by P A Duncan
“You must have an opinion on which needs infiltration,” Alexei said.
“Going to a meeting is one thing. Infiltration is chancy. After what happened to The Order and Randy Weaver, these people are beyond paranoid about informers.”
“Which?”
Mai opened her mouth to say something to him, but he cut his eyes to her and gave a slight head-shake. The narrowing of her eyes told him he’d pay for that later.
Ball sighed and said, “Pick one of the newer groups, one with a significant Christian Identity alignment.” He looked at Mai. “No offense, but Alex here should go in. He’d fit in better. These guys are distrustful of women who want to do more than keep the home fires burning.”
“Can you suggest a place?” Alexei asked, aware Mai’s scrutiny hadn’t wavered.
“Not Aryan Nation. Too secure. They now recruit by word of mouth only and conduct some bizarre interrogations of potential recruits. It might take months, years even, to gain their trust. Again, pick one that hasn’t had the time to establish a settled hierarchy, one that revolves around a single personality.”
“Like Patriot City?”
Ball didn’t answer right away, his eyes dipping to the floor. “Patriot City is a mystery. No one’s been able to get inside, so we know next to nothing. It could be a myth, or it could be big and fixed, small and mobile. The only thing I do know is it’s supposedly the brainchild of a man who calls himself Prophet. From all you’ve heard me say today, you know these groups attract those prone to violence. That may be Patriot City.”
Alexei nodded, more in confirmation of his thoughts than acknowledgement. Mai’s eyes lingered on the side of his face, but he ignored that until she looked away.
“I recently interviewed Brian Corbin Paul, late of The Order,” Mai said to Ball. “He warned me about lone wolves.”
Ball nodded. “Angry loners get tired of all talk and no action. Forensic psychologists can predict the behaviors of militias, but these loners… Predicting where and when or if any of them will strike is no easier than predicting the next earthquake.”
“What, if anything, have you learned about outside influences on American militia groups?” Alexei asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Foreign terrorist organizations who might subcontract with internal groups to commit terrorism in the U.S.”
“Like who?”
“Muslim extremists are one possibility. When you look at their view of a theistic society and that of Identity Christians, they aren’t that far apart.”
Ball shook his head. “The militias are suspicious of anyone not American, and they’re all for pulling out of international entanglements. I’d be surprised if foreign terrorists have made inroads in the patriot movement.”
“What if an outside group showed up with a lot of money and materiel?”
“Well,” Ball drawled, “I hadn’t thought about that. Maybe I should.”
“Mr. Ball,” Mai said, “I appreciate the pictures and profiles you’ve provided, but I suspect your database on these groups and individuals is far more extensive.”
“Yes. My goal is to make a searchable database for law enforcement. Why?”
“Is there a way we could have access to that additional information?”
“I’m not so sure I’d like that.”
Mai opened her briefcase and removed a checkbook.
Alexei smiled. Her solution to everything.
“You’re a non-profit organization, correct?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m prepared to give you a donation if you will allow some colleagues of ours access to all your files. You may supervise them, but they won’t take anything. They’ll make copies and store them on a secure server.”
Ball said nothing, but his brows crimped together. When he looked at Alexei, Alexei deliberately averted his eyes. Mai wrote the check and handed it to Ball.
Ball jerked when he read the amount, and he smiled at Mai. “I noticed you post-dated it.”
She smiled and gave him a shrug.
Ball folded the check and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “How about a quid pro quo? I get a copy of your report.”
“A copy, no, but we could have a philosophical discussion about what we’ve found after we present it to the appropriate authorities. Also, I’d like to ask a favor.”
Ball nodded for her to continue.
“People need to know what you know,” Mai said, “what you’re so passionate about. I think you should write another book.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.”
When Mai looked at him this time, Alexei nodded and stood. Mai and Ball followed.
“I’d like to take a walk among the gardens you have here,” Mai said, “to see the civil rights memorial on the grounds.”
“By all means,” Ball said.
“I need the men’s room,” Alexei said to Mai. “I’ll join you in a bit.”
“I’ll show you the way,” Ball said to him.
On the way to the men’s room, Ball said, “She’s a remarkable woman, but you probably already think that.”
Mouth quirking, Alexei replied, “I’m rather fond of her.”
They entered the men’s room, Alexei glancing around out of instinct to see they were alone.
“You married to her?” Ball asked.
“I am.”
“I’ve been married a while myself. My wife and I can hold conversations with a look, much like the two of you. Where is this research of yours headed?”
Alexei shrugged. “It’s hard to tell.”
Ball moved to wash his hands, Alexei with him.
“Getting into these militias, these patriot groups… It’s a dark and dangerous road to travel. I’ve been down it, and I almost lost everyone who matters to me.”
“Mai and I have tread quite a few of those roads together.”
“And you have no qualms? She’s your wife.”
“She can take care of herself. Given that, it’s not easy.”
“You have children?”
Alexei shook his head and turned to dry his hands.
Ball walked him to the reception area and pointed out the door to the gardens.
