by John Brown
“A professional code,” Benson said. “You have shit on the oath that every soldier swears.”
“Well, we aren’t um — we aren’t really soldiers.”
West plunked a photograph down on the desk.
“You know this man, right?”
“No. So who the hell are you people?”
“The truth, now. You know this man?”
“Same question, same answer.”
“But our informant — let’s call her ‘K’ — says you know him. You went to the same mosque on the same day as our asset. We got K’s testimony right here.”
“Mosque? You bungling little stooge.” Benson leaned over the table until his face was close to West’s. “Your paid informant is a mindless toady.”
The guard in the corner gripped his rifle a little tighter, ready for some action.
“Okay, I’ll prove it to you,” West said. “We set up surveillance in mosques to see what they were doing in there — and now we know. Freedom of religion is one thing, okay, but insurrection? That’s crossing the line.”
West played a murky black-and-white surveillance video from a laptop. A middle-aged white woman wearing ridiculously oversized black robes — more like a big black blanket — took a seat in the back of a mosque. It was fairly dim in there. A service seemed to be in progress. She peered around uneasily, apparently trying to blend in. The camera panned out to take in the congregation, most of whom appeared to be of Mideastern ethnicity. The men wore normal Western suits, shirts, and slacks. The women wore long dresses and headscarves, sitting mainly in the roped-off sections by themselves in the back. The camera zoomed in to focus on several men seated in front, but it was too dark to clearly identify them.
Was one of those men supposed to be him?
“This is your proof? You poor, confused little dumb-ass, you chowderhead. Here’s what I think of your proof.”
Benson grabbed the laptop. Spreading it apart, he raised it over his head with both hands and hurled it to the floor. It fractured into pieces, making a satisfying cracking sound.
West backed up from the table and jumped to his feet.
“What did you know and when did you know it? Cooperate, dammit!”
“I will not cooperate in my own destruction.
“I will not back down.”
Benson cleared the table of the documents with a sweep of his forearm. They all fluttered to the floor.
“I will not go along or get along.
“I will not give in, ever.
“I will not give up. You will get nothing from me.”
West suddenly slapped Benson. Feeling his face for blood, Benson massaged the sting from his jaw, his eye on the guard at the door, who remained on high alert. Benson’s eyes glittered with hatred.
“The man in this photo has been designated a Politically Exposed Person,” said Agent West, pushing the same snapshot as before across the table. “This PEP has been accused of marketing narcotics. The Terrorist Financing Operations Section believes the alleged proceeds may be financing terror ops.”
“Narcoterrorism,” broke in Agent Smith.
“Yes, very good. As I was saying,” West gave his colleague a dirty look, “TFOS found corporate layering, transfers between bank accounts of related entities and charities for no apparent reason we could figure. That’s suspicious. The Bank Secrecy Act requires five reports to be filed that shoulda been filed — FinCEN Form 104, Form 105, Form 110, Treasury Form 90-22.1 and 90-22.47 — and they weren’t. That’s suspicious, too. But maybe the biggest problem is OCC Form 8010-9, 8010-1 Suspicious Activity Report. Banks must file a SAR for any suspicious transaction potentially relevant to any possible violation of any law, regulation, or pending law or regulation. Failure to do so is enough right there,” West eyed Benson, leaning in, “to get you a $100,000 fine and five years in prison. Personally.”
Impressive, thought Benson. The thicket of new financial regulations was virtually incomprehensible even for bankers and their teams of seasoned lawyers. Established legal terms were continually being redefined, the rules were constantly changing, and the number of such dictates and their complexity ever growing. And yet this young guy seemed to know all the regulatory claptrap off the top of his head.
“Well, how about this, Don West. Listen closely now, boy genius — maybe we didn’t suspect anything.”
“Okay, look,” said Agent Smith. “It takes big money to fund global terrorism. Starting to get the big picture now? You arranged and bundled the financing and then you laundered the money through your bank.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You tell us, Mr. Benson.”
17
Phantoms of Lost Liberty
“IN A DRAMATIC MOVE, THE PRESIDENT reshuffled his top advisors. Also up next — five people die in a horrifying freeway accident. You won’t want to miss this.”
Benson and Jane were watching television, lounging in bed.
“Tom, can we please turn this idiocy off?”
“In a minute.”
“If you spent one-tenth the time on me as you spend working … we just don’t talk anymore.”
Upon their return home from La Grande Maison, Benson was more than a bit miffed when Jane slipped into her cozy old sweatpants and fraying top — not that ultra-sexy, little red number from the night before — tied her hair back, and hopped into bed with some sort of instruction manual on her lap. There would be no perfume and rose petals tonight; no champagne and scented candles. No strawberries and whipped cream.
Benson didn’t understand her. They had just spent two hours eating, talking, and reminiscing, had they not? He changed the channel.
“Hey look, the Leneau show is on.”
The talk-show host rubbed his hands together and cocked his head, an impish smile on his face.
“Please welcome Defense Czar Donnell Trumble.”
The audience clapped politely, but Jane was hardly in a mood to join in the celebration.
“You know, there’s so much going on in the world, Mr. Secretary, especially the Middle East. It’s a hornet’s nest of trouble and age-old animosities.”
