On Deception Watch

by David H Spielberg

  She was nudged gently on to the fast track within the bureau. More training, more high-profile cases, more successes, and not a stumble ensured that the faith placed in her by the power brokers was not misplaced. The directorship of the FBI was a plum that every president rejoiced in filling, along with all the other appointments. Emerson Drummond had been no exception and when he tapped Amanda Brock to lead the FBI “into the future,” as he put it, everyone was satisfied with his selection.

  35

  “General, what the fuck are you doing?”

  Amanda Brock and General Slaider stood along the edge of the Jefferson Memorial facing the tidal basin. The early evening light added a shimmering radiance to the water. It was after-hours and the park was deserted except for Brock and Slaider and a park ranger waiting at the entrance.

  “Amanda, such language. Is this why you asked to meet you here, to become emotional. So typically female. I thought we could count on you to leave those charming traits to others less capable. Perhaps we can get directly to the point of this meeting?”

  “Jeremy Leach, General. How’s that for getting to the point? And please don’t insult my intelligence by handing me a line of bullshit. And you and Talbot were dumb enough to have a shouting match at the Kenyan party within earshot ofguess whothe press, James Marshall to be exact. So let me repeat my question. What the fuck are you up to?”

  “Just doing my job, Amanda. Just watching out for the family secrets while our commander tries to sculpt his legacy in the waning months of his presidency.”

  “How? By hiring a hit man to bump off foreign nationals? Have you lost your mind?”

  “Whatever do you mean, Amanda?”

  “You’re not going to play this game with me are you General Slaider? We know you have from time to time employed this Leach creature. I want to know if you had anything to do with his being present at the scene when AJC’s Brazilian connection died two days ago.”

  “Yes, an unfortunate tragedy. No, I had nothing to do with it and from the hot sheet report neither did this Mr. Leach. At least I don’t recall his name appearing in the report.”

  “Morgan, let’s start over. I understand your concern about the prudence, shall we say, of President Drummond’s plans for AJC Fusion and for our missile defense secrets, our laser technology. I get it. I have my own reservations. But he’s the boss, duly elected by the people. Look Morgan, I respect you as a patriot and a real American hero, but I can’t let you drag me into breaking the law. Right now I am breaking the law by not letting President Drummond know what I know about you and Leach. I want to keep this just between ourselves. Once. You will not get a second shot on this, General. Your Mr. Leach is on our radar now. You must not have any further business of any kind with him. Ever. You know we will know if you do. Am I being perfectly clear on this with you?”

  Slaider stopped walking and looked out over the tidal basin as the dusk drifted seamlessly into night. He admired Director Brock and felt she had earned her rapid rise through the ranks. He appreciated what she thought she was doing for him.

  “Perfectly clear, Ms. Brock. Are we done? It’s a lovely evening but I would like to get back to my wife. ”

  “I hope we’re done, General, because if we aren’t done, the consequences would assuredly get extremely ugly for both of us.”

  “Let’s just say we’re done, then. Goodnight, Amanda.”

  Amanda Brock watched General Slaider as he walked away back toward the park entrance.

  “I’ll let the ranger know you will be coming along soon yourself,” Slaider said without turning around.

  36

  Senator Paxton drove the last fifteen miles from the Gatlinburg airstrip where his son let him off, where Philip Layland was waiting for him. Layland had a small cabin outside of the city limits. Layland had been raised in Tennessee and was comfortable hiding out there at the edge of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Ever since the death of Brian Sorenson—the calling-card murder of Brian Sorenson, if a vote were taken on the issue by AJC Fusion employees—Layland had been careful with who knew where he was. There were too many powerful interests at play in this whole thing to take any chances. Cranshaw could be next by Layland’s thinking.

  Senator Paxton could not figure out how a man as brilliant as Arthur Cranshaw evidently was, how this man could not have anticipated the extent of the reactions to his scientific success. Cranshaw was so in love with his technical goal, Paxton thought, that he lost sight of the storm clouds they would inevitably bring. Visionaries prefer the telescopic, narrow depth of field rather than the wide angle, infinite depth of field of the pilot scanning the sky and all his instruments for danger from any quarter.