Alexei thanked him and said, “One more thing.”
Ball looked at him, blinked, and backed up a step.
“We were never here. We never talked. In fact, we don’t exist. I trust you understand that?”
Ball’s expression was all the answer he needed.
Mai sensed Alexei’s approach and waited for him to stand beside her at a gray granite wall engraved with names over which a constant waterfall flowed. The words, “I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield down by the riverside,” graced the top of the granite wall.
“What was all that about finding a place to infiltrate?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that.”
“Oh, I have, but we’re far from that point.”
“Have you heard enough?”
“About all this garbage? Yes.” She turned to face him, the arms crossed over her chest her usual barrier. “I know the information-gathering aspect of this mission has been prolonged, but, as Nelson said, I think in this case the more we know, the better. The days of dashing off with scant intelligence… Let’s put that away.”
“As long as we can still make it up as we go along. Now what?”
“I find and meet John Carroll.”
Alexei stepped closer to her, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
“We impressed Mr. Ball with our affection for each other,” Alexei said, his tone teasing.
Have to work on that, then, she thought, but she said, “It was touch and go for a while with us, but we’re out of the denial stage at last. What do you think of him?”
“Ball? What do you think of him?”
“Dedicated, focused, rather admirable. You didn’t answer me.”
“I think he’s naïve.”
&nb
sp; “And here comes the cynical Russian side.”
“A few new laws won’t solve the militia problem.”
“He knows that.”
“Mai, he tilts at windmills.”
She nodded toward the names on the granite wall. “They were heroic, not quixotic. Windmills and the tilting at thereof are what keeps us bleeding-heart liberals going when things get rough.”
“I don’t know too many liberals with a Beretta on one rather attractive hip.”
“That’s me,” Mai said, picking up her briefcase. “A reactionary’s worst nightmare. A liberal with a gun.”
46
Survivors
Mount Vernon, Virginia
Mai had settled on a gun show as a likely place to meet John Carroll, based on her brief surveillance of him. A single hit from a Veterans Administration database convinced Alexei. Carroll had gone to a VA clinic complaining of an unusual rash. The clinic prescribed an ointment, but on the personal information section of the clinic’s record of the visit Carroll had listed his occupation as “Military Surplus Dealer at Gun Shows.”
However, when they’d sent someone to Arizona to watch Carroll’s movements, they’d discovered he’d vacated the trailer, ahead of the lease’s expiration. Nor was he at Duval’s trailer or either of his parents’ residences.
“Maybe it’s gun show season or some such,” Mai said, “and he’s traveling from town to town, riding the circuit, or some such.”
They got a copy of the publication Gun Show Calendar and started in the west, within a few days’ drive of where he’d last lived. They worked their way east. For several weeks with no luck.
Natalia had returned from visiting her father, and a new round of school, soccer, and riding lessons had begun.
Mai reviewed all her research, including the information from Norton Ball’s files, which he’d given access to after all.
Alexei decided Mai had spent entirely too much time locked in the office reading the dismal material. Time to be either a solicitous husband or the senior operative in their partnership, whichever wouldn’t have him sleeping on the office sofa.
Olga was in her apartment, and Natalia wouldn’t be home for several hours. Alexei let himself into their office and found Mai deep in concentration at her computer. He peered over her shoulder to look at what had interested her.
“The Mercenary World Convention?” he asked.
Mai looked up at him. “You don’t know about the Mercenary World Convention?”
“Of course I do. Nelson has had people cover it since the magazine started it two decades ago. My question was about your interest?”
“Carroll had a couple years’ worth of back issues in his trailer. This might be a good spot to resume the hunt for him. Whatever he’s been doing, it’s been all cash transactions, or he’s off the grid. Analysis can’t find his trail.”
Alexei sat in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. “Las Vegas is within driving distance of where we know he last lived. A good possibility.”
“According to the schedule posted here, there are several discussion groups and workshops on Killeen.”
“That event attracts people only slightly to the political right of Hitler. Some are real mercenaries, and some only fulfill that job description in their fantasies. Mercenaries, mercenary wannabes, and mercenary groupies at a giant gun show.”
“Oh, it’s more than a gun show. It’s a five-day extravaganza, according to the website. There are all sorts of seminars on military and law enforcement topics, a huge exhibit hall, a jump school, a machine gun shoot, a knife fighting contest. All types of weaponry on display.”
“Legal and illegal, I’m sure. And I’m sure all the programs will further whatever pro-gun, pro-military, anti-government agenda the magazine’s editorial board fosters.”
“Some of the exhibitors are legitimate defense contractors, weapons manufacturers, security organizations, providers of competition shooting supplies and training.”
Alexei straightened and rolled his chair close to hers. He took the mouse from her and began to scroll through the list of vendors. “And here are the vendors who think the world is about to end.”
“Yes, well, there’s that.” Mai took the mouse back and continued the scroll. “Look, here’s one selling a device guaranteed to detect and nullify computer chips implanted by the FBI, CIA, ATF, or the U.N.” Mai grinned at him. “It’ll be fun. More fun than all those rinky-dink gun shows we went to.”
