by HN Wake
SFG Defrauds Donor: Caught on Tape
By STACIA DeVRIES
New York News
Only three days before a Senate vote to nationally ban assault weapons, The New York News is releasing evidence that Mr. Neil Koen, the SFG's Chief of Strategy, and Congressman Ron Peter (R-KY) colluded to misappropriate donations.
In a recorded conversation, Neil Koen, who controls tens of millions in SFG lobbying funds, and Congressman Peter are heard intentionally agreeing to siphon funds from a wealthy donor. Mr. Koen handily convinces Congressman Peter that SFG financial support of his opponent in the Republican primary is good for the gun cause in that “crisis and controversy…(are)…the name of the game” and that “no one will be the wiser.” Koen sweetens the deal with the offer of a campaign contribution.
Senator Martha Payne, a ranking member of the Justice Committee responded swiftly. “If it walks like fraud and talks like fraud, then it certainly opens itself up to investigation into criminal wrong doing. Shocking. Truly shocking.”
Cal stopped reading. His hand remained still on the laptop.
I’ll be damned. Maar’s baking breadcrumbs on a whole other game.
His mind clicked over to a new thought.
This is how I find her.
He checked the name of the article’s author, pushed back his chair, took a last slug of his coffee, and strode into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he hailed a cab out on 17th St. Climbing in, he said, “Union Station.”
Langley, VA
Hawkinson threw the New York News on Odom’s desk in the dark, basement office. “Did you see this?”
Odom quickly scanned the Stacia DeVries article.
Hawkinson seethed, “I’m starting to think your Mac is involved in a full scale domestic operation around this new gun legislation.”
Odom blinked.
“Did you warn her?”
Odom handed Hawkinson a folder. “She sent it last night. I was just on my way up to you.”
Hawkinson read Mac’s email. “Are you sure this is from Mac?”
“Yes.”
“You got this last night?”
Odom nodded and said, “She sent it from an anonymous email.”
“You can’t trace it?”
“No, Sir. Tech tried. She’s using the latest electronic evasions.” He handed him a print out. “Here’s our web chat.”
Hawkinson read the back and forth between Odom and Mac. “Jesus Christ.”
“She’s apparently got a full dossier on every op she’s ever done.”
“I can read, Odom.” Hawkinson stared into the light from the green lamp, his head shaking as he thought through a plan. “We leave her alone.”
“Sir?”
“We only have three options. If we burn her sister, Mac releases her blackmail dossiers. Not an option. If we report a rogue CIA officer is running a multi-faceted, domestic operation to the Task Force - or, frankly, anyone - we all go down. Not an option. But if we leave her alone, she may finish out her operation and no one will be the wiser about Agency involvement. This may blow over. That’s our best option. We leave her alone.” Hawkinson leaned over into Odom’s face and pointed his finger at his nose. “In the meantime, Odom, you find your missing operative and you follow her. I don’t care how.”
Ten minutes later, Odom pulled up the private chat room. “Ok. You win this round. Wildfires in CA are off the table.”
She had been waiting for him. The Agency was so predictable, even down to their hours in the office. “I thought so.”
“Take some time off. Come in when you’re ready.”
He waited a full hour, but she never replied.
He picked up his phone and dialed Beam. “Where are you?”
“I’m on a train to New York”
“Talk to me.”
“The ATF agent took a taxi to Union Station first thing this morning. It’s not clear where he’s going.”
Odom glanced down at the New York News on his desk. “Stay on him.”
44
New York, NY
On the 7th floor of the New York News building, the sun streaked through the shutters of three-story-high glass windows, casting horizontal stripes across the cafeteria’s pale, wood floor. Outside, the city’s westside stretched for miles.
A frowning Stacia found Cal by the window. “Agent Bertrand?”
He turned. “Stacia DeVries?”
“Sorry to keep you waiting. Did you get a coffee?”
“I’m fine.”
“So what can I do for you?” She sat at a table, putting a laptop between them, and crossed her arms over her chest.
He sat and pulled out a notepad and pen. “I’d like to ask you a few questions in reference to your article this morning on the SFG.”
“The FBI was already here.”
Cal was surprised but didn’t let on.
She asked, “How is this an ATF thing?”
“I’m afraid I can’t get into that.”
She watched him, letting him lead the discussion. She didn’t appear to have an ounce of fear.
He asked, “Is it fair to assume you won’t name your source?”
“Agent, it’s fair to assume I don’t know my source.”
“A deep throat?”
“Something like that.”
“How did you get the evidence?”
“It came in a white courier bag from Philadelphia”
“Addressed to you?”
“Yes. We’re assuming it’s because of the articles that went out earlier.”
He nodded. “I would have concluded the same thing. You’ve been writing quite a lot about the SFG. A bit controversial, actually.”
“The new legislation requires we examine the issue. And the players.”
“And when you say ‘we’, you mean the New York News?”
“Of course.”
He read from his notebook. “What came in the package, actually?”
“A thumb drive.”
“What was on the thumb drive?”
