The Zarrabian Incident

by C. A. James

  “I like it,” said Patterson.

  “It gets better. Turns out she had to retract a story when she was first getting started, or parts of it at least. She caused a lot of embarrassment to her TV station. Something about a politician snorting coke at a sex party, but her source was just lying. She didn’t get two sources for the allegation, and she didn’t check out the one source she had.”

  “But that was what, twenty-five years ago?” asked Patterson.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Blackwell. “We attack her personally and professionally—a one-two punch. The public will eat it up.”

  “What about that?” he say, nodding at the TV.

  “We don’t say anything. Maybe get some third-level bureaucrat to go on record saying it’s beneath the dignity of the White House to comment on crazy conspiracy theories. Then an ‘unnamed source’ leaks a story that FBI Special Agent McCaig may be under criminal investigation for covering up his relationship with a terrorist.”

  “Yeah, I like that,” said Patterson. “And maybe they have evidence that he deliberately botched the investigation. We tell them to re-run that interview where he says, ‘payback time’ and get people thinking about double meanings and hidden messages.”

  “You’re getting the idea. It’s not about facts, it’s about viral misinformation. And taking someone down. You know why people watch that stupid talent show, American Idol?”

  “I’m guessing good music isn’t the answer.”

  “No. They watch it for the same reason they watch car races. They want someone to crash and burn. They’re not interested in the winner. So we’re going to give them a car wreck and then hand out cans of kerosene to the tabloids that call themselves newspapers. And I guarantee you they’ll pour it on the wreck and strike a match.”

  “Maybe we can get the Navy brass to say something, like you know, ‘The idea that the United States Navy was involved in any way with a political conspiracy is blah, blah, blah, and an insult to the integrity and blah, blah.’”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Blackwell.

  “OK, it sounds like you have this handled. But we have another problem,” said Patterson.

  “What’s that?”

  “The senator wants us to end the whole thing. For good.”

  “Christ, Jack. You mean . . . you know you can’t do that, right?”

  “We may not have any choice.”

  “Jack, listen to yourself. When we started this, it was all going to be simple. One or two flubbed attacks by so-called terrorists who were clueless and expendable. Work up the voters so that they’ll let us do what this country should have done a long time ago.”

  “We’re still going to do that, Erica.”

  “Yeah, well our so-called terrorists were too smart by half. They blew up a bridge, got a SWAT team killed, and one of them escaped. Then team number two drilled a big hole in the side of an LNG supertanker. And now you’re talking about the cold-blooded murder of an FBI agent and a reporter. Jack, don’t go there.”

  “I can’t ignore the senator. Trust me, that’s not an option.”

  “You can’t commit cold-blooded murder! A reporter? And right after a bombshell story?”

  “Well, that’s unfortunate timing, isn’t it?”

  “Are you even listening to me? We can get this back in control. We have a plan, Jack!”

  “We do, Blackwell. And you’d better make it work, because if you don’t, we have a backup plan too. Got it?”

  “Not we, Jack. I can’t be part of that.”

  He spun back around. “You’re in. Get it? You don’t get to back out, Blackwell. If this ship goes down, you’re going down with it. You might as well help me keep it afloat.”

  “Don’t threaten me, Patterson. I’m not backing out. But we have a solution. You just have to let me do it.”

  “You’d better.”

  Blackwell’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “They just tracked Christine Garrett on a flight to Salt Lake City.”

  “Jesus Christ. Did they follow her?”

  “No, they found this after she landed and was gone. She used an assumed name.”

  “And McCaig?”

  “We still have no idea were he is.”

  “Salt Lake City. He’s probably driving, and she’s gone to meet him. Now they’re halfway to Montana.”

  “You don’t know that. They could have a lot of reasons for going to Utah.”

  “I don’t believe in fucking coincidences,” said Patterson. Then he stood stock still, frozen in thought. A few seconds later, he broke out of it. “I know how to fix this. I need you to do something. Listen carefully.”

  “What?”

  “Just listen. Call the director at the FBI. If they have any kind of tail on McCaig and Garrett, any orders at all, tell them to knock it off. Tell them it’s a matter of national security that they leave McCaig and Garrett alone, and that the White House will take full responsibility. You can hint that other agencies are involved. Got it?”

  “What the hell, Jack?”

  “You got that?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Just do it! And all that other shit you just said, do that too.” Patterson turned from the window and headed for the door. “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Isn’t that what they say? I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  “Jack, stop!” said Blackwell. “You’re going to go off again half cocked without consulting me. We’re in this together! Goddamn it!” she shouted as the door slammed behind him.

  Christine watched parched grass and scrub brush roll past her window. It seemed like hours since she’d last seen a tree. Nothing but low, undulating hills covered with brittle grass and brush, followed by more of the same, hour after hour as their little RV rolled north. Whoever had written America the Beautiful must have been somewhere else when inspiration struck.

  Ahead lay Montana. One of the biggest criminal conspiracies in American history was converging on the Fort Peck Dam, and she might be the only reporter there—certainly the only one who knew what was actually going on.

