by P A Duncan
“It’s not good. She left the family when he was young and left him with his father, kept the daughters with her.”
“Ah. What’s the age difference between you and him?”
“Around a decade.”
“Ah, yes. A small enough difference he won’t be interested in a mother substitute. You can’t be maternal toward him. That could make him take his mommy issues out on you.”
“Got it. Fraternal, not maternal.”
Danielle frowned, eyes narrowed at Mai. “What is it you hope to accomplish with this person? As much as you can say, of course.”
“He’s involved with some fringe beliefs.”
“Yes, the right-wing leanings were evident in his letters. Left-wing extremists are more overtly emotional. Just as volatile and potentially as dangerous as right-wingers, but leftists act from the heart, righties from the head. They think things through. Granted, when they use logic and facts to explain themselves, it’s often within a distorted reality. They tend to see things as far worse than they really are. Yes, they’re armed with facts and figures, but taken out of context to deliberately misstate a truth in support of their ideals.”
“How on earth can you determine that from his writing?”
“Well, little miss skeptic, I was describing archetypes, but if you like, I’ll get back to the graphology. This guy’s grammar and syntax are good, but the spacing between his words is inconsistent. That indicates a distorted world view, an inability to distinguish fiction from reality.”
Mai thought of Carroll’s affection for The Turner Diaries.
“Yes,” she said, “I’ve seen something of that.”
“He has a cause or causes he’s dedicated to, right?”
“Yes.”
“And he gets angry about them quickly?”
“Yes.”
“He may couch that anger in concern for others’ rights, correct?”
“Uh, yes.”
“You sound surprised.”
“You have to admit it seems a bit incredible you gleaned all this from some scribblings.”
Danielle’s eyes widened. “Oh, I thought you wanted me to use the crystal ball.”
How droll, Mai thought.
“No, I understand graphology is a serious study for some, but your conclusions would never be admissible at trial,” Mai said.
“True, but graphology is also based on the premise certain behaviors and emotional states are universal and can be interpreted from one of our most overt ways of expression, handwriting. I’d never tell you to accept my conclusions as gospel. I could be way off on some things. You can use what I’m telling you in future interactions with this subject. Or you can forget everything I’ve said after you’ve walked out the door.”
“No need to get testy.”
“Other than his being a right-wing looney, what’s your interest?”
“I had a feeling about him.” Mai smiled. “My Irish cousins would say it was my intuition.”
Danielle gave her the squinty scrutiny again. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your handwriting didn’t share some similarities with your subject’s.”
Mai contrasted her elaborate cursive with Carroll’s neat, block printing and decided this was all a crock of shite.
“You said he was well-organized and able to concentrate,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Enough to plan some elaborate scheme and carry it out?”
“Over how long a time span?”
“Months. Probably more like a couple of years.”
“Nothing elaborate. Again, speaking from archetypes, he’s capable of planning something small, insignificant because he can control all aspects of it. Something elaborate would involve logistical support from others, whom he can’t control. He’d have a hard time with that. However, I think he’d be more than capable of carrying out someone else’s elaborate scheme. Was he in the military?”
“The Army.”
“Was he successful?”
“Per his service record, yes.”
“But?”
“He planned to be career Army but without much explanation took an early out. When I worked that into a conversation, he did get defensive and wouldn’t talk about it.”
Mai’s frown didn’t escape Danielle’s attention. “What is it, Mai?”
“The defensiveness, the anger, the inability to establish relationships, that seems to contradict his success in the Army.”
“Not at all. He may be a person who responds well to structure and authority. Did the Army recognize him for a particular skill?”
“Yes.”
“Like most right-wingers, he wants to be seen as important. He’s probably only good at one thing, and he wants acceptance for it. It’s something not likely to be accepted or appreciated by most people. You said he left the Army early. Because the Army disappointed him somehow?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“If that is the case, he’ll associate with other dysfunctional people, who’ll give him the recognition he seeks. That also means he’s ripe for some charismatic creep to latch onto, especially if the creep knows how to exploit insecurity for his gain. Your friend here wants to make his mark, and if someone says, ‘Wanna make some history?’ he could be all in. Does that make sense?”
“I don’t know enough yet.”
“Is he charming, boyish?”
“Appealing, I’d say. Awkward at first. A nice smile.”
“That’s his public face, the one hiding deep-seated insecurities.” Danielle glanced at something across the room, brow crimped as she thought. She turned back to Mai. “Remind me again of your security clearance,” Danielle said.
“There are few things I can’t hear or see.”
“I’ve recently done some work for, shall we say, a government law enforcement agency in the area of the assassin personality. Are you aware of it?”
“Yes, I’ve read some white papers from our analysts. I honestly don’t think this subject is planning an assassination.”
