by Rose Beecham
Lone thought about her partner’s suicide note. Madeline wrote: What did my son die for? The answer she and every mother deserved was that her child had given his life for a noble cause. That he was defending his country, and there was no higher calling for a patriotic American. Brandon had died a Marine, and proud, and no one could take that away from him. But the truth was unspeakably banal. Brandon had died because war was good business and a few corrupt men were drunk on power.
Lone hadn’t always known what she knew now. She used to laugh at conspiracy theorists. She thought Iraq naysayers were deluded fools who refused to accept post-9/11 reality, misguided liberals who didn’t understand what was in their own best interests. People like her were trained to protect American interests even when they received no thanks for doing so. They were the active patriots, the bulwark between a free society and the external forces of hate that sought its undoing. She was proud to wear the uniform. She could look anyone in the eye and defend her beliefs, knowing she was right.
When Madeline started spouting left-wing rhetoric about blood for oil, Lone had tried to make her see sense. Back then, the commander in chief had her loyalty, and she gave him credit for knowing what he was doing. She couldn’t believe that a president would take the country to war without an imminent threat. Even if the bullshit about WMDs was just a smokescreen and the real reason they were there was to secure oil resources, Lone could have accepted that. She just wanted to be told the truth, to know what she was risking her life for.
Soldiers like her obeyed their commanders’ orders without question, but mutual trust was fundamental to that equation. The commander had to rely on the loyalty and obedience of his troops, and the troops had to believe their commander would only send them into harm’s way if there was no other choice. The idea of an elective war, a war to make money for friends in big business, was such a dire breach of trust that Lone had refused to entertain the possibility. Even after she lost Brandon and then Madeline, she thought if she got to the truth of the matter her beliefs would be vindicated. She simply couldn’t accept that she’d been duped and that the weak-kneed liberals she despised had been right all along.
A sob closed her throat as she thought about the facts she’d uncovered. The truth was hard to accept not only because it made a fool of her but because it changed everything. Ego was not an indulgence an honorable soldier could afford when her country was at risk. An evil alliance of men had stolen America out from under the feet of her citizens, using lies and propaganda to hide their real agenda. Now that she understood what was really happening, she saw evidence of their strategies wherever she looked.
There had to be a war so the big donors to the Bush presidential campaign could get their payday. The “plan for a post-Saddam Iraq” memo laid it out right there six months before 9/11—troop requirements, war crimes tribunals, and divvying up the oil assets. According to Paul O’Neill, the memo was all they could talk about at the National Security Council meeting that February. Screw the information about an imminent terrorist attack; they had more important things to think about, like which of their pals would get the Iraqi oilfield contracts.
Besides, back in 2000 Cheney and his neocon friends in the PNAC had lamented that American world dominance would progress slowly unless there was “some catastrophic and catalyzing event––like a new Pearl Harbor.” Would they stand in the way of the dream-come-true scenario they hoped for? Lone seriously doubted it.
Every time she thought about the real reasons her country was at war, she was consumed with a wintry rage that made her physically ill. Some days she felt so angry she wanted to harm herself. She couldn’t believe she’d stayed in her brainwashed bubble for so long. Like others who’d drunk the Kool-Aid, she reacted like a wind-up doll to the familiar refrain: patriotism, American values, fight them over there so we don’t have to fight them here. Her adamant beliefs had blinded her to Madeline’s despair. She’d read into her lover’s angry words nothing more than the grief of a mother who’d lost her child. She had kidded herself that time would heal and Madeline would come to terms with her loss.
Lone felt sick and her hands began to sweat. In her arrogance and blindness, she had invalidated Madeline’s feelings and left her terribly alone in her unbearable knowledge. The day she’d killed herself, Madeline left her diary open on the nightstand at Lone’s side of the bed. A quote was penned in the middle of the page:
Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be “governed” without opposition by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct.
