The Mockingbird Drive

by A. C. Fuller

  I didn't know what to say. "I'm sure it's nothing…I…you'll let me know if you hear anything else?"

  "Of course."

  "I'm going to head to the office to check on some things. I'll see you Monday."

  But I didn't go to the office. I went to a fancy coffee shop above Mee Sum, the kind that's crowded all day, where the baristas draw superheroes in your foam. I took a seat in the back and pulled out my phone. I knew Greta better than anyone, and had a few ideas about where she might be.

  First, I checked her social media. She hadn't posted any updates since Thursday night. Her last Facebook post was a picture of a beach, opening on an expanse of water. But not one of our local, pebbly beaches. It was a vast, sandy beach. An ocean beach. The Pacific. The caption read, "Hoping to cross this soon."

  My mind went to the possibility that she was moving out of the country, but I realized right away how paranoid that was. As I read through the comments, I figured out that she was planning a visit to Japan because various aunts and cousins had commented with dates they'd be available for a visit. On Friday morning, she'd written her last comment, "Hope to come out this winter," followed by a smiley-face emoji.

  Okay, so she wasn't leaving the country, but maybe she—

  My phone rang. A number I didn't recognize from a 458 area code. I usually ignore calls from numbers I don't recognize, but I answered it just in case it had anything to do with Greta.

  "Hello?" I asked tentatively.

  "Morning, Alex." A man's voice, but hard to hear because of the background noise. People talking and music.

  "Who is this?"

  "Don't you recognize my voice? We had such a nice talk."

  Amand.

  "I'm busy," I said. "What do you want?"

  "Just calling to check in. How's your morning going? I'm out at my favorite breakfast spot. I usually get the waffles with local berry syrup, but today—"

  "Look, I don't have any info on anything about anything. I haven't even gone to work yet."

  I was about to hang up when he said, "Alex, you didn't let me finish telling you what I'm having for breakfast."

  "Why would I…" My stomach sank. It knew something my head hadn't yet figured out.

  "Like I said, I usually have the waffles, but I'm trying to cut carbs and bring more healthy fats into my diet. Today I'm having the organic chicken sausage, a small fruit plate, and a coconut milk latte."

  He was taunting me.

  "Coconut milk is the new big thing. It's being lauded by nutritionists, yoga teachers, life coaches. Back in Kuwait, we don't drink it, but it's not half bad."

  "You have Greta."

  He didn't respond.

  "Listen you son-of-a—"

  "I just wanted to tell you about my breakfast. I'm sure she'll turn up any minute."

  "You dirtbag. Where the hell is she?"

  "I have to go now. I'm going to go do some yoga. Better on the knees than running, or so I hear."

  "Amand, please, I—"

  "Oh, I'm sure she's fine. Like I said, I'm sure she'll turn up any minute. Or, more precisely, I'm sure she'll turn up in exactly nineteen minutes."

  The line went dead and I looked at the clock on my phone. It was 10:41 a.m.

  The next nineteen minutes were the worst of my life.

  I called the police first, but they weren't going to file a missing person's report until twenty-four hours had passed. I told them about the call, about Amand, but it sounded ridiculous coming out of my mouth. "A guy at Allied Regional Data Security called me. He was messing with me. I know they have her. He said…coconut lattes."

  Greta's staff had already called the police twice and, unless I had new information, they'd be filing a report later that night. For now, there was nothing they could do.

  I did an online search and a search within apps to see if Greta had been mentioned on anyone else's social media feeds, but nothing came up. The last five minutes I just sat, staring at my latte, clenching my jaw and cursing every second I'd taken her for granted.

  11 a.m. passed, then 11:05.

  The call came at 11:07. It was Mia, who was smart enough to lead with, "She's fine, Alex. Totally fine."

  "What happened? Where was she?"

  "I don't know all the details. Her secretary called. She was taken by a couple men, but nothing at all happened to her. She wasn't hurt, wasn't robbed. Two men took her and then dropped her off at her apartment at exactly eleven this morning. That's all I know. Alex, what the hell is going on?"

  I hung up without replying, Amand's smarmy smile floating in my mind like a target.

  I called Greta on every number she had, then texted her cellphone. Nothing.

  Assuming Mia was right, and that Greta was fine, Amand had taken her just to show me he could. To prove to me that this was his world, and I was just living in it. When I'd left Eugene, I'd planned to let everything slip away. To string him along, pretend to help him a little, but offer up nothing of value until he forgot about me.

  I slugged my latte in two sips, vowing to make it my last lactose-full beverage, and strode out of the coffee shop. I knew I couldn't live with Amand hanging over me—over Greta. By the time I got to street level, I had a plan. One man had set this whole thing in motion, and he was the only one who had the power to stop it.

  Chapter 29

  Monday, June 19, 2017

  Dewey Gunstott.

  It took the rest of Sunday, and every connection Bird, Mia, and I had, but I landed a meeting with Gunstott at 9 a.m. Monday morning. After finally reaching his press secretary, I'd tried to lie my way into the meeting, then finally told him about the drive, about Operation Mockingbird, and about the story I planned to write, connecting the dots to the shooting at The Gazette. Then I demanded five minutes with Gunstott to give him a chance to comment on the record.

  It was a threat, a shot in the dark. But it worked.

  Dewey Gunstott worked on the top floor of the Murray Building in downtown Seattle, only a half mile from my office. For years, I'd probably been walking past him in Pioneer Square or buying from the same fruit stand at Pike Place Market. Not that he was the kind of guy who bought his own fish. He had people for that. Just like he had people to hunt me down.

  The Murray Building was surprisingly modest to serve as the home of such a powerful company. Thirty stories, but old fashioned. Boring gray stone, too few windows, a standard marble lobby, a slow elevator. I guess you could call it classy, but compared to the offices of The Barker, it was archaic.

  When the elevator opened on the thirtieth floor, a young man in a brown suit was standing there, looking as old-fashioned as the building. He had short brown hair, the same color as his suit, and flashed a fake, business-like smile. "This way," he said.

  He led me down the hall and through the open door of Gunstott's office, which was nothing like I'd imagined. First, it was wedged between two other offices, not in an expansive corner. Second, it was surprisingly small, less than half the size of my office. But more than that, I was surprised that it was empty.

  "Take a seat," the kid said. "Mr. Gunstott will be right back."

  The kid left and I sat on an overstuffed couch covered in old brown leather. The kind you run your hand over just to feel how soft it is. The whole place reminded me of my grandpa's office from when I was a kid. The couch, the cheap art on the walls, the scratchy-looking curtains, the mahogany side table with a single decanter filled with brown liquor. If there was a theme to the room, it was brown.

  After a couple minutes, Gunstott appeared in the doorway looking confused, then lumbered up to me. I stood quickly to shake his extended hand. He was taller than I'd pictured him from the headshots I'd seen online—maybe six foot two, a little overweight, but less than I'd imagined. His face was disproportionately fat for the rest of his body, and his cheeks were red and puffy. All in all, he didn’t look bad for a ninety-year-old man.

  He poured himself about a quarter ounce of the brown liquor without sa
ying a word, then took the tiniest sip possible. He repeated this twice, like he was trying to drink a drop at a time.

  "So," he said, sitting behind the desk, "what do you want?"

  It was strange, because, from his tone, I got the sense he might not know why I was there. "I'm Alex Vane, from The Barker."

  He sipped his drink. "Are you the guy from the editorial board at The Seattle Times? That hit job you did on my stadium bid was horseshit."

  He sipped his drink again.

  "I'm Alex Vane. The Barker, the online magazine. Your assistant didn't tell you who I was or why I am here?"

  "The kid? That's my nephew. He's a glorified doorman. I didn't have a chance to talk to my press secretary today. He sets these things up, I knock 'em down."

  "Are you honestly telling me you don't know who I am or why I'm here?"

  "He said something about China, but that's half the meetings I take these days. And I have a standing rule: I'll talk to anyone in the press for five minutes a year, and you're down to four minutes."

  I ran my finger along the crease in my jeans, trying to think. If he was lying, he was a damn good liar. "I have the Mockingbird Drive."

  "The what?"

  "The hard drive. From the CIA. You're on it."

  "Son, where did you say you're from?"

  "The Barker."

  "Never heard of it."

  He picked up a hunting magazine that—no kidding—had a big brown bear on the cover, and started flipping through the pages.

  "Mr. Gunstott. I have the hard drive."

  He lowered the magazine slightly. "You say you have a hard drive? Is that like a computer?"

  He seemed distracted. Like I was wasting his time. He was not acting like someone who was confronting a powerful journalist he'd been chasing for a week. One who could cause him embarrassment and possibly derail his China deal.

  Until that moment, I hadn't known for sure whether I'd publish the audio of the shooting, but I was ready to go all-in. "Mr. Gunstott, you worked at the Louisville Courier-Journal in 1952. While there, you were approached by a CIA asset, one either already at the paper or one from outside. My guess is that it was the senior editor, since he was also an asset. You've been a CIA asset ever since. For the last six days, I've been followed. You, or someone you control, ordered the shooting at The Las Vegas Gazette. Six people died to protect your secrets. My website has proof of this and will publish it tomorrow."

  He put down the magazine and stared at me, like he was seeing me for that first time. "What in tarnation? I…I worked at the paper in Louisville, sure. That was a long time ago, that—"

  "1952."

  "Okay, but what were you saying about a shooting, being followed? What the hell are you talking about? And the CIA thing? Are you talking about my boss, what was his name?"

  He was looking straight at me now. His eyes were wet, his cheeks blotchy. He didn't seem drunk, just genuinely confused. Like an old man, lost on a golf course.

  The realization came first in my chest, then spread through my whole body. He truly had no idea what I was talking about. Of course he hadn't ordered the shooting at The Gazette. He probably hadn't even known about it. And of course he didn't consider himself a CIA asset. He just had some friends who happened to work for the government, people he shared information with, and who shared information with him.

  I said, "At some point in the last few months, did you ask anyone to do a background check on you, to look into your past, to destroy any records?'

  "I don't know why I'd answer that question."

  "Six people were killed in Las Vegas!" I was almost shouting.

  "What does that have to do with me?"

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I think I've made a bad mistake. Are you…you're about to finalize a major deal with China. Is there any chance that the deal started a new process of looking into your background, of…"

  He stared at me for another few seconds, then said, "Sure, it's possible. My background gets poured over a hundred times a day. Would everyone involved do some due diligence before we break into China? Sure. Would I pay even the slightest bit of attention to it? No."

  He was telling the truth. Someone had decided to look into Gunstott's background—maybe someone on his staff, maybe a business partner. Somehow that had led to ARDS, to Tudayapi, to Baxter, to Innerva, and then to me.

  I didn't know what to say. All I could think about was my talk with Amand, who'd been right about everything. It was a system of perfected security. Depending on your position in the world, it was either a system of perfected good, or a system of perfected evil. No one was in charge.

  I was up against a snake with no head.

  But most of all, it was a system that was too big to fail. A system that protected itself. Sometimes slowly, sometimes awkwardly. But it protected itself. And sometimes without the protectees even knowing they were being protected.

  "Let me just ask you this: are you regularly in touch with anyone in the CIA?"

  "This interview is over," he said, shaking his glass gently, like he was rattling an invisible ice cube.

  I tried a few more questions, but he wasn't having it. A minute later, the young man in the brown suit was escorting me out of Gunstott's office.

  Riding the elevator back to street level, I came up with a theory. Gunstott was most likely one of the agents of Operation Mockingbird who didn't see himself as a CIA asset. He was buddy-buddy with some agents, was happy to share information and often received information that was helpful to his business interests. Coming out of World War Two and heading into the Cold War, he was the type of guy who viewed Russia as an existential threat, both personally and to U.S. business interests. And, fundamentally, he viewed the government as a mechanism to protect U.S. business interests. His business interests.

