by HN Wake
Mac looked into his eyes.
Her heart started to pump.
A stream of sweat dripped down her back, inside her yoga tank.
Her standing leg trembled.
She heard the yogi say, “Into Temple pose.”
Around them, couples placed their feet on the floor and rested forearms against each other. Mac and her partner slowly moved into position. His intense eyes moved closer to her.
23 years ago
Joe, shirtless in front of a steaming sink of water, lathered mentholated shaving cream across his cheeks and chin. He splashed a silver razor through the water and sliced a single swath across the foam on his cheek. Cross-legged on the dusty, cluttered bathroom counter, Mac was fascinated.
He laughed. “It’s just shaving”
“But it’s so weird! On your face!”
“You’ve never seen a guy shave before?”
She rolled her eyes dramatically and teased, “Yeah, totally. All my million last boyfriends let me sit and watch as they shaved.”
He grinned at her.
“You do this every day?”
“Yup, that’s the idea.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Nope.” He stretched out his neck, the razor tracking across his skin. His eyes met hers in the mirror. “Is it true you’re related to Pocahontas?”
The music from his bedroom played loudly through the silent, empty residence.
“Yeah. My grandma did some family chart. Apparently Pocahontas is like my 8th great grandmother. My mom makes a huge deal out of it. It’s like we’re somebody, because of it. Like we’re better people. Annoys the shit out of me.”
“It is kinda cool.”
“Yeah, just not when my mom says it.”
She stared at his chest. She hadn’t been around his bare chest this much. Mostly they had explored each other in the dark. It stood before her, vulnerable in its skinny paleness, a smattering of chest hair. Under her scrutiny he hunched his shoulders forward.
She reassured him. “It’s nice to be next to you practically naked. You’re hot.”
He stared at her intensely. She joked it off with another wide eyed expression, this time of innocence.
Present Day
In the humid yoga room she suddenly dropped her hands, straightened up, and said to her yoga partner, “I’m sorry.”
She rushed down the stairs and out onto Main Street. A block away, she slowed, placing two fingers against her carotid artery, checking her pulse, feeling its tempo. The rapid beat was unnerving.
She passed the open door of a bar and saw a pool table in the far corner.
23 years ago
The back room of the second floor of the mansion was dedicated to his father’s pool talent. An oversized pool table with thick legs and green felt sat under a rectangular, stained-glass lamp that cast greens and blues in an otherwise darkened room. They were smoking and drinking sodas.
Joe leaned over the table, lined up a shot, and slid the cue stick gently through curled fingers. The cue ball banked off the far bumper, spun left, and kissed the red 3 ball which dropped neatly into the corner pocket. The white cue ball continued to spin down the table.
She was impressed. “How’d you learn to do that?”
“My dad taught me a lot. Then it was just practice.”
“How much practice?”
He shrugged, lined up his next shot. “I dunno.”
“No, really. How much?”
“I come in here a lot and play.”
“How many hours do you spend in here?”
“I get lost in it. It’s easy for me to lose sense of time when I’m…I dunno…focussed.”
“Ok. Like how many hours at a time?”
“Maybe five? Six sometimes.”
“At a go?!”
“Yeah.”
“God. I’d smoke like two packs if I did that.”
He made his next shot easily. “My dad used to do really well down in competitions in Atlantic City.”
“Wow.”
“But he would always lose near the finals. Because he had a job, a company, and the other guys were like full-time professional pool players. They slept during the day to be ready to play at night. Those competitions would go through the weekend. He told me that the competition was with himself, not with the other guys. I get that. I just want to make a certain shot and I work at it until I get it.
“Do your sisters play?”
“Not so much. Sometimes.”
“Where are you sisters?”
“I dunno. Out.”
“All five of them?”
He glanced through the open door into the empty hallway. There was no noise in the large house. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Is it weird to have five sisters?”
“It just is.” He made his third shot with a clean, smooth stroke.
“Are they mean to you?”
“Sometimes. Maybe a normal amount of time?”
“And where are your parents?”
He shrugged again. She waited. He didn’t look at her, but he could feel her waiting. Finally, he admitted, “They’re out a lot.”
“When did you last see them?”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you last eat dinner or whatever?”
“I dunno, maybe a few weeks ago?”
“A few weeks? So you pretty much take care of yourself. Like food and all.”
He shrugged again and made his fourth shot.
Present day
Mac let herself into the loft. She poured a glass of water, slipped out of the wet yoga gear, and pulled on a t-shirt and shorts. Her heartbeat was back to normal.
In an effort to move past the strange, earlier anxiety, she sat down at the architect’s table, pulled up the SFG’s main website, picked up the ‘SFG’ tagged burner phone and dialed the SFG’s main number.
A nice lady answered. “Good morning. The SFG. How can I help you?”
Mac assumed an older, disoriented Southern accent. “You know, I’m quite concerned about our Second Amendment rights.”
“Yes, of course.”
