by HN Wake
Odom glared at him.
Herbie shook his head in defeat, stood and turned toward the door, but changing his mind, he fixed a stare on Odom. “I was in Harare, Zimbabwe back in the nineties. Interesting times. On the weekends we would go up to Lake Chivero. Pretty place, big sky, relatively flat. Used to be called Lake McIlwaine in memory of Sir Robert Mcllwaine, but yeah, they changed that as you can imagine. Revolution, independence, rah, rah, rah. So anyway, we’d go up and have picnics on the banks of Lake Chivero. One weekend there was this huge algae bloom. Thick, green-blue spongy stuff covering the surface of the lake for miles. They were pretty sure it was the result of fertilizer run-off from large-scale agriculture and urbanization. The city was growing out there by the lake. So this algae bloom is terrible. It smells awful, like rotting shit. Now, years later, I hear they are starting to identify various health risks from the stuff. I hear ALS, Alzheimer’s. They aren’t calling it algae bloom anymore. They’re calling it cyanobacteria. Because its not actually algae, it’s some fast growing bacteria. Terrible stuff.”
Odom shook his head in confusion. To end the monologue, he handed Herbie a second piece of paper with an address. “Report directly to me. Last we knew she was in this neighborhood in Philadelphia.”
Herbie looked down at the address, then eyed Odom with disgust. “Pond scum, Odom. That’s what it was.” Herbie pointed his finger at Odom. “Just like you. Highly toxic pond scum.”
He turned, walked through the door into the hallway with a last comment, “Don’t forget to tell your puppet master that I protested. Vociferously.”
The thing about spies, Herbie thought as he stood against the wall in the hallway just outside Frank Odom’s office, is that we are sneaky. I mean, that’s what we get paid the big US greenback dinero to be—sneaky.
The tile against his back was cold but at least the lights down here were weak and it was a relatively empty hallway. A guy standing against a wall, holding his breath so no one could hear him, was a pretty suspect thing no matter who found you.
Fortunately, it didn’t take long for Odom to pick up his phone. Just like the cover-your-ass bureaucrat you are, Herbie thought.
From inside the office, Frank’s voice was deferential, “Hi Sheriz, is he in?”
Sheriz was Hawkinson’s secretary.
Herbie leaned an ear closer to the open door.
“Sir, Frank Odom.”
God this guy was such an ass kiss.
Odom waited a pause then said, “Yes, I’ve put Herbie Linen on it. Yes, yes, he’s fine. He’ll do it. I mean, I gave him his marching orders and he said fine.”
In the hallway, Herbie pulled a face.
Another pause, then Odom said, “Yes, yes, Sir. The park?” There was a short pause before Odom replied, “Yes, Sir, I’ll see you there at 5 p.m.”
Herbie tiptoed away down the hallway with the new piece of information: 5 p.m. at a park. He wanted all the information he could get to this ominous mystery in the off chance he could build himself an escape hatch.
11
New York, NY
Mac returned to the shadows of Walgreen’s wall on the south side of Times Square and contemplated a squat, utilitarian building twenty yards away. It was small, grey, and nondescript except for the Art Deco neon letters spelling New York Police Department in pink and blue. “Welcome to Times Square—NYPD” had been painted on the tiled walls. It was the NYPD sub station for Times Square.
The police had their work cut out for them, she thought. Security must be intense here since 9/11. Teams of uniformed foot cops patrolled every block. Every building she passed had uniformed dog handlers. The unseen undercover presence had to be extensive.
Mac’s hand rested on her courier bag. None of the current factors were helping the operation.
The plan was simple. First, her tech guy 89 would identify whose computer had sent the blackmail email. She liked working with 89. He was dependable, and every once in a while his awkwardness lifted her mood. They had done dozens of unofficial ops together. She was glad to have him.
Second, Mac would set up mobile video cameras covering the entrance of Patriot News and record the comings and goings for at least 48 hours. Once they had identified the name of the sender, they would match it to a face from the video, Mac would follow the sender home and apply pressure.
But the situation on the ground wasn’t as simple as they had expected. Setting up the tiny cameras wasn’t going to be the problem. Finding somewhere to hide a one-foot-by-two foot remote local server box to receive the recorded feeds within 20 feet of the hidden cameras was going to be the issue. Any suspicious package would get swept up by the hourly local enforcement rounds.
She lit a cigarette. There were always answers to dilemmas. Sometimes, you just had to let your mind ruminate in the background, let it figure out the solution.
Joe had asked, “How long are you going to be home?”
Her mouth felt dry. “Permanently.”
His eyebrows shot up.
She stood up from the bar stool and stepped to him.
He opened his arms. She bent her head and found the crook of his neck, skin against nose. The familiar smell of him thrummed through her.
His arms moved around her, strong and assured. He pulled her in close. “I missed you.”
She nodded against his neck, mute with anxiety and shocked by his nearness. She didn’t know what to feel.
So he helped her, like he always did and guided her back to the stool.
