Never Forget
Page 11
Vann broke the quiet with a chuckle: ‘Okay, enough. You’ve won me over: I’ll join your side. But it was a close call: their pitch was pretty strong, too.’
Ellen made a wry grin. ‘I’m surprised. After all, you already went to the effort of killing off the competition on the other side to make sure you made the cut.’
Vann returned her grin. I’d suspected they’d get along.
But then, with a characteristic switch in tone, Vann suddenly shook his head and said:
‘But we have no idea how big this team is, nor how far their influence extends. And that lack of knowledge – it’s a big disadvantage.’
He went quiet a spell, then:
‘But the ideology of this team – that’s something I do have a handle on. They may call themselves communists – after all, China calls itself a communist nation – but they’re not radicalized by Marxist thought. They’re nationalists, with a powerful victim and superiority complex. They’ve imbibed an ideology that perceives China’s history since the mid-19th century as a series of humiliations that must be redressed – they refer to the period from 1839 to 1945 as the Century of Humiliation. At the same time, the ideology perceives Chinese culture, and even the Chinese race, as superior, and claims that the only way to redress the humiliation is by asserting China’s worldview as supreme. By any means necessary.
‘So, to these fanatics, minorities in their country are not vulnerable groups. They’re people who’ve rejected the Chinese worldview, and have instead aligned themselves with the forces that’ve humiliated China – and so must be crushed and Sinicized.’
This was sharp analysis, but that was unsurprising – Vann was a smart guy. For one thing, he’d done time at the FBI’s New York Joint Terrorism Task Force, where figuring out ideologies is the name of the game. For another, he had Anthropology degrees coming out of his ass: one from Cambridge University, another from Princeton.
‘But they’re not wrong about the century of humiliation,’ said Ellen. ‘Their military weakness was devastatingly exploited. By the British and French during the Opium Wars. The Japanese, on and off, between 1894 and the end of WW2. The eight allied nations – including America – that invaded in 1900.’
Vann nodded.
‘True – the Chinese suffered a great deal at the hands of foreign powers. But they also suffered plenty at the hands of the ruling Chinese Communist Party – the CCP. What’s interesting is how the Chinese came to obsess only about the former.
‘Basically, after Mao Zedong died in 1976, the communist ideology slowly began to lose legitimacy in China. Then, in 1989, things reached crisis point, with a pro-democracy demonstration in Tiananmen Square, which the CCP brutally quashed. And the anti-communist sentiment was only exacerbated by the fall of the Soviet Union shortly after.
‘At that point, realizing they needed a new ideology, the CCP leaders instigated a huge educational and propaganda effort to instill a virulent nationalism. A nationalism that focused on the terrible acts foreign nations inflicted on the once glorious nation of China – in order to displace the people’s anger away from their government. I’ve heard an expert call it the largest ideological re-education effort in history. Every school, the entirety of the state-controlled media and tourist industry, was used to feed people this message.
‘The phrase wuwang guochi – never forget national humiliation – became a national slogan. And the CCP leaders completely bought into their own propaganda. They’ve become a nationalist party – communist in name only.
‘And now, as a result, there’s enormous sensitivity in China towards anything that could constitute an encroachment on sovereignty. And America – the pre-eminent superpower, and a capitalist one no less – is perceived by China as a prime culprit, as—’
Vann paused. Ellen broke in:
‘As the embodiment of all the nations that’ve historically pushed it around?’
Vann nodded. ‘Bingo. Of course, America has – whether rightly or wrongly – meddled in China’s business: it’s criticized China’s human rights record, its territorial expansion, and the two countries even clashed militarily in the 1950s. But China, as a result of this propaganda, has also developed a powerful conspiracy mentality with regards to the US, and perceives meddling – and attempts to subvert it – even where there are none. Many Chinese believe, for instance, that the outbreak of SARS in 2003 was orchestrated by the US.
‘Hardened nationalists refer to us as yang guizi – western devils. And this team represents the most radical fringe of this nationalist movement. And I’ve no doubt that for them, this is a chance not only to punish dissidents abroad, but also to flip-off America; though of course, it’s only personal satisfaction they’d be gaining from the latter, since they clearly understand the necessity of covering their tracks.’
