by P A Duncan
Jerry was the one who’d pointed out government abuses to him, who’d prodded him to do something, but as soon as the bomb sat hulking in the truck, Jerry left. The two Arabs left.
Despite the fact Elijah didn’t leave, Carroll felt alone. Abandoned.
I’m really going to do this, he thought.
“You don’t have to,” came Siobhan’s voice into his thoughts. “When Prophet first approached you, you said you were ambivalent.”
“Yeah, everybody talked a good game, and nothing happened.”
“And you’re well down the road now, before you even realized it.”
“I’ll see it through because someone has to pay, and tomorrow I’ll pass the collection basket.”
“It doesn’t have to be you. Leave the truck keys. Go. Let Prophet deliver the bloody bomb.”
“No.” He looked at the other bed where Prophet snored.
Carroll stretched out on his bed again, eyes on the ceiling.
“Can you do it?” Siobhan asked.
He closed his eyes and could see her.
“You told him you’d go back to the truck set the bomb off, but can you?” she asked.
“That’s the last resort.”
“What if the coppers stop you? Will you let them kill you when you can’t do it yourself?”
“I don’t want to die, not since I met you. I don’t want to shoot any cops, but if they force me…”
“Aye, you talked all brave to Prophet about doing what you have to do, but you still hope I’ll wait for you.”
“You’re the future I’d begun to think I could have.”
Sleep still didn’t come. The aspirin made his stomach churn. He chewed some Tums to settle it. Prophet’s last words before he’d fallen asleep echoed in Carroll’s head.
“Your place in a new telling of history will be established tomorrow. You will start a revolution to overthrow a corrupt government. You will cause the multitudes to rise and follow your example. You will achieve justice.”
“Do you believe that shite?” Siobhan asked.
He left the bed and sat at the small table in the room. From his duffel he took a large, white envelope, a stack of papers, and other items. He selected a bumper sticker first—“When the Government Fears the People, There is Liberty. When the People Fear the Government, There is Tyranny.” Carroll used the motel’s pen and wrote on the back of the sticker, “Maybe now, there will be liberty.” His favorite Revolutionary War hero had said that, and Carroll wrote that name: Samuel Adams. He slid the bumper sticker into the envelope.
Next was a Patriot City pamphlet, “The American Response to Tyranny.” It began, “At sunrise on Wednesday, April 19, 1775…” Tomorrow was another Wednesday, another April nineteenth, exactly 220 years later.
This was a sign the Second Revolution was beginning.
He underscored the closing words of the pamphlet: “These men didn’t fight the British for economic gain but for liberty and for their rights as men. No one today is brave enough to do that. No one understands what ‘Don’t Tread on Me’ means. A rattlesnake strikes only when provoked. This government must understand it cannot tread on our freedoms. Do that, and pay the price.”
What he was about to do was for the greater good, not for greed. He wanted that understood.
The pamphlet went into the envelope, followed by articles he’d clipped or copied in libraries all over the country, articles about the siege at Killeen, about government excesses, more publications from Patriot City.
On bits of motel stationery, he wrote quotes from Jefferson, Patrick Henry, adding words from Churchill and John Locke: “I have no reason to suppose that he who would take away my liberty would not, when he had me in his power, take away everything else. Therefore, it is lawful for me to kill him, if I can.”
He underlined the final sentence, twice.
A few years back, he’d purchased a replica of the Constitution printed on imitation vellum. He’d intended to frame it and hang it in whatever house or apartment he rented. Now it would become part of his manifesto. On the reverse he wrote, “Obey the Constitution, and we won’t shoot you.”
Carroll opened his well-thumbed copy of The Turner Diaries to a dog-eared page. He copied a passage he’d circled: “The real value of our attacks today lies in the psychological impact, not in the immediate casualties. More important, though, is what we taught the politicians and the bureaucrats. They learned this afternoon…” He crossed out “afternoon” and above it wrote, “morning.” “…that not one of them is beyond our reach…We can still find them and kill them.”