He whispered, “I was hoping you’d say that.”
She felt the grin press into her cheeks. Relief flooded through her. This was going to be okay.
They stared at each other as the realization settled: there was no time limit this time. It was just the two of them, together, with an infinite future. For the first time.
They held hands under the bar while he regaled her with stories from San Francisco. The good old days of artists and coffee houses that gave way to techies. Their arrogance and inflated salaries drove up the rents. He had begun to hate it: watching your town change for the worse was slow and miserable.
He had decided to return home, take over for his father’s business. Manayunk was fine. It was a solid, safe neighborhood in Philadelphia. He was fine here. Bored. But fine.
He paused. His blue eyes watched her.
He stood, leaned to her. Inching closer.
She held her breath.
It was the tenderest kiss.
He pulled away, “Want to go home now?”
She nodded.
He had thrown money—far too much money—on the bar and grabbed her hand.
She stamped out her cigarette, tossed it into a public rubbish bin, and strode toward the Walgreen’s entrance. Her hands rummaged through her courier bag and her fingers closed around one of three tiny cameras. Peeling off the sticky tape, she switched it on. Just as she crossed under the door frame, she slowed, lifted her arms above her head as if stretching weary bones, and pressed the camera against the metal.
She immediately exited the store and repeated the process twice: one in the corner sushi cafe at a high angle and one above the door frame of the Hard Rock Cafe.
She returned to her vantage point against the Walgreen’s wall. Now the hard part. The remote server had to be hidden and she hadn’t figured out where.
Once again, she decided to wait until an answer came to her. Better not to rush an op. It could go bad in an instant with one wrong decision.
She dialed Joe.
“How’s it going?” he asked.
“Fine, I guess.”
“You’re just observing, right?”
She pressed the phone to her ear. “Yes. What’s up?”
“I just am wondering if there aren’t risks here.”
“Do you want me to pull back?”
He was silent for a long time. “No.”
“I’ll pull back,” she said. “This is just a job. You’re what’s important.”
He exhaled. “I know. Thanks. It’s just that it seems weird you’re up there all alone. I mean, we’re kinda in this together now. It’s the two of us.”
Mac’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I know.”
“You want me to come up there? Maybe I can help.”
The idea of pulling Joe into an operation was repugnant. “No. Definitely not.” Keep him separate, clean of this. The things she had seen, the things she had been forced to do, hung around her like a grey, putrid fog. She didn’t want him anywhere near those painful memories.
“I can leave work for a few days.”
“No, I got this,” she said.
“Have you got anyone who can help you?”
“Joe, I got this,” she insisted.
“You don’t have to do this alone. Those days are gone. We can find people to help you.”
The idea was foreign to her. She was so used to working alone, she couldn’t even process the idea of a team. “I got this.”
He finally relented. “Okay. But be careful.” He rang off.
She lit a second cigarette. Before the call, she had been in work mode—focused and precise. Hearing Joe’s voice and his concern had unnerved her. For the second time that morning, she wondered if maybe she shouldn’t pack this all in and just go home. Because why would Joe want to be with someone so reckless?
Her mind began to wander. What type of women had he been involved with in the intervening years? They would have been confident. He didn’t like meekness. They would have been smart. Joe didn’t suffer fools. Had they been beautiful? She imagined a tall blonde working her way through a bar, her eyes tracking Joe like a lioness, sliding to him, pressing her thigh against him. The blonde was everything Mac wasn’t—prudent, safe, and without a history of demons.
She took a hit off the cigarette and forced the thoughts aside. She had a job to do, damn it.
The American flag on the NYPD sub station snapped in the wind. It gave her an idea.
She pushed off the wall and quickly returned to the Walgreens. She found the ladies room up the escalator on the second floor. In one of the bathroom stalls, she snapped on clear plastic gloves and pulled out the remote server. She cleaned it down of any prints. She turned the server on and checked that it was working. She pulled out a dark plastic garbage bag and began stuffing in balled toilet paper then nestled the server into the cushion of the toilet paper and tied a tight knot, sealing the garbage bag. The whole thing was the size of a workman’s lunch box.
On her way past the cashier, she purchased a soda.
Outside in Times Square, she wandered to a trashcan. She cracked the soda can and poured the contents into the garbage. Then she lit a small firecracker with a long ignition fuse and dropped it into the empty can.
The hiss of the fire against the aluminum was muted as she tossed it into the trash.
She drifted behind the police sub station and along its back alley.
Two minutes later, the firecracker detonated with a booming explosion.
For a moment the crowd was suspended in time.
Then everyone ran.
The station doors banged open and a stampede of cops swarmed into Times Square.
In the midst of the panic, no one noticed the slim woman moving quickly down the alley.
Mac swung the black plastic bag back then upwards, hefting the remote server up and onto the roof of the police station.
Then she was gone.
