by HN Wake
Mac grinned.
“Always a step ahead, our Mac.” They stared at the sketch and Penny lowered her voice. “You know the legislation is coming to the floor?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I’m on it. Listen, it’s going get hot soon. But I want you to know I have your back. I wanted you to hear that from me personally.”
Penny nodded.
“If they do come sniffing --”
“Mac, whose going to come sniffing?”
“The FBI. ATF. It could happen.”
“Ok?” Penny said warily.
“Stay as close to the truth as you can. The more you lie, the more you trip yourself up. As the saying goes, ‘sail close to the wind’.”
“Christ. The Feds? This is bonkers.” She paused. “I remember when Smokey and the Bandit were dangerous.”
“I’m afraid it comes with the territory.”
They stood staring at the sketch, each lost in thought. Next to them, the sun lit a square patch of the shiny floor. A fellow tourist walked through the room.
Penny asked, “Was the job worth it, Mac?”
Mac took time to answer. “I think our country would say it was worth it. I sacrificed for something bigger than me. Every solid piece of intel I sent up the wires probably saved lives. That’s a calling. No matter what anyone else wants to say.”
Penny watched her.
“A lot of us overseas washed out after one tour. It’s hard to not piss someone off at HQ. Or your Station Chief. It makes you really start thinking about why you’re in the game and what you’re going to do next. But I was good. I stayed overseas a long time.” She stared off into the distance. “I was…am…defending the Star Spangled Banner and the Fourth of July. Good luck topping that, right? I don’t know. Was it worth it? I just don’t know.”
“What’s the worst part about it?”
Mac pushed her head back, easing the tension in her shoulders. “Now. Now is the worst part. I know I’m getting out, but it scares the ever loving crap out of me.”
“Why?”
Mac went still, deep in thought. “Because I don’t know who I am without it. I don’t know what gets me up in the morning, what lights my fire. I don’t know who I am without the Agency.”
Penny shook her head, staring down at the bright patch. “I get it.”
“In the mirror, I see a face. But I don’t see me.”
Penny heard Mac’s fear and looked up. “Are you ok?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.” She squeezed her eyes shut, admitting for the first time out loud something very painful. “Who am I going to find if I start looking for me?”
Penny stepped in close, put her arms around Mac and gave her a tight embrace. She waited in the moment a long time, knowing as a mother that sometimes you just hold on, letting the tension ease, the stiffness loosen. Then she whispered, “You’re a good person and we’ve always known it. That’s what you’ll find: a good person. That’s who you are. Trust me.”
40
Washington, DC
Before sunrise the next morning, something in Cal’s subconscious jolted him awake. Closing his eyes, he waded back into the hazy dream, reaching for a clue. Eventually his eyes opened, letting yesterday’s reality rush through the cobwebs.
He stumbled into the kitchen and flipped on low lights. His mind was sticky, slow. A half bottle of scotch sat on the counter. An empty glass and a dirty plate rested in the sink.
The ghost of the dream clung to him, hovering just beyond his grasp. He filled the paper basket in the coffee maker with black grinds and started coffee brewing.
A trash truck rumbled into the alley behind his house. Two guys jumped down in the dark and hauled plastic bins to the rear loader where the wheezing compactor chewed loudly. A putrid wave swelled across the alley’s still air.
Feeling the first throb of a headache, he swished water in the glass and dusted the plate off, scattering breadcrumbs across the sink.
He stared at the sink for a long time, holding the plate in his hand, the siren song of the dream echoing in his mind. His eyes narrowed. A word whispered in his subconscious. Breadcrumbs
Suddenly it all rushed back to him. Adrenaline hit nerve endings as he remembered the conclusion he had reached late last night over his fourth - or was it fifth? - scotch and soda. Maar was dropping breadcrumbs.
He was instantly awake, alert.
He sloshed coffee in the mug, gulped down a scalding mouthful and hustled through to the living room.
Under the light of the lamp, his desktop was chaotic. A New York News article from yesterday was marked up in red pen with vicious circles and notes. Next to it, the top sheet of a yellow pad had a full column of notes and doodles sneaking up and down the page. ‘Maar’ was written across the top.
His notes read:
- Personally involved w/ Malhotra
- Top clearances (CIA, DOD, NSA, State?)
- Professional techniques ???
The last line was underlined five times. It was where he had stopped last night, where the line in the sand had been drawn by the scotch.
Cal took a long draw from his coffee mug as he settled down into his chair and let the notes seep back into the slow mechanics spinning in his mind.
He took another sip. An idea emerged.
He opened the desk drawer, grabbed the tech team USB drive and slotted it into his laptop, pulling up the Scimitar phone logs. He scrolled to the fourth page and the call two weeks ago from Boare to the Khan Trucking Company. The spreadsheet listed the GPS coordinates for the cellphone at the time the call was made.
What if Maar wasn’t just dropping breadcrumbs before the Senate vote? What if he was actually baking them?
Cal waited through his second coffee before calling Sheriff Soloman.
