by HN Wake
Herbie looked around, whispered, “Print it.”
Rocky hit a button and somewhere in the distance a printer whirred. Herbie stood, listened for the sound, then jogged to the printer and scooped up the one sheet of paper. Without reading it, he folded it and slid it in his pants pocket.
Returning to Rocky’s desk, he said, “Okay, now I need whatever you have on Mac Ambrose or Mac Huntington. Whichever names are in the system.”
Rocky slapped the keyboard with loose fingers. Then he sat back and pushed up his glasses.
Herbie looked up. “What?”
“My part is done. Now we just have to wait.”
“That’s it?”
Rocky shrugged again. “That’s it. All NSA’s shit is here.”
Ping.
Herbie glanced at the screen, “That quick?”
“That quick. Looks like travel plans.” He printed four more pages.
Herbie stood to leave, “Thanks, kid.”
He retrieved the pages on his way out. They were the flight records for eight similar flights over four years between Detroit and San Francisco.
Depart: Detroit, MI (DTW) San Francisco, CA (SFO)
Date: Friday, September 25, 1987
Flight 2280/ Carrier United
Return: San Francisco, CA (SFO) Detroit, MI (DTW)
Date: Sunday, August 23, 1987
Flight 1400/ Carrier United
Somebody important had lived in San Francisco. Somebody important enough to go visit twice a year over four years. It had to be someone Mac had known in Philadelphia before she went away to Michigan.
22
New York, NY
Jackie Pomeranian stepped into the huge Patriot News office, took a seat in a red leather chair, opened a manila folder, and waited for Fenton Warrick.
He indicated for her to proceed.
She said, “We’ve got the report on the Elijah Cade situation.”
“Tell me.”
“24 year old Alicia Cade. Never married. Grew up in a small town in Louisiana. Population 1,000. 85% below poverty. She was valedictorian of her graduating high school class.”
He shook it off as irrelevant.
“Put herself through two years in community college while working before getting into Loyola University with a partial scholarship—“
Fenton Warrick coughed. None of this seemed relevant. He wanted the good stuff.
Jackie scanned her notes. “When she was 21, she got pregnant. We can’t find the father. She’s Southern Baptist. Had the baby, Elijah. Continued to work…”
“No father in the picture?”
“No.”
He nodded. This was a good thing. A single mother was inevitably less appealing to the public. “What about her credit?”
“She is debt free except for student loans.”
“Net worth?”
“She’s below the poverty line.”
“Drugs?”
“Nothing we could turn up.”
“Deadbeat parents?”
Jackie checked notes again. “Father a mechanic. Mother housewife. Both still around. Five brothers and two sisters. Alicia had one brother who died five years ago from a meth overdose.”
He pointed at her. “Put that early. Somehow. Maybe photos?”
“The brother’s death? Don’t you think that may backfire?”
“No. Not the death, Jackie.” It was hard to be the smartest one in the room all the time. “The number of siblings. It shows they’re an irresponsible poor family, producing children to suck off the welfare state.”
She nodded, contrite.
“What does the police report say?”
“By the way, our New Orleans police mole is raising his rates on us.”
“I don’t care.”
She said, “Nothing in the report that says anything that can be used against her.”
“Why was she there?”
“City Park is a nice park. It’s in a nice white area of New Orleans. It has things for kids to do. It took her an hour to get there.”
“So why was she there?”
“To take Elijah—“ she read her notes, “for quote, ‘something nice.’”
It was not useful and he shrugged it off. “Why were the police there?”
“The night before there had been a robbery in one of the big houses along the edge of the park. They were doing a follow up foot patrol. That’s when they saw the Mustang.
“Parked?”
“Yes, parked. They approached. Two teens—black—fled on foot into the park. The police officers pursued. They ran up to Alicia Cade, asked her if she had seen the two teens. She said she didn’t know. Elijah was by the water. The police shooter said he thought he saw the two teenagers, pulling their guns on him. Pulled his firearm and shot. Elijah was hit. Died instantly.” Jackie read from the notes, “Apparently, Alicia wouldn’t leave. Police report called her catatonic. Crowds gathered almost instantly, surrounded her. Police took up position around the crowd in the park.”
“And now this.” Warrick meant the rally at the park, and the planned march into downtown New Orleans. Organizers had arrived in the night. A loose federation of activists were listing demands around police reform.
He wanted to be the first network to air the personal side of this story. While the others were covering the riots, he’d get his story ready. He moved quickly into management mode. “I want to make Alicia Cade the story for tomorrow.” He leaned in toward Jackie to make his point. “Use Underground.” Underground was Warrick’s personal research team made up of former private detectives, political operatives, and lawyers that worked off a black budget down in the basement. The fact that he was sending Jackie to Underground, meant he wanted extra resources directed to this. “Whatever they can find. Bank accounts, phone hacks. Anything we use, they get twice the normal fee.” He looked toward the wall of screens, gathering his thoughts. “Today we run with the rally. Focus on the rising numbers there. Lots of anger shots. Lots of sound. Images of police in line.”
She jotted notes.
“Then tomorrow early, a panel on Red, White & Blue.” Red, White & