by Alan Gold
“Good morning, Governor. I’m here with the secretary of agriculture and a number of other experts. Can you tell us what’s happened, please?”
Governor Consuela Lopez cleared her throat and spoke into the handheld microphone. There was too much crosswind in the open field for her to be heard over the distant camera’s mike. “I’m in Garden Ridge, which is a couple of miles northeast of San Antonio. The field I’m in is owned by the Bat Conservation International organization. Bracken Cave is a home to millions and millions of Mexican free-tailed bats. They fly up here from their winter in Mexico. It’s a thousand miles. They nest and roost in this cave. There are over twenty million bats, Mr. President. They come here to have their babies. Ten million babies. They swarm out at night to feed. It’s one of the greatest sights in the world. One of the most important mass animal movements anywhere on the planet. And it happens every night.
“And during the early morning, after the bats had returned from their night’s feed and were exhausted and were sleeping, some bastards have netted the mouth of the cave and they’ve thrown in dozens of petrol bombs that have exploded and set fire to the bats, and when they tried to escape they were caught in the netting, and they’re dead, Mr. President. They’re all dead. Millions and millions of them. Those bastards have killed them. They weren’t diseased. We tested them. They used to fly out for hundreds of miles and they would catch two hundred tons of mosquitoes and moths and insects every night. They were harmless; they used to do only good and the farmers, tourists, and people loved them. And these bastards have netted and killed them. Burned the poor little creatures to death. Oh God . . . you should see the carnage . . .”
She tried to fight back tears and had to put the microphone down for a moment. Before he could say anything to console her, Governor Lopez continued, “You should see piles of bodies of the little things. The floor is littered knee-deep with millions upon millions of them . . . and their babies. They died in agony.”
“Consuela,” said the president, “have the police got any eye-witness statements?”
“They’re working on it, sir, but you’d better put some laws into place, or these bastard vigilantes will kill every living thing. I know they’re scared of this plague, Mr. President, but this is mass murder of perfectly healthy and important animals. It can’t go unpunished.”
The president continued to talk to her about the slaughter and if there was any hope for any bats that might still be alive. But the situation was beyond recovery, and everybody knew it.
“I assume that you’re going to make a press statement when the news gets out,” he said. She nodded. “Okay, how would you feel, Governor, if one of my people emailed you some talking points so that you can be part of the national picture of what we’re trying to do up here? I’ll make a statement immediately after you’ve informed the media and the citizens of Texas. Oh Consuela, I’m so terribly sorry. But I promise you that this murder of innocent animals by Americans will cease. We won’t have these cowboy vigilantes taking the law into their own hands.”
When the transmission had finished, the president gave instruction to his press secretary about the material to send to the governor of the state of Texas. Then he turned to Daniel Todd. “How significant is this Bracken Cave, Professor Todd?”
Before he spoke, Daniel glanced at Debra, who gave him a barely noticeable nod. “Sir, it would be hard to overstate the importance of Bracken Cave’s bat population in terms of the global problems that these creatures are facing. For the past number of years, especially on the East Coast, we’ve been tagging bats with transmitters and are doing infrared flight analysis and testing their blood to try to solve a devastating problem that is already causing their numbers to crash, and that’s without these vigilantes.
“There’s a species popularly called the little brown bat that is dying off in the millions from a fungus called White-nose Syndrome. This white fungus grows on the faces of the bats during hibernation and irritates them. It upsets their natural rhythms so that instead of being dormant in their warm cave where their bodies close down in the freezing cold and lack of food, this fungus causes them to wake up, become active in the intense cold, and go out in a useless search for food that isn’t there during the winter season. In some cases, sir, we’re losing 100 percent of bats in caves and mines in upstate New York . . . but now it’s spreading and is heading west and south.