  I stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked up at the sky. It was one of those mid-summer gray skies we sometimes get in Seattle. A light mist was falling, the kind that might fall all day without getting anyone wet. I wandered down the street in a daze.

  I've never been a crusader, and I wasn't about to become one, but I knew what I had to do. I had to publish the contents of the drive, I had to publish the audio, and let the chips fall where they may. But first I had to see Greta. I'd knock on her door, stand outside her window with a boombox, or whatever the modern equivalent of that was. I'd confess my sins, pour my heart out, and promise to get back to real journalism. I'd reclaim my soul.

  I was contemplating all this when I saw a headline flash by on a TV through the window of a sports bar. Audio of Gazette Shooting Leaked.

  The story had just ended, but I was pretty sure I'd seen an image of The Gazette building on the screen. By the time I was inside the bar, the TV was on commercials.

  The bartender was just setting up his station for the early lunch crowd, and I got his attention. "What was that last story about?" I asked. "Did you hear it?"

  He looked at me like I was an idiot, kind of like Quinn used to look at me. "The sound is off."

  "The captions? Did you read any of the captions, the subtitles, the…." I pointed up at the screen.

  "Something about that shooting in Vegas, I think."

  "What? What was it?"

  "Man, we're not even open yet. Can you just—"

  "I'll leave, just tell me what it said."

  "Don't you have a phone? Look it up."

  Stumbling toward the door, I opened the CNN app, and there it was, right on the top of the page:

  Audio of Mass Shooting Calls Official Story into Question.

  I stepped under the canopy of an empty bus stop so the mist wouldn't wet my phone and scrolled down to the story.

  CNN has obtained exclusive audio purported to have been taken by the girlfriend of James Stacy, one of the victims of the mass shooting that took place at The Las Vegas Gazette last Tuesday. The recording is thirteen minutes long and appears to contain a conversation between Mr. Stacy, Gazette editor Benjamin Huang, and a woman, wh
ose identity CNN is attempting to verify.

  Next of kin to Mr. Stacy and Mr. Huang have not been reached to confirm the voices on the recording, but voice experts at CNN have confirmed that there is a 99% likelihood the voices are those of Mr. Huang and Mr. Stacy based on analysis of recorded interviews with the two men.

  If authentic, the recording would rock the six-day-old investigation into the shooting, which, in addition to Mr. Stacy and Mr. Huang, took the lives of four others.

  Police have reported that the shooting was committed by Baxter Callahan, a reclusive political activist living just outside Las Vegas. But the audio suggests two gunmen, possibly more, and may also indicate a different chronology than the official police version.

  The story was total amateur hour. But when news this big breaks, it's often a matter of minutes until you get scooped, so you just throw something up on the web. In italics at the bottom of the story, I read: Details unfolding by the minute, watch CNN for live updates.

  Only three people on earth could have leaked the audio, and I was one of them. The other two were Innerva and Quinn, and there were decent reasons to believe it had been either of them. If it was Innerva, it meant that she was somewhere safe and was sick of waiting for me to break the story. But that wasn't like her. She never sent information to reporters herself. James had always handled that. I guess in this case, she could have used an intermediary, but I doubted that she had someone else she trusted who could be reached so quickly. The other consideration was who the story had been leaked to. In ten years together, James and Innerva had never leaked a story to CNN. When you're out to smash the system, you don't give massive scoops to TV stations that are part of one of the biggest media empires the world has ever seen. Of course, they leaked to corporate newspapers from time to time, but never to a TV station.

  Quinn, on the other hand, had no contacts, no idea how the media really worked. Furthermore, she was on the run. I could see her sitting in a parking lot of a Starbucks, hopping on their free Wi-Fi and uploading the audio to CNN's online tip forum. What I didn't understand was why she'd only leaked the first ten minutes of the audio. If I remembered correctly, the ten minutes covered the shooting, but not the voices of the shooters in Huang's office.