Collateral Damage

by P A Duncan

  “Unca Jay?”

  “What, honey?”

  “I hungwy.”

  “Did you have lunch?”

  She shook her head.

  Carroll bit back a curse. Three o’clock in the afternoon and the kid hadn’t eaten since breakfast, if that. He picked Ashley up and set her on the car’s passenger seat. From the glove box, he took a plastic baggie full of wet-wipes he’d collected from fast-food joints. He tore open a packet and set to work cleaning Ashley’s face. After he used the last wipe, Ashley was presentable. He used his comb to detangle her hair and sacrificed a gun-cleaning cloth to brush off her clothes.

  From Lamar’s car, he took the child seat, strapped it into his vehicle, and buckled Ashley into it.

  “Where we going, Unca Jay?”

  “You want some McNuggets?”

  “With fwies?”

  “Sure. Let me leave a note for Mom and Dad.”

  She chatted a mile a minute on the way to McDonalds, but he didn’t mind. Her innocent voice soothed him, but he’d give Lamar a ration of shit for leaving her outside alone. Sharon would get an earful about keeping her kid clean.

  A Happy Meal for her and a Quarter-Pounder and shake for him, and they ate in silence. Ashley inhaled her meal and told him she was still “hungwy.” He bought them both a cherry pie, and she finished that as well, Carroll wiping the filing from her face. By the time he strapped her in the car seat to head home, she was asleep.

  He again took the back road to the trailer, where Lamar sat on the small deck, smoking a cigarette. He was barefoot and wore only a pair of jeans. Ashley didn’t wake when Jay took her from the car.

  “Hey, man, saw your note,” Lamar said. “Thanks for taking care of the brat.”

  “She’s not a brat, and she was, like, fucking starving.”

  “Man, she had breakfast.”

  “It’s four o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “What? Man, Sharon and me must have conked out.”

  Sharon came to the door, her hair a mess, a robe barely closed over her swollen belly. “I’ll take her,” she said.

  Carroll handed the sleeping girl to her mother. He closed the sliding door, and he and Duval were alone. “You have my mail?” Carroll asked.

  “Got it yesterday. Nothing from her. Man, I told you not to fuck it up.”

  “You know what I gotta do. I don’t want that to touch her.”

  “Look, uh, about that. You know I believe in this one hundred percent, but the timing’s bad. That’s right when Sharon’s due. I gotta be here.”

  “Ah, fuck, L.D.,” Carroll muttered.

  “Leave it to women to fuck things up with their uteruses, right?”

  “You had something to do with it, asshole. I understand, but Prophet won’t.”

  “Oh, shit. Maybe Sharon’ll pop early, and I can leave. A couple of days before, give me a call.”

  “Okay. If Prophet calls or comes by here, don’t tell him you can’t help. Understand?”

  “What’s up?”

  Sometimes Sharon eavesdropped on their conversations. Carroll looked inside the trailer. She wasn’t in sight, but he lowered his voice, “Prophet told me to make certain you were in. If you weren’t, I’m supposed to…” He couldn’t form the words.

  “What?”

  “I’m supposed to kill Sharon or Ashley.”

  Duval grabbed Carroll by his shirt. “You motherfucker, if you—”

  “Easy. You know I couldn’t hurt either of them. I have to let Prophet think that. If he comes here, you make like you’re ready and willing. When the time comes, if you’re not with me, I’ll deal with him. Am I getting through?”

  “I hear you, dude. You, uh, need some? I cooked yesterday.”

  John Thomas Carroll catalogued his life at that moment. Doped-up friends and crazy preachers, but the insanity would be worth it when this was over, when he completed his mission.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll need some for the road.”

  22

  Bombing

  FBI Headquarters

  Washington, D.C.

  Emmet Brasseau, second youngest FBI director after J. Edgar Hoover, closed the folder and stacked it atop its companions, finished with his prep for the briefing by the U.N. operative named Alexei N. Bukharin. Brasseau had come in early to review the files his sources had obtained for him on the two U.N. people. Hollis Fitzgerald’s assessment was part of the file. Brasseau gave credence to that, even though Fitzgerald had an axe to grind. Brasseau knew an FBI agent of Fitzgerald’s experience always tossed some nugget of truth in the mix.

  That’s what Brasseau told himself.

  Fitzgerald had been retired for months, but Brasseau suspected Fitzgerald was the source of the photographs, the ones Brasseau had no clue how anyone had obtained. Cameras and other recording devices were off-limits at Opus Dei meetings.

  Non-Catholics couldn’t understand the commitment to living the Christ-like life Opus Dei demanded. Hours or days in prayer, fasting, penance. Scourging in all its medieval glory. Brasseau would never turn his back on Opus Dei, but he didn’t want pictures of him using a flail on his naked body to become public either.

  A note with the photographs read: “It is in your best interests to block whatever U.N. plan is presented at the briefing. Here are some suggested arguments.” The bulleted list was thorough, and the threat was sufficient incentive for Brasseau.

  That, and he distrusted spies. They obtained information through morally questionable means. The fact President Randolph had engaged them to spy in this country underscored the President’s now-obvious immorality. Randolph’s sexual proclivities, his questionable business deals had made Brasseau regret taking this job. Brasseau believed in guilt by association and sin as well.

  Brasseau put the file in his safe. Time to prepare for battling the wicked. He opened a closet door and dropped onto the prie-dieu, kneeling before the personal altar he’d made inside. He crossed himself, eyes on the crucifix, and prayed.

  “For thou, Lord, wilt bless the righteous; with favor thou wilt compass him as with a shield.”

  Situation Room

  The White House

  Washington, D.C.

  When the Secret Service agent escorted Alexei into the Situation Room, the President stood from his seat at the head of the table and shook Alexei’s hand. Attorney General Vejar rose and gave Alexei a smile, and ATF Director Noel Stark stood, too. Emmet Brasseau elected to remain seated, his eyes on a file open before him.

  Alexei set his briefcase on the table and extracted copies of the briefing. He forced himself not to tug at the unaccustomed tie. Brasseau’s head lifted, and he looked down his nose at Alexei. Alexei smiled at him, and Brasseau looked away so fast he had to have given himself whiplash.

  Score one for me, Alexei thought.

  “All alone today, Mr. Bukharin?” President Randolph asked.

  “As the senior operative, I opted to conduct this briefing,” he replied, giving Randolph a disarming smile. “Sorry I’m not as attractive as my partner.”

  “Well, I have no complaints,” Vejar said.

  Randolph rubbed his cheeks and chin and smiled. “Sporting a new look, I see.”

  Alexei smoothed the beard he’d trimmed for this presentation. “Change is good now and then.”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” said Randolph, resuming his seat.

  Alexei distributed the copies. Brasseau didn’t touch his, reminding Alexei of Hollis Fitzgerald at Killeen.

  “Any time you need clarification, please ask,” Alexei said. After a deep breath, he started in. “Criminological theory states terrorist acts are the products of three forces. First, a connection of historical events that appear to validate some conspiracy theory. The conspiracy may be total fantasy, but that’s irrelevant to the terrorist. The conspiracy points to an enemy who must be extinguished.

  “Second is the belief the world is headed toward what some see as a biblically foretold doom, confirmed
by the alleged conspiracy. These true believers welcome a divine cleansing of the planet.

  “Finally, we have place, one that’s dark and soulless, home to a radical fringe. It can be a physical place, or it may be only in the mind of the true believer. In that place, coincidence does not exist but rather events that lead us toward an ordained end time.

  “From this nexus of place, belief, and history has emerged a conspiracy of men who see their destiny as a singular event that will hasten the end times, for which they are ready with food and weapons. More importantly, they want to punish those they see as lawbreakers.”

  “Conspiracy?” Brasseau said. “This is the first we’re hearing of it?”

  “Emmet,” Randolph said, “give Mr. Bukharin the time he needs to make his case.”