“The point is, Mr. President, that this massive die-off from fungal disease is going to devastate US forests and productive agricultural farmland. Look, I know most people are scared of bats, but you have to think about them differently. They’re one of our most important pesticides, as well as incredibly important in the cycle of nature, like pollination. One of these little brown bats can eat a thousand insects every night. So you lose a million bats to White-nose fungus, and there’s going to be close to a billion nasty insects, nearly seven hundred additional tons of moths and beetles and mosquitoes each summer that will do terrible damage to forests and woodland. And that’s just one species.
“Bats are voracious feeders on moths and beetles that attack crops like cotton, corn, and other things that farmers grow. So we’ll have to use more pesticides that are already damaging our ecology. Dear God, they’ve survived for fifty million years, and the lot of them could be wiped out in the next decade.
“You asked how significant is the murder of these bats in Bracken Cave. I’ll tell you, Mr. President. Multiply what I’ve just told you by twenty; and then twenty again and then again and you’ll have trillions of additional mosquitoes, beetles, and other insects in the air over the southern states of America with all the devastation that’ll cause. And there’ll be far less pollination of our fruit trees.
“Mr. President, sir, it’s a real problem. And all for nothing. These bats weren’t infected. They were a successful, thriving community. I just hope that the American people realize how devastating this has been, and you can convince other vigilantes to lay off. It’s the law of unintended consequences, sir. We wipe out one species that is threatening us, and suddenly, without realizing it, we’re prey to other things we didn’t even think about.”
14
FBI HEADQUARTERS PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, WASHINGTON, DC
Although there were two FBI agents in front of him, two behind him, and one each at his left and right sides, Professor Stuart Chalmers wasn’t handcuffed as he strode into FBI headquarters in Washington. Inspector Marcus Stone walked ahead of the group and ushered them into a large conference room. On the table were the ubiquitous conference phones and microphones; an electronic whiteboard was at one end of the room and a large glass mirror was at the other end. Stone seated Chalmers directly opposite the mirror and noted that as he sat down, he smiled and gave a little wave to his reflection, knowing that behind the two-way mirror there was a phalanx of experts recording, analyzing, and synthesizing every word, movement, and flicker he made.
One of the dozen or so people in the monitoring room who was watching Chalmers’s every breath was Harry Clarfield, a covert operative often used for black ops and wet work, but never officially employed by White House Chief of Security Ted Marmoullian. Harry had been woken by an urgent phone call that morning and ordered by Marmoullian to go to the FBI’s headquarters to listen in on the interview being conducted with Chalmers.
By arrangement, Clarfield’s name appeared on no lists, no rolls, no pieces of paper. He only answered the telephone to three people—two were family, and one was the White House’s head of security. Other than that, he was non-existent. The only way for anybody wanting to employ his services to contact him was via a messaging service in the Cayman Islands that relayed the request to a secretarial service in Ireland that passed it on to the message bank of a client they believed lived in Auckland, New Zealand, and who they only knew as “Mr. White.” When he listened to his message bank, Clarfield bought a once-only mobile phone, contacted the person who’d made the inquiry, dumped the phone into the furnace
of his Seattle apartment block, and took an immediate flight to where he was wanted. Ted Marmoullian wanted him in this FBI Washington office, right now.
Clarfield was a skeptic by birth as well as by training, and the thought that this animal rights anarchist had managed to pull the wool over the eyes of these FBI goons and was now presenting himself as their most valuable asset was more proof of how dangerous he was. Sure, the Feds were skeptical of his volte face and apparent willingness to assist them in bringing the killers to book, but they kept trying to convince Marmoullian of the fact that the evidence of the book he’d been compiling was accurate scientific proof. They’d chemically analyzed it and shown that the original entries were, indeed, nearly twenty years old and that the later entries, although vague, had been verified by monitored calls to FBI offices before the murder incidents. So, even though he was still a prime suspect, the evidence was pointing to the truth of what he’d told them in Madison . . . that he’d made anonymous calls to local FBI offices in order to warn them before each murderous incident and that the Bureau had failed to connect the dots.
