A Spy Came Home (Mac Ambrose Book 1)

by HN Wake

  Desperate, she had set the wheelie in a sea of other bags and had run toward the toilet. A crowd of Chinese tourists had surged around the bathroom entrance and she had found herself behind 100 prattling women. Their voices had aggravated her, building her anxiety about the flight leaving in ten minutes and the wheelie bag sitting vulnerable among hundreds on the other side of the park. Her need for the toilet had been extreme, but instead, she had turned, ran through the park to the bag making mental contingency plans if the passport, the plane ticket were stolen.

  Racing around the last corner, she had woken up in a panic.

  The loft was dark and humid. The only noise was the whirring fan.

  There was depth in the surrounding silence, as if the loft was connected to the Chinese park.

  On cobblestones below, the wheels of a lone truck thudded past and pulled to a stop at the corner. There was a loud thump as a block of plastic wrapped newspapers hit the pavement.

  She stood, pulled on sweats, and stumbled down the three flights of stairs.

  SFG Manipulates Members, Stokes Fear After Newtown

  By STACIA DeVries

  New York News

  Three days before a Senate vote to nationally ban assault weapons, the New York News is releasing evidence today of a second scandal rocking the Society for Guns. A leaked internal email between the SFG’s chief strategist, Neil Koen, and CEO, Charles Osbourne, outlines a strategy in response to the Newtown massacre that purposefully manipulates members’ fear.

  In the email, Neil Koen clearly sets out the points for an initiative to increase falling membership and donations based on systematic fear-mongering and misinformation. Koen lays out willfully misleading tactics that dramatize and inflate potential ’threats’ to the right to bear arms under the Second Amendment. Koen writes,“Our research shows that our key demographic is activated (read donations) through the emotions of fear, anger and pride (read patriotism.)” In short hand, Koen summarizes the new strategy: “To Sum: Misinformation > Fear > Increased SFG Donations.” Charles Osbourne replied to Koen’s suggested strategy with two words: “Agreed. Approved.”

  Senator Martha Payne, the author of the assault weapons ban legislation, responded swiftly. “At the very least, the SFG’s top two leaders reek of contempt for their own members. How anyone still gives them a cent is a complete mystery to me.”

  Gun rights activists and SFG stalwarts have been hit hard by this latest scandal. Many long-term SFG members have tried to discount the brewing investigation into arms trafficking by a top SFG corporate sponsor. One SFG lifetime member commented, “We joined the SFG because we believe in our constitutional rights. To learn that our most revered leaders literally tread on us - well - the irony is rich.”

  Many both within and outside one of the largest nonprofits in America, are beginning to question how much the SFG Board of Directors knew about this calculated approach.

  New York, NY

  Cal was standing in the morning sun at the same bank of windows in the New York News building when his cell phone vibrated. Checking his phone, he ignored the five missed calls from headquarters and opened the text from Sheriff Soloman. “Scimitar receptionist ID’ed your gal immediately. Turns out she stopped up the office toilet. They had to call a plumber.”

  A striking woman in her early 40s with a pretty face, shoulder length hair, slim jeans, and heels walked toward him across the cafeteria floor.

  Her hand was outstretched. “Freda Browne.”

  “Agent Cal Bertrand. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice. I’m grateful you could make the time before I head back to DC.”

  She motioned him to sit, looking him over. “I know you, don’t I, Agent?”

  “I had some notoriety last year.”

  She examined his face with alluring eyes. “Ahhh yes. Fast and Frenzied. You’re the whistleblower that gave shit to Congress. And caught some heat in the Bureau. Tough to be such a baller, am I right?”

  He grinned but gave nothing away.

  She said, “I would have thought you’d be staying away from guns these days. As I understand from Stacia DeVries that you’re interested in our SFG scoop.”

  “I’m with the ATF. Guns come with the job.”

  She mocked chagrin. “Of course. So, I understand you’d like some information on our confidential source.”

  Opening up his notebook, Cal told her, “Well, I’ve seen a few stories on the SFG in the last few weeks. And two-in-a-row just this morning.”

  “Right. Exactly. As Stacia informed you yesterday, we’re not going to give that source up. This paper has withstood many an official attempt to divulge the identity of sources. We’re certainly not going to start now over a very clear criminal case involving leadership at the SFG”

  “Stacia implied that you may not even know your source.”

  “Maybe.” She tilted her head at him. “I’m surprised. You’re the first person from the ATF we’ve heard from. Usually we hear from your legal department. Is this an official investigation?”

  “I’m actually chasing early leads related to an ongoing investigation. Just chasing possible connections.”

  “Really?” Serious men didn’t intimidate her. “Chasing leads from articles in the New York News? You appreciate the First Amendment, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So shouldn’t you be chasing leads with the SFG? Strong arming a newspaper isn’t exactly… highbrow investigative work.”

  “So, you don’t know your source?”

  She stood. “Want some coffee?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going to go get a coffee.” She tapped her inner elbow like a junkie. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, no, I’m fine.”

  He watched her walk off. Her tight jeans accentuated how fit she was.

