The message was split twelve times for there were twelve agencies that had either flagged his name or his posting. By the time it reached all twelve destinations, the man at the computer was on to the next bit of business.
His, he was sure, was the stupidest job in all of Washington.
***
Josie burst through the front door of Ha Kuna House.
“Amelia! Amelia! Come quick. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She just started shaking and I couldn’t get her to move…”
Amelia was out of her chair before Josie finished, clipping the taller woman’s shoulder as she dashed toward the door. Josie spun around and went after. They ran down the path, Josie slipping on the now wet earth, slapping a palm frond out of her way as she tried to get her footing. Amelia turned back, but Josie waved her on.
“Keep going!”
But Amelia had stopped and as Josie righted herself she saw why. A man dressed in work boots, fatigues, and a white T-shirt was walking Emily toward them. He had a hold of her and for a second Josie flashed back to her parents walking arm in arm, quiet and content. But this wasn’t her father and Emily wasn’t reliving the past. She was gone again.
Away from Josie.
Away from everyone.
“Came to say goodbye, Madge.” – Archer
“Something for the road?” – Madge
“A burger should hold me.” – Archer
“You got it. Hey. Look what the dog dragged in. Honey, this guy’s been wanting to talk to you about that picture.” – Madge
CHAPTER 20
Ambrose Patriota stood at the bank of microphones. Clustered behind him were seven of his brethren waiting their turn to address the escalating NSA scandal. There wasn’t much to say, actually. Every government listened in on every other government, their own people, and their own lawmakers. Like business, government was only as successful as the leverage it wielded against its competitors. In the grand scheme of things, this was a tempest in a teapot fed by a malingering media who preferred the ease of a perceived scandal to investigating a real one. They were so easily pleased and played so Ambrose did what he did best: he said what the public needed to hear.
“I am distressed by the administration’s lack of transparency regarding the NSA. However, I am not surprised. We have seen this time and time again. The administration says one thing and does quite another. The president of Brazil has cancelled her state visit in protest. The foreign relations committee will make recommendations, but we cannot reverse an administration-sanctioned program. We can only register our protest and try to convince the president that his ways must change.”
“Senator Patriota, if you’re elected what specifically would you do differently?”
“Senator Patriota, can you address the ramifications for our foreign policy?”
“Senator Patriota, congress has threatened to subpoena your records, will that–”
Ambrose ignored all the questions and spoke to his purpose. No one, after all, expected specifics.
“Confidence in the United States has eroded to a dangerous point. The president says he is not to blame. The buck must stop somewhere, and if not with him then with who? I intend to work with the House in a cooperative manner, not only to find out who has ordered this egregious over-stepping but how high it goes.”
When Ambrose was done he walked alone to his office, feeling absolutely naked when he entered it without Eugene. But there were others to notice him and his secretary was the first.
“Senator Hyashi called and would like to see you at four. It will work but that means you’ll have to dispose of Mr. Zanga in forty-five minutes. He’s due at 3:15.”
“Save me from Mr. Zanga, Norma.” Ambrose took off his jacket and hung it in the closet.
“No can do, sir. Kid glove time. He can bring a pretty penny to the war chest. While you take a few minutes to wish he wasn’t coming, sign these letters. First, condolences to Mrs. Petrie on the death of her one hundred year old husband.”
Ambrose signed.
“Two Eagle Scout congratulations.”
Ambrose signed again.
“Five condolences to the families of those marines killed over in Afghanistan.”
Ambrose signed, signed, and signed.
Norma collected them all. They would be in the afternoon mail and in two days they would be opened and treasured by the recipients. That’s why Ambrose never allowed an automatic signature on letters commemorating personal events. Fundraising letters were another matter. No one treasured those. Today, though, he would have been happy for the robo-signature even on a death letter. The pen felt heavy.
“Mrs. Patriota wants to know if the sixteenth of next month is still good for the governors’ dinner,” Norma went on.
“Remind me who will be there?”
“Texas, Arizona, California, Ohio.”
“A good line-up. Tell her yes. Tell her to make it very special. We want to keep them happy.”
“Everyone is happy with you.”
“So you say, Norma.”
“Call backs on your left as usual. Think-about-its are on the top right and make-’em-sweat on the bottom right. Oh, and that report I gave you a few days ago? There’s an update. Do you want me to re-print the whole thing or just the new activity?”
“Just the new activity is fine. Thank you, Norma. I appreciate it.”
That was it. She had plenty to do on her own desk and the senator needed to attend to his, but he wasn’t quite ready.
“Norma?”
“Yes, Senator?”
“Have you seen Eugene?”
“No, Senator, I haven’t. Would you like me to track him down?”
“It’s just unlike him to be absent so long,” Ambrose mused.
“Maybe he’s playing hooky.”
“Do you think he might have?”
“There’s a first time for everything, Senator.” The woman shrugged.
“True, Norma, but it’s Eugene we’re talking about.”
“You have a point there,” she said. “Really. No trouble to find him for you.”