  Alexei gave Brasseau his best don’t-fuck-with-me expression and continued, “The alliance of these four men seems improbable. One is a decorated war hero, but his small-town isolation started him on a trek into dark, paranoid beliefs. Another is a failed soldier and failed farmer, struggling to support his family, but who has been convinced for years his government is against him. The next man would be classified as a loser because he has no ambition beyond working at a minimum wage job. He fuels his paranoia about the government with homemade meth.

  “These three men from different parts of the country joined the U.S. Army on the same day, met in boot camp, and became fast friends over talk about government excesses. Each reinforced the others’ anti-social and anti-government beliefs.

  “Finally, binding them together in conspiracy, a fourth man, also a former soldier, now a Christian Identity preacher whose anti-government, neo-Nazi, white-supremacy message has touched untold numbers of disaffected people.”

  “The FBI is aware of such groups,” Brasseau said, smiling. “Our conviction rate is excellent.”

  Alexei ignored him. “Per our protocol for this mission, I’m speaking of a crime in the planning stages, Mr. President, lest Mr. Brasseau think I’m obstructing justice.”

  Brasseau squirmed, face flushed, confirming he had thought that.

  Alexei continued, “Criminology further explains why we fail to foresee terrorist acts, namely our disinclination to look beyond the act itself and examine the grievance that caused it. It’s easier to say the terrorist is evil; however, we must understand why a person, who’s shown no disposition to evil before, straps on an explosive vest and discharges it on a crowded bus, why a man joins a militia and kills his life-long neighbor because he prays a different way.”

  “Those things don’t happen here,” Noel Stark said.

  “Human beings are human beings,” Alexei said. “The motivations are the same no matter where they’re from. May I continue?”

  Brasseau smirked at him. “You said we could ask questions.”

  “I withdraw that permission. Criminologists say to prevent acts of terror, we must look into the black box between the grievance and the act of terror, much as we do for an aircraft accident. We must examine the data; establish the link between the grievance and the future terrorist act.

  “Inside that black box are two key elements: support for the act from people who are either directly involved or who provide encouragement but who don’t turn in the terrorist. This tells the terrorist he’s justified in his action. The second key element is weaponry, usually guns but also explosives.”

  Alexei paused for effect and got a reaction.

  Randolph straightened from his lounging posture and fixed an intense gaze on Alexei. “Mr. Bukharin, do you mean a bomb?”

  “Yes.”

  Brasseau and Stark straightened, too.

  “When?” Brasseau barked.

  Alexei didn’t look away from the President. “If you will indulge me, sir, I’d like to give you a look into this plot’s black box.”

  “How will that help us?” Brasseau asked.

  Well, he missed the point of the last ten minutes, Alexei thought.

  “Go ahead, Mr. Bukharin,” said Randolph.

  “These four men I mentioned have a grievance born of specific events. Because of their apocalyptic sense of doom, fed by their paranoia, they want a government do-over in their leader’s image. Their support comes from a network trained to be modern-day minute men. They’re urged on by a man who uses religion to justify this act.”

  “What’s the grievance?” Randolph asked.

  “Perceived and in some cases real government abuses. To a small extent Ruby Ridge. Mostly Killeen.”

  “Not this again,” muttered Stark.

  Brasseau’s eyes narrowed at Alexei.

  “Support for redressing this grievance comes unwittingly from family and friends,” Alexei said, “and from what’s left of Patriot City’s network. More support comes from politicians and law enforcement who don’t understand Patriot City wasn’t a wannabe militia.”

  “Please,” Brasseau said, tossing his pen on the table. “I haven’t heard any senator or congressman or policeman advocating treason.”

  “I didn’t say that. However, politicians from a particular political party do disparage public servants, and that affirms extremists’ beliefs. Taken to that extreme, someone with a grievance might decide he has approval from those on high to take on the government.”

  “An interesting theory,” Brasseau said. “I want to know more about these alleged conspirators.”