‘But you agree, Vann, that this must be a rogue group?’ I probed.
An emphatic nod. ‘Although carrying out this kind of retribution on American soil might be the wet dream of certain folk in Beijing, the fact of the matter is: even if they thought they had a good chance of covering their tracks, their government would never try it – war with America would just be too big a risk.
‘No, this is a rogue team, which – while aware enough of the risks to take big steps to cover its tracks – is fanatical enough to throw the dice.’
Vann smiled. ‘But my old man – he’ll be pleased I’m on the hunt for self-professed communists, even if that’s not really what they are.’ He glanced at Ellen. ‘Not sure if Saul told you, but my father’s Chinese – emigrated to America just before the Cultural Revolution – and was never too hot on the communist shtick. In fact, he made a point of carving out a Gordon Gekko-esque career on Wall Street.’
‘Of course I told her, Vann. Just after I told her your blood type and how you take your goddamn coffee.’
‘And my favorite Dark Net websites?’ Vann shot back, an eyebrow raised.
I hummed. ‘Have you had any brushes with the Dark Net, Vann?’ It wasn’t something we’d discussed before.
‘Probably about the same number of brushes as you. Used it a couple of times for Bureau business, but never gave it much thought. But I do remember a conversation I had back in late 2012 with an agent at the DITU about it—’
‘DITU stands for Data Intercept Technology Unit,’ I interjected for Ellen’s benefit. ‘A mini NSA within the FBI. Offices at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, where Vann was stationed for many years with the Hostage Rescue Team.’
Vann nodded. ‘So this agent told me about their investigations into this Dark Net website called The Silk Road – basically the Amazon of TOR. The go-to place for stuff like drugs and firearms. And in short, after intensive investigations, they’d managed to get a ball-park figure of how many folk used the site – they reckoned approximately 4,000 retailers, 150,000 customers. Then she told me that, while it was impossible to know the number of websites on TOR, they’d estimated there were perhaps 40,000 in all.
‘And I remember finding this surprising, because I’d gotten it into my head that the Dark Net was enormous – many times larger than the regular internet. But on the contrary: while there’s obviously plenty of content, it’s tiny, relatively speaking.’
‘And the upshot?’ I probed.
‘Well, I was saying earlier how we didn’t know far their influence extends. But given these figures, how many people are likely to be using an obscure software like GhostWallet – a couple of thousand at most, right? So, okay, these guys have a trapdoor; but there’s only so many people that gives them dirt on.’
Ellen nodded in agreement, and I suddenly realized I was feeling better: these guys weren’t as powerful as I’d thought. Then I realized I’d been feeling better ever since Vann had arrived. That was the power of his wise-cracking.
‘But Saul: surely, on some level, you’ve gotta be a little impressed with this set-up. I mean, as an exercise in getting off the hook – it’s got to take you back to y
our glory—’
Vann stopped abruptly, and shot Ellen a quick look. I knew what he was getting at: he was referring to my con-artist days. But he’d held his tongue, because he’d realized he had no idea what Ellen knew…
I glanced at the speedo – ninety-five mph. Vann was blitzing it. And since there was nothing else I could do right now, I figured there was no harm divulging.
Besides, after everything Ellen had been through, I reckoned she could do with some distraction.
‘What’s with all this old boys’ club bullshit? You can’t just bring something up then stop mid-sentence.’
I grinned. ‘Ellen, remember I told you about my career – if you can call it a career – as a con-artist? That’s what he’s referring to.’
‘What I’m referring to, Saul, is your time spent in the Maniscalco family.’ Vann smiled. He was glad I was playing ball – he never tired of this episode of my life.
‘Do tell, Saul,’ said Ellen. She was leaning forward again, and for the first time, her face looked almost completely untroubled. ‘That’s a New York mafia family, no?’