But Harry wasn’t buying it. Scientific evidence could be forged; it could be manipulated. And he’d always relied on his gut instincts, which right now told him that this guy wasn’t just a mass murderer and anarchist, but a terrorist who had designs on killing the president of the United States. The difference between Harry and the FBI was that they sought evidence to bring a miscreant to trial, whereas if somebody threatened the occupant of the Oval Office, Harry would blow them away without a moment’s hesitation and ask questions later.
It was such an obvious ploy to distract the investigation from Professor Chalmers and his Whole Earth League and pour a bucket load of shit on the heads of the other moronic dropkick group, CHAT—Citizens for Humane Animal Treatment—that Harry wondered why they were even wasting time with this interview. But on the principle that no stone must be left unturned, he’d go along with Inspector Stone and listen in.
The FBI man began the discussion. “For the record of this interview, my name is Inspector Marcus Stone. In the interview room with me is Professor Stuart Chalmers, who has offered his assistance with the apprehension of the criminals who murdered Secretary of Health DeAnne Harper and others. Professor Chalmers, since you gave us your notebook, we’ve checked the coincidence of your entries with anonymous phone calls made to FBI offices in Cleveland, Ohio; Boise, Indiana; Phoenix, Arizona; Charlotte, North Carolina; Tulsa, Oklahoma; and many other cities. As far as we can tell, these telephone calls were made, but our computer system didn’t pick up a pattern in the warnings, and so we didn’t view Citizens for Humane Animal Treatment as a likely culprit in the many different crimes over the past twenty or so years. Would you mind explaining why, if you knew that CHAT was responsible for these many crimes, you didn’t come in and provide us with proof so that these crimes could have been prevented?”
Stuart Chalmers nodded sagely, as though thinking of the answer, even though he’d anticipated it and his answer was rehearsed.
As he explained why, citing their common objectives to save the flora and fauna of the planet, though their methods were entirely different, Harry Clarfield listened with increasing frustration. To him, as a trained and experienced interviewer, the answers given by this philosopher were right off a song sheet. Obvious questions, obvious answers.
No, Harry realized, the only way to get this bastard to confess was to trip him up . . . to lead him along a path so he felt totally comfortable and became arrogant—even if it took a couple of hours—and then hit him in the balls with a question that undermined his confidence . . . even if it were a lie. Like but we have your fingerprints on a gun, or but Stuart, we have an eye-witness who has positively identified you as being there. Say it with a completely straight face—even if it were a barefaced lie—and even the toughest and most hardened criminal would begin to doubt himself.
And then . . . nothing. Silence. Just sit there, and despite the protestations, banter, and denials, just sit there and look back at him, your face totally expressionless. Allow yourself just the merest raised eyebrow, just the slightest suggestion of a smile, and in your silence, the creep would begin to unpick himself, strand by strand. Sure, it would be difficult in a court of law for the lawyers to explain it away, but as he was unknown and unknowable, and never appeared in public, let alone in court, he didn’t even have to say Oops, sorry, I made a mistake, but in the meantime, the perp had already confessed and was begging for a deal.
Yet this FBI nudze was using logic, conversation, pleading for Chalmers’s better nature. Oh, please.
After an hour, the interview came to an end, with nothing of any value resulting from the session other than a renewal of the offer by Chalmers to assist the Bureau in apprehending the monsters from CHAT who had perpetrated this dastardly crime.
Before Chalmers was allowed to leave the interview room, Clarfield asked the Bureau chief, “Do you think I could have a crack at breaking him . . . just a dozen or so questions on behalf of the president of the United States?”
The chief looked and felt uncomfortable, but he knew that Clarfield was here at the request of the Oval Office’s head of security, Ted Marmoullian, and that meant it was as good as a demand from President Thomas. He agreed reluctantly.
Stuart Chalmers was surprised when Harry Clarfield suddenly burst into the interview room unannounced. So was Marcus Stone. But in his earpiece, Marcus Stone was asked to leave the room immediately, and Clarfield told Chalmers to resume his seat.
