Root and Branch

by Preston Fleming

  “Shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll call you when I have something.”

  Next Zorn handed Choe a list of a dozen names.

  “And while you’re at it, here are a few names I’d like you to check in the database. Let me know which ones have had Triage interviews and the results. Include case dispositions, if DHS released those to us.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “Oh, by the way, how did your court date go yesterday?”

  For a moment, Choe seemed startled by the question.

  “Oh, that? I paid the fine for speeding. Case closed.”

  “Really? No points or anything on your record?”

  “Nope. The whole thing went away.”

  But there was something in Choe’s eyes that made Zorn suspect that he wasn’t telling the whole story.

  Shortly before four o’clock, Brandon Choe entered Zorn’s office and closed the door. Without speaking, he took a seat at the conference table and opened his laptop computer.

  “I took a look at the variables you mentioned, chief, and a couple of interesting items popped out. First, the data confirm that non-citizens account for most of the jihadi suspects rounded up. And foreign-born Muslims who came here illegally or arrived on temporary visas scored by far the highest for risk of violence. Which means the DHS’s goal of maximizing deportations of removable aliens makes very good sense.”

  “No surprises there. What else do you have?”

  “If you remember back when the Triage pilot program began,” Choe explained, “we all thought we were looking only for suspects involved in Islamist-inspired violence. So we expected that by far the most people brought in for interviews would be Muslims.”

  “Right. And when you and I made our visit to Minneapolis, the site supervisor confirmed that nearly all his Cat Ones and Cat Twos were dyed-in-the-wool Islamists.”

  “Not any more,” Choe pointed out. “Since Triage has gone national, up to a quarter of the interviewees in the original five Triage cities aren’t Muslim any more. They’re Antifa types, radical feminists, environmental wackos and all kinds of social justice warriors who’ve gone to the barricades for the intifada. And these home-grown radicals are chalking up some very impressive Triage scores for their bent toward political violence.”

  “Why the change?” Zorn asked. His thoughts turned at once to Jack Nagy’s daughter.

  “From what I can see, it looks like a shift in the mix of suspects being interviewed. We’re seeing higher numbers of left-wingers in the upper percentiles because we’re interviewing a lot more left-wingers. What’s more, some of them are professional revolutionaries who’ve been charged with violent crimes in the past.”

  “How about the names I gave you? Were any of those high scorers?”

  “See for yourself,” Choe said, handing over the list, which he had annotated in response to Zorn’s questions.

  Zorn scanned down the list to Carol’s Van Ingen’s name but found nothing on her. He checked the other non-Muslim names and found that several had been arrested on drug- or weapons-related charges.

  “How about those weapons charges?” Zorn noted. “Do you suppose the radicals might be funneling arms and bomb-making materials to the jihadis?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. Quite a few Antifa foot soldiers have been caught in the past trying to torch government buildings or sabotage pipelines and electric power substations. Some of them used explosives.”

  “It almost sounds as if they’ve modeled themselves after Seventies radicals like the Italian Red Brigades and the German Baader-Meinhof Gang,” Zorn mused. “Those kids wreaked some serious havoc in their day.”

  Zorn leaned back in his chair and recalled his early service in the Agency, when young European revolutionaries were making common cause with Middle Eastern terrorists. Now a new generation seemed to be doing the same in America.

  “Excuse me, boss, but I wasn’t alive in the Seventies,” Choe replied with a puzzled look. “Who was this Baader Meinhof guy?”

  Zorn let out a snort.

  “Andreas Baader and Ulrike Meinhof were a couple of dropouts turned self-styled revolutionary whose ideology roughly matched that of today’s Antifa movement. For a decade or so, they carried out hostage-takings, political murders and armed robberies all over Europe. What do you suppose they’d be up to if they were active today? Cyberattacks? Dirty bombs? Nerve gas, maybe?”