“Thank you, Norma. Perhaps that’s a good idea.”
She left only to return ten minutes later and proved her worth. She had everything he wanted: the new print out and information on where Eugene had gone.
Ambrose thanked her for both. As she left, he was thinking that the boy was proving more interesting than Ambrose gave him credit for.
Ambrose added a few more numbers to his NSA request. It would be good to know who Eugene was talking to in his spare time. Finally, Ambrose called the US Attorney and had a long chat about the possible need for a wire tap or two.
***
Woodrow Calister’s brownstone was a far cry from Ambrose’s beautifully appointed home with its Persian rugs and fine art. It was not visually stunning like Jerry Norn’s glass penthouse. And it certainly wasn’t a homey place like Mark Hyashi’s in Virginia where his wife kept a family home identical to the one in their district. Woodrow Calister’s place was comfortable, big enough for him to monitor the entire footprint easily, and well appointed enough to put off any female who might suggest it needed a woman’s touch. But Woodrow Calister’s place was special because it had a most unique library.
The darkly paneled room was more than just a private retreat: it was a safe room. Woodrow had personally installed the fire doors, the alarm system, and recording devices. He was quite proud of his handiwork because it reminded him of the good old days when he was a master electrician. A far higher calling, he thought, than that of politician. Right now, though, he was intrigued by the politics that had brought that evening’s visitor to his doorstep. Eugene Weller sat on the edge of the leather sofa, knees together, briefcase at his feet.
“Are you sure you don’t want water with this?” Woodrow asked.
“No. Thank you.”
He handed Eugene his glass: two fingers of bourbon instead of his usual white wine. Woodrow’s chair was opposite Eu
gene, and the lighting was recessed above him to create the appropriate shadows. Eugene was quite well illuminated. There wouldn’t be a shadow to cross his face that Woodrow wouldn’t see. Woodrow lit a cigarette.
“Does Ambrose even know you’re here?”
“No. He does not,” his voice caught. He felt as if he were betraying his senator and he had no idea why. What he was doing was insurance for Ambrose, protection in the form of a powerful ally. Still, Eugene felt a need to qualify his statement. “But, Senator, I hope you know I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think this situation was critical.”
“That is not a promising opening salvo,” Woodrow noted. He flicked his ash and took a drink.
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be overly dramatic. I have briefed Senator Patriota about this. He is unconcerned, but my concern is growing. Considering this might affect you if you were to be Senator Patriota’s running mate, and that it involves the DOD and you chair the committee, I thought your counsel would be appropriate.”
Eugene took a drink. He took another. The booze didn’t warm him and Calister’s silence did not reassure him. His decision to request this meeting was impulsive and now he realized it could also be risky. This meeting could be construed as insubordination.
“Eugene, please, I’m happy to help but I need to know what you’re talking about before I know if I can do anything,” Woodrow prodded. “Is Ambrose sick?”
“No. No. Nothing like that.” Eugene shook his head vehemently. “This has to do with the disruption a few weeks ago during the hearing on Eastern European Organized Crime.”
“Yes. I heard about it.” Woodrow drank, too. “I didn’t hear about any fallout.”
Eugene cleared his throat.
“The most immediate fallout was that the man who was responsible for it killed himself later on that evening.”
“And this is relevant because?” Woodrow was already not liking the sound of this.
“The man in question was part of a program under the Department of Defense’s guidance in the eighties. It will be in your archives. You’ll remember MKUltra?”
“This guy was a part of that?” Woodrow became noticeably engaged as he snuffed out his cigarette.
“No, sir. Ian Francis was a researcher following up on the aftermath of that and ancillary programs. CHATTER respondents and, in one case, Artichoke. He was intimately involved in the final phase, charged with the concluding research and wrapping it all up.”
“And?”
“And,” Eugene breathed. “Instead of completing his work it became necessary to absorb him into the program. At that point there were still fifteen residents, ten had passed on, funding needs were not increasing, the subjects and protocols were too old to be of value, and so the determination was made not to replace him.”
“That all sounds appropriate.” Woodrow took a drink. “Do you know who made these decisions?”
Eugene read off a short list of project managers and one undersecretary.
“What about the secretary himself at the time these decisions were made?”
“I haven’t inquired,” Eugene said. “I thought it better not to enlarge the inquiry at this time. As Senator Patriota’s chief of staff, this might be construed as overstepping my bounds internally. If this matter does enter the mainstream, I don’t want it to appear that the senator was hands-on.”
“I assume you’ve come with some plan should this become a matter of public interest,” Woodrow said.
“If there were a call for a full blown investigation before the convention, I was thinking your department could investigate but put it on the back burner. That would possibly mitigate the impact to the campaign. Let it play out without any real inquiry and bury it.”
“Good thinking, Eugene.” Woodrow took a drink. “But I still don’t understand why you’re concerned now and what it might have to do with Ambrose. It seems to be a problem for the DOD.”
“Projections were that the project would officially wrap up completely in 2020, but when Ian Francis disrupted the hearing and threw around the project names, I followed up. That’s when I ran across this.”
