Rex and Reba took it all in, holding back any strong emotions they were feeling. It was a lot for them to absorb. When they were finished, Rex said, “Well, folks we have a lot of work to do to stop these bastards. Let me get to it. Reba has given you all of our numbers. We should all stay closely connected between now and Monday. And please, let us know as soon as you get any new information from your computer guru. Also, I will take care of making sure Merchant's house is cleaned up, including this Nevers guy. I wish I had been with you at Merchant's. I would have loved to have pulled the trigger. Mr. Thomas, thank you for avenging our daughter's death.” Looking at all three of them, he said, “You all are American heroes. I will do my level best to honor your work and finish these guys off.”
He then paused. After a moment or two, he started shaking his head. “You know, when I was in college with Michael Brock, he started talking this white superiority garbage. He never stopped. And, it all came to this. We’ve lost our daughter and the lives of a million kids are at stake. I promise you, I will rid the country of this poison.”
With that, Rex rose and walked out the room, with Reba following behind him waving her goodbyes.
As was previously planned, Jackson, Ronnie and Jenny sat back down. They were to wait another half hour before leaving, just in case some press had followed Rex and were lingering a bit.
“What do you think?” Jackson asked.
“He will be a good president,” Ronnie said. “I like his go get 'em style.”
“I agree, Ronnie,” Jackson said. “But, what do you think about where things stand? Do you think we will get these guys?”
Jenny was deep in thought. In fact, even during the meeting with Rex and Reba Duncan, she seemed a little distracted.
“I cannot lie,” she said. “I just know we are missing something. We are. Think about it. With Sweeney's skills, we should have been able to find some direct links from Austin Nicholas to Livermore, the folks in Fairfax, Merchant, Mills, something! And there is one other thing. When we heard that a bunch of hedge fund money was being funneled to Caremark to help he them more competitive for these bids, we all thought of Steve Mills. Well guess what, Sweeney checked. There was no link, not one dollar between Mills and ANY of the food service provider companies. We may be totally off on this thing. Even our premise may be wrong. What if it isn't the food? How about water? This thing is spinning me all around.”
Jackson and Ronnie both understood Jenny's frustration. They were feeling the same way. She merely gave a voice to their collective hesitance. Still, Jackson picked up the phone to brief Harrington, hoping his uncertainty would go away.
__________
On Saturday evening, the Duncans hosted dinner at their home for their long time friend, General Michael Brock. The General was his usual gregarious self, though he was appropriately observant of the recent tragedy of Amy Duncan's murder. In fact, it was the General who broached the subject of Amy's killer as they all began to eat roast beef, steamed green beans, and signature Idaho potatoes.
“Folks, I saw the statement that was released about that professor Jackson Lowery. I was glad to see that you were able to rule him out as a suspect. In your statement, Rex, you also used the word killers instead of killer. What in blazes is going on, my friend?” Once he asked the question, the General dug out of his plate a forkful of potatoes lathered in ketchup.
Rex coolly glanced at Reba before replying. “Well, you are not the first one to notice that distinction, Michael. My office has been inundated with calls and darn it, that one word has been their main focus. As I told you when I asked you to visit us, that is one of the reasons why I think you can help me, actually, us, Reba and me,” he said, motioning to his wife.
“That is why I am here, Rex. You know I am always here for the both of you.” He smiled appreciatively.
“We do know that, Michael. Tell you what, let's finish this meal my bride made for us and then retire to the living room to talk through everything. How's that?”
“You know I think better on a full stomach,” the General said, eating more roast beef.
They all engaged in meaningless small talk while they finished their dinner. Boise State basketball, hunting in Montana, the changing work ethic among our young. As they moved to the living room, Reba carried in a tray with a fresh pot of coffee and three cups on it. The General sat in his favorite chair, while Reba sat on the sofa, with her left elbow resting on the sofa's arm.
Rex did not bother to sit. As was his habit when he was thinking, he had to move around. He walked to the living room window, looked outside for a minute and paced over to where his wife was sitting, elegant, legs crossed, back straight.
Then Rex cut to the chase.
“Michael, we have been best friends for a long time, so there is no need for there to be any bullshit between us. Reba and I have one question, why? How could you be a part of something so evil, so insidious that it could lead to our daughter's death. Why?”
The General had been smiling and relaxed when he entered the living room. In an instant, his whole demeanor changed. The smile on his face was replaced with a stoic recognition that his career was over. No Secretary of Defense. No possible presidential run. It was all over. But, the General did not blink.
“Rex, as much as I have been fond of you and our friendship, I have detested your tolerance for those who are inferior. In school, I could not believe how much you embraced this equal rights for all bullshit. For years, I have been telling myself that deep down, you really get it. I am hoping you understand that. We are losing our country to wetbacks, middle easterners, and darkies of African descent who are genetically inferior to us. There are many of us - far more than you realize - that are ready to stand up and fight. To take our country back. That is the answer to your why, Rex. It is time for us to act like the ethnic purists that we are, and to hell with whoever gets in the way.”
Reba spoke, almost for the first time all morning.
