Huddled Masses (JP Warner Book 2)

by Derek Ciccone

  I’d been expecting satellite phones and encrypted messages, or at least some clandestine meeting in a dark alley. Dan Brown would not be cool with the Yellow Pages being the ‘how.’

  “As we become more complex as a society, some of our simple has turned exotic,” Murray observed.

  “It’s about the codes,” Allison said. “Tully provided me a customized discount code to be placed in the ads for each test market, Phoenix, Atlanta, etc. To the normal consumer, it looked like a random number that would need to be provided to get their 15% off. But Marty recognized the numbers—which were only placed in directories where there was an attack—as geocoded addresses from a mapping software that he uses in his business.”

  “So they’re addresses?” I asked.

  “I used the same software to help plot some of our courses in my GNZ days,” Byron’s voice came through the screen. As the resident techno-geek on our journeys, his knowledge base saved our behinds more often than Carter or I would ever admit. “It’s not an easy system to use, so you really need to know what you’re doing. But it can map down to the sewer on your street. I just plugged the ‘discount codes’ in, and they’re all addresses … all leading to the same place.”

  “The place where the killings took place? That wouldn’t make sense to me. A yacht wouldn’t have an address, would it?”

  “Not the location of the killings, JP. The codes all lead to phone booths in the respective cities.”

  “Phone booths? I thought they’d gone the way of the dodo,” Carter remarked.

  “Believe it or not, Big Ugly, there’s actually about 300,000 of them left in the US … mostly in major metropolitan areas,” Byron said.

  “So the number listed in the ad goes to the phone booth? I’m confused,” I said.

  The look on Gwen’s face reminded me of when she tried to help me with my homework back in our school days, and I just wasn’t getting it. “The phone booth is the trigger. When a Huddled Masses follower views the ad in their area, and it contains the geocode, they go live. The code leads them to the phone booth, where they call the listed number, and provide their discount code. This checks them in—the caller ID informs the powers-that-be that the call came from the designated phone booth—and sets them up to receive further instructions. To everyone else, the ad acts as it looks—a carpet cleaner with a discount code.”

  Murray added, “The phone number itself is immaterial—it could be routed anywhere.”

  “Each directory has a unique phone number, which was provided to us by Tully, so he could track the effectiveness of the ad,” Allison added. “I believe they went to a call center, but I don’t know where … it wasn’t our responsibility.”

  I wasn’t so much concerned about where the phone call was routed, but what was said during the call. “So a Huddled Masses follower views a coded message in an ad, which leads him to a phone booth, and he makes a call to Peggy, who is in a cave in Tora Bora or wherever. Okay, now what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He still needs instructions on how he’s going to murder innocent people, before taking his own life, and I doubt they do that over the phone. And they don’t operate like your typical sleeper cell, with plans plotted out ten years in advance, so they need real-time communication.”

  “My guess is that they’re receiving another address during their initial phone call—perhaps another code that only means something to the caller. I’d bet this meeting spot is where they receive detailed instructions,” Gwen said.

  “That might be how they do it, but how did these clowns know that’s how they do it?” Carter asked. I could tell he was in deep thought, which was always a little scary, and often flammable.

  “I’m not following,” Gwen said.

  “How did they know they were supposed to look at an ad, and then go to some phone booth and call? They had to get instructions on how to get their instructions. If we could figure out how they do that, then we could smoke the crazies out at the starting line.”

  I knew how they did it. “That’s what the hostage situation in Samawah was about. Jovana was right—it was a Huddled Masses convention. It was a big risk to take, so something real important must have been on the agenda … like laying out the operating procedures. And by having a firsthand, face-to-face account, they limited the probability of communication issues and gaps. Then when the ‘hostages’ were ‘released’ they scattered, waiting for the fingers to do the walking.”

  Gwen looked confounded. “What are you talking about, JP? Hostages? And who is Jovana?”

  Chapter 42

  “I think I need to sit down … I feel dizzy,” I said.

  “What is going on, JP?” Gwen’s voice grew firm.

  “I don’t know what I was saying—I think I confused it with a story I once worked on. My mind is all jumbled from the concussion. I really need to sit down.”

  Gwen intensified her glare, which broke me. “Fine—Huddled Masses is Al Muttahedah in disguise. They were created to bring unrest, fear, and eventually a civil war between social classes in America. And not just economic, they are dividing socially and culturally. That’s why the Huddled Masses shirts say things like Immigrant, Gay, Homeless, Addict.”

  “Looks like the new boss is the same as the old boss,” Carter observed.

  I walked behind the desk so I could view him onscreen. “It’s what he meant when he said the revolution had already begun, and there was nothing we could do about it this time.”

  Gwen had her hands on her hips, which really wasn’t a good sign. “Who’s he? And how would you know this?”

  “I recently had a meeting with a member of the CIA.”

  “How recently?”

  “Do you remember my nurse, the one who helped me escape the hospital?”

  “Miss Shoulder Rub … vaguely.”

  “Well, her real name is Jovana, and she’s a CIA operative who’s working the Huddled Masses case.”

  Carter butted in, “Whoa … Jovana is CIA?”

