,” she said. “Say it and I’ll enter it in my phone.”
He was reluctant, which said to Jace they didn’t want the FBI around when they made the bust. Maybe they didn’t want to be hamstrung coordinating, or maybe Wycher was hoping to bust Grale hard. Jace had known guys like Wycher. They were just born with that streak. If it didn’t hurt, they didn’t feel satisfied.
Her guess was that Wycher was looking for a headline. The news reports wouldn’t have his name, but he’d still own the story. He’d like being able to tell his buddies how he cinched the cuffs tight on an FBI user.
“If I’m close enough when it goes down,” Jace said, “I want to be there. If Grale really is buying illegal pain pills, he’s got some serious pain.”
Wycher sat on that several seconds then said, “I hear you but I’ve been doing this a long time, and let me clue you in on something. All addicts are alike.”
“I grew up around them, so I know something about it,” Jace said. “Maybe more than you, Wycher.”
“Say that again?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, I guess I did, but if you want to hold Grale’s hand, you need to hang with me and be there when it goes down. We’re not building a bust around your availability.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want a heads-up. I’ll text you my phone number or if you want, I’ll check in with you every day.”
“Nah, I’ll call you, and if there’s a press conference about taking down a major local pill pusher and cartel middlemen, you’ll get your five minutes to talk about how the Bureau worked with us. But I’ve got to warn you, my captain hates feds stomping in after all the work is done.”
Jace looked at Mara and mouthed, “What’s up with this guy?”
“Okay, I’m signing off,” Wycher said.
“I’m texting you my contacts,” Jace said. “If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call you.”
He didn’t answer; he was already gone.
21
Later that same afternoon, my lower back was X-rayed at a facility across the street from Dr. Terry Yandovitch’s office. I hand-delivered the new X-rays and originals taken after the bombing to Yandovitch’s receptionist. Soon after, she led me to a small room where I waited for Dr. Yandovitch, who was tall enough that he had to duck at the doorway as he came in.
With him were both sets of X-rays. He clipped them up on a screen as he said, “Sorry I’m late. How’s Jo?”
“She’s good.”
“Tell her hello for me. Now, talk to me about your pain. Be as accurate and detailed as you can. When it’s bad, what’s it like?”
“Knifelike. Very sharp.”
“Sharp as in it feels like you can’t move?”
“It can be.”
“Show me where it’s knifelike.”
I touched that part of my lower back. He watched then turned to the X-rays taken after I was flown from Bagdad to Frankfurt, Germany.
“When they operated on you, they reconstructed muscle. Some of that has atrophied or torn in the years since. That’s led to more scarring and pressure on the disc. You also have a degree of scoliosis, though that’s not a significant concern. Lateral pressure on the disc is what worries me. Your biggest issues are degrading bone and nerve irritation that’s likely to evolve into a much bigger problem. The atrophied muscle is a difficult aspect. Without surgery, you could end up in a wheelchair. With surgery, there are a lot of ifs and zero guarantees. All bomb surgeries are different.”
“So, you’re saying it’s nothing to worry about.”
He smiled for my benefit, but he’d heard all the jokes and false bravado before. He ran through a list of questions.
“How much of the day are you on your feet? Make a guess.”
“On average, thirty percent, sometimes more.”
“What was it yesterday?”
“Yesterday I made a long drive so probably less than ten percent standing.”
“How’s your posture when you sit in front of a computer?”
“I wouldn’t call it good or bad. I try to sit straight.”
“Exercise?”
“I have a lap pool and the FBI gym. The pool I haven’t used in months.”
“Due to pain?”
“Yes.”
“At the gym, what exercises do you do?”
“The treadmill, and I lift weights. I’ve had to stop just about everything.”
“Stopped when?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“What kind of weights?”
“Resistance weights.”
“Good. But use a lighter weight and be particularly careful. How long have you been off work?”
“I’m still on active duty.”
Yandovitch glanced down at his notes as if contemplating something, then asked, “How do you control your pain?”
“With Aleve and Tylenol, and NORCO 5s at night. I take one, sometimes two NORCOs, and I have Percocet if needed.”
“How often do you use the Percocet?”
“Not often. I try to avoid it.”
“So how often?”
“With a flare-up like this, it could be every other night. In general, I don’t like taking pills.”
“I don’t either, and I’m glad to hear you feel that way, although I’m not saying you should avoid them. They’re to help you when needed. If we go forward with this, you’ll need to commit to daily exercise for the rest of your life. That may sound like drama, but it’s realistic. Primary is keeping your core strong. Nothing else you ever do will help as much. Do you have the discipline for that? If not, I wouldn’t advise surgery.”