  His phone vibrated with a second text from Sheriff Soloman. “She also said she thinks your gal probably 40+ y.o. But couldn’t describe her in physical detail: seemed nice but distant.”

  He watched Freda as she returned across the hardwood floor, blowing on the rim of her paper coffee cup. As she sat down she asked, “Do you think it’s a bad thing that the SFG has been caught out for their bad behavior?”

  Cal considered this. “My job is to make sure we follow the law.”

  “That seems…a bit too simple in this case. Surely you have an opinion about the SFG?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that coloring your investigation?”

  “I should think not. I try to stay professional.”

  “That must be difficult. Because I would imagine in your shoes, this case would be complicated by the players. They’ve been caught-out for their own, very questionable, unethical, behavior. It all seems a bit grey to me.”

  He released a small chuckle accompanied by a self-depreciating grin.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m just trying to get a sense of how serious you are about investigating our journalism.”

  “Well, I saw Stacia did a piece on the SFG a few weeks back.”

  Freda nodded. From around the rim of the cup she said, “We were going to do a series actually. But it got canned. All she got was the one front page story.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The Chief thinks it’s an old story.” She wobbled her head and slipped into heavy sarcasm as she imitated someone, finger-quoting. “‘Old News. SFG. Guns. Our legislative failures. Kids shot in schools. We need something new.’ I paraphrase there of course. From higher-ups. I’m sure you know all about that cynicism around guns, being ATF and all.”

  Her attempts to befriend, possibly flirt with him, were intriguing. Was she trying to deflect his inquiry? “Was it your idea to run the series?”

  “It had been percolating for a while.”

  He noticed she hadn’t answered the question.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I know the other reason I recognize you. You were the agent on
-site down at the Scimitar raid in Lexington.”

  “You’ve got a good eye.” Before she could distract him again, he changed tack, smiling and dropping into a personal tone. “Freda, I’m an investigator. When I’m on an investigation, I tend to notice coincidences. I noticed that Stacia’s first article —“ He flipped through his notebook. “was published just a week before the Scimitar raid and just two weeks before these latest articles.”

  She maintained a look of innocence. “And?”

  “The focus for the article on the SFG seemed particularly well-timed, given the gun control legislation.”

  She sipped from her coffee and without missing a beat said, “We’re no dummies here, Agent. And we’re all on the same side I believe. We are a liberal media outlet - according to Fox News - that wants to see some smart gun regulations passed. Nothing nefarious here.”

  He watched her closely. She didn’t look away.

  Quietly, he asked, “So no connection between Stacia’s first article and the latest on Neil Koen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No way you knew the Koen scandal was coming?”

  She feigned surprise, contemplated his question, and said, “We were handed the Koen scandal by a courier. If I had that kind of ability to see into the future I would not be living in a 900-square-foot apartment in the East Village.”

  He nodded, closed his notebook, and slipped it into his back jeans pocket. “Gotcha. Ok, well, I can see you’re quite a stickler for the law.”

  “Yes. The First Amendment is pretty important around here, Agent.”

  “Right. Ok, well, I’ll show myself out. If you change your mind --” He stood and handed her his card. “You grow up in New York? You have a slight accent.”

  It was Freda’s turn to be intrigued: was he flirting? “I went to school in Michigan.”

  “Ann Arbor?”

  “Yup.”

  He noticed that, again, she hadn’t answered the question. He reached out to shake her hand. “Ok, well, thanks again.”

  Freda watched him walk toward the elevator bank.

  In the elevator ride down he listened to the latest voicemail from Wilson. “Where are you?” he asked, clearly seething. “Ruby says she hasn’t heard from you since you asked for phone logs last week. She says the GAO guy out in Arlington says you weren’t in the office yesterday. I will not have you on the loose this week. Not. This. Week. Check in. Now.”

  Standing at the window, Freda watched Cal step out onto the sidewalk below. Into the cell phone at her ear she said, “And the ATF was just here.”

  Penny asked, “What? What did he want?”

  “He thinks there may be a coincidence with all the heat coming on the SFG right now, but he doesn’t know anything about us. It was fine. We chatted. I played nice, got him chatting. He’s a good guy. I’m telling you, I’m tits. I played him like a fine-tuned, bluegrass fiddle.” She watched him head down Broadway. “He’s hot. No wedding band.”

  “What?”

  “The ATF agent is super hot.”

  “Fuck off.

  “I think he flirted with me.”

  “Seriously. Fuck off. Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. We had serious vibes. I’m talking scorching. He’s like 6’3” and built. I bet he played serious sports in college - like on scholarship. I’m telling you, Benjamin Franklin could have lit up a light bulb with our sparks.” Her eyes followed him in the crowd.

  Penny growled, “I’m hanging up.”

  Back in her office, Freda dialed Jack’s extension.

  He answered gruffly, “Jack Diamonte.”

  “Just so you know, both the FBI earlier and now this ATF agent for a second time are chasing the source from our stories. No connection to us.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  “And Jack, thanks.”

  He hung up.