“Morning Sheriff. This is Cal. Sorry to call so early.”
“No, no problem. What can I do for ya, Agent?”
“I’ve got a GPS coordinate from a cell phone. When I punch it into Google it spits out the address 9861 Harrodsburg Road, Wilmore, Kentucky.”
“Harrodsburg Road. That’s out by the turn in the river. Sure, sure, I know it. That’s the Red Light Bar out on the Kentucky River. It’s an ok spot, not as bad as it sounds. Not too country either, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do.” The thought of anything related to alcohol made him queasy. “Sheriff, can I ask you a favor?”
“Shoot.”
“Is there any way you can ask at the bar if they happen to have security cam?” Cal read off the date and time of Boare’s cellphone call.
“Not a problem at all. I’ll ring ya if we get a hit.”
“Sheriff, I’m looking for whoever was with Boare at that time.”
“Hmm. Well. That makes it easier. This just keeps getting more interesting.” Down the phone line, Cal heard the sheriff sipping his own coffee. “I’m not going to lie to you, the folks round here ain’t too happy with Boare selling guns to the Taliban. That’s very unpatriotic.”
“I agree with you.”
“That there is a moral issue. He damn well should have known better.”
Cal pulled his hand down across his face. “Frankly, Sheriff, Boare makes guns. That’s his product. At some point, some of these guys may not actually care who uses them. They just want to sell their product. Like cigarettes, I guess.”
The sheriff chuckled. “That’s an awfully liberal, elite, northern thing to say for a law enforcement type. But you may be right. Anyway, I’m just sayin’ that guys round here, some of them, can be a slight bit unhinged.”
Cal looked out over the street. The sun was starting to rise.
“No telling who thinks of themselves as a vigilante these parts. Many of them are excellent marksmen.”
“I suspect he won’t be walking the streets of Lexington anytime soon, Sheriff.”
“Let’s hope for his sake he doesn’t. We do read new
spapers here.”
“I appreciate you calling me as soon as you get anything.”
“Will do.”
Cal clicked on CNN while he sipped the last of his second coffee and turned up the volume.
The pretty newscaster spoke into the camera. “In a spectacularly timed set of events, the New York News is reporting that one of the SFG’s largest corporate donors has been indicted for international firearms trafficking just as the new assault weapons ban bill comes to the Senate this week.”
Cal set down his coffee and read the marked up New York News article on his desk for the eighth time.
SFG's Biggest Corporate Donor Indicted for Gun Running
By STACIA DeVRIES
New York News
Chuck Boare and Scimitar Defense, a federally licensed manufacturer, distributor, and exporter of firearms and firearms components, was arrested and indicted today by a federal grand jury on charges of international firearms and trafficking violations. The Defendants were indicted on ten counts involving Conspiracy to Violate Arms Export Control Act, ITAR, Defraud the United States, False Statements, Mail Fraud, Wire Fraud and the Smuggling of Goods.
The ATF’s Director Wilson commented at yesterday’s press briefing,“The indictment closes the door on an excellent example of how the United States Attorney’s Office, ATF, CIA and international law enforcement agencies are working together.” Further, Wilson explained, “The import and export of firearms, firearm parts, and technical data is tightly controlled to prevent these items to be used to harm America or its allies overseas.”
Manayunk, PA
Mac stood by the loft window. The rising sun threw light under the railroad tracks and across Cresson Street. She tried not to look, but like a magnet the goose carcass pulled her eyes. She focused the binoculars for a closer look. Even though it had deflated, it still resembled the original animal. The feathers were distinctly black, white and grey but were starting to fray around the edges.
Everything had a beginning and an end. She was quite comfortable with that. But this goose had died on a fairly busy street running under a train line, far from its likely home on the canal. It felt ignominious, unnatural.
A week ago, when she had first seen it, she had called the Philadelphia Animal hotline. She had spoken to a very nice man who asked her a few questions about the location of the dead goose. She had been very explicit and he had assured her they’d be out to take care of it.
Around the eye rim of the binoculars, something caught her eye in the northwest corner of Pretzel Park.
She tilted the binoculars away from her face and watched as Joe stepped down the park stairs.
The wind was knocked from her.
He was sipping a coffee and walking a black and white, medium-sized mutt on an extended leash.
She slammed the binoculars back over her eyes and twirled him into focus.
He was as she expected. He was not anything she could have expected.
He had a new edge about him. His head was bald, clean shaven and he sported a tightly trimmed goatee. His nose looked like it might have been broken at some point: it added to the appeal. His shoulders were broader, stronger.
She followed his walk. His gait was light, almost playful; he walked on the front of his feet like a soccer player. It was incredibly familiar.
He looked up.
Her breath stopped.
She had only seen the hue of his eyes a few times. Once, while scuba diving in Sarawak, Malaysia, in the moment before breaking the surface, the sunlight had refracted through a thin strata of water and cast a color of blue that was at once radiant and pale.