  “And how would Carter know your nurse?” Gwen asked.

  Carter spoke for himself, “She was our guide in Syria. She was my contact who set up the operation. Can’t believe she’s a spook—didn’t see that one coming.”

  Gwen turned to me, her face lined with anger. “You went to Syria?”

  “You said you didn’t care where we went, as long as it helped me figure things out.”

  “I thought you went on some grown-up … and I use that term loosely … version of spring break with Carter. Not parachuting into the bloodiest place on the planet.”

  “We actually used smugglers to sneak us in—parachuting would have gotten our asses shot down,” Carter continued to be less than helpful.

  Gwen ignored him. “If you think I’m going to be like your mother, sitting on pins and needles, waiting for you to finally get yourself killed, you’re sadly mistaken, JP.”

  “We had some unfinished business to take care of, and it’s over now,” I said. Maybe not exactly over, but I wasn’t planning on going back any time soon.

  Gwen was about to return fire, but caught herself. It was as if a light bulb had gone on. “Isn’t Syria where those terrorists were killed—the ones who’d taken you hostage last summer?” Her face remained deathly serious. “Tell me you had nothing to do with that, JP.”

  Carter again spoke on my behalf, “I’d love to take credit, but it was all Jovana.”

  Still not helping. I needed to get me a new legal representative.

  “So did you enjoy your time ‘thinking’ about things with Miss Shoulder Rub by your side, JP? What turned you on more—her killer body, or that she’s actually a killer?”

  I knew this bill would eventually arrive, and I was prepared. “You were there, Gwen—you know nothing happened. So what’s your problem?”

  “My problem is that you gave her the wrong answer.”

  “I should have rubbed her shoulders?”

  “No—you should have told
her that you didn’t want to … not make me out to be some ball-and-chain that was keeping you from it.”

  “I was just trying to be polite. Trust me, you don’t want to piss her off.”

  “Just remember the next time you’re declaring yourself to be the great truth teller, that withholding information is the same thing as lying.”

  Having made her point, she backed off. But Byron picked up the slack, “This Syria trip better not have been on my account.”

  “It was all about Jovana—she used us to get revenge,” Carter said.

  “Why would she want revenge? I thought she was CIA,” Byron said.

  “She was also Milos’ sister.”

  Byron mulled over the latest bombshell, before asking, “And what were you two … her cheerleaders?”

  “I have no regrets,” Carter said. “You mess with my friends, you mess with me … she just beat us to it.”

  “Nobody gave you the right to be judge and jury. That’s what Officer Jones did, and look how that turned out for him.”

  “Don’t compare what we did to that psychopath—these ass-clowns were going to kill more innocent people. We saved lives.”

  “Truth is, you didn’t do it for me, or to save lives. You did it for yourselves, and your fragile egos.”

  “I’ll bet your chin is more fragile than my ego.”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  “Children! Stop!” a voice stopped everyone in their tracks, from Connecticut to Charleston.

  I had never heard Murray’s voice so angered. But he found his calm, and said, “We need to quit focusing on the indiscretions of the past, and look to the future. That is our only chance to stop this Huddled Masses.”

  Chapter 43

  I started with our trip to Serbia last summer, and told everything I knew right up to the present.

  Murray absorbed my words, before turning to Allison. He took her hand in his, and softly said, “Please tell us about this David Tully you work with.”

  I interjected, “Aren’t we wasting time going down that road? Tully was an actor playing a role. He was Tully to Allison, New Colossus to Nora. What can we learn about someone who wasn’t real?”

  Murray looked annoyed by my interruption. “Identities might change, John Pierpont, but what makes us tick remains, and it can help to predict behavior.”

  He returned his attention to Allison, and this time she was allowed to answer.

  “There was nothing special about him that I can think of. He loved soccer—he grew up in England, and was a big Liverpool fan. Marty …” she began to tear up, but fought through it. “Marty was a fan of Manchester United, one of their rivals, so we would often joust about that. It was a good conversation piece, even though I didn’t know soccer from tiddlywinks.”

  She thought some more. “I just thought it was strange for a CEO to be so hands-on. He would get into the details of billings and directory closings that would seem more fit for lower level staff.”

  “I’ll bet he was quite meticulous about those discount codes he placed in the ads.”

  She nodded through tears.

  “He named his company after George Washington, did he ever say why?” Murray asked.

  “No, but he was always providing me useless facts about him. And his business started in Valley Forge, before expanding nationally, so I figured that geography might have something to do with it. But I didn’t really give it much thought.”

  “Do you remember any of these facts … perhaps they aren’t as useless as we think. He does seem to enjoy talking in code.”

  “It was trivia like Washington’s second inaugural address was the shortest ever.”

  “It was 135 words. Quite refreshing, compared to the modern politician,” Murray stated.

  “And I remember another one, just due to how repulsive it was—that Washington’s false teeth actually weren’t wood, as the story goes, and he had bought human teeth off his slaves.”

  “That is correct, and not an uncommon practice during that time. But I don’t see any potential clue off hand … how about you, John Pierpont?”

  “I’m not really good at the clue thing.”

  I expected Gwen to confirm my lack of a clue, but she remained quiet.