12
Washington, DC
Joyce Terrell Tattle was staring at the computer screen but her mind was focusing on the noise in the bullpen of the Russell Senate Building office of the junior Senator from Wyoming. At the moment, the hard charging, tireless personnel—chief of staff, press secretary, legislative assistants, researchers—who occupied the ten cubicles were creating a thunderous racket over a press statement the White House had just released on national parks. It was a domestic issue. It wasn’t one of hers. So the din was annoying.
On a small television by her desk she caught the start of a new segment on CNN. The brunette telecaster said, “We’re hearing rumors that another candidate is going to throw his hat into the Republican primary soon. At an event held by the American Conservative Forum, Henry Boulanger hinted—“ she looked down at her notes, “and I quote here, ‘We need a legitimate candidate who isn’t afraid of taking on the competition. ” The telecaster looked into the homes of Americans across the country. “That’s got to be an opening shot across the bow to the other ten Republicans gearing up. The Republican primary is going to be a battle of all battles.”
Joyce rolled her eyes. Eleven candidates. How many could you get on a debate stage? God, it was going to be a long 12-month campaign circus.
She tried to blank out the heated debate raging around her desk and return to her memo. The senator’s changes to the language on the drone bill had to be finalized by close of day.
From across the reception room, a door opened. The air pressure in the staff room dropped slightly—the senator’s office was at least 15 degrees cooler—and in an instant the place was quiet. All ears perked.
The senator’s voice boomed across the reception room, “Shelly.”
The Press Secretary, Shelly Bates, grabbed her notepad and hustled from the room.
Joyce stared at her screen. Drones. A word strikingly similar to drone, which meant to murmur continuously, boringly. It was a complicated piece of legislation with complex rules to reign in the Department of Defense and the CIA who were hesitant to share information—which meant the drones must be effective. Limited data made it difficult for a legislative aide to review legislation. Not exactly the most cooperative issue to be dealing with after lunch.
She needed a break. She pushed back from her desk and grabbed her purse.
“I’m heading down to the cafeteria,” she said on her way past the dueling reception desks.
Just as she turned into the long, marbled hallway she came face to face with Senator Gillis and her entourage and immediately thought, there was a tape of this woman banging someone other than her husband. Isaac had not discussed Gillis’ blackmail or the operation since last night. He was most certainly working on it. He’d been up late banging on his laptop and then again up before the sunrise.
The senator’s group sped down the hall at a clipped pace. It was just the break from drones Joyce needed, so she decided to follow.
She often wondered about 42. More than once, 42 had asked Isaac to do some sneaky off-the-ranch shit, but it always appeared to be for moral reasons. Like that time a few weeks back when he had asked Isaac to research an escape route for a group of political refugees from Myanmar to Australia. There had only been one small notice in a Brisbane local paper reporting the arrival of refugees. After that op, Isaac had been in awe. “42 just saved an entire village of people. The Agency could give a rat’s ass, so he convinced Australia to take them. I have no idea how.”
Senator Gillis stepped into the private, side passage of a hearing room. Joyce carried on into the main hearing room, entered, and stood against the back wall. A great perk of working on the Hill, staffers could enter almost any hearing at any time and she often did. There was nothing cooler than being at the heart of the country’s legislative process, watching the debates, hearing testimony from experts, seeing the sides come together to agree on the final language, and then a few months later, having that affect you.
At the front of the hearing room, Senator Gillis stepped up on the dais and found her seat. Down at the witness table, a white haired man with a bow tie was delivering his notes monotonously. Droning really, she thought. His name card read Chairman of the Federal Communications Commission (FCC).
When the witness finished, Senator Gillis jumped right in. “Mr. Chairman, you’re advocating, if I understood you correctly, that we need less regulation on cable television?”
Ugh, another domestic issue Joyce didn’t care about. The whole space was about corporate lobbyists an
gling for less regulation. At home, their cable sucked. She and Isaac had 500 channels and only ever watched the History channel. Clearly the FCC had some work to do.
She was pushing off the wall when Senator Gillis spoke again. “As most of us here in this room realize, we are surrounded by ‘media’ in our everyday lives. It permeates what we hear, read, and interact with. It’s overwhelming…dare I say omnipotent.” The senator’s voice held a gravitas that was compelling. Especially so since someone was blackmailing her with a video of her nakedly banging some guy who wasn’t her husband.
Joyce waited to hear her out.
Senator Gillis continued, “But how many Americans know how this profitable industry—and let there be no question that it is a for profit industry—how it is regulated? How many care?” There was a heavy pause. Senators were good at heavy pauses. “Well they should care. Deeply.”
Joyce crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall.
“Who ensures that what blankets our senses all day, every day, is legitimate? Who ensures that the source of most of our information is true?”
The room had stilled.
Where was she going with this, Joyce wondered.
Senator Gillis arrived at the answer as if reading the crowd’s sentiment. “I’m announcing later today—in conjunction with Senator Barnes from Kansas—“ she nodded to Senator Tony Barnes on the Republican side of the dais, “—the introduction of Senate Bill 1111 titled Fairness and Accountability In News Media. The bill will put in checks and balances on the proliferation of cable news.”