  Paxton turned into the opening in the brush and small trees that bordered the road. The sound of loose gravel being churned by his Jeep’s tires was always a pleasant one to Paxton, reminiscent of the many camping and fishing trips he loved so much, trips with friends, family, colleagues from the Congress, business associates. It was the first sound heralding the path to off the path. He loved the woods and could not understand what people saw in the ocean, living by that great vast body of unrelenting sameness, the vast ocean monotone.

  Layland’s log cabin was spacious, with a wraparound porch and a second story for the bedroom suite, with a balcony in the back commanding an expansive view of the mountains beyond. All around was forest except for the lawn in front and back. There was a vegetable garden on the right side of the house and a greenhouse in the rear of the cabin. There were two other cars parked on the gravel drive when Paxton pulled to a stop. All rentals.

  Senator Paxton looked hard at the cars before getting out of his vehicle. He didn’t like surprises. As he closed the car door and turned to the cabin, Philip Layland appeared in the cabin door, waving a welcome to him. Layland was short and rotund. His hair was cropped short and his shoulders hunched forward and his head bent slightly down as if he were walking against the wind even as he stood in the doorway. He gave the impression of a man in motion even when he was standing still. His smile of welcome was genuine, but strangely inappropriate, Paxton thought.

  “Jeb, come on up. How was the trip?” Not responding to Layland’s question, Paxton moved silently and quickly to the front steps of the cabin and swiftly sidled past Layland and entered the living room.

  Paxton recognized the two men already sitting comfortably on leather chairs. Each had a crystal glass with a golden liquid and some ice cubes that rattled slightly. Bourbon country. He turned to Layland. “I’ll have what these boys are having, Phil.” Then turning to the two seated men, Paxton said “Good afternoon, Fred. Good afternoon, Sandy. This is a little bit bigger party than I expected.”

  Fred Baxter was frail-looking with deep-set eyes, almost cadaverous. He wore wire-frame glasses but did not seem to have a strong prescription. He was thin and tall, lanky to a fault. He had long straight hair on the sides of his head that he combed pointlessly across his bald head. He had a nervous habit of brushing these futile strands across the top of his head every few minutes.

  Sandy Campbell was also tall, about the same height as Baxter, but thick-set, solid on his feet, and surprisingly round-faced. His hair was cut trim but not short, salt-and-pepper in color, attesting to an earlier time when he obtained his nickname. His eyes were deep blue below trimmed eyebrows. When he spoke, he locked eyes on whomever he was speaking to and blinked only when the other person was speaking back to him. He was relaxed but attentive to everything around him. It was his eyes most of all by which Senator Paxton had formerly taken the measure of this man. Committed eyes.

  Baxter began, “Well, Jeb, you know the interest the American Petroleum Institute has in all this fusion business. And Phil has been very valuable in helping us try to sort out all that’s going on, but the big picture just keeps getting bigger and bigger. Don’t get angry with Phil for letting us know about your little powwow here. We both think he showed good judgment in inviting us to the party
.”

  Without responding to Baxter, the senator turned to Layland. “Phil, you know I don’t much care for being blindsided. Next time, let me know, that’s a good boy.” Layland looked at the other two men and, saying nothing, handed Paxton his drink. He nodded to Senator Paxton acknowledging his rebuke.

  “So, boys, before we get too far along, I’d like to clear up one other matter, if you don’t object to my speakin’ openly about some things that can’t easily be slid into gently. Okay?”

  “What is it, Jeb?” Sandy asked.

  “Well then, you all didn’t have anything to do with that fella Sorenson’s death, did you? You know, the AJC engineer they fished out of the bay by Atlantic City?”

  Fred Baxter waved his hand at Sandy who was about to answer, stopping him short. “That’s a pretty strange question, Senator. Is there something that gives you the impression that we might be responsible for that poor man’s death?”