  Murray nodded, “I may be reading too much into it, but this Tully clearly has a sense of American history, and naming his company after the man who was the top general in the American Revolution is not coincidental, and neither is the Valley Forge location. Is there anything else from your communications that stands out?”

  “We discussed his children on occasion. For whatever it’s worth, it didn’t seem like he was acting when he talked about them. His oldest son had recently dropped out of school, and his daughter was marrying a guy he didn’t like. But his youngest, David Jr., had joined the business not too long ago.”

  Byron was now typing away on his computer. “Tully is a ghost—no driver’s license, no credit rating, no photos, no social media.”

  This didn’t surprise me—not only was it an alias, but he probably was stationed in some mountain retreat in East Nowhere, and spoke to her on a satellite phone. I would bet the house that no employee of GWCC ever laid eyes on David Tully.

  But what Byron said next did surprise. “I got a couple hits on David Jr. A few articles at GWCC stores that recently opened, which he attended. And he’s listed on the website with a photo. Bio says he attended Wharton School of Business, but I’m guessing when we check, there will be no such person who attended.”

  We pulled up the website on Gwen’s desktop computer. David Tully Jr. was thirty-something with heavy eyebrows that hung over mysterious eyes. He was a generally good-looking guy, but nothing really stood out about him, and his ethnicity appeared generic. He looked like your typical American businessman, again showing Al Muttahedah’s ability to assimilate into Western culture.

  This was an interesting development, but I felt like we were going around in circles, which brought me back to my earlier question—okay, now what?

  Chapter 44

  “I think our best bet is to review next month’s Yellow Pages directories, and cut them off at the pass … or at the phone booth,” Gwen said.

  Allison began reading next month’s closings off her list, “Chicago … Gaithersburg, Maryland … Cary, North Carolina … Columbus, Georgia …”

  “That would have been an effective strategy a few days ago,” Murray said. “But with their system being exposed, they will adjust … just as they already have.”

  “What do you mean they’ve adjusted?” I inquired.

  “I guess escalated would be a better word. That’s what Whiskey Tax is about—the next phase, which is to create an opponent for Huddled Masses. The clearer the picture gets, the more the Pittsburgh location makes sense, as does the name Tully.”

  We looked back at him blankly, so Murray explained. I felt like I was back in his class … if I ever left.

  “When the Whiskey Tax group came on the scene, I was intrigued by the origin of their name, and sought out Rockfield’s resident historian, Sandra Warner. She refreshed my memory about the whiskey tax that was levied by the federal government in 1791. The impoverished frontiersmen of western Pennsylvania, especially farmers who used whiskey as an exchange currency, rebelled against it. This led to uprisings, and mob violence, often against wealthy property owners of the Pittsburgh area, who had nothing to do with the tax. It became known as the Whiskey Rebellion.

  “President Washington took a pacifist approach to the rebellion, but eventually succumbed to public outcry, and led troops to western Pennsylvania to quash it. Much like this group’s attempt to crush a modern day attack on the elite. Except this time it’s Huddled Masses, not Pennsylvania farmers.”

  “Now that I think about it, I do remember Tully bringing up the Whiskey Rebellion—it was one of his George Washington trivia facts. He said it was the only time that a sitting president has led troops into battle,” Allison recalled.

&n
bsp; “I’m impressed. Presidents these days can’t even drive their own car,” Carter said. “But what does this have to do with Tully’s name?”

  Murray raised a finger, to say he was getting to that. “When it comes to journalistic history, I didn’t need a refresher course. Tully was the pen name Alexander Hamilton used when he wrote editorials for a Philadelphia newspaper—an attempt to drum up support for the federal government using force against the rebellion, and back Washington into a corner. Authority of laws, or force, he wrote. This modern day Tully is also trying to spark a confrontation, operating behind the scenes. But what he wants is an extended battle between the two groups, continuing to divide the country. Two sides that he both created and is controlling, like a puppeteer.”

  “So what you’re saying, is both these groups—Whiskey Tax and Huddled Masses—are under the control of Al Muttahedah?” Gwen asked.

  Murray nodded. “And now that the competing forces have been launched, these violent events will escalate, their responses playing off each other. And my guess is that something large will happen very soon. Their plans have been sped up.”

  “If they want to up the ante, then I say we match. Time to push the chips to the center,” I said.

  The group eyed me apprehensively, awaiting my latest installment of whack-job-ery. So I indulged them.

  “I’ll take everything we know and go on TV—get it all out in the open. Al Muttahedah, CIA, phone booths, carpet cleaning, the works. If you think they’re desperate now, they’ll be tap dancing on the hot tin roof when I’m done with them.”

  Carter was always a supporter of “scorched earth” strategies. “Go for the jugular, I like it. And getting outed by JP Warner will drive them so nuts, they’ll do something irrational, and walk right into the trap.”

  “All well and good, unless that irrational act is to blow up a city block with a dirty bomb,” Murray added a sobering thought.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Gwen said. “It might be a little off-the-wall, but how about we turn what we know over to the authorities … you know, the people who are trained to do this sort of thing … and let them handle it. Too crazy, right?”