by Andrew Mayne
I’m not sure I do, either.
“I’m going with him to the hospital in case he makes complete sentences,” Gerald says, straightening up.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Hell no. But I’m just going to Blackwood through it and figure out my feelings later.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Could you, uh, call, my girlfriend and tell her everything is okay?”
“Sure.” I think he’s afraid he’ll break down on the phone. Blackwood through it? What the heck?
Aileen turns to me. “Look at us.” She wipes away at her eyes. “If only we were made of the same stuff as you.”
Yeah, the same stuff I’m made of. Maybe the next time I can’t get to sleep, or I take a shower just so I can tell myself I’m not crying, I’ll give you guys a call and let you know what I’m really made of.
But I don’t tell them this right now.
“You guys are going to be fine. We got our first bad guy. We’re catching up.” It’s the best pep talk I can think of. No wonder I’m not a leader.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Whiteboard
My hand trembles slightly as I try to hold the black marker. I tell myself it’s the three cups of coffee I drank to wake myself up, and not my nerves. It was a long night. I got about two hours of sleep—technically, two hours of staring at the ceiling.
“Tell it to me real simple,” Breyer says.
Ailes, Gerald, Nadine, and Jennifer are hovering toward the back of the room while Breyer and his aides sit at the bullpen table trying to make sense of what’s happened. He knew about our honey-trap operation, and gave it the okay mainly because he doubted it would work. With one shooter in the hospital on life support and no agents injured, despite the bullet-ridden SUV Aileen and I had, the mission wasn’t a complete failure. Although there’s little chance we can use the same trick with Ezra Winter’s Draft folder again.
I write “Devon” on one end of the whiteboard. At the other I write “earthquake video,” “Bolivia dam sabotage,” and “White House shooting.” In the middle, I draw a circle.
I take a breath and remember to speak slowly. It’s the best way to hide how agitated you are. I think part of the reason Gerald and the others think I’m so calm and aloof is because I’ve been dealing with stage fright since before I could walk. I’ve gotten real good at burying my true emotions.
“Three major events have led to the current crisis. We have no reason to believe Devon actually predicted the specifics of the DC earthquake. Regarding the loss of life in Bolivia, Jennifer makes a very strong case that this was an act of sabotage intended to coincide with a general Devon prediction.”
“But Devon is dead,” Breyer interjects.
I’m not sure how many of the reports we’ve been filing he’s had a chance to read. I sense the purpose of this meeting is for us to tell him everything we’ve been telling him already.
“Yes,” I reply. “But before he died, we think he recorded hundreds of hours of video making predictions.”
“Why? Was this his hoax?”
Like a lot of people in the bureau, Breyer tends to think like an accountant. He has difficulty seeing beyond the spreadsheet and into the real world, where people are more than numbers in a report.
“I don’t know his intentions. I suspect it may not have been a hoax on his part. Think of Siri on your iPhone. She’s just a collection of words and phrases said by a real woman. You can use her voice to say anything. In Devon’s case, he may have been trying to cover every situation for some kind of computer program he hoped one day could really predict these events. Something that could live on after him.
“What we think ended up happening is someone got hold of those videos, maybe the person who helped him make them, and decided they could be put to use in another way. Instead of predicting the future, they could be used to influence it.”
“Self-fulfilling prophecies,” he says, surprising me with how quickly he gets it. “Propaganda in a way. Like Soviet newspapers.”
“Essentially. What’s really important is the ‘who’ and the ‘what.’ Who is behind this and what are they up to? The who is a group known as the Red Chain, which we believe is being controlled from behind bars by Ezra Winter. The what is some kind of civil collapse. They’re trying to scare us into an apocalypse and aren’t afraid to nudge us.”
“Why? What’s their goal?” Again, he’s a practical man looking for practical answers.
“What’s the point of jihad, or of Seventh-day Adventists knocking on your door? Their reasons are tied up in their belief system.”
I write “Red Chain” in the circle. “We haven’t tied them to video uploads or the Bolivian dam breech yet. But we have strong reason to think they were anticipating the riots, and had a plan in place to capitalize on them. Forging a pickup in the Capitol Police calendar and impersonating officers aren’t things they thought of last minute. Either they’re the ones behind the release of the videos, or they’re in contact with the people who are.”
Breyer studies the board, as if there’s some hidden truth to be found there. “And you think this all circles back to Ezra Winter?”
“We caught one of the two potential shooters last night when we used Winter’s e-mail account to send a message to them. The man we took to the hospital was wearing a red chain, like the one around the neck of the woman who attacked me. We’ve ID’d him as Karl Gunther.”
A video screen next to the whiteboard displays a Colorado license plate and hospital photo of Gunther.
Gerald holds up his finger to get my attention.
“Yes?” I reply.
He gestures with his phone. “We just got a preliminary forensics report. Gunther’s boots match the prints found at the murder scene of the Jane Doe that attacked you, and the ones from the farmhouse.”
That’s some relief. The sickening fear that this was all a goose chase on my behalf abates a little.