—White Rose Society. Germany, 1942
Several weeks after she dropped dirt into Madeline’s grave, Lone finally Googled the source of the quote, a leaflet written by a handful of Germans who resisted Nazi ideology and dared to say so. They were executed, of course. Beheaded. Kids who dared to question the corrupt beast of National Socialism. Their story made her think about how an entire nation could be coopted and coerced into accepting the unacceptable. Her country could not be compared to Nazi Germany, but the lessons of history were undeniable. People could rationalize almost anything, even act against their own interests, when they buried their common sense under layers of fear, self-deception, obedience, and misguided patriotism.
Lone had done exactly that, and she had failed the woman she loved. She was not going to make the same mistake twice. She had Debbie to think about now, innocent, trusting Debbie Basher, who knew nothing about politics and saw only the good in people. Whatever happened, Lone was going to keep her safe. She would never let Debbie down. When she was done, Debbie would be proud of her. And so would Madeline, if she was looking down from heaven.
A loud cheer rose around her, calling her thoughts to order. Lone added her voice absently to the chants as the Dicktator effigy was pulled, Saddam-style, off its pedestal. She pictured the real VP there, toppled from his lofty perch, facing the fury of the little people whose lives he trampled as he pleased. Would he expect mercy, or would he concede that criminal conduct should have consequences? Even Nixon had finally understood that America was a precious idea and that the office he held should not be defiled by the dirty dealings of corrupt men. He’d had enough shame to resign.
Aware that she was standing too still, Lone followed a young woman dawdling away from the rally. She’d seen enough to know that this was not the right place for the delivery phase of Operation Houseclean. Jackson Hole was deceptively open and tranquil, but now that the millionaires had been driven out by billionaires, the area was knee-deep in private security. Of the three Cheney residences she’d scoped out, this one offered the easiest access but it wouldn’t suffice. The chances of getting her target close enough to a van packed with C-4 to be killed by the explosion seemed poor and the opportunities to get a clean head shot were extremely limited.
She considered the option of rigging a golf cart to explode. She could gain access to the eighteenth hole via one of the upscale houses that backed onto the green in that area, but escape would be impossible and she needed to get away so she could move quickly to the next name on her list of first-wave targets.
Talk about shock and awe.
Americans thought Republican sex scandals were shaking things up. They were startled by the departures of Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, and Alberto Gonzales. Well, she had news for them. They hadn’t seen anything yet. The evil alliance would thrive with impunity no more. Their days of gluttony at the trough of greed, amorality, and excess were numbered.
The men leading this country toward doom so they could wallow in wealth thought they were entitled. For them, the means always justified the end, when the end was about their wealth, power, and privilege. Screw the other ninety-nine percent of the population, they were just there to be used. The cabal that had stolen the country slept like babies. They threw sticks for their dogs and bounced their grandchildren on their knees. They could look at themselves in the mirror and ignore the blood on their hands.
&nbs
p; Well, not for much longer. When she was done, the blood would be their own.
Chapter Four
Debbie Basher hung the Closed sign on the door of Le Paradox and gazed up at Jude. Her hazel eyes were bright with tears. “Thanks for coming.”
They both heard the tremble in her voice. Looking embarrassed, Debbie tucked her wavy chestnut hair behind her ears and clasped her hands together. She was not one of those women who could hide emotional turmoil behind a placid veneer.
“What’s wrong?” Jude asked.
Debbie’s mouth trembled. “Where are my manners? Coffee?”
Jude lifted the paper cup Agatha had placed in her hand as she left the stationhouse.
“Oh, silly me.” Debbie’s eyes darted left and right.
Jude always had the urge to hold her and stroke her hair, as one would a frightened child. “Let’s sit down,” she said.
Over the past months she’d befriended the sweet-natured hairdresser, hoping to get a fix on her taciturn lover, Sandy Lane aka Lonewolf. Debbie’s name had popped up on the FBI radar when someone purchased two hundred pounds of C-4 plastic explosive in her name. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out who made the buy. Jude was still amazed that Sandy had implicated her girlfriend. She probably thought anyone following up on the purchase would take one look at Debbie and assume identity theft. This woman wouldn’t know plastic explosive from tofu.