  “Depends on their technical skills, I suppose,” Choe replied with a detached air. “And their finances. The bad news is that Antifa seems quite well funded. For years, they’ve been paying salaries to their foot soldiers, busing them to demonstrations all across America and hiring expensive lawyers to bail them out of jail. All that’s not cheap.”

  Zorn rose and walked over to the window, which looked out over the Potomac River and the greenery of the Roosevelt Island nature preserve.

  “Thanks, Brandon,” he replied, glancing at Choe over his shoulder. “Now do me a favor and copy your spreadsheet onto a thumb drive. Then bring me the drive and delete the file from your computer. I don’t want the results to leave this building.”

  “Consider it done, boss.”

  Zorn looked at his watch. It was almost four, and he would have to leave soon if he were to arrive on time for drinks with Larry Lawless at the Hay-Adams. Lawless had called earlier that day to suggest a meeting to exchange ideas about ESM and become better acquainted. Zorn suspected an ulterior motive and wanted to find out what it was.

  But just as Choe reached the door, the receptionist blocked his path.

  “Don’t go yet,” she told him. “I just had a call from Kendra Keel at the media relations agency. She suggests you both tune in right away to C-Span. Charles Scudder is holding a press conference.”

  Zorn waved Choe back into his office while he hunted in a desk drawer for a remote to the wall-mounted television.

  “Grab a seat,” he told Choe.

  Zorn surfed through the channels to C-Span, then to C-SPAN 2, where he spotted the deputy national security advisor answering reporters’ questions about the Richmond courthouse bombing. Apparently, Scudder had just finished updating the media on casualties from the blast and noted that security camera footage had enabled the FBI to identify two female suspects. One was linked to a known jihadist cell, while the other had no prior criminal record or terrorist associations.

  “Do you expect more bombings like the one in Richmond?” asked a thirtyish male reporter with a shaved head.

  “It’s foreseeable that more high-profile bombings may occur before we can apprehend the bomb-makers who put this one together,” Scudder replied in a measured tone. “Unfortunately, explosives expertise is widely distributed among jihadists who’ve fought in Syria, Iraq, and other war zones. But since we’ve implemented the president’s emergency security measures, law enforcement agencies across the country have detained thousands of suspect jihadists. And our streets are the safer for it.”

  Across the room, another reporter raised her hand and was given a microphone.

  “In U.S. cities where violent demonstrations have erupted since Washington’s attacks on Iran and Pakistan,” she began, “our network has received multiple reports of civil liberties abuses, including warrantless searches and arrests, excessive use of force, holding suspects incognito, and detentions that appear based on religious profiling. Can you comment on those reports?”

  “First of all,” Scudder replied in an indignant tone, “in cities where unrest has broken out, law enforcement is operating around the clock to restore order. Aside from the FBI and local police, the National Guard has also been deployed in several states to help local authorities restore peace. And ICE is working overtime to remove foreign-born Islamists who have no legal right to be here. All these agencies operate under strict guidelines to respect civil liberties. And I can assure you that the Justice Department is monitoring law enforcement activities closely to ensure that legal guidelines are followed.”

  But t
he reporter, a middle-aged woman with a voice like a foghorn, remained unsatisfied.

  “Follow-up question, please,” she barked. “So you deny that a campaign is underway for the mass deportation of Muslims from America under the pretext of counterterrorism? A kind of Ethnic Cleansing 2.0?”

  The question’s sensational premise fanned Scudder’s anger into a high flame.

  “I’m not going to waste time here confirming or denying wild conspiracy theories,” he fumed. “Since this administration took office, expedited removals have grown but ICE has kept them focused against dangerous criminal aliens. For example, ICE recently completed a major sweep against MS-13 drug dealers and the Mexican cartels.”

  “How about some numbers on your deportations of Muslims, Mr. Scudder?” the reporter persisted.

  “ICE reports its enforcement and removal statistics in its quarterly reports. You’ll have the new numbers when they come out early next month.”