“Well, there you go,” I say to Breyer. “That settles the question. These men have been in the DC area for some time.”
“Waiting for the earthquake?” he asks. He’s still hung up on the prediction part.
If my grandfather stands onstage and asks if there is an “Angela” in the audience, that woman would go home telling her friends he had no idea she was going to be there that night. She was right. He didn’t. He just knew that in an audience of a given size, there’d be someone there with that name. When someone else’s name is called, it’s a coincidence. When it’s yours, it’s a miracle.
Breyer is still trying to look at this from the wrong angle.
“No,” I explain. “Waiting for something. Anything to happen. I was assaulted by three people in Boston. I’d assume there are at least three more in New York. Maybe in a few other capitals. At some point, something is going to happen for them to exploit. Ideally, something natural, like an earthquake.”
“But you haven’t proven they were the actual shooters at the White House,” Breyer points out.
He’s not challenging me as much as hoping I’m going to put something else on the whiteboard that will clarify everything. I wish it were so easy.
“No. We’re looking into the van for forensic evidence. Gunther’s build matches Steadman’s real close. But the mere existence of the van where Bogden and Steadman were seen prior to the shooting is proof enough for me.”
“Not for court,” says Breyer.
I’m taken aback by his answer. Court? Are we even on the same planet? People are threatening to storm the White House over all this.
“Assistant Director, right now our primary goal isn’t to build a legal case. It’s stopping them from whatever they have planned next. I can stop and build a legal case against Gunther, but that leaves his accomplice out there and the rest of the Red Chain.”
Breyer thinks this over for a moment, assessing the larger picture. “Yes, of course. Understood. What do you need?”
Just as his court comment caugh
t me off guard, I’m surprised by this question. I was expecting pushback. I’m not prepared to answer this intelligently, so I start talking and let my mouth catch up.
“We need to go public with the Red Chain. We need to announce them as persons of interest and ask anyone who knows anything to step forward.”
“Such as?”
“Former cult members. Neighbors. We run Gunther’s photo everywhere we can,” I reply.
“Oh nuts,” Nadine blurts out as she looks up from her phone.
“What?” I ask.
“It’ll wait,” she says, realizing everyone is staring at her.
Breyer goes into a huddle with his aides, so I walk over to Nadine. “Tell me now.”
She hesitantly hands me her phone.
Ugh. It’s a headline from a tabloid news site:
breaking!!! fbi’s witch strikes again: blackwood takes down rogue dc cops
Unnamed sources in the FBI are saying that Agent Jessica Blackwood shot and killed the two Capitol Police officers implicated in the killing of Tia Connelly.
There are so many things wrong with this I don’t know where to begin. We’ve tried to keep the whole situation out of the press. I grab Nadine’s phone and go over to Breyer.
“What’s this about?” I ask him.
He groans. “Ask your boss.”
“Dr. Ailes?” I give him an incredulous look.
“I was going to tell you after the briefing.”
Confused, I point to the screen. “You did this?”
“The press got wind of something. They knew you were involved.”
“But this isn’t even true!” I growl. “We got one of the shooters and that was thanks to Aileen and Gerald’s quick thinking. We could at least have said as much.”
Ailes shakes his head. “No. We couldn’t. Not to the same effect. Right now nobody trusts us or any other agency. We’re all part of the same government that killed the girl.”
“Then tell them we found the real killer!” I protest.
“They wouldn’t buy it. They’d think it was another conspiracy to cover it up.”
“It’s the truth.”
He sighs. “Nobody is interested in the truth right now.”
“But it says I killed another cop. I didn’t even fire my gun!”
“I know. We have to walk the public through this slowly. In a few hours we’re going to deny Steadman and Bogden were shot or captured.” He nods to Gunther’s photo. “We’re going to release that image and ask for information about him as a person of interest in Tia’s killing.”
“And tell them he’s the one who did it?” I ask.
He has a pained look on his face. “No. We have to let the talking heads in the media reach that conclusion first. If we go out and say he did it, we’ll just be accused of using him as a patsy. We have to make the case this is a conspiracy by getting the press to connect the dots.”
It’s so manipulative. I remember being disgusted by what I saw in the Citizens Communication Agency control room. This doesn’t feel any different.
Ailes is seeing the bigger picture. I get that. But right now, I just feel like a number in one of his equations.
“Why me?” It’s a pathetic question. I’d never wish this on any of my coworkers, but I hate the attention.
“Isn’t it obvious by now?” Breyer answers, overhearing the conversation.
“Isn’t what obvious?”
“Blackwood, nobody believes the government. We have marines on the White House lawn preparing for an invasion. Congress has been recalled. People are throwing Molotov cocktails at street cops. We’re at the edge of anarchy.”
“And your point?” I demand.
“People want leaders. That’s why they’re paying attention to Devon’s videos. They want someone above it all. Someone who isn’t tainted by government or power. You’re probably the most famous active-duty law enforcement officer there is. Right now people are cheering at the idea that a heroic FBI agent killed the bad cops.”