Debbie had no idea that she and her beloved were under surveillance, and Jude had no plans to tell her. She wanted to find out what Sandy Lane was up to and talk her down before she did something she would regret. So far, she hadn’t come close to gathering any hard intelligence. The woman was a survivalist with a cabin somewhere in the San Juans. Jude had attempted to followed her down there on several occasions, but Sandy wasn’t stupid.
It wasn’t easy to hide a Dakota with patrol markings in a single, slow-moving lane of traffic on the narrow, winding mountain highway, and Sandy always seemed to know when she was being followed. Last time, she’d stopped at a rest area and waved as Jude approached. Jude had pulled over to greet her as if the encounter was mere coincidence. She said she was on her way to Cortez for a meeting. She could tell Sandy didn’t buy it.
The FBI kept files on thousands of antisocial loners. Admittedly most weren’t building C-4 stockpiles. But Sandy seemed to be lying low, and since she could not be tied to any watch-list organization, all Jude could do was wait for her to make a move.
“Would you like a donut?” Debbie asked as Jude followed her to the tiny staff area out the back of the shop.
“No, thanks.” Jude sat at one end of the scuffed leather love seat that took up most of the room. “You said you haven’t heard from Sandy for a couple of days?” she prompted.
Debbie perched on the edge of the cushion next to Jude’s like she might have to flee at any moment. Jude wondered what kind of childhood could have left her so painfully vulnerable and lacking in confidence.
“I feel silly calling you.” Debbie give a jittery shrug. “I’m sure she’s perfectly fine and I’m worrying for no reason.”
“You’re entitled to be concerned.”
“It’s just…” Uncertainty pinched Debbie’s small face. “This isn’t the first time. It’s been going on for months.”
Jude waited, wanting her to work through all the usual rationalizations until she arrived at the gut fear that made her seek help in the first place.
“She goes away for days at a time and never tells me where, and she doesn’t call till she gets back. She keeps changing her cell phone number.” Debbie covered her mouth with both hands, smothering a sob. “Do you think she’s having an affair?”
An affair was probably the best scenario. “What do you think?” Jude asked.
“I don’t think she’s seeing anyone. I think she loves me. But everyone says this kind of thing is a sign.” Debbie gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m probably just being paranoid because of what happened with Meg.”
Before moving to the Four Corners three years earlier, Debbie had lived with a woman in Denver. She’d walked out when she discovered her partner had been cheating on her for months. Meg had promised to buy her out of their house, but that never happened and Debbie struggled along in rented accommodation, trying to make ends meet by working part-time in another woman’s hair shop. In the meantime, her father had died and she wasn’t close to her mother. Her only sibling, an older brother, was pastor of an evangelical church in Greenville. He had numerous children, but Debbie, the “homosexual sinner,” was not allowed near them for reasons of family values.
Jude wasn’t surprised by her dependency on Sandy. Who else made her feel loved? An ugly thought unsettled Jude. What if the relationship was just an expedience for Sandy? Could she be using Debbie, even setting her up?
With deep unease, Jude said, “Let’s assume she’s not having an affair. What else could she be doing? Does she have a hobby she wants to keep to herself? Is she going away to visit a sick relative?”
“Not that I know of. I was hoping she might have said something to you.”
Jude stifled a laugh. The last thing Sandy Lane said to her was, “If anything ever happens, make sure Debbie’s okay.” Not the words of a woman whose partner was nothing more than a convenience, surely.
That was six weeks ago, at a community cookout Agatha organized for the Fourth of July. Jude had dragged Sandy aside later and asked her point-blank what she thought might “happen.” She had fobbed off the question, saying she was just feeling gloomy after she saw a collision on the highway.
“There’s something else.” Debbie’s voice tightened. “This time, before she left she said we’re moving to Canada when she gets back.”