She opened the laptop and started up a program. “I figured you’d ask that.” She turned the laptop toward him.
The audio of Neil Koen and Congressman Peter played while the slideshow lapped the three photos of the two men in the restaurant. Cal leaned in, listening. He jotted down a few notes.
When the audio finished, he asked, “Can we play it again?”
She hit play.
When it finished a second time he asked, “Who do you think the donor is?”
“We don’t know.”
“And the donor’s assistant that went to see Koen?”
“Again, we didn’t look into that.”
“A million bucks is a lot of money.”
She shrugged.
“So. That’s it, just the audio and the photos?”
Stacia turned the laptop toward her, clicked on the keyboard, and turned the laptop back toward Cal. “This was also on the USB stick.”
On the screen he read the email from Neil Koen to Charles Osbourne and whistled. “Wow. That’s going to be quite a scoop.”
“I’m writing a piece for tomorrow’s front page.”
“You’re really on a roll.”
She shrugged again, genuinely nonchalant.
He said, “It’s quite something that someone is leaking all this to the New York News. You ever wonder why?”
“We have to assume they want the SFG's influence diminished in the lead up to the Congressional vote on the new gun legislation.”
“Exactly.” He watched her. She stared at him, unflinching. “Don’t you think all these revelations and these leaks - Scimitar investigation and indictment, Congressman Peter and Koen colluding, this SFG internal email - coming out now is a bit too convenient?”
Cal realized, when her face cracked for just an instant, that this Stacia had come to the same conclusion but she would jeopardize her position at the newspaper if she expressed this. He changed the subject. “Do yo
u have the envelope from the courier service?”
She stood. “Sure. And just so you know, I’ve been instructed by my superiors to cooperate with the authorities.” She turned on her heel. “I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, she handed him the white Tyvek envelope. It was wrinkled from having been balled into the trash. He took out his cell phone and snapped a photo of the mailing label, making sure he had a good image of the bar code. “I’m going to assume there are no fingerprints.” He handed it back to her. “And you really aren’t naming your source?”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know who it is.”
“But, with that email you were sent - it’s gotta be someone in Neil Koen’s office.”
She held his gaze.
He conceded. “Ok. No need to answer. One last question. Who gave you the instructions to write the first article on the SFG two weeks ago? The one about them kowtowing to the gun industry?”
“My boss, Freda Browne. She’s a managing editor.”
“Right.” He wrote down the name then handed her his card. “Ok, well that’s all I need. If you think of anything, give me call.”
“Probably not, under the First Amendment.”
He smiled wryly. “I appreciate the sentiment. Stand up for what you believe. Well, keep my card handy anyway. You never know.”
Back at her desk, Stacia breathed in deeply. Looking down, she flipped the ATF agent’s business card through her fingers. Cal Bertrand. Agent. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.
She set it gently, face up by her keyboard, and turned back toward her screen, returning to the draft of tomorrow’s front page article.
She felt someone standing over her and turned, glancing up. Jack Diamonte was looking down at her. He reached down and picked up the business card and said softly, “You’re a rising star at this paper. Let’s keep it that way.”
He walked off.
Across town, the summer sun beamed down on Penny’s head from a cloudless sky as she walked along 7th Street toward Central Park. The return trip - 12 blocks up and then back - would take about an hour, but she liked to clear her head during lunch.
Halfway to Central Park, she started to feel damp from the heat and decided to circle back.
Walking down 53rd Street, a one-way street, she noticed how unusually quiet it had become. There were no people out on lunch breaks. There were no cars. Only her footfalls on the sidewalk made noise. In fact, it was so quiet that up ahead a lone squirrel had decided to sit in the middle of the street.
As she got closer, she became increasingly curious about the squirrel. He was still as a statue. When she was within ten feet of the squirrel, she noticed his features with clarity. He faced her, sitting on his back haunches with his two front paws curled tight up against his chest. His fur was a mix of brown and grey except his belly which was stark white. The hair all traveled in one direction. His black eyes stared straight ahead. His tail, with it’s slightly tattered edges, stood erect behind his back.
From behind her at the beginning of the block, she heard a car approaching. The squirrel did not move.
She continued to close in on him; she was now only six feet away. He remained motionless. From behind her, the car was getting closer.
The car, a taxi, rushed past her. She stopped. A strand of her hair whispered against her cheek in the taxi’s slipstream.
The squirrel did not move.
The taxi rushed on.
Time slowed. She was mesmerized.
The taxi, at full speed, was now a foot from the squirrel. Penny held her breath.
Suddenly, the squirrel jumped to the sidewalk, shimmying out of view.
45
Washington, DC
Late in the afternoon, Odom noiselessly slipped through the front door of Cal’s apartment. A humid heat pressed against his face and he let his eyes adjust to the interior darkness. He gently shut the door with his gloved hands.
He inhaled deeply through his nostrils, taking in the measure of the home. There were no pets, no recent cooking, no smoking. There was an undercurrent of pine. The ATF agent must have a cleaner; few professionals clean their homes mid-week.