  “That happens to be next. Each is Army-trained, meaning they’re familiar, and comfortable, with weaponry and have been trained to kill. The preacher I mentioned was mentored by a Nazi war criminal who incited violence in various parts of the world, in hopes of starting an apocalyptic race war. The Mossad, Interpol, and my organization have pursued him but—”

  “Since World War II? And you never caught him?” Brasseau said.

  “He was a resourceful individual, adept at changing identities, and the FBI never caught Mengele.” Again, Alexei focused on President Randolph. “These four men will build a bomb to address their grievances. On April nineteenth, a scant six weeks from now, they will detonate that bomb at a federal facility.”

  Alexei scanned the faces. Mai would have delivered this news in her class-conscious British accent, but she would have shown them her passion. His edginess, the thickening of his accent, his cold, flat, monotone voice, had disturbed them.

  Vejar cleared her throat and asked, “You have names and proof?”

  “Yes, Madame Attorney General, I’m getting to that and to a proposed resolution as well.”

  “Do you know of crimes already committed?” Brasseau asked.

  “If I had, you would have been informed. If I can continue without pointless interruptions, you’ll get a trail of evidence leading to these conspirators.”

  “Give us the names, and we’ll take it from there,” Brasseau said.

  “My protocol is to give you background, present evidence, and propose a plan of action.”

  “I want those names. Now.”

  “Our Charter allows us to withhold specifics if we suspect a signatory nation’s motives. Asking me to circumvent my protocols makes me suspicious,” Alexei said.

  “Now, you are bordering on obstruction,” Brasseau said.

  Alexei gave Randolph a pointed look before he responded to Brasseau. “The United States is a signatory to our Charter, meaning it abides by our protocols.”

  “What happens if we in this room don’t agree to them?”

  “I collect the copies of my briefing and wish you good day.”

  “No need to be defensive, Mr. Bukharin. I’m trying to understand your approach.”

  “The Directorate gathers intelligence that is often sensitive, and our protocols assure that information is not abused.”

  “What if we don’t agree with your conclusions and plan of action?”

  “Again, I’ll wish you good day.”

  “But, we get the names and evidence?”

  “No.”

  Brasseau lowered his head, but
not before Alexei caught his smirk. “And what if these alleged conspirators go ahead with their nefarious plot?” he asked.

  “Mr. President, when you authorized this mission two years ago, you assured us we would be given a fair hearing. Has that changed?” Alexei asked Randolph.

  “No, Mr. Bukharin, it has not.” Randolph turned to Brasseau. “Emmet, let the man finish his briefing. Stop questioning his motives.”

  Brasseau’s sidelong glare at Randolph showed he didn’t like the dressing down, but he said, “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you,” Alexei said. “Now, open your briefing packets, and we’ll start with a profile and analysis of subject number one.”

  23

  Patriot City Redux

  One-by-one, Alexei covered the de-identified profiles of Carroll, Parker, Duval, and Elijah. Randolph and Vejar remained engaged, and Stark got into it.

  Brasseau kept looking at his watch.

  Noel Stark said, “Your conclusions parallel our agent’s assessment of the head of Patriot City, but her report doesn’t mention the other three subjects. She wasn’t aware of your interest in specific individuals.”

  “She confirmed subject number one had been in Patriot City multiple times, and I saw him and subject number two there.”

  Next, they reviewed the ATF report, and Alexei drew their attention to the common-law courts. Alexei segued to the final common-law court he had witnessed, the one condemning the government for its crimes at Killeen.

  “This common law court,” Randolph said, “articulated the grievance you mentioned.”

  “Yes, sir, and now the support comes into play from a network of Patriot City graduates.”

  Randolph looked at Stark and Brasseau. “What have you found out about this network?”

  When Brasseau said nothing, Stark answered, “Based on our agent’s information, the Treasury Department audited a credit union in Kansas City, Missouri. Within days of my agent’s departure from Patriot City, a credit union employee emptied dozens of accounts. Before the audit, she resigned. When Treasury agents went to her home to question her, they found her dead of carbon monoxide poisoning in her garage.”