He sealed the envelope and set it aside, confident its contents explained his actions.
He’d take it with him tomorrow, because Elijah said he needed a manifesto, because despite his desire to live he expected to die.
If he died, he wouldn’t be an anonymous corpse. This would explain who he was and why he’d acted. Siobhan would see this in a newspaper and remember him. As long as she remembered him, as long as people remembered what he did, he would live forever.
Now that he needed to stay awake, his eyelids drooped. He forced himself alert and took out his personal writing supplies. His pen hovered over the single sheet of paper for a while. On this night before the seminal event of his life, he wrote not to his father, sister, or mother. He’d have few regrets about dying, but what he did regret was not discovering where he would have gone with the first woman who’d cared about him.
“Dearest Siobhan, tomorrow, you’ll understand. I made a tough choice, but it was the right one. That doesn’t mean I don’t wish I could have gone away with you and left it all behind. Tomorrow will show you why I couldn’t explain everything. I want you to know you mean the world to me, but I had to put the personal aside for a greater good.
“If I survive, I’ll be surrounded by a lot of heat, so don’t write back. You’ll hear from me when it’s safe. If something goes wrong, and I don’t see you again, please know I never meant to hurt you.
“Like the minstrel boy, to the war I’ve gone, in the ranks of death you’ll find me. My father’s sword I have girded on, my wild harp slung behind me. No chains shall sully me. My songs were made for the pure and free. They shall never sound in slavery.
“I will fight to the death, like an Irish warrior, like you said my name meant. If I die, my last thought will be of you. All my love, Jay.”
He folded the letter in thirds, fingers caressing the paper as if it were the skin he’d only had tantalizing touches of. He sealed it in a business envelope and addressed it, adding it to a stack of a dozen letters he’d written her but never mailed. He checked to see if Elijah still slept and hid the letters in his duffel. He stared through the gap in the curtains, willing the night to pass and morning to come. He thought of Siobhan, asleep, alone in her bed in a tiny apartment in Boston, and he imagined one night soon when he’d surprise her, crawl into bed with her, hold her, and more.
At the first glimpse of gray sky, he gathered his gear and tiptoed from the motel room to sit in the cab of the rental truck. Doubts faded, the warrior emerged, and his destiny awaited.
37
Certainty
Situation Room
The White House
Early morning, April 19, 1995
Not long after a Secret Service agent escorted Mai and Alexei to the Situation Room, he returned with a Directorate laptop Nelson had couriered.
Sheryl Vejar arrived; President Randolph a few minutes later. Emmet Brasseau had to come from McLean, Virginia. Noel Stark lived in Baltimore.
Mai skimmed through fresh reports from Analysis, and something caught her eye right away. She touched Alexei’s arm and murmured, “He sold his vehicle.”
“No surprise there.”
“We’ve got make, model, and color. He bought the car in Wichita, Kansas, about three hours from Kansas City, Missouri.”
The laptop signaled the arrival of an email from Analysis: a list of almost two hundred, twenty-
and twenty-four-foot trucks rented from Penske, U-Haul, and Ryder in the past few days in Kansas, Missouri, and surrounding states.
“I’ll check for any of his aliases,” Mai said.
Alexei took out his mobile and saw it had no signal, and he was surprised Mai could access The Directorate’s network in here. Nathan Hempstead, The Directorate’s computer genius, could teach the government a thing or two about getting past firewalls. Alexei pulled the phone on the conference table toward him. “I’ll call Signature Aviation and have them ready your plane.”
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the laptop’s screen. Alexei hung up from his call and wished the remaining actors in Mai’s drama would arrive. He chided himself for the derisive thought. If she said she’d figured it out, she had.
Emmet Brasseau arrived, wearing a suit and tie, fresh as a daisy. He gave Alexei a dark glare. A man named Vernon Kilgore arrived, the director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Noel Stark wasn’t far behind. Once everyone had taken a seat, Alexei laid a hand on Mai’s shoulder. “They’re ready,” he murmured.
Her voice low, she said, “This name. Robert Worf. It’s…familiar.”