  Scudder turned away from the reporter to respond to another questioner. Choe cast an anxious look at Zorn, who returned it with a scowl.

  “They’ve got him on the ropes,” Zorn muttered. “He should stop now before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.”

  “On those Muslim removals, sir,” the next reporter insisted. “What do you say to reports that suspected Islamists are being held in secret detention camps? Is it true that mothballed FEMA camps in remote locations are being reactivated during the intifada?”

  “If you can find even one of those mythical FEMA camps,” Scudder answered with an icy look, “let me know and I’ll go there myself. One last question.”

  Scudder pointed to a reporter in the front row, a striking young brunette.

  “Disturbances in the intifada cities seem to be extremely well-organized. Can you comment on who you think is bankrolling them? Specifically, can you confirm that the FBI is investigating certain Silicon Valley billionaires for paying Antifa militants to join the intifada?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on ongoing investigations,” Scudder offered in a tone that was milder than his clenched jaw would have predicted. “But I have seen reports that several tech billionaires recently renounced their U.S. citizenship and have taken up residence abroad. I don’t suppose those would be the billionaires you’re referring to…”

  He let the question hang in the air, but the reporter wouldn’t let it drop.

  “Indeed they are, and the reason I’m asking is that those same billionaires received notice from the IRS that they’re being assessed billions of dollars as an exit tax. Could this be in retaliation for their criticisms of the president?”

  “No comment,” Scudder replied, his eyes fixed on some distant point as he left the podium.

  “Not Charlie’s finest hour,” Zorn observed as he darkened the television.

  “He’ll be a goner soon if he doesn’t watch out,” Choe mused. “How long do you suppose before the media direct their fire against the ESM program itself?”

  “Depends on how tight a ship Scudder and Craven have been running. If it starts springing leaks, we could see negative stories breaking in a matter of days.”

  “That quickly? Shall I ask outside counsel to review the termination language in our ESM contracts?”

  Zorn shook his head.

  “Not yet. Let me do some checking. I may learn more by the end of the day.”

  Brandon Choe waited until he was certain that Zorn had left the building before closing the door to his office and placing a call on his cell phone. The call went straight to voicemail.

  “Hi, Pat. It’s Brandon. Listen I’ve got something I think you ought to know. Could we meet somewhere tonight or before work tomorrow? Text me the time and place and I’ll be there.”

  Zorn left his car with the valet at the Hay-Adams hotel and entered the lobby. Off to the left he spotted an understated brass plaque and descended the stairway to the hotel’s lobby bar, named Off the Record. As he entered, he stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light while examining the political caricatures lining the walls.

  It was just past five o’clock, when D.C. watering holes were normally elbow-to-elbow with customers, yet the bar was nearly empty in post-intifada Washington. Zorn asked the bartender, a tall, dapper fellow wearing a plaid vest and a paisley bow tie, which of the tables was reserved for Mr. Lawless. The man gestured to a small round table of dark wood at the back of the room, flanked by a pair of tall wing-back chairs upholstered in scarlet. Zorn thanked him, mounted a nearby bar stool and examined the selection of whiskeys behind the bar while he waited for his host to arrive.

  A few minutes later, Larry Lawless, Tetra Corporation’s chief of business development, came down the stairs dressed in cream-colored linen trousers and a salmon-colored blazer over a blue-and-white striped broadcloth shirt, minus tie. He looked as if he had just left the day spa after sitting for a manicure and a facial.

  After the two men exchanged greetings, Lawless suggested they order drinks at the bar for speedier service.

  “Richard will bring them to us. What would you like?”

  “I’ll have an Americano,” Zorn replied.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something stronger? They make a fantastic pear martini here.”

  “Better not. I have to do some shopping out in the suburbs and don’t want to risk a DUI.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lawless answered before turning to the bartender. “The usual for me, Richard.”

  Lawless led his guest to the rear of the barroom, where the light was dimmer and the tables were spaced further apart for privacy.