  “Well, we don’t need to chew that bone too much, Fred, but you oil boys are in quite a pickle over this fusion thing as I see it. And if you wanted to scare employees away, you know, to finding a safer line of work, a public hanging, so to speak, can be right intimidating, I believe.”

  “And quite illegal, Senator,” Sandy added.

  “Oh, illegal! Is that so? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a killer who didn’t understand that what he was about to perpetrate was illegal. No sir. They all know it’s illegal to murder, but they do it anyway. The pay is good, I suspect, although I believe plenty of poor souls have been murdered for a great deal less than what we’re talking about right now, gentlemen.”

  Fred got up and shook his empty glass at Philip Layland. Layland pointed to the kitchen. Fred went off to get some more ice and a refill. “Give me a moment, Senator,” he said walking out of the room. Senator Paxton looked at Sandy Campbell. Sandy also got up and, smiling, said “It’s a lovely time of day, gentlemen. No longer day and not quite night. Dusk. I love the ambiguity of it. Let’s take a little walk. What do you say? This is beautiful country here, Philip.”

  All the men rose, carrying their glasses. Fred returned with his glass refreshed.

  “We’re going to take a little walk, Fred. Bring your glass. Let’s go boys,” Campbell said.

  They moved to the living room and the sliding doors, to the rear deck overlooking the backyard lawn, the forest, and the mountains beyond. They walked down the stairs to a mulch-covered walking path in the rear of the property. Layland brought a flashlight just in case the walk took them into the darkness. In the distance, they could hear the distinctive and haunting cry of a whippoorwill. A little early in the evening for that, Paxton thought.

  Fred Baxter resumed the conversation. “As Sandy said, it’s a beautiful evening. You have a peaceful place here, Philip. Have you had this for very long?”

  “Actually, no. I got it about a year ago when Cranshaw was making me crazy. I needed a place to get away from all the tensions and the fighting. I was raised not far from here, Fred, so I knew the country and decided this is where I wanted to be. I apologize for it not being all that easy to get to. That’s part of the reason why I chose it. But communications, when I need it is as good as any place on Earth.”

  The men moved in silence for several minutes enjoying the cooling air and the sounds of the night time forest beginning to come alive.

  Finally, Fred slowed and turned to Senator Paxton. “So, Senator, tell me again why you asked about for Mr. Sorenson. Now that we’re outside, I mean.”

  Senator Paxton closed his eyes and took a long slow inhale through his nose, exhaling through pursed lips. He remained silent for a moment more. He looked at all the men on the path with him. He began slowly. “Well, Fred, I see it this way. Who could have done this terrible thing? Perhaps Cranshaw. Perhaps he found out that Sorenson was the inside man feeding our friend Philip here with inside information about the goings-on at AJC Fusion. It could have been him in a fit of anger. But this was a carefully planned operation and I just don’t see our man Cranshaw and even less, Mr. Samuel Berman, cold-bloodedly planning such a fate for your unfortunate informer. Philip obviously had no reason to cut off his conduit to AFC Fusion. Neither did the Brazilians.

  “No, this killing was perhaps the most astonishing coincidence and the unfortunate Mr. Sorenson was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time or it was about intimidation. And forgive me gentlemen, but who would be most likely to want to intimidate the folks at AJC Fusion? Well, it would seem to me to be you all. Or it could be our mystery guest, General Slaider, none too pleased, I take it, with this transferring of secrets gambit that our President is playing. Either one would do. I simply pose the question to you since we are all here just now and it's a lovely evening and I thought you might want to unburden yourselves. Good for the soul, as it were.”

  Fred and Sandy looked at each other, but said nothing.

  “That’s okay, boys. I didn’t really expect an answer. I just want you to know I’m sympathetic to your plight: all that oil in the ground, all that money, and suddenly it’s only good for making plastic and perfume and all manner of minor chemicals, inexpensive chemicals. That’s worth a little intimidation. Actually, I’m sympathetic to General Slaider’s concerns as well.”