That was more a statement that a question, so I passed on affirming my discipline and asked, “If I go ahead with surgery, how long before I’m active duty again?”
“What does active duty require?”
“That I can run and protect the agent I’m teamed with. I need to be in good shape.”
“You won’t run for months.”
“Months?”
At that point he must have realized where I was coming from.
“You’re not asking about pain after surgery or the other things I’m usually questioned about. Is your anxiety solely about how long you’re off before you can return to work?”
“I worry about it.”
“All right, well, let’s talk that through. Am I correct in assuming you’re often in significant pain at work?”
“I’m here because I’m in pain, and it’s getting harder to deal with. Jo spoke highly of you, so I made this appointment.” He took that in as I added, “It’s a big deal to me to remain an active agent. I’m fighting to keep my badge and gun. For me to stay
on active duty, my back has to get better.”
“We can make that a goal to work toward, but we can’t connect it to the surgery. In other words, don’t expect surgery to be a guarantee.”
“I understand.”
“It’s important for you to understand where you’re at today, as well. The knifelike sharp pain is pressure on the nerve root as the disc is being pushed toward herniated. If it herniates, you could end up on constant painkillers, and surgery might no longer be viable. You’re micromanaging a degrading condition.”
He paused, and I got the feeling he was sizing me up. Fair enough, I was doing the same with him. The surgeons I’ve known all have some hero in them. They don’t want to prescribe pills; they want to fix the problem themselves. But that doesn’t always work.
“Do you see the white line on the floor?”
“Sure.”
“I want you to walk across the room, landing your foot on the line with each step. Then turn and do the same thing walking back.”
When I tried, I fell off to the left as I stepped forward. I just couldn’t hold to the straight line. I tried several times and was surprised at how hard it was.
“Can you feel where it’s tight?” he asked.
“Sure, there’s a noticeable pull that’s pretty constant.”
“Those are locked muscles as your body tries to compensate. Landing each foot in rhythm on the line is natural balance. Our goal will be to get that back.”
“I’ve had flare-ups that lasted as long as five or six weeks and then would go away.”
“I believe you, but what you’re experiencing now is different. What I see is a necessary surgery and increasing risk in waiting. That’s something I almost never say. I won’t do the surgery unless you commit to strengthening key muscles before surgery and what will be a lifelong discipline of careful exercise post-surgery.”
He took me through what he would do, reworking muscle and removing a hardened mass of scar tissue, and then how over time the disc might be coaxed back into place, as well as his desire to avoid fusing. When he finished, I repeated my earlier question.
“If we go ahead with the surgery, what am I looking at in terms of time off work? A month, six weeks?”
“I see three, maybe four surgeries, although it’s the first that’s by far the largest and most complicated. You’ll need a year for rehab. It could be less, but you should plan on a year.”
“If I take that back to the office, they’ll say disability, early retirement.”
“All I can help you with is your back. We’ll make a recommendation on meds to your doctor this morning so you get better-quality pain relief.”
I couldn’t get my head around a year off work. The ramifications sank in as I talked with Jo on the drive to the office. She was apologetic, as if by recommending Yandovitch she’d caused my new diagnosis.
“Did you know how long the recovery might be?” I asked her.
“I could have made a guess.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“He’s the surgeon. Does he recommend surgery?”
“He advises it conditionally. Let’s talk later. I missed several hours. I’ve got some catching up to do.”
“I love you,” Jo said and hung up. I called my primary care doctor’s office to give them a heads-up that a call was coming from a Dr. Yandovitch’s office with a prescription I’d want to fill right away.
That’s when I learned their office hadn’t received any faxes from Potello requesting approval for a refill in the last eighteen months.
“Are you certain?” I asked. “Because I’ve been getting prescription refills from him.”
She checked again and said, “No, I’m sorry, we have no record of anyone asking for a refill. The doctor will have to call you later.”
I was in the FBI garage when I called Potello and left a message to say call me. I’d just reached my desk when he returned the call. I could feel he was on edge, so I was careful with my words.
When he said, “I was meeting your needs,” that told me all I needed to know. I’d need to brief Mara, who could alert the ASAC.
“Gary, when I asked, you’ve always said you’d sent the fax and had gotten my doctor’s okay to refill.”
“You asked for painkillers, and I got them.”
“Did you get my prescriptions refilled through my doctor’s office?”
“I got you what you wanted.”
“You got me what I wanted?”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t refill them in the normal way through my doctor’s office?”
