Borderland

by Peter Eichstaedt

  “Frankel. I just finished with Madsen.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Not well. I’m in a taxi now. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Let me call you back.”

  The taxi had stopped in traffic as cars clogged traffic circle approaching Union Station, just a couple of hundred yards away. Two black Chevy Suburbans with darkened windows were parked at odd angles in front of Union Station. He leaned forward in the seat and motioned to the driver. “I’m getting out.” He took a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it into the front seat. “That should cover it,” he blurted as he jumped out.

  Sprinting from the taxi, he cut through the stalled traffic and trotted away from the station. Pulling down his baseball cap, he scanned the area and spotted a city bus coming down the street. A handful of people waited at the stop. He hustled across the street, stepped onto the curb, and stood behind the others at the stop. He drew in a deep breath and tried to calm the thumping in his chest.

  The bus hissed and wheezed to a stop and the doors clunked open. He climbed in, flashed his bus pass, and found a seat. Clutching his bag on his lap, he glanced across the traffic circle to the station as several agents, dressed in suits and wearing sunglasses and ear pieces, scanned everyone who stepped out of a taxi. His bus pulled away and blended into traffic. He sighed with relief, then pulled out his phone, tapped in Frankel’s number, and leaned forward to muffle his voice.

  “Frankel, me again.”

  “Talk to me.”

  “I confronted Madsen and his top man, Trini Serna.”

  “What did they say?”

  “There’s not much they could say. The only thing they wanted to know was where I got the information. They said it was classified information and that it was a breach of national security.”

  “As if what they’ve been doing isn’t?”

  “Madsen put the Secret Service on me. They stopped me after I left his office and told me I was being arrested for threatening a presidential candidate.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a bus. I ran. I had to.”

  “Jesus, Dawson.”

  “They’re on my tail. But I need some time to finish the story.”

  “Get back to the cottage. Take the long way. Several taxis. Like before.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay?”

  “Of course. No one knows about it.”

  * * *

  After a fifteen-minute bus ride, Dawson stepped onto the curb and walked calmly, trying to avoid attention. He found a taxi a couple of blocks away and told the driver to take him to Alexandria. Not only would the Secret Service be crawling the town looking for him, Madsen’s people would be on the offensive, his Senate staff and his campaign staff. Now aware of what he had, they knew that if the information got out, it would bring down Madsen’s campaign. They’d go to any lengths to stop it. Madsen’s people were undoubtedly on the phone at that moment threatening the editor, publisher, and who knows who else.

  An hour and three taxi rides later, Dawson was back at the cottage. He had only to insert what few remarks he could pull off the recording he’d made of Madsen’s lame responses. Then the story would be done.

  Sitting at the desk in the stillness of the cottage, his mind raced. He struggled to focus on each sentence to make sure that none of what he wrote was overly accusatory, that each statement was backed by documentable facts. Satisfied, he checked the internet for any leak about his confrontation with Madsen or his escape from the Secret Service agents. So far, nothing. He was relieved, but not surprised. The last thing the Secret Service would want made public is that they’d let an unarmed journalist slip through their hands.

  He turned back to the story. It was ready to go. He read the lead sentence over again.

  WASHINGTON, D.C. – Senator Micah Madsen has reaped financial rewards for himself, his family, and his campaign for the nation’s highest office from his involvement with a secret operation to infiltrate a Mexican drug cartel, an investigation by the Washington Herald has found.

  The conservative front-runner in the race for the White House, Madsen has been a long-time supporter of tight border security coupled with trade ties to Mexico.

  Documents obtained by the Herald show that the secret anti-drug cartel operation was conducted and executed by a hand-picked team of former criminals. It resulted in the deaths of an El Paso area land developer, a television journalist, and a notorious drug lord.

  Yeah. That’ll do it. He checked his watch: 1:45 p.m. The daily news meeting was still two hours away. It’s now or never with this story. He opened his e-mail account, clicked on the Compose button, typed in Frankel’s address and titled the e-mail, “This Is It.” He attached the story and a few of the documents, and hit Send. He felt drained. He leaned back in the chair and massaged his neck, trying to relieve the dull ache that filled his skull. He picked up one of his throwaway phones and tapped out a text message to Frankel that he’d sent the story.

  ***

  Frankel’s phone beeped, alerting him to a text message. He looked at it, then turned to his computer, opened his e-mail, and then the attachments. The story filled his screen. He read it quickly, checking where Dawson had inserted Madsen’s responses. He smiled to himself and, satisfied with the story, e-mailed it as an attachment to the company editorial board: Executive Editor Reggie Butler, General Manager George Murphy, company President Morris Dixon, and Board Chairwoman Olivia Baldwin. He then printed out the story.

  He stood and was about to walk the story into Butler’s office to demand a meeting with the board, intending to fight to get story printed, when his phone buzzed.

  “You’d better get up here quick,” Butler said, a nervous quiver in his voice.

  “What’s up?”

  “The FBI. That’s what.”