  “Senator, I can assure you, no one at the institute had anything to do with Mr. Sorenson’s death,” Fred said. “Absolutely,” Sandy added.

  “Of course,” Senator Paxton said, almost speaking to his feet as he walked carefully now along the path, the light getting dimmer and dimmer. “Let’s go back, Phil.” An owl hooted in the distant dark of the forest. The whippoorwill’s cry this time of night continued to surprise Paxton.

  “Senator, what is it you wanted to talk with me about? What was on your mind when you called?” Philip asked.

  “Yes, our friends here from the API distracted me, didn’t they, from my original purpose. Well, regardless of who did in Brian Sorenson, there is the bald fact that he has been done in. Permanently. And we all need a replacement so we know what’s goin’ on there at our little upstart company. Don’t we boys? Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Brian was inside but he had his limitations. He was not high enough in the chain of command,” Layland answered. “My absolute first choice would be Sylvia Carlyle, but I think she is totally loyal to Cranshaw and Berman.”

  “Hmm. Totally loyal is she?” Senator Paxton thought out loud.

  “I think so, yes,” Layland said, bringing out his flashlight now to illuminate the path back to his cabin.

  “Hmm. Loyalty is a fine character trait my momma always used to say. It’s just a matter of finding out what a person is most loyal to. That’s somethin’ I found out all on my own. Livin’ in DC any portion of the year, you learn a whole passel about loyalty, son, a whole passel,” Paxton said.

  37

  The first buses began to arrive by midmorning, two days before the demonstration called to support the president’s United Nations initiative. They came from New England and Canada, from Florida and the other South Atlantic coastal states, from the far northwest, from Washington, and Oregon, and Wyoming and Montana, from Nebraska and North and South Dakota, from California and the great central states, Nevada, Utah, Nebraska, and Iowa, from the southwest and south, from Arizona, and Colorado, and Texas and Arkansas and Louisiana, and Tennessee. They came by the thousand and tens of thousands.

  One by one the buses arrived. One by one they discharged their load of singing young people, of organizers carrying poster boards and permits, bullhorns, and clipboards.

  And the trains too did their part, transporting their cargo of devotees and celebrants. One by one, in accordance with their published schedule, the trains would come into Union Station and disgorge their human cargo. The throng raced from the building like ants from an anthill, dragging not bits of leaf or twig or disassembled insect parts, but duffel bags and backpacks and bicycles and tents, suitcases and guitar cases—all emptied from the bowels of t
he train in the hot, early summer Washington sun.

  And the cars and the planes did their part as well.

  Slowly, groups formed—the singers, the talkers, the politics freaks, the action freaks, the conservation freaks, the older folks, the sightseers, the camera buffs, the servants, and the masters.

  The portable toilets, the speakers’ platforms, and the observation platforms were assembled and erected. The press areas were provided for. The power lines from the media vans were laid out or strung up. The power lines for lighting at night were strung. The water stations and nursing stations and missing and lost-and-found locations were posted and set up.

  Slowly, the anticipation escalated, the electricity in the air becoming palpable. The growing mass of humanity, joined in common cause, was slowly and relentlessly forming its common nervous system, establishing its mysterious integration into a single huge organism. By evening of the first day, a critical mass had been achieved. A living, throbbing, flowing hive had been established in West Potomac Park and East Potomac Park and the mall and the Ellipse and l’Enfant Promenade.

  And like phagocytes, circulating in the unseen arteries and capillaries, the Metropolitan Police Force and the Capitol Police and the National Park Police and the White House Police flowed in and out, sensors alert for hostile invading bodies. Silently, they would engulf such bodies and ingest them and carry them away, cleansing the system of impurities.

  Across the Potomac, Fort Myer was placed on low-level alert, like reserve antibodies, in case an unexpected infection of serious proportions should develop, threatening the organism.