“Canada?” Jude’s pulse jumped. Sandy was planning an exit strategy that involved vanishing across the border. And she was taking Debbie.
“I don’t want to live in Canada,” Debbie said, wringing her hands. “My boss and her husband have an alpaca farm and they’re expanding. She wants to sell the shop. I’d get it for peanuts. Nobody wants to buy a business out here.”
“That sounds like a good opportunity if you think you could make a living.”
“I thought I could add some other services. Manicures. Facials. I’m a trained aesthetician as well as a hairdresser.”
“You’d probably do okay,” Jude said. “Have you talked to Lone about it?”
“No. I was planning to and then she started with this Canada idea. She’s acting like it’s definite.”
“What’s in Canada?”
“She has a property there. She bought it after her partner died.”
“Where is it?” Jude asked casually.
“I don’t exactly know.” Debbie met Jude’s eyes, as if seeking understanding. “She’s such a private person. You know, she really needs her space. I respect that, so I don’t ask a lot of questions.”
“But this is not just about her.” Jude spoke evenly, keeping incredulity out of her tone. “She wants you to go live in another country with her. I think you have every right to ask questions.”
“I tried to talk with her. I mean, what am I supposed to do for a job? But she said I don’t have to think about any of that. She can take care of both of us.”
“How’s she going to do that?”
Debbie looked embarrassed. Jude had already concluded that she was afraid of driving her lover away and avoided any kind of confrontation. Sandy didn’t seem abusive toward her, quite the opposite. As far as Jude could determine she was very tender and devoted. But she also treated Debbie like a child. A possession.
“Does she ever talk about her time in the military?” Jude asked.
Arbiter had finally tracked down Sandy’s service records, only to find most of her file content was unavailable. “Alexandra Lane Cordell” was indeed known as Sandy Lane to her buddies and had served in the 82nd Airborne, as she’d told Jude. But she’d refrained from mentioning her extensive SOF expertise. Many of the 82nd
had been deployed to special ops forces in Afghanistan, waging unconventional warfare alongside elite Green Beret units. Sandy was among them and, according to her commanding officer, she was a brilliant tactical operative and explosives expert. He’d noted in a report that if she were a man, he would have put her name forward as a Delta recruit. That could only mean one thing. Sandy Lane was smart, highly skilled, and a competent killer. Jude had guessed all of those things the first time they met.
Arbiter had since raised the idea that she was now selling her services in the private sector. If so, her C-4 purchase could be tied to a domestic plot. The possibilities were endless. A scare tactic. A hit. Blackmail. Organized crime. Perhaps even a terrorist strike, if it could be believed that she would act against her own country. They’d discussed another possibility, too—that Sandy had been recruited by the Company or the NSA and was active in an operation the Bureau knew nothing about. If so their investigation could conceivably compromise her.
“I think it makes her depressed, talking about Iraq and Afghanistan,” Debbie said. “So she keeps things to herself.”
“Did something happen there, a particular incident that bothers her?”
Debbie hesitated. “Has she told you about Madeline and Brandon?”
“No.”
“Well, I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not my place. But her partner committed suicide after her son was killed in Iraq. Lone still has nightmares about it.”
Holy shit. Jude’s gut reacted. So far, Arbiter hadn’t been able to verify details of Sandy’s personal history beyond information about her parents and upbringing. Because she was gay, the dead ends weren’t surprising. The Bureau had tried the usual quasi-legal mail and cell phone intercepts, but their subject didn’t seem to receive mail and she barely used her disposable cell phones. Every time Jude wheedled a number from Debbie, it went out of use before they could trace it. Arbiter got antsy about that. Civilians, unless they were criminals, tended to leave a big, clumsy footprint. They did nothing to guard their privacy and were easy to monitor. Sandy knew better. She behaved like a spook. Arbiter was reluctant to put her under heightened scrutiny for that reason; the Bureau found it wise to avoid blundering into other intelligence agencies’ operations.