  Bashir and McCaig reminded Christine of wolves cast out from the pack, lonely and shivering in the cold. Their careers had been devoted to upholding the law. Now they were alone, not knowing whom they could trust. They had redoubled the strength of their partnership, almost like brothers, or maybe like a father and son. Neither had expressed a concrete plan of action, but Christine had a sense that something was up.

  Zarrabian? He played his cards close to the chest. Christine knew his motives were those of a soldier: protect his country. His fellow soldiers were walking into a deadly trap, created by one of the cleverest deceptions in military history. If they sprung that trap, it would trigger a war against their own country. But these were her thoughts. Zarrabian wasn’t talking much.

  She ought to feel excited. This was the biggest story of her career. She’d reported some good stories, even a couple great ones. But nothing like this. There would never be another story like it. She would be the reporter whose name would be forever associated with the worst government conspiracy in the history of America. Assuming she could actually report it.

  So why didn’t she feel energized?

  She was usually immune to the emotional impact of her stories. Her job was to investigate impartially, to remain detached, and especially to stay out of the story itself. But this one was getting to her. How was it possible that a conspiracy of this magnitude had survived this long without being discovered?

  She was going to break this story. It was important. But would it matter? Or would the Internet drown the whole thing in a sea of misinformation, disinformation, and conspiracy theories?

  The attacks on her had already started. Somehow they’d dug up the deposition transcripts from her divorce, along with all of the salacious details of her abortion. The news was rife with adulterous innuendo about a good friend, whose real involvem
ent had been to help her realize the abuse wasn’t her fault. He’d been nothing more than that, contrary to her husband’s jealous claims. Now his name was getting smeared alongside hers. It made her sick.

  And of course they’d found her erroneous story about the politician snorting coke. God, what a mess. She’d learned a lot that day. Her producer had yelled at her until she wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He didn’t fire her, but he did make her write an apology and retraction and personally deliver it on the air live.

  Now both stories were making at least as much noise on the attack-dog TV networks as her piece about the terrorist conspiracy. Every late-night comedy host had all mentioned her in at least one joke. CNN and MSNBC had reported the stories but had avoided the lurid exaggerations and had reminded viewers that this was clearly a counterattack intended to discredit her breaking story about the terrorist attacks.

  At least Grant had put on a strong defense for her.

  She should have known this would happen. She’d put herself in the line of fire of powerful people. Why was she surprised that a few bullets had winged her? At least they hadn’t scored a career-ending hit yet.

  Were real reporters a thing of the past? Was genuine news getting submerged in a quagmire of viral memes, uninformed bloggers, and “news” organizations that were nothing more than fronts for special-interest groups? Was it all about attack, counterattack, misinformation, and lies?

  McCaig’s voice startled her. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

  “Not much to say.”

  He glanced over at her and raised a skeptical eyebrow, then returned his gaze to the road.

  They’d left Salt Lake City in the dead of night. Zarrabian had taken the first shift at the wheel and was now in the bedroom in the back sleeping. Bashir was sitting at the RV’s dining table with his computer. They’d stopped at a big-box retail store in Salt Lake City, and Bashir emerged with a shopping bag of electronics and cables.

  When he got through hooking things together, Bashir explained that they now had secure, untraceable Internet access. Their Internet presence shifted from country to country, never staying more than five minutes. One Google search would seem like it was from a citizen in Germany, the next from India, and after that maybe Brazil or Canada. One minute it looked like they were on an old PC with out-of-date software, and the next minute they appeared to be using a new Macintosh with the most modern browser available. Nobody could trace their activity to an RV driving across Utah, Idaho, and Montana.

  Salt Lake City was six hours behind them. The Fort Peck Dam was still six hours ahead. Her destiny. Maybe the destiny of the whole country. They had no idea if they’d be there in time. No idea where or how to find Zarrabian’s fellow “terrorists.” Just a 134-mile-long lake with 1,500 miles of shoreline and 350 square miles of water to search.

  Hell, was Fort Peck really the target? Was this all just a fantasy, an air castle they’d built out of bricks molded from speculation and guesses? Would they get to Fort Peck and find nothing more than a lake and a few fishermen?

  Over the drone of highway and engine noise, Christine heard rustling and voices from behind her. Zarrabian emerged from the bedroom. Bashir looked up from his computer screen. He nodded at Zarrabian, but Christine could see that Bashir was very uncomfortable in Zarrabian’s company.

  “Did you sleep well?” asked Christine.

  “Well enough, thank you,” said Zarrabian. He sat down across the table from Bashir.

  “Hey, who’s turn is it to drive? I’m tired,” said McCaig.

  “Mine,” said Christine.

  “My shift is over,” said McCaig. He set the cruise control and stood up, one hand on the steering wheel.

  “TJ, don’t be an ass! You’re going to get us killed! Sit down!”

  “Nah, what are we going to hit out here? That truck a mile ahead? Sit down and drive. I’m going to let go of the steering wheel in three, two . . .”

  She slid around him and took over the controls. “You’re a maniac!”

  “My mom and dad used to switch drivers without stopping all the time on the drive to Phoenix to visit my uncle. I thought it was a hoot.” He dropped into the passenger seat.