‘Precisely. I fell in with them near the end of my con-artist career – summer 1996. By that point, I’d already made messes in a number of places – and the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Department were on my ass. So I made a bold move: I decided to seek out organized crime, because I reckoned that, while they’d inevitably also be under intense observation by the FBI, it would be a different team, and they’d therefore be unlikely to recognize me. A hide in plain sight gambit.’
Ellen nodded.
‘Anyway, when I’d joined the operation, the Maniscalco family were going through something of a crisis: Lorenzo, one of their top capos, was in hot water for bribery. So I came up with a scheme: I suggested he feign schizophrenia, because I knew that if the authorities bought it, it’d get him off the hook. And as it so happened, I was uniquely qualified to advise him on how to play the part.’
‘And why was that, Saul?’ Vann said, egging me on.
‘Because, as you well know, I’d masqueraded as a psychiatrist the previous year.’
He clicked his fingers. ‘How could I forget?’
‘So the family got wind a raid was in the offing to arrest Lorenzo, and because they were out of options, they tried my idea. Long story short: the Feds arrived to find Lorenzo showering, fully clothed, umbrella in hand. And though they arrested him, they weren’t able to keep him long: the family complained he was mentally ill, got doctors involved, and the authorities were forced to set him free.’
Ellen was chuckling. ‘Brilliant.’
‘But the charade didn’t end there – after all, if he suddenly made a recovery, he’d have been back in the doghouse. So I coached him how to stumble through Greenwich Village in his robe like a schizophrenic; how to mumble incoherently to himself just right. And the act went on – while Lorenzo continued his career on the sly.’
‘For a couple of years?’ said Ellen.
I shook my head. ‘Till 2010. That’s when he was finally caught out. Fourteen years later.’
Ellen shook her head. ‘Sounds like one hell of a method actor.’
‘And what about 219 Thompson Street?’ prompted Vann.
‘Yeah, what about 219 Thompson Street?’ said Ellen, now completely hooked.
I chuckled. ‘Well, when I fell in with the family, the Lorenzo situation was a symptom of a wider problem – namely, that the authorities were over them like a rash. So, since I’d become their ideas man, I pitched another scheme. The plan was to create a fake base – at 219 Thompson Street, just south of Washington Square Park, Manhattan – to be inhabited almost entirely by actors, but which the authorities would take for the real deal, meaning the feds would unwittingly watch a show, while real business went on elsewhere.’
‘And how did the idea fare?’ said Ellen.
‘Pretty damn well. We paid the actors to come and go as we told them and not to ask any questions – and some of the family’s head honchos hung out there for a few weeks to put the authorities on the scent. Then, once the G-men had practically moved in opposite, we had a situation where maybe one real Mafioso was there at any given time, and the other twenty folk were actors. And this went on for a year. For a year the family were able to function almost completely under the radar.’
‘But it came to an end?’ said Ellen.
I nodded. ‘The authorities got frustrated that they couldn’t work out what the hell was going on there – unsurprising, really, since nothing was going on – so they eventually raided it on trumped up charges. As it so happened, there was not one true Mafioso on site at the time, so they ended up arresting seventeen actors, but also seizing a load of props we’d planted. It was the biggest ever bust of prop guns and money in history – an absolute fiasco.
‘Of course, the actors, when quizzed, revealed they’d been employed by the Maniscalco family. But what were the authorities going to do? Zero laws had been broken. And it was too late for damage limitation: Thompson Street had already served its purpose.’
‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ said Ellen, halfway between incredulity and delight.
‘God-honest truth.’
She shook her head and laughed. ‘Sounds like… well, like fun.’
I sighed. ‘It was complicated. In some ways, it was one of the darkest periods of my life: while these Mafioso might’ve seemed glamorous, I’d never before in my con-artist career associated with such dangerous, ruthless people. And though I tell myself I preserved my morality by casting myself as an ideas man, I facilitated plenty of shit…’
I shook my head. ‘Yet, I’m not ashamed. I was only twenty-one, wayward, and craving a family, and that’s what they gave me. And when things become personal in that way, perspective goes out the window.’
A heavy silence. Unwittingly, I’d killed the light-hearted tone. But I didn’t regret it: I’d felt compelled to explain myself.