“Like Amy, Michael? Our baby? To hell with whoever gets in the way, like Amy. Is this what you and your military friends call collateral damage, Michael? It's okay to lose a few of our own, so long as we win the war. Is that what Amy was, Michael? Collateral damage?”
The General was unmoved. “Reba, I am truly sorry about Amy. She should have never been brought into this and certainly never should have died. I am so sorry and will forever feel partially responsible for her death. But those of us who are born to lead need to lead no matter where the chips fall.”
Rex was back at the front window. Only this time he was signaling to the F.B.I. agents outside. Reba had her head down, slowly, deliberately, shaking her head.
Looking at Rex's back since Rex was still facing the window, the General asked, “How did you know?”
Rex turned around and looked the General in the eye. “Actually, it was easier than we thought it would be. Once Jackson Lowery told us what Amy heard, Reba and I poked each other's brains about the list of people who stood to gain personally should I become president. Then we considered who, among that list of names, would have the lack of moral fiber or the lack of an ethical compass to allow them to be a part of something so inhumane. There were about fifteen to twenty people on the first list. Once we applied the second criteria, you stood alone, my friend. You stood alone.”
At that moment, three F.B.I. agents entered the room. General Michael Brock stood tall and erect as he was read his rights and the handcuffs were placed on his wrists. During that process, Reba got up from the sofa and walked to where her husband was standing. She leaned into his arms as he held her and rested her head on his chest.
No other words were exchanged between the two lifelong friends. They did, however, share an intriguing look between themselves. It was almost as if Rex was sending the General to war. Reba noticed the look and squeezed her husband’s hand as the agents escorted the General out the door and into the waiting black sedan.
__________
The scientists in the windowless building situated in the southern Pennsylvania hills had finally given their bosses the news they wanted. The re-engineered poison would integrate perfectly with the food being processed in the ten Carr warehouses across the United States. The poison had been administered to the plastic packaging covering the food. According to the scientists' testing, the poison from the plastic would infect the food within minutes.
Before the Carrs went underground, they gave specific orders to each of their plant leaders to make sure that their trucks completed all of their deliveries by 7 am Monday morning. On occasion, in the past, some deliveries ended up being late. The Carrs made it clear to their managers that individual paychecks would be docked if any delivery was late. The managers were also told that no delivery should be stopped, no matter who pressured them to do so. In order to make sure that things were executed properly, the Carrs arranged for their chief operations officer to get a six-figure bonus provided that each delivery was clocked in by 7 am. There was no way that any of the deliveries would be stopped or be late.
SUNDAY
ONE
On Sunday morning, Dick Strother was visiting Russ McNair at the Fairfax County hospital when three F.B.I. agents walked into his friend's hospital room. McNair had extensive nerve and ligament damage from the bullet he got from Jenny Roberts. He had stumbled in the field near Delaplane, Virginia, and finally gotten picked up not far from I-66 near Haymarket. He was incoherent, disoriented, and confused.
One of his fellow team members took him to the Fairfax County Hospital where he underwent surgery. The bullet had nicked an artery and McNair had lost a lot of blood. He had just been placed back into his room after his second surgery when Strother dropped by to check on him. As soon as Strother saw the suits entering the room that Sunday morning, he knew that his ticket had been punched. There were three of them. G-men all the way. Arrogant pricks. Strother was thinking that it would be better to go out with a bullet.
The agents read him his rights and led him out of the hospital. As he was leaving McNair's room, he looked over his shoulder at his unconscious friend. One of the F.B.I. men was in the process of handcuffing McNair's good arm to the hospital bed. Assholes, Strother thought to himself.
Claremark Foods was based in Cleveland, Ohio, but they had ten food distribution centers across the country. Between late Saturday night and early Sunday morning, F.B.I. agents raided all of the Claremark properties. Agents also raided the home of Claremark CEO Austin Nicholas, which was located in the exclusive Cleveland suburb of Chagrin Falls. Nicholas was shocked by the raid, asking “What the hell is this all about?” He figured that one of his payoffs went bad.
There were still ten people, including Livermore, at the Fairfax command center when the agents converged there late on Sunday morning. Each of the ten were read their rights and escorted off of the property. The agents knew the exact whereabouts for everyone on Livermore's team. They would be in custody by noon. Ever full of himself, Livermore looked surprised by it all. His face said it all. He could not believe that they’d been found out and that he was being arrested.
Bravado aside, it is often the biggest mouths that hold the smallest amount of courage. The Feds took Livermore to their D.C. headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue. He was there by mid afternoon. Since they had not gotten much from the other raids, particularly of the Claremark properties, they were going to squeeze Livermore as hard as possible. At first, Livermore played it tough. But he had actually been caught off guard by the raid. He truly believed that he and his co-conspirators were smarter than others in the government.
The F.B.I. smartly chose two black field agents to interrogate Livermore. Gary Smith was six feet, five inches and over three hundred pounds. He was a former defensive end at Penn State and as mean as they come. Tom Williamson was lean, balding and bespectacled. He was the agency's best interrogator. He was known for playing mind games with suspects and breaking them down. Blessed with unmatched patience, Williamson would legendarily question suspects for thirty to thirty-six hours straight without breaking a sweat. In this instance, however, both Smith and Williamson were told they needed answers yesterday. Ed Harrington, the new F.B.I. director implored them both to “do whatever you need to do to get information form this guy as quickly as possible. As far as I am concerned, he never existed.”