On the end of the leash, the dog was bossy, pulling feverishly in his quest for squirrels. In contrast, Joe’s movements were gentle, almost thoughtful.
In the loft, Mac’s stomach tightened and her pulse raced.
Joe and the dog crossed the park in front of the warehouse. She zoomed in with her binoculars. His t-shirt was bright white. The hair on his arm had been bleached in the summer sun. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
She exhaled.
In the park, the weeping willow swayed in a soft breeze.
She watched him circle the park, round back toward his house. He stepped back into his yard and closed the fence.
Her grip relaxed on the binoculars. She swallowed through the thickness in her throat.
She had never felt so alone.
Twenty minutes later, Mac pulled on soft, museum gloves. She plugged a USB drive into her laptop and copied three files: a photograph of the SFG Lobby Response to Newtown email, three color photos of Neil Koen and Congressman Peter from the restaurant, and a copy of the audio recording from the restaurant. She sliced open the plastic wrap on a pile of small Tyvek envelopes and slipped the USB drive inside. She labeled the envelope to Ms. Stacia DeVries, New York News. She placed the envelope into a paper shopping bag.
An hour later, she stepped outside of 30th Street Station into a brewing storm. A biker approached rapidly down Market Street through the traffic.
She stepped to the curb.
He pulled up in front of her. “You got a package for the New York News?”
“Here you go.” She opened the shopping bag and held it out to him. He grabbed the Tyvek envelope and from his clipboard, slapped on a routing sticker, scanned the bar code, and dropped the envelope into his courier bag. He tore off her receipt from the clipboard and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said.
Throwing the clipboard and scanner into his courier bag, he pushed down on a bike pedal, and wove back into the traffic.
A single, cold rain drop landed on her hand.
Langley, VA
Odom stepped into the large office of the Director of National Clandestine Service. “Sir, we have been unable to locate her.”
Hawkinson asked, “So you’ve lost your operative?”
“It appears so.”
“Off the ranch.”
Odom nodded.
“No hints of this in her personnel files?”
Odom had prepared an answer. “She’s been top of her class in terms of testing. She’s consistently received top marks in terms of risk appetite. Her tactical instincts are almost flawless. She has strong conceptual thinking. She thinks in big pictures. She does, however, push boundaries and has been off the ranch before, but accounted for after.”
“What are her weaknesses?”
“That’s the thing. I have read and re-read her personnel file and frankly, nothing stands out.”
“And no romance?”
“She’s been loosely involved with various men. They are all listed there. But none of them were serious. On the polygraph every year we ask her. Not a blip.”
“Everybody has a weak point.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sir. I’m sure there’s something. But she’s done an exceptional job of concealing it. We don’t have a clue.”
Hawkinson asked, “And no residual resentment from the Beijing affair?”
“Not that we know of, no.”
Hawkinson pointed to a New York News folded in the far corner of his large desk. “Did you see the New York News? Scimitar has been indicted.”
Odom nodded.
“You need to stop her.”
“Understood.”
“What have we got to hold over her? What can we use against her?”
Odom saw this coming. He felt neither shame nor guilt. This came with the territory. He wondered if Mac had seen this coming. He answered, “Her parents have passed. She has a sole sister living out in Northern California with a kid and a husband.”
“Use them.”
41
New York, NY
That afternoon, Stacia sliced open a white Tyvek envelope that appeared to be empty. She felt something loose in the bottom and poured out a single USB thumb drive. She inserted the USB into her port. She opened the first file and read the email between Neil Koen and Charles Osbourne.
“Holy, holy, holy shit.”
She read it again.
“Holy crap!”
She rapidly clicked back to the USB drive menu and opened up the second file. Three photos appeared on the screen. They were photos of Neil Koen having lunch at a restaurant with an older man who looked vaguely familiar.
She closed this and clicked on the third file. It opened as an audio and she fumbled in her purse for her earphones, plugged them in, and hit play.
As the conversation between Neil Koen and the Congressman played out she clicked back over to the photos. She held her breath through to the end of the conversation.
She sat up, looked around the bull pen at the other journalists. All of them were hunched over keyboards. No one had seen what had been on her screen.
She sunk back into her chair and mumbled, “Holy, holy, holy s..h…i…t.”
Ten minutes later Freda, Jack Diamonte and three New York News lawyers were crowded around Freda’s desk, heads down, listening to the final seconds of the taped conversation. The photos were splashed across Freda’s screen.
From a perch on the windowsill Stacia broke the stunned silence. “Can we publish it?”
Freda peeked over Jack’s shoulder and winked at her, grinning widely.
Jack said, “Yes. We can. Bartnicki v. Vopper protects media for publishing information on public issues when they know it was obtained unlawfully but they did not encourage it.”
All three lawyers nodded.
Stacia snapped both hands shut in victory punches. “Yes!”
“But whoever sent you this could go straight to jail. Private electronic recording of conversations and electronic surveillance of emails is illegal and prosecutable. Look at Bradley Manning and Snowden.”