‘A bit like when we took out Filiberto, eh Saul?’ I looked at Vann. He’d said this with no hint of irony. On the contrary, he’d sounded perfectly sincere – perhaps even bitter. Not a tone I was accustomed to hearing from him.
‘Filiberto?’ probed Ellen.
‘Filiberto Ojeda Ríos,’ I said. ‘Mastermind behind FALN, the Puerto Rican terrorist group I told you about. As you know, Vann and I were in the HRT together – and when Ríos surfaced in Puerto Rico in September 2005, my final ever mission for the HRT was to lead a search and destroy mission. But I’d always held a personal grudge against him, because, eight minutes before I was born, he’d set off a bomb at the Fraunces Tavern, Manhattan – just round the corner from the hospital.’
Ellen was satisfied by this answer. But I understood the subtext of what Vann’d said.
When we’d landed in Puerto Rico on September 23, 2005, there’d been a mix-up: the chopper dropped us at the wrong location. As a result, Ojeda realized we were about to spring a trap, so hunkered down in his house, and this led to a stand-off. But the situation was then made a whole lot worse by bureaucratic squabbles: the special agent in charge couldn’t see eye-to-eye with the national security chief – and neither could agree with our commander in Quantico. And it was unclear whose word was gospel.
It was my job, of course, to await orders. But then, after twenty-four hours of limbo, I cracked – and ordered my men to raid the house. And this decision was not only completely above my pay-grade, but also forced my men to break protocol, and join me in an extremely dangerous maneuver. An outrageous imposition.
In the end, it was fine: turned out Ríos had been killed in an earlier exchange of gunfire and had been dead for hours. But that wasn’t the point.
The point was that when things get under my skin – like with Ríos, or my son – my perspective goes out the window, and I take liberties. And Vann was telling me that, since these folk had clearly gotten to me, I had to keep that in check.
We sat in silence for five minutes. Then Vann said:
‘I peered inside the suitcase before we left, but didn’t get a proper look – Ellen, would you hand it forward?’
Ellen did, and I cracked it open.
‘A VSS.’
Vann gave a low whistle.
‘Big deal, then?’ asked Ellen.
‘Serious weapon,’ said Vann. ‘Developed by the Soviets in 1987, it’s still pretty much the most sophisticated silent sniper out there. No muzzle flash. Specially designed shortened muzzle that makes it easy to use in almost any situation. And though subsonic, it’s still powerful as hell: from 400 yards off, it’d still penetrate most vehicles and body armors. And you’ve already seen the damage its nine millimeter slugs can do. ’
I pointed to the optics. ‘And that’s the intensifier that let the guy see through fog.’
‘If they hadn’t used this on you already,’ said Vann, ‘I’d give them the benefit of the doubt, and say they were simply using it to turn off bedside lamps without waking folk up. But given the circumstances…’
Vann trailed off, and there were smiles all round. But there was no escaping the seriousness of the situation. Presently Vann said:
‘So when we get to Vegas, I reckon that, provided we don’t hear any news that drastically changes the game, we ought to find someone in the know whose brain we can pick. But of course, while keeping a low-profile: security will be high.’
‘Agreed,’ I said.
‘And after Vegas?’ said Ellen.
‘Then to San Francisco,’ I said.
Vann nodded. ‘Though we don’t know where this fire these guys are planning for tomorrow is set to take place.’
‘But provided she hasn’t switched off her walkie-talkie on the frequency we found, we do know how to contact the fire-starter herself,’ I replied. ‘That may prove invaluable.’
Chapter 18
We arrived on Las Vegas Boulevard at around 7:30 p.m.
At about 5:30 p.m., the radio had told us that, due to a security alert at the Bellagio, the place had been evacuated. At around 7:00 p.m., it then told us that it appeared to have been a false alarm, and the hotel had called off the evacuation. But while this had given us some small hope that disaster might’ve been averted, we hadn’t gotten ahead of ourselves. For starters, we knew the authorities might’ve found something, and chosen to keep it hushed. Secondly, we knew there was a chance that, while we might’ve frustrated the nationalists’ efforts, they might be waiting for things to blow over.