He concentrated next on noises. Cars passed in the front and a cat’s howl echoed from an open window in the rear. There were no human sounds inside the apartment.
He surveyed the spacious living room. His line of sight led directly to the desk by the front window. An old, high-back leather office chair, its tan leather wearing thin, rested a few feet from the desk as if the owner, getting up quickly, had set it rolling on its five casters. The ATF agent spent considerable time here.
Odom settled into the warm, worn leather. Feeling a powerful, yet fleeting sense of sexual invasion, the corners of his mouth turned up.
His feet tugged the chair up to the desk as he studied the montage.
The two clipped New York News articles by Stacia DeVries were intentionally placed next to each other. Odom's heart sunk; the ATF agent had connected the two operations within a larger plot.
Next to them was a yellow pad. The top page had been doodled on endlessly, hundreds of blue ink loops haphazardly filled the margins. In the center of the page was a list:
- Personally involved w/ Malhotra
- Top clearances (CIA, DOD, DNI, NSA, State?)
- Professional techniques ??? This last line had been underlined five times.
It appeared the ATF agent later had added two items to the list - afterthoughts perhaps - that appeared to be hastily written, in red:
- A woman!
- Acting alone?
Odom blinked. It was the last line that was an interesting twist; Odom had not considered that Mac may be working with others. She had always been such a loner. Who could she possibly be working with?
The cat in the back alley howled again as Odom entered the kitchen. Noticing the half empty bottle of scotch on the kitchen counter, he lifted the highball glass from the drying rack and sniffed its contents. Nothing. He systematically opened and closed cabinets.
Heavy drinkers had reserves. The ATF agent had no other bottles anywhere in the kitchen.
Through the screened window, the faintest smell of rot rode a warm breeze, prickling his nose.
In the bathroom, mismatched towels dangled from the shower rod. The toilet rim stood upright.
Odom unzipped his khakis and relieved himself, looking around. One gloved hand flushed while the other reached toward the medicine cabinet. Ibuprofen. Non-prescription sleeping pills. Colgate. Men’s deodorant. Shaving cream.
An expensive grey robe hung on a hook on the back of the door. With both hands he folded the soft robe around his face, breathing deeply, smelling dryer sheets and ivory soap. Its terrycloth did not harbor the perfumed scent of a woman. He rubbed its softness against his five o’clock shadow.
In the darkened bedroom, he laid down on the unmade bed. With crossed ankles and gloved hands behind his head, he slowly surveyed the room. There were no frames on the walls or pictures. There wasn't a television. In the dark closet, blue suits hung evenly across a pole below a bare light bulb. A chain dangled from the bulb.
He closed his eyes, hearing only the street noises. The sheets smelled of male sweat; there was no hint of sexual musk.
This was a solitary, quiet man with nothing obvious to lose.
A few minutes later, Odom was scowling as he silently let himself out.
Manayunk, PA
The blades whirled with a soft buzz as the fan slowly oscillated left and right. Every ten-count the fan dispatched a brief breeze on her face, sending hair dancing across her forehead. She sat with her back up against the cement loft wall, her legs stretched out before her on the white sheets. Her bare unpolished toes pointed toward the ceiling.
A bright green Ipod Shuffle rested next to her. The song ended and she hit repeat for the fifth time.
Her lips began silently mouthing the song’s words. Through the wires and the earphones,
the music released long buried memories.
It reminded her of a moment with Joe. They were on his balcony overlooking a dark San Francisco Bay. She remembered the salt air, the seagulls' culls, and his bright blue eyes as he laughed. The moment was the strongest memory she owned.
She wiped tears from her cheeks as she took the earplugs out and rolled down onto her back. She stretched her calves and thighs. She let her mind creep back into the present.
She held her hands to her face, examining them. They looked different to her today, not old exactly, just aged and unrecognizable. They reminded her of her mother's hands.
Through the window, the layer of rippled cloud-cover resembled the underside of an ocean's surface. She felt safe, hidden far below the imaginary whitecaps and for a moment, wanted to stay on this bed forever, gazing up at a sky turning pink.
She sat up and took stock of the loft. Everything of value was arranged on the architect’s desk: her laptop, the hard drive, her burner phones, her leather case of alias documents. In the corner, by the bed, her few clothes were folded on a cardboard box. Her Dora alias clothes were in a travel bag in the Alfa down the street in the garage. On the kitchen counter was a box of cereal and some V8 juice boxes. The cleaning products were in a supermarket box on the floor.
She stood, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a disinfectant spray and a sponge.
She started at the sink. She sprayed and scrubbed, then repeated.
In the bathroom, she threw cleaner across all the porcelain and scrubbed in small rotations, creating green, sandy circles. After, the stream from the shower washed everything down the drains.
Across the wooden floor, she leaned into forceful strokes, her biceps burning as the sponge swept the splintered planks.
An hour later, she dropped down into a sitting position on the mattress, her legs stretched out before her. The breeze from the fan hit her sweat-soaked face. She felt the dry roughness of her hands.