  “It’s a wonder you survived to the age of eighteen, McCaig.”

  “Since we’re all awake, and out in the middle of nowhere, I have a question,” said Bashir.

  McCaig swiveled the passenger-side chair around to face Bashir and Zarrabian.

  “OK, what’s up?”

  “A serious question. Maybe we should pull over so we can all talk about this?”

  “I can hear just fine,” said Christine from the driver’s seat. “And I don’t want to stop out here. A cop or good Samaritan might come along and decide to stop to see if we need help.”

  “Right,” said Bashir. “OK, so back there in Rio Vista, we got excited about channeling Sherlock and being clever. Grab our stuff, jump on our horses, we’re all riding off to Montana to save the day. We’re trying to stop a terrorist attack, but how?”

  “No,” said Zarrabian.

  “Definitely not,” said Christine. “You may be the smartest geek I’ve ever met, but you’ve got to think bigger.”

  “What?” asked Bashir.

  “Catching the criminals is way more important than stopping the crime,” said McCaig.

  “But this isn’t just a crime like some bank robbery! Tens of thousands of people could die! What were the numbers? Billions in damages, insurance industry bankrupt, stock market collapsed, all the bridges out, the biggest seaport in the world destroyed? No way we can let that happen.”

  “Have you thought of the cost of a war?” asked Zarrabian.

  “I, uh . . .”

  “If the Fort Peck dam is breached, tens of thousands of Americans may die,” said Zarrabian. “It is a guess, we can not know. But if the criminals in your government are not caught, there will be another war. An illegal, unnecessary war fought so that industrialists can put more money into their bank accounts. Instead of ten thousand dead Americans, there will be a hundred thousand dead Iranians and many thousands of young American soldiers. Just as there were in Afghanistan and Iraq, and in Vietnam and Korea. America often forgets the true cost of war.”

  “Think about the cases we’ve solved,” said McCaig. “Sometimes we’ve got the bad guys nailed, red handed. We could arrest them any time we wanted. But we hold off, because they’ll lead us to bigger fish. Right?”

  “Well, sure. But we don’t let them murder some innocent just because we wanted the bigger fish, do we?”

  “Depends,” said McCaig. “Probably not, but you have to look at the consequences. If some guy has a nuclear weapon, you really want to get it, even if a few people get hurt along the way. Right now we want to save the dam, but catching the bad guys is way more important.”

  “I guess so,” said Bashir, “But if this is some government conspiracy, there’s no way it can be the whole FBI. Smith is part of it, and we don’t know about the director. But there’s no way the Salt Lake district is going to be in on this. Why can’t we just tell them what’s up? They’d have to respond. They could stop the attack on the dam. Especially if Ms. Garrett, er, Christine, went public with the story.”

  Christine shook her head. “So how does that catch the bad guys?”

  “Well, there’d be an investigation, right?” said Bashir. “And we know Smith is in on this, and we’ve got Colonel Zarrabian here, and maybe with some help we could bring in the other Iranians and get their testimony. Maybe Smith would plea bargain, spill the beans on the next guy up, and we could get to the top.”

  McCaig shook his head. “We’ve got nothing concrete to pin on these guys. We don’t have one handful of manure to throw at them. And for people like this, you need a whole bucket full if you want any to stick. We’re just pissants. Nobodies. We’re barely a weed in their driveway when they back out.”

  “And if Colonel Zarrabian turns himself in, he’ll disappear into s
ome hellhole like Guantanamo with no trial and no conviction,” said Christine.

  “If he lives that long,” said McCaig.

  “And you two won’t be exempt, either,” she continued. “You’d discover the attack machine of tabloid radio and TV. I may be a respected reporter, but it would be me against a whole army of their attack-dog reporters and commentators. You’d be smeared so badly in the Court of Public Opinion that your own grandmother would disown you.”

  “I guess,” said Bashir, looking down.

  They fell silent. Outside, the low, rolling hills were beginning to glow a deep orange as the sun sank into the West. A few towering clouds glowed pink against the darkening sky.

  Zarrabian broke the silence. “Captain McCaig and I had much time to talk on the drive from San Francisco to Salt Lake City. We have an idea.”

  Christine twisted in the driver’s seat and looked straight at him, then at McCaig. “When were you going to tell us about this?”

  “Now. We’re all finally awake,” said McCaig.

  She turned back to the road. “OK, I’m listening.”

  “Well,” said McCaig, “As we see it, there are two realistic possibilities. The first, call it Plan A, is to find the third team before they attack the dam. Maybe we can stop them. If not, it’s almost certain they’ll all be killed.”

  Zarrabian spoke up. “If I find them, I will explain to them that they are being used to create anger against our own country and start a war, and I will attempt to convince them to halt the mission.”

  “And if that works, he’s got to get them somewhere safe where you can do an in-depth interview,” said McCaig.

  “It will be difficult,” added Zarrabian. “They will be very suspicious. You must remember how hard it was for me to come to the truth. I trusted Captain McCaig’s integrity, but these men will have no such friend.”

  “Won’t they trust you?” asked Christine.

  “More than they will trust you,” said Zarrabian, “but this will be a difficult story for them to accept.”