  47

  New York, NY

  After leaving the New York News building, Cal started walking without a destination, just to clear his head. His stride was purposeful, chewing up whole blocks, but his mind churned randomly.

  Maar was some kind of intelligence operative, a woman in her 40s.

  She chose him because he was a whistleblower.

  She left breadcrumbs.

  She first piqued his interest with the Blue Lantern cables then revealed Scimitar’s gun trafficking, then the cover up of the Malhotra killing.

  And she planted evidence. She had to be involved in the Koen scandal.

  It looked exceptionally likely she was discrediting the SFG in the lead up to the Senate vote.

  The New York News was serving as a well coordinated publicity tool.

  Forty minutes later, he found himself looking up at the entrance to Grand Central Terminal on 42nd and Park Ave with a singular, pounding thought.

  I have no idea who Maar is.

  The only thing he had to go on was that Maar was a woman about 40 years old. So was Freda.

  Cal searched for an internet cafe but stumbled on a public library on 46th and 3rd. The branch was remarkably small, but bright and airy. The overhead air conditioner belt whirled steadily. Aluminum lights hung from cross bars under a ratty looking dropped ceiling. Busy professionals popped in and out of the clean, modern space, dropping off books, scanning the computer catalogues.

  Along the front window, Cal banged on a laptop checked out from the front desk. He was researching Freda Browne.

  In a professional photo on the New York News website, she was wearing a stylish business suit below a cheeky smile. He deliberately scrutinized the photograph out of the corner of his eye, trying a different perspective. There was definitely a mischievous and knowing look about her.

  According to her bio, she had joined the LA Times in 1990 as an investigative reporter after graduating from the University of Michigan. In 1995, she had become a special projects editor for the business desk. In 2000 she had become the Managing Editor.

  Seven years later, she had moved to the New York News to take over as one of three Managing Editors. Her list of work accolades was long, including a Pulitzer Prize for investigative reporting on corruption in LA’s social services.

  His internet search delivered 50 pages of links to articles she had written on varied subjects. There was no unifying theme. This must be true for all journalists. Methodically, he scanned each link, often clicking through.

  He almost missed an outlier. It was an article, “Local Reporter Loses Brother to Santa Monica Shooter’, in which she was mentioned in the content, not as the author. He clicked through. Just after she had moved to LA, Freda’s brother was shot by a random man who had opened fire with a semiautomatic weapon on a pedestrian mall in Santa Monica. Michael Browne had been dead on arrival at UCLA emergency room.

  Outside the library window, men and women hustled through their day. A telephone rang. He heard the front desk librarian answer. He wondered where Freda had been when she had gotten the call. He rubbed his eyes. This was a tragic bit of information.

  But it also was not a coincidence.

  He resumed his search.

  Freda Browne sat on the PTA of the New York Lab School for Consolidated Studies. The school was for 8th and 9th grades. He located the school on a map of New York City near the West Village. He wondered how Freda got her kid to the school each morning. To stay as fit as she was, she must have an established routine of walking her child, hitting the gym, then heading to work. She was organized, not afraid to be driven.

  After a few more clicks on the touchpad of the borrowed laptop, he stopped. He leaned back, lifting his hands off the keyboard. Freda Browne was listed on the Board of the non-profit Citizens Against Illegal Guns.

  It was a significant, intentional omission on her part to not have mentioned this. It was one of the nation’s largest gun control advocacy group.

  On the organization’s site, he discovered the photos from their last gala. The photographer had captured a large hall, white linens, and silv
er bedecked tables, candles, flower arrangements and bottles of wine. It was a very tony setting for the very tony of New York City.

  On stage, the 50 smiling faces grinned out to the photographer, hands raised in a toast. Freda, in a slim, blue dress, stood on the left, toward the end of the row between a tall, bearded man and an attractive, petite black woman. She wore a wide smile and held up a glass of champagne.

  He wondered if the bearded man was her date.

  Under the photo, a caption listed the names of the board members. Cal leaned in close to the screen, then realizing his mistake, expanded the font. He looked around the library, embarrassed, before pulling out his cell phone and snapping a photo of the list of names.

  The coincidences were piling up.

  After another twenty minutes of searching, he found that Freda had graduated in 1986 from the Germantown Friends High School in the Chestnut Hill area of Philadelphia.

  He sat back.

  The courier for Stacia DeVries’ informant had come from Philadelphia.

  Freda had omitted that she was from Philadelphia.

  He scanned through the photos on his phone, pulling up the image of the label for the courier company, and dialed their main number. He lied easily. “Yes, hi, this is the New York News. We received a package two days ago that originated in Philadelphia. I have the tracking number here for you. Can you please tell me the street address where it was picked up?” He read out the tracking number.

  The courier company secretary said, “Sure, give me a sec.” There was a pause as she tapped on her keyboard. “Yeah, looks like we picked it up at 30th and Market. That’s 30th Street, the train station.”

  “Nothing more definitive?”

  “Nope, looks like the directions were to pick up literally at the corner outside.”

  “Ok, thanks.”

  He pulled up a map of Philadelphia’s SEPTA suburban commuter trains. It was extensive.