Her sing song was hushed. “My husband, rest his soul, was a very avid sportsman and hunter. He always said to me, Vi, you make sure you take care of my interests when I’m gone.”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, as you can imagine, I want to do right by Russell now that he’s passed.”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“He’s left me quite well off and I’d like to pay that back. In his memory. As a donation. From the family foundation - the Julep Foundation.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Do you have any ideas about how you would like the donation utilized?”
“Well, let’s see…I’m very keen to hear about what the SFG legislative side is planning this year.”
“I’m sure we can arrange something with the SFG Lobby.”
“Would it be possible for you to set up a meeting with the folks there?”
“Of course! Let me give you the number of the DC office of the SFG Lobby. They will be happy to help.” She read off a DC land line number.
“Thank you so much. Can you let them know that Dora, my assistant, will be calling tomorrow?”
“Absolutely, Ma’am. Now you have a great day.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
13
New York, NY
Stacia came up quietly and leaned against Freda’s doorframe, her pen tapping against her cheek, her brain churning. Behind her the newsroom was loud and chaotic.
Freda turned. “What’s up?”
“It just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser.” Shaking her head, Stacia took a small step into the office. “In 2012, Neil Koen spent $20 million to influence House and Senate races. And, of course, against our fine Democrat President. Koen’s standard MO is to buy television ads trashing gun control candidates.”
“Opposition ads.”
“Exactly. For example, he spent over $1 million opposing one
Democrat in Iowa.”
“Ok?”
“But that Democrat won.” She sat down on the back of the guest chair. “Here’s the weird thing. Koen lost almost every election he put money into.”
“What?”
“The SFG Lobby only had a 3% success rate.”
“What?”
“Koen consistently bet on losers.” Stacia slowed dramatically. “Not just consistently. Almost completely.”
Freda’s brow creased. “Why is Neil Koen betting on the losers?”
An email pinged into Freda’s inbox. A phone bleated on the newsroom floor. Neither moved. They were lost in thought, staring into the distance.
Stacia ruminated. “For a membership association it is not in the interest of their members. Or their donors for that matter. That’s a lot of money to be throwing away.”
Down the hall a door slammed.
Both their heads snapped up at the same time.
Freda asked, “What’s the number one reason people give to the SFG?”
Stacia was quick. “Fear. Gun owners are afraid to lose their guns - their symbol of American freedom.”
They looked at each other, both reaching the same conclusion.
Stacia said it out loud. “Koen is intentionally losing elections to manipulate gun owners’ fear.”
Across town in her office, Penny read a text from her eldest son. He was at the basketball game with Kenneth and his brother. The text spun her off into a daydream in which her son ran in sync with his taller teammates in red and white uniforms across the wooden, middle school basketball court. Someone snapped him the ball. He dribbled, shot, the ball silently swooshing into the net. The kids in the stands went wild. The team hefted him up on their shoulders. The badger mascot jumped in crazed jacks. On the sideline and behind the raffle table, Penny, decked out in red and white, clapped furiously. She launched raffle tickets into the air. The raffle ticket confetti fluttered down, crowning her son in tiny paper flecks. He turned and beamed at her. All the women in the stands cooed at his show of affection.
Cliff popped his head through her doorway and grinned at her. “What’s that about?”
“Oh, hi, Cliff.” She felt herself redden again.
“You’re a million miles away.”
“Oh, yeah.” She held up her cell phone. “Just something from my son. What’s up?”
“Yeah, what’s he say?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“Well, it’s good to have stuff not work related. You know…personal”
She gave him a curious look.
“I mean…good for you to have outside interests.” His statement hung awkwardly in the air like a shrunken, partially deflated balloon. He stiffened and stiffly added, “Just checking if you needed me on anything for tomorrow in court.”
“Not anything other than the checklist from this morning’s meeting,” she said, puzzled.
“Right, right. I’m on that.” He stammered, turned and disappeared down the hall.
14
Arlington, VA
“Cal, it’s Ranty here.”
“Hey, Ranty, I was just about to call you --”
Ranty cut him off. “— I’ve found a third email in the system.”
Cal read the email on his screen. “Dated August 20? From a guy named Singer in Peshawar --“
“Yes! Wait. Did you get sent a third email?”
“I’ve got it here up on my screen. Maar sent it this morning.”
“Ah, ever, clever fellow, our Maar is.”
“What did you find out about the cables?”
“Well, my friend, these cables are indeed legitimate. All three were logged into both the State and CIA systems.”
“So the shit is real.”
“Yes, yes, indeed it appears so. But there is one thing --”
“Did you find any other cables?”
“Well, that’s the thing. From what I can tell, this third cable from Singer in Peshawar is the last cable related to license number 88088.”
Cal filled in the thought. “Which is odd since Singer has identified that the M4s were transported into Afghanistan.”
Ranty quietly replied, “Well, that’s exactly right. There should be follow up emails. The Blue Lantern coordinator clearly has identified missing defense equipment. The trail of cables should not end with this third one.”