  Damn. With the printout of the story rolled in his hand, Frankel trudged out of his office and to the elevator. The doors opened to reveal three stern looking men in crisp suits carrying thick briefcases. He immediately recognized them as the newspaper’s lawyers. Aw, shit. This wasn’t good. Not only would he be battling reluctant bosses, he’d be sparring with these high-priced lawyers and a posse of FBI agents. Frankel nodded warily to the lawyers, stepped in, and groaned at the thought of what faced him. The doors dinged and closed. His stomach tightened and he regretted not having eaten a few more antacid tablets.

  Frankel stepped out of the elevator and went quickly down the hall, trailed by the three lawyers. He paused at the glass door to the conference room. The FBI team was on one side of the conference table facing Butler, Dixon, Murphy, and Baldwin on the other. He pushed open the door and took the nearest seat. The air in the conference room was thick and gloomy, despite the sunshine outside and the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Dixon, Murphy, and Baldwin rose to greet the lawyers. Seats were taken quickly and legal folders laid on the table.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Dixon began, looking at the lawyers. “We’ve got some guests here from the FBI.” He glanced at the business cards in front of him on the table. “Agents Bemis and Arnold.” The two agents sat still, looking annoyed and impatient. Bemis was a stout, pink-faced man in a brown suit. Arnold was a black woman with close-cropped hair, wearing a blue blazer.

  Confused, Frankel swallowed and furrowed his brow as he looked at Butler.

  Butler nodded and cleared his throat noisily. “I think we need to get Frankel here up to speed.”

  Dixon glared at Frankel, then at Baldwin and the lawyers. “I’ll handle it.” He turned to Frankel. “In case you haven’t noticed, the Secret Service is camped out at the front and back of the building. They’re looking for Kyle Dawson. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?”

  Frankel met Dixon’s stare, then scanned the faces at the table, pausing briefly at the two agents. He clenched his jaw and shrugged.

  “This is not a time to play games, Ed. The future of this publication is at
stake.”

  Frankel didn’t flinch.

  “The FBI has obtained a search warrant, and these two agents expect to be joined here by others momentarily.”

  “What do they want?” Frankel asked.

  Agent Bemis raised his finger, cutting Dixon off. “Your reporter, uh…Kyle Dawson, is believed to possess material that could compromise classified government operations and consequently national security. We have a court order authorizing us to search the premises and retrieve such material.” He paused and looked around the table.

  “In short,” Dixon said, “they want the documents that Dawson has.” Frankel’s stomach tightened. “That’s bullshit,” he said, tossing the story printout on the table. “That we may or may not possess those documents is none of their fucking business,” he said, staring at the agents. “But what those documents reveal is definitely our business.”

  The room fell silent.

  Frankel continued. “The documents show that this country is about to elect a man as their president who has taken millions of dollars in illegal, cross-border drug and gun sales. Under the guise of an undercover DEA operation, he’s been doing business with a Mexican drug cartel for nearly a decade.”

  They stared at Frankel with rapt attention. He had them right where he wanted them.

  “It’s all right here,” he said, tapping the printout. He paused and scanned their panicked faces. “We need to print this story. Now.”

  Dixon sighed deeply and glanced around the room, his eyes settling on Frankel again. “You have no idea of the ramifications of what you’re suggesting. If just one fact is wrong, if any of those documents are fake, we are liable on multiple fronts. This is not just a defamation case, Ed. This could affect our electoral system. It could breach national security. It could sabotage undercover operations in several agencies. It could jeopardize our relations with Mexico. More importantly, it could mean the end of this newspaper. In short, publishing that story would be suicide.”

  Frankel looked down at the sheet of paper in front of him, then lifted his eyes to Dixon. “So, because you’re afraid to put this newspaper at risk, you’re willing to let a criminal be the president for the next four years?”

  Bemis raised his finger again. “Excuse me, but Agent Arnold and I don’t have time for your little debate. Where are the documents?”

  This time Dixon turned from the agents, then looked at Frankel and sighed deeply. “We’re not running the story. Not now. Not ever, as far as I’m concerned. Right now, because of you and Dawson, we have the Secret Service and the FBI about to search on the premises. I hope you’re happy.”

  Frankel’s heart sank. This was as bad as he’d ever experienced. He wasn’t going to win this battle, not today and not in this conference room. He looked at Dixon and then Baldwin. “You’ve seen the FBI’s search warrant already?”

  Baldwin nodded. “They got it rather quickly.”

  “You realize how absurd this is, don’t you?” Frankel said, his eyes moving from face to face. “The documents are digital and have been distributed. Getting physical copies is nothing. The documents are going be in the public domain shortly.”

  The Herald’s lead attorney shrugged. “Even so, we’re the source. The fastest and easiest way to solve this situation is to cooperate. Give these two agents copies of the documents and send them on their way.”

  Dixon settled his gaze again on Frankel. “Ed? Can you go get the documents, please?”

  Frankel glanced from face to face again, ending with Butler, who nodded. “So this is how you want to play it? You’re just going to roll over?”

  Silence filled the room.

  Frankel looked pleadingly back at Baldwin, who tapped the table lightly and nodded. Frankel groaned, his stomach knotting tighter. He scanned the room in disgust. “Give me a few minutes.” He pushed his chair back, stood, and walked out.