“The assassin personality applies to targeting a single political figure or celebrity and to a mass murderer. The target or victim is less important than how the assassin got to the point of his action.”
“You said ‘his’ I suppose because the typical assassin personality is in his late twenties, an age where you’ve figured out your life is going nowhere, white, male, and a loner with self-esteem issues.”
“As are the vast majority of violent offenders. The difference is the assassin personality is a functional paranoiac.”
“Not schizophrenic?”
“No. The assassin personality may be highly delusional, but he doesn’t hear voices telling him to kill someone. He might have lucid nightmares or PTSD-induced flashbacks but nothing like a full-on schizophrenic. Your subject’s being organized means his delusions will be so organized themselves, even logical, as to have a ring of truth to them.”
“If he’s an assassin personality,” Mai said.
“Look, at some point, he will try to get you to accept his basic premise ‘they’ are out to get him, that he’s being hunted or followed by someone who intends him harm. When he acts, whatever it may be, to him it will be an act of self-defense. Even if someone he trusts—you, for example—tells him it’s wrong, he won’t understand why. That belief in self-defense will be that strong, and it may not be personal self-defense. He may delude himself into thinking he’s saving someone or something sacred to him. He won’t understand his alleged grievance and how he wants to resolve it won’t correlate.”
“Like killing a president to impress a girl?”
“Exactly. Your subject, I think, is a follower, not a leader.”
“In the Army he was a definite leader, promoted quickly because of his leadership ability. Why would you think he’s a follower now?”
“A setback he couldn’t control, and someone steps up and helps him out. A lot of these right-wing fringe types are attracted to self-styled leader
s with charisma and an agenda. Being trusted by a strong man, a leader, helps the assassin personality compensate for his insecurity. Does this guy like guns?”
“He said nothing about that in his letters. How did you—”
“That’s an easy one. Guns are another substitute for self-esteem, and they’re sacrosanct for the right wing.”
Mai felt the mass of the Beretta press at her back.
“To right-wingers, guns represent being able to control, dominate, manipulate,” Danielle continued. “Does he keep a dairy or a journal?”
She’d found nothing of the sort in the trailer she’d searched, but he could have had that with him. “I haven’t seen anything like that, but he does like to write letters, as you’ve seen.”
“Yes. He wrote you three in one day. That’s where he’ll lay out his grievances and perceived slights. Not initially, as I said, because he’s trying to impress you. However, his letters could be a diary substitute. The assassin personality often uses a diary or a journal as a way of programming himself to commit the act. Let’s see, in 1968, how old were you?”
“Ten.”
“Do you know who Sirhan Sirhan is?”
“I might have been ten, but I’m a student of history.”
“Sirhan wrote in notebook after notebook, ‘RFK must die.’ Letters could be your subject’s notebook.”
“There are other things that contradict the assassin personality. He’s an excellent conversationalist and does have several close friends.”
“Who probably think like him and reinforce his feelings of inadequacy. No matter what his cause may be, if he commits a violent act, it will be solely because of his sense of inferiority. You’ll have to balance your relationship with him carefully.”
“How so?”
“You have to get close enough to show him he’s good enough for you. If you get too close, get him too dependent on your friendship, when the time comes to stop him, you could end up being what sets him off. All that anger he carries beneath the surface could explode in your face.”
The room, the house slipped away from Mai. Danielle had no way of knowing Mai once had a bomb almost explode in her face.
Gooseflesh spreading up her arms snapped Mai back to the present.
Someone walked on your grave, she thought.
5
Over Lunch
Directorate Headquarters
Alexei entered Nelson’s private dining room at Directorate Headquarters and spotted his former partner sampling from a bottle of wine opened by Nelson’s personal chef. Nelson nodded in approval, and Alexei made an elaborate show of clearing his throat.
“That had better be no younger than my granddaughter,” he said.
Braced on his cane, Nelson turned and raised his glass.
“Quite excellent. Too good to be wasted on that vodka-dulled palate of yours.”
To the chef, Nelson said, “Serve us now and leave us alone. If we need something, I’ll call you.”
The chef nodded to him and to Alexei before turning to his cart of covered plates.
“Picked up some Florida sun, I see,” Nelson said and motioned to a chair at the table.
Alexei waited until Nelson sat. The chef served Nelson first, placing a green salad dressed with balsamic vinaigrette to Nelson’s and Alexei’s left. Next came a plate of swordfish in béarnaise, fresh asparagus, and impossibly tiny new potatoes. Alexei could smell the garlic sauce on the potatoes, and his mouth watered.
To the chef Alexei said, “Thank you. Looks wonderful.” He answered Nelson’s observation with, “I didn’t waste my time there inside a building full of gun nuts.”
The chef poured wine for them both, gave a look over the table, and left.
“How’s the surveillance on Mr. John T. Carroll going?” Nelson asked.