“You knew where I was coming from.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we’re done doing business. We’re done, but we’re not done. You lied about the prescription refills, so you don’t just walk away.”
“Mess with me and see what happens.”
“You’re not walking away, Gary. I don’t know what you’ve got going on, but I’m going to find out.”
He hung up, and I started with the Nevada State Board of Pharmacy. I wrote a letter and sent it to the e-mail listed, then scheduled an appointment and called a lawyer I know. That was all to cover my rear. Whatever Potello had going on was going to take more. After I left the message for Brady, my lawyer, other things started fitting together, and I began to feel like a dupe and a fool. I walked down to Mara’s office and told him, “I’ve got a personal problem I need to alert you to. It’s not an FBI problem. It’s mine, but I’d like to talk it through with you.”
Mara, good guy that he is, loves bad news. He was on his feet right away.
“Let’s find someplace quiet,” he said. “Follow me.”
22
Dalz
The delivery truck was an ordinary white commercial van Dalz asked to test drive before building a bomb inside. Sean allowed that, and Dalz drove a route that took him past the FBI building, then north to the street that passed by Agent Paul Grale’s house.
After Croatia, it took less than a week to identify and locate Grale, the FBI agent who had traveled to Europe and almost trapped him. Those he worked for identified Grale as an American FBI bomb expert, but he should never have requested their help. He should have found Grale on his own. Grale was part of why he’d accepted this job, but, of course, those who’d long protected him couldn’t really be trusted. Sean’s leash-like hold was proof they’d been briefed.
As he passed Grale’s house, he saw a woman get out of a blue four-door vehicle, a compact SUV. She turned and looked, perhaps sensing him or anticipating a delivery. A single glance at her and the house was enough. She lived there. He was certain from how watchful she was.
When he returned the van to the lot, Sean was waiting.
“The van will work well,” Dalz said. “It handles the weight. The shocks are new enough, tires good. It is sturdy. I’m fine with it.”
“Then build the bomb.”
“Give me the driver so I can teach him, and he can also help pack the bomb into the van. The driver will arm the bomb as he parks. He’ll flip two separate switches that will be marked with the color red. He’ll turn both clockwise ninety degrees.”
“That’s stupidly complicated. Why not detonate with a cell phone?”
Exactly the question Dalz wanted to hear.
“Either way,” Dalz said.
“Why wouldn’t we use a cell phone?”
“They may interrupt cell signals in that area outside their office. You could send someone to check that.”
“We already have. We know outside the building is fine, and I prefer a cell phone, and I’ll detonate it, not you.”
“The driver will need to park in the correct spot. He’ll then have sixty seconds to get away. How will he get away?”
Rather than answer, Sean asked, “Where else did you
drive today?”
“I drove north into residential streets to test the van on turns.”
“What residential streets?”
“I cannot say, I don’t know street names, but I was careful. I was testing the van more, that’s all. I am here to destroy the artificial intelligence and for no other reason. I agreed not to go near the FBI agent. Isn’t that what you’re asking?”
“Your lies bore me. No more warnings, Dalz.”
Sean stepped in so close his face was inches from Dalz’s.
“Tell me that you understand,” he said. “Tell me that I should kill you if you disobey again.”
Dalz squinted at him but said nothing.
“I promise you that I will,” Sean said. “I give you my absolute word. You can count on that. Do you understand?”
Dalz again said nothing. He stared back and waited until Sean turned away.
23
At the office I fielded a call from the head of DARPA, Kathy Tobias, who said, “I’ve heard FBI is concerned about a man who calls himself Bismarck and followers who think they’re going to mind-meld with Indie. Is that crazy talk or real?”
“It’s real. There’s Bismarck and there are other groups gathering in the Las Vegas Valley. Bismarck, I know personally. I have a history with him. We also know he’s getting help from a bot army repeating and amplifying his call to followers. Those bot swarms originate outside the US.”
“I’ve heard something similar, which is part of why I’m calling. What should DoD do about Bismarck, his followers, and these disparate groups who are romanticizing the AI into some kind of all-knowing entity?”
“Beef up the borders and turn back those who still make it onto the base. I wouldn’t charge them. It’s a big base with porous borders. They can cut through chain-link. They go around it or over the mountains where there’s nothing.”
“Who’s going to climb over that dry, steep range?”
“Somebody will. Even with constant patrols, some are going to get through, but it’s scorching hot and it’s a big base with no water. DoD will need to plan on rescues, although I think most will give up and go back, if they aren’t arrested first. Another approach would be to lean on the local police and the governor to keep them from massing outside the base. But I wouldn’t go that way.”