Eugene set aside his drink, retrieved his report and handed it over. The big man snapped open a pair of glasses and perused the information, turning a page forward and one back, taking it in, giving no indication that he was alarmed by what he was reading. Eugene forced himself not to fidget while Woodrow Calister read.
“I’d like to familiarize myself with the details tonight. I am vaguely aware of Michael Horn. The lower courts showed some interest in his suit, but it’s been stalled for years. I think the clock will play out on that part of it.”
“I’m not concerned with the courts but rather with what’s happening on his website and with his phone records,” Eugene said. “Ian Francis’ suicide was noticed. I thought I had squelched it but a small piece appeared in The Post and that led to renewed activity on Michael Horn’s part.
“Still, it’s not just him making noise. Josie Bates -– Senator Patriota’s witness – is in Hawaii. She’s been at the facility. A few days ago she logged a call to DOD about Robert Cote. You’ll see he was the one who administered the program for a time.”
“And did she get ahold of him?” Woodrow asked.
“No, he’s retired and protected.” Eugene answered. “The fly in the ointment is her mother. She is in residence.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Woodrow muttered and dropped his head into his upraised hand.
“We didn’t know that when she was invited to testify on the Eastern European problem – not that it would have made a difference. It was the mention of her in The Post article that caught Michael Horn’s interest. We know he’s called her Hermosa Beach office multiple times but so far we have no record of him calling Bates’ cell.”
“Wonderful.” Woodrow rolled his eyes.
“The current administrator of Ha Kuna House naturally blocked access to her mother and notified the project director. You may want to touch base there and offer some assistance.”
“Why isn’t he letting her see the woman? I doubt she’s in any shape to do any harm and denial will look suspicious,” Woodrow complained.
“It’s not just visitation. Bates has gone to court. She wants guardianship transferred. The judge is moving slowly which gives us time to consider our options. He’s asked the house for records on the commitment and her care.”
“Don’t have the government contest it. Cut the woman loose and this all goes away. She can’t be in any condition to compromise anyone at this point. Bates will be happy and forget about the facility.”
“The problem is that no one knows what will happen if the mother is in an uncontrolled environment.” Eugene finished his drink. “I’ve met Josie Bates. She is going to want answers. If she gets them, history becomes a current event and Senator Patriota gets dragged into the mess. I don’t think that’s the way you want to start a campaign.”
“You have a point there,” Woodrow muttered.
The two men retreated into their own thoughts both considering the fragility of power and how it could be rendered impotent by inconsequential people: an attorney from California, a businessman from Cleveland, a woman without memory, and even a dead man.
But Eugene had one thought that Woodrow Calister did not. Eugene thought that as the guardian of the gate he was actually in a position to do more harm than any of them. If he were a different man he could be the one to ruin Ambrose, not save him.
***
Josie knocked on the cottage door. When Johnson opened it he looked her straight in the eye. That was unusual because most men liked to start at her feet and work their way up. She stuck out her hand.
“I’m Josie Bates, Emily’s daughter.”
“I know.”
His legs were planted wide and his hands grasped the door on either side. He looked like a spider waiting for something tasty to fly too close to his web. He took his time before gripping her hand.
&n
bsp; “Johnson.”
“The caretaker,” Josie matched his grip and then shook his hand to keep this friendly. “Amelia told me after we got my mom upstairs. It was kind of crazy out there, so I didn’t have a chance to thank you for bringing her back.”
“Sure,” he said.
Josie wasn’t put off by his lack of hospitality. She was sure this man found foe more often than friend on his doorstep.
“Could I come in for a second?” she asked.
“I wasn’t expecting company.”
“I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Johnson considered her, decided she was more interesting than whatever else he had to do, and slung himself back. There was barely enough room to pass. Josie never cared for that particular male game: blocking an entrance so a woman had to turn to face him to get where she was going, her back up against a wall, his lips suggestively close, having to endure the intimidation of someone bigger and stronger than she was. Josie was as tall as Johnson so that changed things. He had to step back when she walked straight on. Josie thought she heard him laugh when he closed the door.
The place was more like a generous studio rather than a cottage. There was a kitchen, a bathroom, and in the big living room a desk and table. She did a double take on the table and the disassembled handguns spread out over newspaper.
“So, your mom was kind of out of it. How’s she doing?” he asked.
Josie pivoted smoothly. She smiled and ignored the elephant in the room in favor of the rhinoceros.
“She hasn’t spoken. Something scared her out there.”
“I was the only one out there. I don’t think I’m that scary. Do you?”
Josie ignored the question. “Even when she talks, she doesn’t say much anyway, but Amelia seems to be worried.”
“None of them talk much,” Johnson responded. “Do you want to sit down?”
“For a minute. I’ve got to catch the ferry back to Maui.” Josie sat on the sofa, the table with the guns still in her peripheral vision. “I guess I was hoping that she might tell me something – anything – about the situation she’s in. It doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, so I thought I’d ask you a few questions.”
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