This was small talk, because he’d been judicious in keeping Nelson updated. That told him he was here for something other than lunch, a reason Nelson would broach in his own good time.
“Promising,” Alexei replied, “though he could still be a dead end. He talks the usual rhetoric but has raised no suspicions, other than I think he’s a nut case. Mai has concluded if he is planning revenge for Killeen, she can talk him out of it.”
“Good thing she has you for a partner. When you’re certain he’s up to something, put a stop to it.”
“Of course. This meal is excellent. New chef?”
“Yes. Late of the Stasi. Why do you former secret police types like cooking?”
“Because it’s so different from a typical work day. What’s up?”
“Does something have to be up for me to invite a friend of thirty years to lunch?”
“You didn’t invite Mai, which means you have something you don’t want her to know. She’s punishing me by having lunch with Terrell.”
Nelson bought himself some time by chewing what he’d put into his mouth and dabbing his lips with a napkin.
“The World Court has begun taking depositions about Serb actions in Croatia and Bosnia,” Nelson said. “The request to depose you and Mai came in yesterday. Specifically, they’re interested about the summer and early fall of 1992.”
Alexei lay his knife and fork across his plate. The meal had lost its appeal. “They have our mission reports,” he said.
“The French are making an issue of the incident with Mai—”
“You mean where they betrayed her status to Arkan?”
“They’re pointing out she’s the only one who subsequently witnessed Arkan’s rampage. You and she can provide solid evidence.”
“Why tell me and not her?”
Nelson sighed. “What I really want to know is if providing that deposition will put her off this mission.”
“Nothing puts Mai off a mission.”
“Indulge me.”
Alexei took a long drink of wine, and Nelson refilled his glass.
“She and I have never discussed it in any way except professionally. She won’t talk about it in any other context,” Alexei said.
“I trust your insight.”
“She withdrew, drank too much, all pretty typical. She either worked through it herself or with the shrink, who of course told me nothing, or…” He shrugged and drank more wine. “Or she used Terrell’s shoulder to cry on. She compartmentalizes too well, and when she has to bring things forth, she also brings forth a little more darkness. The memories go back into their compartment, but the darkness stays behind.”
“She’s not the first. Will this throw her off the mission?”
“No. It will make her angry, and she’ll take it out on me because I’m convenient.”
“Nothing new there.”
“No, nothing new but tiresome, all the same. Warn the lawyers she’ll be defensive.”
“I’ll do that. Will it be easier to do the depositions here or at your house?”
“It won’t matter.”
“All right. Day after tomorrow. Your house.”
Alexei pushed his plate away, most of the food untouched.
“You know, you’re so concerned about her feelings when she’s the strongest of the three of us. Nobody ever bothers to remember I lost a child, too.”
Chinatown
Washington, D.C.
Edwin Terrell, Jr. and Mai Fisher slid into a booth, facing each other. Terrell said, “You’ve been out of pocket a few weeks.”
She shrugged and looked around the Vietnamese restaurant.
Terrell waved away the menus the host offered. He asked Mai, “You trust me?” He smirked at her smirk. “Trust me anyway.” He spoke to the host in Vietnamese, pointing to something on the menu. The host bowed and left.
“One of yours?” Mai asked, referring to Terrell’s Special Forces work in the Vietnam War.
“Nah, he was on the other side, but we’re working on reconciliation. So, where you been?”
“Tailing my subject at innumerable gun shows without his being the wiser. He conveniently sent me his schedule.”<
br />
The host returned with a tea pot and matching porcelain cups. Terrell’s hand made the cup look like a thimble.
“What did you find?” Terrell asked.
“Nothing much. Mostly he was alone. A few times his Army buddy, Gerald Parker, was with him.”
“They queer for each other?”
“Parker’s married.”
“Maybe he’s in denial.”
“Carroll’s not gay.”
Terrell leered and leaned toward her. “And you know that how?”
“I can recognize an erection I’ve caused when I see one.”
Terrell gave her the grin that made him appear charming and leaned back in the booth. “What else did you learn?”
“When he’s by himself, Carroll sleeps in a sleeping bag in the back seat of his car, or he drives out of town and sleeps outside. When Parker’s with him, they share a hotel room.”
“Interesting. Now, the marital state is never a guarantee of fidelity, as you well know, and being on the road is usually a great opportunity to get your knob polished. If you’re certain they’re not into each other, they could be focusing their passion on their cause, whatever that is.” He grinned at her. “Maybe Carroll is saving himself for you.”
“For being an asshole, you get to buy me lunch.”
“Not a problem. Where’s your old man?”
“Having lunch with Nelson. I wasn’t invited.”
“Ah, testiness. Afraid they’re talking about you?”
“Of course they are.”
The host arrived with a tray. He put a large bowl of jasmine rice between them. He served Mai first.