In all his years working both in the field and at headquarters, Tom Williamson had never received that kind of directive. He nodded at the director, rubbed his hands together and pushed Smith to walk ahead of him as they both entered the room.
Sweeney had been monitoring all of the F.B.I. activities through his computer. He was already wired into the F.B.I. headquarters cameras in their interrogation rooms. Having heard the conversation between Williamson and the director, he knew that the interview was not to be missed. He yelled to Jackson, Ronnie, and Jenny to come watch the interrogation with him. They had all gotten back from their meeting with the Duncans and were grabbing something to eat.
“This is must-see TV, guys. Harrington just gave the green light to do whatever they need to do to get information out of Livermore. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started waterboarding this fuck.”
“Let me get this straight, Joe,” Jackson said. “This is live?”
Sweeney was leaning back in his chair. “Yep,” he said.
“Coming directly from an interrogation room at the F.B.I. headquarters downtown?”
Sweeney was loving it. “Yep, that's right.”
Ronnie then followed up. “Is there anywhere you cannot break in - electronically?”
Sweeney leaned forward again in his chair, giving the question some thought. He then leaned back in his chair and said, “Hmmm, I don't think so, Ronnie.”
Jackson and Ronnie looked at Jenny, who proudly folder her arms across her chest and arched her eyebrows.
“Here we go,” Sweeney said as they watched Smith first, then Williamson enter the room. “Let me turn up the volume.
Smith started up first. Standing over the former navy seal turned-terrorist, he went right at Livermore.
“So, I hear that you think you are superior to me, you fuck. Is that so?” He pushed Livermore hard out of his chair. Livermore fell on his elbow, letting out a yelp. He was sitting on the floor holding his elbow when Smith continued.
“You crying, little white bitch. Did you hurt your elbow? Well, I am just getting started, you fuck. He then wound up and threw a devastating punch to Livermore's right jaw. The unusually loud 'pop' sound from the blow was jolting. Williamson did not flinch. For a moment, Livermore did not move. Watching it, the blow looked like it could have been fatal.
“Did he kill him?” Jackson asked.
“I doubt it,” Jenny said. “Maybe broke his jaw. Let's see how he sounds when he talks.”
Dazed, Livermore started to regain himself. He was holding his jaw, looking fearfully up at Smith. Any bravado he had entered the room with was already gone.
Smith used his two mitts masquerading as hands and picked Livermore up, slamming him against the wall. He then grabbed Livermore by his shirt collar with his left hand, holding him against the wall. Smith then reared his right arm back, as if ready to make another strong blow to the face. Before administering the swing, he whispered to Livermore, “They said I could kill you. I am going to make it hurt.”
Through all of this, Williamson was sitting on one of the chairs at the table looking nonchalant and uninterested. With his thick, dark glasses, he looked like he was sitting in a public library observing a minor disagreement over computer access credentials.
Smith was about to administer his next blow to the flinching Livermore when Williamson calmly said, “Stop for a minute, Gary. Just give me one minute and I will leave you and Mr. Livermore alone.”
Livermore cast his panicked eyes in the direction of Williamson, looking at him as if he were his personal savior. He then looked up at Smith, who was
agitated, trying to make up his mind whether to accede to Williamson's request.
Smith put his hand down, then backed away from Livermore. Williamson then pointed to the overturned chair. Livermore picked it up and sat down, all while still keeping an eye on Smith's movements.
Smith positioned himself right behind Livermore, who could not see him but could more than feel his presence. Livermore was sitting at one end of the table, with Williamson at the other end.
Williamson did not waste any time. “Mr. Livermore, I will say what I am about to say one time and one time only. This is not an interrogation. We are not sure what it will end up being. That is up to you. But it is not an interrogation. There are no rules. Depending on how you respond, there are three possibilities regarding your future. You will either live the rest of your life in a country club prison or you will be in a general population prison with only blacks and Hispanics who know that you are the white supremacist who developed a plan to kill innocent black and brown babies while they were in school. Understood?”
Livermore nodded, clearly broken down. He looked quizzically at Williamson, who read his mind. “Do you have a question, Mr. Livermore?”
“Yes, sorry sir. But you said there were three possibilities about my future, but you only mentioned two of them. Sir.”
Williamson did not smile. He showed no emotion whatsoever.
“You were listening and you are correct. The third possibility is that this room will be the site of your death. If I think you are lying to me or not telling me everything you know, Mr. Smith will kill you very slowly. We have been given twelve hours to ask you questions. My question will last thirty seconds. If I am not satisfied,” he put his head down and looked at his watch, “Mr. Smith will use all of his allotted eleven hours and fifty minutes to kill you. Slowly. Very slowly. Do you understand?”
Livermore nodded. “Yes, I do, sir.”
The Plan (The Jackson Lowery Trilogy Book 1) Page 22