Cal looked out over the empty fourth floor of the business mall. Outside, the day was turning grey. “They just dropped it.”
“It appears that may be the case.”
“Probably because Afghanistan is a quagmire. Maybe it got too difficult?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Ranty said almost in a whisper.
“That’s why Maar is mad. He’s mad this got dropped.”
“So it would seem.”
“And he wants me to chase down the missing M4s.”
“That would be my assumption. Yes, Cal, yes.”
A long moment of silence passed between them.
Cal broke it. “Well, he chose correctly. I, for one, am not going to drop this.”
“I feared you might say that. I’m afraid your high level of curiosity may outweigh your self-preservation, Cal.”
“So it would seem, Ranty.”
Ten minutes later, Cal looked up the main number for Scimitar Defense outside Lexington.
A woman answered, “Good morning. Scimitar Defense.”
“Hi. This is Jack Deers.” The lie rolled off his tongue easily. “I’m a friend of Mr. Boare from college. I’m afraid I’ve lost my cell phone and Chuck’s cell number along with it. Would you mind giving me his cell number again?”
“Sure.” She rattled off a number.
Cal hung up and called Ruby. “Ruby. Hi, it’s Cal again.”
She chuckled. “Ah, two for one today, eh Cal?”
He tempered himself. “Yeah. You know how it is. You want to just get things cleared off your desk so you can move on to more exciting paperwork.”
“Cal, never one for the sarcasm, eh? What is it you need this time?”
“I need a court order for some phone records.”
She grunted. “No ya don’t, honey.”
“What?”
“Since you’ve been exiled, we’ve gotten Prism.”
“Prism?”
“Technology and surveillance. The Bureau has access to records from all the phone companies going back 12 months.”
“Wait. What?”
“Anybody who is using a phone company is in the metadata. It’s pretty routine now. We request all phone records over three month periods from each of the phone companies.”
“So, I can just give you a telephone number - anywhere in the US - you’ve got all their records?”
“Yup.”
“Wow. Ok, I need the records of two numbers.”
“Shoot.”
He read off Scimitar’s main office number and Chuck Boare’s cell number.
She asked, “How far back do you need?”
“Uh…”
“I’ve only got back 12 months”
“Ok, as far back as you can go. I’ll take what I can get.”
“No problem. I’ll send a spreadsheet as an attachment. Cal, this is still about the close-out, right?”
He got it; she was just covering her ass. No need to pull anyone else into the mire of the Bureau’s shame along with him. “Yes, Ruby, close out. Thanks.”
“No problem. Sorry, Cal. You know I had to ask.”
“Absolutely.”
He typed in an internet search for Khan Trucking Company based in Peshawar Pakistan. The screen filled up with Arabic looking alphabet soup, probably Urdu.
He dialed Benji. “Hi, Benji. It’s Cal again.”
“Hey, Cal. How’s it going? Two calls in, what? Two weeks? You must be on to something. And let’s be clear, I don’t want to know about it.”
“Absolutely. Another favor. I’ve got a trucking company in Peshawar and I need their telephone number. I
can’t read Arabic. I’m at a loss.”
“Huh?” Followed by a long pause. Finally Benji asked, “What’s the name?”
“In English it’s Khan Trucking Company.”
“Ok, let me find it.”
Ten minutes later Benji called him back with an international number 92 91 234 54678. “And, Cal?”
“Yeah?”
“I think maybe you shouldn’t call me anymore about this Pakistani stuff.”
“Understood. Thanks, Benji.”
Cal stared at the desk phone suspiciously, remembering Ruby’s words about Prism. He slowly punched in the Pakistani number.
A deep, male voice answered. “Hallo? Hallo?” This was followed by a string of Urdu.
Cal gently hung up his phone.
A new message arrived in his inbox from Ruby. The subject line read Phone Records. Adrenaline surged through his limbs as he clicked open the attached spreadsheet. Two files contained hundreds of lines: one was the 12-month log of all calls made from the main line of Scimitar and one was the log of Boare’s cell number.
Cal’s eyes raced down the first page, but he quickly become overwhelmed.
Moving slower, he placed the cursor in the upper right search window, typed in the number from Jack - the Khan Trucking Company telephone number, 92 91 234 54678 - and hit enter. Immediately, the spreadsheet highlighted two calls made to the Pakistani number last week.
One call was made from Boare’s cell and one was from the Scimitar main number.
Cal’s instinct was right. Boare was involved with Khan Trucking and the disappearance of his own M4s.
In ATF parlance, that was known as gun trafficking.
15
Manayunk, PA
A fresh voice answered the line, “SFG Lobby. Good evening.”
“Good evening, I’d like to speak with Neil Koen’s office please.” Mac had affected her Southern accent.
“I’ll transfer you now.”
A moment later, a different female voice said, “Neil Koen’s office.”
“Yes, hello. This is Mrs. Bodie’s assistant, Dora, calling.”
“Yes, Dora, we were expecting your call.”