“Put it on hold for now. Your show.”
All business now, Mai said, “You’ll recall from my partner’s briefing we were missing where our subject was going to use his bomb. I now know that between 0900 and 0915 in Kansas City, Missouri, one John Thomas Carroll with others known and unknown will transport that bomb in a rental truck to the Edward M. Becker Federal Building.”
Vejar nodded as if in confirmation. Randolph sat stiff in his chair. Kilgore looked confused. Brasseau showed no reaction. Stark muttered, “Oh my God.”
Mai continued, “How do I know now what I didn’t before? I stopped thinking about it, and when I brought it back to mind, the pieces fell in place. We can stop John Carroll.”
“Why Kansas City?” Brasseau’s tone was neutral, but Alexei noticed, once again, he didn’t make eye contact with a woman.
“That’s where Hollis Fitzgerald was an ATF agent before he joined the FBI. The Killeen Crazies think that ATF office issued the original raid order. The undercover operatives who betrayed Patriot City fled there, and Ira Wayne Mathis will be executed later today.”
Randolph said, “Mathis’ execution is in Arkansas.”
“Correct,” Mai said, “but before Mathis’ arrest for murder, he planned to bomb the Becker building. The FBI found the building’s blueprints among his possessions and detailed notes about his intentions. His fate was crucial to the Prophet of Patriot City.”
Boizhe moi, Alexei thought, she’s right. “Yes, Prophet stated often Mathis deserved a fitting memorial. Carrying out Mathis’ thwarted plans would fulfill that.”
“Yes,” said Stark, “my agent mentioned he made frequent trips to visit this guy in prison.”
Mai said, “Bombing the Becker Building is revenge for Killeen and other perceived injustices because it houses multiple federal agencies. It’s efficient, logical, apocalyptic. Everything the right-wing lives for.”
“You were specific about the time,” Brasseau said.
“Not really. I gave you a fifteen-minute window based on the time of the ATF raid on Killeen and when Earl Turner set off his bomb.”
“Who the hell is Earl Turner?” Kilgore asked. “I thought his name was Carroll.”
Brasseau answered, “Earl Turner is a character in a how-to novel for militias. Turner blows up the FBI building to start a war with the government, using an ANFO bomb delivered by a truck.” He looked at Mai, a direct gaze this time. “However, that’s a work of bad fiction.”
Mai ignored him. “Carroll was at Patriot City when Prophet condemned the government for its crimes at Killeen. I know John Carroll has the materials, I know he can build a bomb, and I know he has the mind-set to detonate it.”
“How do you know he knows how to build a bomb? And why didn’t you pass that information along as soon as you learned it?” Brasseau asked.
Mai smiled at him. “Knowing how to build a bomb isn’t a crime. You know that.”
“Do you know how to build a bomb?”
“I do. My last one blew a crater in the Irish countryside.”
“Did you show him how to build a bomb?” Brasseau asked.
“No.”
“How can we be sure of that?”
Alexei cut in. “We’re not the CIA. We don’t teach people how to be terrorists.”
“My turn to ask a question,” Mai said, eyes pinned on Brasseau. “Do you want to stop an act of domestic terrorism?”
“If one were about to occur, yes.”
“You and I have common ground, then.”
Brasseau said, “I didn’t raise this at the earlier briefing because you weren’t there. Before we proceed, I want you to submit to a drug test.”
Alexei leaned forward, hands splayed on the table. “What?”
“Not you, Mr. Bukharin. Her. She uses cocaine.”
“You son of a bitch,” Alexei said.
“This afternoon,” Mai said, “I drank perhaps twelve ounces of whiskey, neat. I’m sober now. As for cocaine, I used a long time ago.”
“Then, you have no objection to providing a urine sample.”
“No, I object to an unreasonable search without cause.”
“You admitted it.”
“Used. Past tense.”
“You’ve lived in the U.S. for almost twenty years on a work visa,” Brasseau said.
“My paperwork is in order.”
“You’re a British citizen.”