Alexei gave it some thought. “Here’s the deal. If we don’t find him at the Mecca of anti-government activists, he’s a dead end. We close out the file on him.”
“You’re saying if he’s into retribution for Killeen, he’ll be there?”
“What better place to recruit people for your terrorist cell than the center of the wacko universe?”
“Recruiting? Cell?”
“If he’s bent on revenge, he’ll need logistical support, financing. He’s apt to find like-minded people there, and Mercenary World keeps the entry fee low. Maybe he has a booth or table for his wares in the exhibit area.”
“Wouldn’t that be lucky? Agreed. We prowl the MW convention together,” Mai said.
“I’ll go to Vegas with you, but I’ll stick to our hotel room and lurk in chatrooms for a link to Patriot City. If Carroll is there, you’ll need to blend in and best not to have anyone around he would perceive as competition.”
“For what?’
He leaned forward and kissed her. “For your affection, dushenka.”
She gave an unattractive snort. “I’m interested in befriending him, not whatever it is you’re thinking.”
“I know that, and you know that, but Mr. Carroll doesn’t need to know that. You should wear a wire.”
“Not around all those vendors touting ways to detect surveillance. It’ll be a first contact, Alexei. Short, sweet. A walk in the park.”
“Let’s not be overconfident.”
“I survived the IRA. I think I can survive the Mercenary World Convention.”
“Still planning to go as Siobhan?”
“Yes. She’s perfect to meet Carroll. An IRA assassin on the outs in Ireland, hunted by the Brits, unable to go home, no place to settle down. MI-5 and -6 will back up the legend in case I arouse suspicion.”
“I’d prefer we not inform the FBI and ATF.”
“Great minds.”
“Siobhan Dochartaigh has a lot of baggage.”
She looked at him, her eyes flinty. “No. She’s a survivor. Who better to fit in among survivalists? Are you sure you won’t come inside with me?”
“You don’t want a Russian arms dealer who might have been KGB recognizing me, do you?”
“Good point. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Pick a hotel off the Strip. Best not to have anyone wonder why an IRA soldier on the run has money for an expensive hotel.”
“Oh, the sacrifices we make.”
47
First Meetings
Las Vegas, Nevada
No one among the thousands of attendees at the Mercenary World Convention stood out in particular. The men wore some conglomeration of a military outfit, women either in biker garb or polyester pantsuits.
Well, except for the girls at the big name vendors’ spots who wore slinky dresses while posing with weapons. That was hot. A few couples wore matching camo outfits, and there were some families, some obvious yuppies, rednecks, real vets from all branches of the military, U.S. and foreign.
Some skinheads had shown up, bedecked with their numerous facial tattoos. They hung around the vendor hawking what he claimed was Josef Goebbels’ tea service. Losers.
Real mercenaries prowled around wearing all black and keeping their sunglasses on indoors, but mostly it was wannabes, by the look of them.
John Carroll had come to that conclusion because he knew the real thing. He’d been the real thing. He hoped others could see that in his eyes, in his demeanor. Even though his Army tim
e was more than a year in the past, he hadn’t given up on the respect the uniform gave him. That respect overcame a lot of life’s disappointments, and he got respect from the real deals at the convention. They exchanged brief, significant nods, acknowledging to each other they knew the score.
But the vast majority of the people here were like the ones at the smaller guns shows. All talk, no action. That was disappointing.
After a trip around the exhibit area, he’d decided to skip the rest of it and get back on the road. He angled past some vendors and headed for the exhibit hall exit.
A woman entered, pausing as her eyes took in the large room. She was alone, definitely not the biker type, and he bet polyester wasn’t allowed to be part of her wardrobe. She wore snug, black BDU pants, dressed with military correctness into casual, ankle boots. A white cotton tee-shirt peeked from beneath a leather, bomber-style jacket. Her dark, reddish hair was loose about her face, which except for a pale lipstick, a smear of eyeshadow, and a little mascara, bore no make-up. She was the classiest thing he’d seen here, and he decided to watch her.
As she moved from exhibit to exhibit, booth to booth, he studied the way her clothes fit her, the fact she wore no jewelry, the way she picked up guns and knives with a confidence and knowledge he’d never seen in a woman.
After she’d moved away from a vendor, he kept her in sight while he asked about her. Irish, they said, from her accent. She’d asked intelligent questions about their wares. His blood stirred, heading for his groin, but he pushed that aside. For now. He kept his distance, admiring from afar, letting his eyes wander her body. He followed her to the onsite food court and watched her eat a salad and drink a Coke. She sat alone.
With clarity, he recalled a time not too distant when he would have walked right over to her and started a conversation. The uniform had given him the confidence to do that, and the girls who lived in towns with Army bases were always more than willing. Today, though, a different memory intruded, one when a cheerleader from high school had laughed at him when he’d asked her to have a burger with him. The fact that this woman broadcast confidence and his was scarce at best right now made him hold back and watch.