  Lawless’s rapid rise in the global security business had always intrigued Zorn, who knew well that his own elevation to CEO of Zorn Security owed more to being René Zorn’s son than to his resumé. Lawless had enjoyed no such advantage when he left the CIA two decades ago to launch the business that he sold to Tetra a decade later for a fortune in Tetra common stock.

  The former spy had joined the CIA around the same time as Zorn, having served in the Far East while Zorn was posted to the Arab world. It was only a few months after his retirement on medical grounds when the 9/11 terror attacks hit. Lawless expected to be hauled back into service under contract but, like most other recent Agency retirees at the time, his phone never rang. Unlike them, however, he possessed a keen sense of the Agency’s systemic weaknesses as it mobilized for an expanded global war on terror.

  So Lawless mortgaged his house in McLean, mounted a crash recruiting drive, and signed up the best of the Agency’s retired Arab Hands, whose services he then leased back to the government at a hefty profit. Before long, the business expanded to include reports officers, analysts and administrators. Later Lawless added a paramilitary group to enlist former members of elite special operations units. Little more than a decade later, Lawless sold his company to Tetra Corporation, became the latter’s senior vice president of business development, and went on to identify other up-and-coming private security companies for Tetra to acquire. And Zorn Security, it seemed, might well be next on his target list. Zorn had to admire his former colleague’s shrewdness.

  “Did you happen to catch Charlie Scudder’s press conference this afternoon?” Zorn inquired in a casual tone once they were seated.

  “I caught the tail end of it. Charlie wasn’t at his best, I’m afraid. The leaks seem to have caught him completely off guard.”

  “What leaks?”

  “You didn’t know? Charlie’s staff positively loathes him. They’ve been spilling all kinds of derogatory info to the press to get his ass canned. Where do you think those questions about civil liberties, ethnic cleansing and secret detention camps came from?”

  “Secret detention camps?” Zorn repeated, taking a sharp breath.

  “Yes. And I suspect the reference was aimed at our offshore transit centers.”

  But Lawless cut his comment short when he noticed the bartender’s approach with cocktails and small dishes of olives, mixed n
uts, and wasabi-flavored peas. Upon taking a sip of martini without waiting for his guest to do so, the Tetra executive’s eyes lit up.

  “Now that’s the kind of drink a man needs at the end of a long day.”

  “Cheers,” Zorn replied, raising his glass. The Americano was delicious.

  “So, about those leaks,” Zorn continued.

  “They’re dangerous. And they’ve got to stop.”

  “How? Does Scudder really have the balls to fire staffers? Or to play rough with the media?”

  Lawless grabbed a handful of wasabi peas before answering, while Zorn wondered whether Charles Scudder had as firm a grip over the ESM program as was credited.

  “I don’t know if he does or not,” the Tetra executive went on. “But I can tell you this: Nelson Blackburn will have Charlie’s head on a platter if he doesn’t clamp down soon. We’re doing too well against the jihadis now to get stabbed in the back by leakers.”

  “Are we really doing that well?” Zorn challenged before taking another pull from his Americano. “I can’t really tell yet. But I suppose you’re in a better position to know, as lead contractor.”

  Here was a chance to pump the Tetra executive for information not recorded in any file. Zorn hoped the pear martini would help to loosen his tongue.

  “Of course we’re doing well,” Lawless replied with an impatient wave of his manicured hand. “Every week we roll up a great number of the other side’s best people. And we’re making a dent in their support base, too, with all the suspects we’re running through Triage and shipping off to the Caribbean. The jihadis put on a good show for the media behind their silly street barricades, but time is on our side. So long as we can keep public opinion from turning against us.”

  “How much longer do you think it will take to break the back of the intifada?”

  “I think by summer’s end, barring major setbacks,” Lawless replied before taking another gulp of martini. “And then we’ll shift into mop-up mode.”

  “And how long might that last? Should I be making plans to lay off Triage operators and flight crews?”