“But I didn’t and it’s a lie.” I think of the families of the police officers. I can only imagine what they’re going through.
“A useful lie. For the moment they see us, at least you, as the good guys.”
I try to respond as calmly as I can. “I think you two are overestimating how much you can control the message.”
“Maybe so,” says Breyer. “But I know if that crowd climbs the fence and makes it to the White House lawn and we start shooting unarmed citizens, it won’t much matter.”
The marker makes a cracking sound as I snap it in my fist. Ink spills on my hand. I walk over to the sink and wet a paper towel to wipe it off.
Breyer keeps talking, ignoring my Hulk-out. “In twenty-four hours the story will change. Just endure it for the moment. In the meantime, tell me what you need.”
I take a deep breath as I face away from the room and scrub away the ink. I calm down slightly.
“We need to catch them. All of them. This doesn’t end with them trying to incite people to riot. We have to treat this like we have several dozen enemy saboteurs inside our country. This isn’t a criminal gang. This is terrorism, and the clock is ticking.”
I dry off with a paper towel and then survey the people in the room, not sure I really want to take this where it’s about to go.
“I want you to imagine this is September tenth, two thousand and one. Knowing what you know now, what wouldn’t you do to stop this?”
Ailes and Breyer are both staring at me.
My words catch up with me. Crap.
I just made their argument for using me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Serial
Nadine finds me in a side room we use for private conferences, hunched over my laptop going through the forensic data. My eyes are occupied by the images, but my mind is still stewing over how I’ve been used like a prop.
“Any word from Aileen?” she asks.
Although she’s not assigned to our unit—Nadine isn’t anywhere near dysfunctional enough for that—she works with us a lot and has a pretty good grasp of the dynamics at work. Ailes sometimes pairs us because we complement each other nicely. Okay, and her pleasant disposition makes up for my sometimes too blunt manner.
“She’s home today because of the shooting. She offered to help us, though.”
Aileen is a trooper. If she hadn’t been there . . .
“She going to be okay?” Nadine takes a seat next to me at the table.
I think she’s really asking about me. I close the lid of my laptop. “I’m sure she’ll manage.”
“I know you like to internalize stuff, but if you just need an ear,” she offers.
“Internalize.” I repeat the word a little too sharply. “I’m beginning to think that’s how people who know how to communicate what they’re feeling describe those who don’t. I’d externalize if I knew what the hell I was thinking. The problem is I don’t.” I point toward the bullpen. “Right now, I want to strangle Ailes. He’s like a . . . He’s a role model to me, I guess. And now I feel used.” I let out a sigh. “The fact is I would have made the same exact decision. It was the right move.”
She touches my forearm. “Maybe that’s why he went along with it. Just so you know, I think it’s Chisholm’s idea. I saw them talking together earlier.”
“Really?” This takes me by surprise. Chisholm is the bureau’s chief headshrinker and strategist in matters like this. “So why is Ailes taking the fall?”
“Guess he’s just taking a dose of his own medicine. Maybe he believes in the end you’ll trust him.”
“Yeah, well, that can only go so far. What am I saying? I’m being selfish.” I notice the folder in her hands. “What have you got?”
“When we ID’d Gunther I started making some calls in Colorado about our Jane Doe. The Colorado Bureau of Investigation and a few other places.”
“Anything?” I ask.
“Not from them. Then I took a different tack. I called
a cult information center and asked if they ever deal with missing persons.”
That was smart. “And?” My eyes are scorching the folder.
“I got our Jane Doe.” Nadine slides out a missing persons’ flyer. “Heather Dryl. She was a community college student in Grand Junction. One day she just stopped talking with her parents. The police couldn’t do much because it was clear she’d moved out and broken contact. Her parents said they heard reports there had been some men around campus with an environmental group that sounds a lot like the Red Chain.”
“How long ago?” I take the missing person file from the folder.
“Eighteen months ago.”
I study the photo. Oddly, I don’t have the gut reaction I expected. Heather looks so different. She’s smiling. Her features are as I remember them, but her expression isn’t anything like that of the woman who showed up on my doorstep threatening to kill a child she’d kidnapped from a hospital. What the hell happened to her? Who happened to her?
“This is great work, Nadine.”
She gives me a small smile of acknowledgment. “Ready for more?”
“What else you got?”
She hands me a copy of a driver’s license for an Amelia Hamilton. The name is different, but the face is Heather’s.
“What’s up with this?” I say as I examine the image.
“Amelia Hamilton was pulled over for an expired tag near Denver. She was driving a car registered to Heather Dryl. Nobody caught it at the time.”
“Fake license?”
“Nope. It’s in the Colorado DMV database.”
That’s strange. “So what happened to Amelia Hamilton?”
“I don’t know. The Social Security number belonged to someone else. She doesn’t exist.”
“Interesting,” I reply. It also makes things more complicated. “It’s safe to assume all of the Red Chain members are going to have fake identities.”
“They’ve been planning this for a while,” says Nadine, gravely.