Leneau leaned in for a response, but none was forthcoming. He was about to try a less subtle question when the defense secretary suddenly sprang to life, flashing a smirk for a split second. He narrowed his eyes.
“The entire world is our battlefield,” Trumble said softly, in smooth, evenly spaced words, “and the Homeland is, of course, part of that battlefield. We are in the process of building extensible infrastructure in order to encapsulate unlawful enemy combatants who may pose a threat to national security.”
The audience clapped. Trumble squinted to see beyond the bright stage lights into the theater. He leaned forward in his seat, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be in his own little world, completely self-absorbed, as though speaking only to himself, reading from some internal script.
“There are certain, uh, let us say, mission-critical facilities across the Homeland that we are repurposing for the Global War on Terror.”
The lights reflected off his elaborately coiffed, lustrous sheet of golden hair.
“There are those who say that gathering certain intelligence may impose on traditional civil liberties, but we don’t really have a choice. We’re at war now.”
“Here comes Trumble!” Leneau said, in a feeble effort to lighten up the tone. This was, after all, supposed to be an entertainment show. This Trumble was proving to be a tough character.
Secretary Trumble stared at the host. His enigmatic expression did not change.
“If you knew what we know you’d comprendo,” he said, tapping his temple with a forefinger, “but of course we can’t really tell you anything. State secrets, you know. Too sensitive.”
He smoothed his hair into place, emerging from his trancelike state, becoming more animated.
“Like it or not, we are the world’s superpower. We have a moral duty to intervene around the world — if we
don’t, we’ll allow evil to flourish. So it’s time to mobilize the Homeland and prepare.”
Trumble squinted out at the audience and then eyed Leneau.
“You do believe in duty, don’t you, Jay?”
“Sure, I guess so, but—”
“You do believe in being prepared, don’t you?”
“Well, sure, I was a boy scout and everything, but—”
“Then you would know we must foster morality in places where death and destruction are the way of life. Now, I don’t know about you,” Trumble said, poking Leneau’s chest with his finger, “but I’d rather be photographed by hidden cameras than get on a train with men carrying bombs in backpacks. Getting blown to bits is more an intrusion of privacy than carrying an identity card.”
He leaned back in his seat.
“Am I right or wrong?” he asked the audience.
Scattered applause rippled through the theater.
“I ask you,” Trumble leaned forward at the edge of his seat, gazing directly at the audience, “would it be better to give foreign terrorists the right to formal due process and then have millions die in a raging inferno? Better to give rights to terrorists and then have your city incinerated in a nuclear holocaust? You think I’m kidding? Then think again. They’ve been raised to hate us; that’s their mindset. If you’re sitting on a ticking time bomb you have to defuse it now, not later. Do the rights of terrorists come before the rights of the community? We have to make some reasonable tradeoffs here. ‘Balance’ is the word we’re using — a balanced approach, if you will. Now, the fanatics who attacked us will keep attacking until we’re destroyed or submit. That’s how they’re getting to heaven with the virgins, you know. Am I right or wrong?”
There followed an uncomfortable silence.
“Mr. Defense Czar, we keep hearing these war rumors, you know, where it might cost the lives of 500,000 foreign people, among them women and children and the sick and elderly. Do you think the price is worth it?”
“I think this is a very hard choice, but the price…” Trumble drifted off in deep contemplation. “We think the price point is absolutely worth it. Sometimes you have to take a few liberties to get where you want to go. It’s all about balancing—”
Leneau thumped his desk.
“We need to take a break. Unusual Mother’s Day gifts coming up next!”
“Tom, can we please turn this off? I want to show you something.”
“Hang on, I just want to watch this one little segment,” Benson said, changing the channel. “Five minutes.”
“Please give a warm welcome to my next guest, ladies and gentlemen. You know him as the Big Man with the Master Plan, the Sire of Surveillance, the Sovereign of Security — our own Department of Homeland Security chief Mikhail ‘Mickey’ Cherkov!”
The secretary peeped out from behind a curtain, waving at the audience as he made his way. Leatherman, the show’s host, leaned into Cherkov’s shoulder as they shook hands, whispering something. They both smiled and took their seats.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Homeland Czar. So what’s the deal with—”
“To those who scare peace-loving people with phantoms of lost liberty, our message is this: your tactics only aid terrorists, for they erode our national unity and diminish our resolve. They give ammunition to America’s enemies and pause to America’s friends. They encourage people of good will to remain silent in the face of evil.”
Secretary Cherkov was deeply gratified by the vigorous clapping. The speech lessons were working. His coaches had told him to act assertively and with confidence even if he felt a little nervous inside. He wasn’t coming across as a little milquetoast anymore. They had even advised him to gain a little weight so he wouldn’t appear so drawn and hollow-eyed. A little sun wouldn’t hurt either, they said, but he didn’t have much time for that.
Leatherman fidgeted with a pencil.
“So, how do you fight a War on Terror, anyway?”
He watched the pencil roll off his desk.
“Well, Dave, we are in the process of transitioning to a real game-changing paradigm, leveraging internal functionalities in terms of our brand new Safety First Initiative, or SFI.”