  Frankel’s brain was on fire and his heart pounded. His stomach hurt as he stepped onto the elevator and took it down two floors to the newsroom. How could they be so spineless? What had happened to the news business? “Corporate bastards,” he muttered, his fists balled as he marched into his office.

  He paused to shake a couple of antacid tablets from the bottle and chewed them as he opened his locked file cabinet and extracted the sheaf of documents from a file folder. He stuffed the documents into a large envelope, tucked it under his arm, and returned to the elevator. Fuck them. He pushed the button to the basement.

  The elevator door opened to the dimly lighted underground parking garage. He hurried along the rows of cars to the far corner where a dozen white panel vans were parked, each painted with the Washington Herald logo on the side. The vans were only used at night to run newspapers around town. He tried the driver’s side door of one, and then another. Both locked. He went to the small glass-paneled dispatcher’s office. The light was on, but no one was inside. He tried the door. It opened.

  On the wall was a peg board where a dozen sets of keys dangled, each with a number above it. He glanced from the board to the vans, and grabbed a set. A pair of dark blue coveralls hung on a wall hook. He paused to put them on, slipping his shoes down the wide pant legs and his arms into the loose top. He closed the office door behind him, went to a van, and used the key to open the door. He climbed in, started the van, and put it in gear. Frankel drove up out of the basement and into the sunshine. At the top of the ramp, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and wiped a bead of nervous sweat from his forehead as he drove past a gleaming black SUV with tinted windows, then turned onto the street and pulled into traffic.

  * * *

  Banging on the cottage door made Dawson jerk. Frankel rushed in, red-faced and huffing. “Dawson,” he gasped, “the friggin’ Secret Service has been camped outside the newspaper, trying to find you.”

  “Do they know I’m here?”

  “No. But the FBI has a search warrant.”

  “For what?”

  “These documents,” he said, tossing the envelope on the table.

  “But those are just copies. There’re plenty more.”

  “I know. I just didn’t want to give the bastards the satisfaction. But they’re leaning hard. Baldwin, Dixon, Murphy, and Butler are scared shitless.”

  “And?”

  “I snuck out of the building and took a company van here. Did you turn off your phone?”

  “Of course. After I talked with you yesterday. I used the throwaway to call you.”

  “Good. They haven’t been able to track you, so far.”

  “Is the Herald going to run the story?”

  “Hell no! They’re too scared.”

  “We’ve got to put it out there, now. Otherwise we’re screwed. Madsen knows what we have. If we don’t do something now, they’ll bury it forever.”

  “And maybe us along with it.”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  “We? You’re going to post it on your newspaper blog.”

  “My blog?”

  “Yeah, the one I keep telling you to write that you say you never have time for.”

  “Oh, that one.”

  “Yeah, that one. And then post it to your Facebook page.”

  “Social media strikes again,” Dawson said, sitting down at his laptop. “I can load the documents since they’re JPEG files. Create a photo album.”

  “Whatever. Just do it. And fast.”

  Dawson groaned as he hit the Select-All button, copied the story, and opened a new posting page on his blog site. The last time he’d written a blog entry was two months ago. His heart pounded as the story populated the screen, streaming letters and words until it was all there. He then posted a half-dozen documents as JPEG files, scattering them throughout the story. It wasn’t the complete set, but it was better than nothing.

  He then opened his Facebook page and pasted the link to his blog in the update status box. He laughed to himself at the Facebook prompt: “What’s on your mind?” Are you kidding? “A hell of
a lot,” he muttered. The link and graphics quickly appeared. He started uploading the documents, one at a time filling the photo album. Frankel’s internet was fast, thank God.

  “What are the suits going to do when they realize I’ve posted the story on their blog? It’s as if the Herald has published it. It’s on their site, after all.”

  “I know. It’s going to force the spineless bastards to print it eventually, just like they should have in the first place.”

  “But they can just take it down and disavow any knowledge of it. They can blame it on a renegade employee.”

  Frankel lifted his hand. “They can take it down, but it won’t do much good if everyone in town knows about it. While I call the news agencies and networks, you send the link to everyone you know in the business.”

  Dawson knew that Frankel had an enormous reputation in town. When he called, people answered the phone. His first calls were to the news services: the Associated Press, Reuters, the French Press Agency. Frankel then called the Guardian bureau in Washington, and the correspondent for the Times of London. “Yeah, I know the story is not in the regular newspaper,” Frankel shouted. “Just read it. Yeah, you’re right. It’s controversial as hell, but it’s fully documented. Just attribute it to the website. You’re covered. Show some balls.”

  Dawson scrolled through his e-mail addresses and sent a group e-mail with the link to more than a dozen reporters at competing news outlets and websites. Finished, he looked at Frankel in silence, apprehensive about what would happen next.

  Frankel opened a cupboard door and pulled out a bottle of single-malt whiskey. He gurgled it into two glasses and handed one to Dawson. He lifted his glass and nodded. “Here’s mud in your eye.”

  Dawson laughed. Fucking Frankel. Tough as they come. He gulped the whiskey down.