“Is that a crime?”
“We aren’t here for an immigration issue,” President Randolph said. “Get back on topic.
“Mr. President,” said Brasseau. “We should treat this alleged new intelligence with the contempt it deserves. It was nonsense before, and this midnight emergency is a ludicrous attempt to influence you and waste government resources.”
“This isn’t about us,” Alexei said.
“It’s all about you and Miss Fisher,” Brasseau said.
“No,” Mai said, “it’s about Hollis Fitzgerald, who blew my partner’s cover. That’s a federal crime, but he got to retire comfortably. Mr. Bukharin will never know if that specious act will come back to threaten him and his family.”
“Former AD Fitzgerald served his country well. He doesn’t deserve someone like you to impugn him.”
Mai smiled at Brasseau, but only Alexei read the danger in it.
“You weren’t at Killeen. Your precious Fitzgerald almost came in his pants when that fire exploded at Calvary Locus. He never entertained a peaceful solution. He abused his authority with unauthorized surveillance of Mr. Bukharin’s grandchild. He further abused his authority and had the DEA issue a warrant for Mr. Bukharin’s arrest as a drug dealer—”
“Maybe that should have been for you,” Brasseau said.
“Emmet. Stop,” Randolph said.
“I will not devote FBI resources to any plan, scheme, or operation this questionable woman proposes. You terminated their protocol. They shouldn’t even be here.”
“Since you’re questioning my character,” Mai said, “what does Fitzgerald have on you?”
“Miss Fisher, whose side are you on?”
“It’s Ms. Fisher, by the way. I’m on your side.”
“Ms. Fisher and I have both wondered,” Alexei said, “why this administration has been reluctant to accept the vetted intelligence we’ve provided on this mission. My time in Patriot City led me to believe it had high-level government protection. The ATF agent will confirm that. Why do you keep pushing aside the obvious? Do you want this to happen?”
“How dare you?” Brasseau said.
“It’s obvious you’re embarrassed by this administration,” Mai said. “I, too, wonder how far you’d go to discredit it.”
Brasseau shot up out of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. President, I’ll be leaving.”
“Sit down,” Randolph
said. Brasseau didn’t move. “Emmet, if you leave, it looks like Ms. Fisher is right. Sit down.”
Brasseau didn’t like being ordered, but he sat.
“Now,” Randolph said, “let’s work on a win-win.”
“Mr. President,” Mai said, “we have no time for consensus. We need a quick decision.”
Randolph flushed. “Ms. Fisher, are you telling me what to do?”
“No. I’ve given you a recommendation. So has Mr. Brasseau. You have to decide, and your penchant for consensus, while commendable, will take too long.”
“Ms. Fisher, are you on cocaine now?” Randolph asked.
“No. You might say I don’t inhale anymore.”
The president’s flush deepened.
“Sir, my past dalliance with an illicit drug is not the issue. You have my word. I’m not high, and I’m not drunk.”
Randolph turned to Vejar. “What do you think?”
“From my past experience with them, I trust Mr. Bukharin and Ms. Fisher. We should position law enforcement resources at the Becker Building,” Vejar said, “and we should put the Becker building on alert until we can provide them details.”
“Emmet?” said Randolph.
“A waste of overtime.”
Randolph looked at Mai. “Here’s my decision.” He looked at Brasseau. “Alert the Becker Building to be on the lookout for trouble.” Again, he looked at Mai. “Decisive enough for you?”
“They need to know the parameters. At least a two-ton bomb delivered by truck.”
“Specifics would be more useful,” Alexei added.
“We’ll alert them to a possible bomb threat,” Vejar said.
“No ‘possible’ about it. It’s a real threat,” Mai said.
“You can’t know that,” Brasseau said.
“I know the man driving the truck. I know his commitment.”
“You said something would happen last year at this time and—”
“Boizhe moi! I explained this to you six weeks ago,” Alexei said.
“You withheld information at that briefing I could have used,” Brasseau replied. “How long has this man, Carroll, been a suspect?”