Cherkov could have kicked himself for retreating into corporate-speak banality. His “phantoms of lost liberty” opener had come off perfectly, just as rehearsed, but then he had blanked out.
Except for a puzzled expression, Leatherman had nothing substantive to offer to this last comment, so Cherkov continued on.
“There are no absolutes; no right, no wrong — ” Secretary Cherkov interrupted himself, not sure if he really agreed with what he’d just said — but no matter. They had told him that communication was 95 percent body language anyway, and here he was, sitting up straight, chest puffed out, the very picture of sincerity and conviction.
“It’s really about what needs to be done and the uh, the will to do it,” Cherkov said. “When push comes to shove, at the critical moment, we as a nation may have to defend our freedoms with our lives if necessary, just like the founding fathers pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor. I believe we’ll rise to the challenge.”
He was beginning to find his voice again.
“And we finally have a strong leader to advance our democracy and remoralize our nation.”
Leatherman scooped his pencil off the floor and flung it at the cameraman, followed by a phony sound effect of breaking glass. He mugged for the cameras, twisting his elastic face sideways into a bizarre expression. The audience was highly amused.
“Don’t go away. Stupid pet tricks coming up next, ladies and gentlemen!”
“Tom — we need to work on our relationship.”
The vacuous talk shows having consumed the better part of an hour, Benson was now greatly fatigued. He’d nearly fallen asleep watching them. Mindless entertainment helped him forget about a difficult day, and this was about as difficult as they came.
Jane handed him a booklet, holding a copy of the same in her lap, pencil in hand.
“Oh, no,” he muttered.
It was some sort of relationship kit. He viewed the forms and the stubby little pencils with apprehension. Nothing good could possibly come from this.
“This is Dr. Filbert’s Relationship Inventory Survey. You complete the detailed questionnaire and then it goes into a database where you find out how you compare with thousands of other couples. I saw it on his show.”
“Dr. Filbert? Is he still on?”
“It graphs the results against a range of benchmarks and gives you a relationship analysis score. That tells you what you need to work on. There’s even an 800 number to get in touch and learn more.”
“No, no, come on. No. Not now. We should have done this an hour ago. I’m tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
He turned over and buried his face in his pillow.
“Okay, first question: name the 12 things you appreciate most about me.”
“I am weary, I say. Be gone with you, woman. Take your leave, or I shall call the guards.”
“Tom!”
Resigned to his fate, he sighed and sat up, looking with despair at the long list of questions spanning several pages. He would have no choice but to go along for the ride.
“Well, let’s see. Your hair is nice.” He checked that off.
“Good sense of humor — check. Likes to fill out surveys — check.”
Jane looked at him with deep disapproval.
“What? What’d I do?”
Her withering look reminded him of his mother’s expression, when, as a boy, she had scolded him for something bad he’d done. He didn’t have the foggiest recollection of what that was now, but he could picture her scowling face as clearly as if it were yesterday. She would go on and on, during which time he had to sit quietly and be respectful, not letting his attention wander too much.
“You’re being passive-aggressive again,” Jane said. “I’m sure that’s what Dr. Filbert would say, like when you s
ay you’ll do something and then ‘forget’ to follow through.”
His father was a man of fewer words. He would lean in and stare down the boy with his piercing eyes. “You know what you did wrong?” The young Benson would nod yes, casting his eyes downward, contrite. Of course he knew. He didn’t enjoy admitting his guilt, and his father wouldn’t subject him to the indignity of a lengthy inquisition or force him to sign a formal confession. The lesson learned, the matter would be over forthwith.
Benson had tried this method, so oddly effective in his youth, on his own son, without success. Daniel would argue for the defense from different angles, exploiting technical loopholes and logical contradictions in the prosecution’s case. Benson would sit back, astonished. Sometimes he had to stifle his laughter, marveling at the boy’s audacity. Still, a fiercely independent spirit was something to be encouraged in today’s more ordered society, with its conformists, company tools, and bureaucrats dominating the landscape.
“Tom! Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course. What’d you say?”
18
Dear Blank
PRESIDENT KING SAT COMFORTABLY in a large, winged-back chair. The congressional leaders surrounding him stood stiffly, clasping their hands in front and staring into the bright camera lights, blinking and wearing frozen grins.
“My friends, civilization’s at stake,” King said. “American interests are being threatened anew by another rogue regime. Our new enemy teaches that innocent individuals can be sacrificed to serve a political vision. This probably explains their cold-blooded contempt for human life. We believe they may have inherited nuclear weapons prototypes from the last rogue regime or that they’re in the process of building them and they may be getting pretty close. Either way, we’re not gonna wait for proof that could come in the form of a big, smoking mushroom cloud.”
The distinguished congressional leaders shuffled on their feet. Their stiff grins began sagging.
“Let’s be real clear: we must defeat them over there so they don’t come over here. We call it the Flypaper Strategy. You draw your enemies to a single area away from everything and then you just finish them off. You wipe them out on their turf. So it follows that we’re gonna need a pretty big flytrap. I now call upon the distinguished senior representative of the People’s House.”