“I’m afraid I don’t know you. You’re not wearing any ID. Would you mind introducing yourself?” said Chalmers.
But Clarfield just looked at him, then down at the file he’d thrown on the desk. Lifting the file up so that Chalmers couldn’t see the contents, Clarfield opened it and read the first couple of pages. He remained in studied silence.
“I notice you haven’t turned on the tape recorder. I assume that this is an unofficial interview.”
Again, Clarfield ignored Chalmers and continued reading from the file, only glancing up in surprise as he read something to look at Chalmers and check that what he’d been reading was real.
“Oh, the strong silent type. I’m supposed to be intimidated, right? Okay, I’m scared. Is this when I’m supposed to make some kind of confession?”
The philosopher sneered in contempt and continued, “When are you going to open a bag and take out a hypodermic needle full of truth drug? Oh c’mon, this is getting silly. I’m here because I volunteered to help the Bureau bring murderers to justice. Or hasn’t your boss told you that?”
Clarfield continued his silence, still reading. Chalmers also relapsed into silence, looking at Harry, wondering when the impasse would be broken.
Then, still reading for another full minute and not looking up at Chalmers, he said softly, “Your colleague, the guy who runs WEL with you, Jim Towney. He’s a professor, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“He just told me he was one of America’s leading agricultural scientists, possibly one of the best in the world. But I checked with people and they tell me he’s a small-time player. A failed academic. So is he shitting me and using WEL to boost his standing, or is he nuts?”
“You have Jim Towney here?”
“Is he just exaggerating to impress me, or what?”
But Chalmers remained silent and just stared back at Clarfield, who resumed reading the notes in the file. And they remained silent for minutes, Clarfield occasionally looking up when he turned a page but looking down again as if his interest was waning.
Eventually, Harry closed the file and put it back on the table. He folded his hands behind his neck and rocked back on his chair. “You’re quite something. Listening to Towney just now, he’s got you figured as Noah and Moses and Jesus and Mohammed, all rolled into one.” Harry shook his head, as though in disappointment. “Of course, that’s the problem with having a lower order intellect as your number two. I guess
it must make succession a problem for you. Not for him, though. He thinks he’s ready to step into your shoes right now.”
Stuart Chalmers looked back at him, his face inscrutable—a deadpan and unfathomable mask. But Harry had met people like him many times before, who thought they were a lot smarter than they actually were. Clever, this guy surely was . . . but not as smart as he thought. And to Clarfield’s advantage, Chalmers didn’t have street smarts.
Then Harry shook his head slowly from side to side. “But one thing you did that Towney couldn’t understand was offing those little babies. Secretary Harper, he could understand—even her husband. She’s visible, high profile, attention getting, and he’s her handbag. And by blaming it on CHAT, it was worth killing her. But their kids? Townie was crying when I showed him the burned and mangled bodies of her babies. He pushed the photos away, but I insisted that he look at them, and then I showed him Secretary Harper’s body in the morgue . . . a blackened skeleton, bits of hair, an eye still in its socket. Horrible. He told me he’d seen them in his nightmares ever since the explosion. Not her, not the secretary. But her children. Can’t get those children’s faces out of his mind. Big mistake.”
Harry sniffed and mumbled, almost inaudibly, “second-rate intelligence,” and then he just remained silent, rocking slightly back and forward in his chair. And Stuart Chalmers also looked back. His face didn’t crack an inch. Not an emotion registered, not an eyelid flickered, not a line creased his forehead.
The two men stared at each other—minute after minute. And it was then that Harry Clarfield knew he’d won, and allowed himself a smile. Chalmers also smiled, thinking that by showing no emotion at all, he’d won by not being the first to crack.
“Tell me Stuart, have you ever studied psychology?”
Chalmers shook his head. “Nope, philosophy, history, literature, and some other subjects but never psychology.”
“Thought not.”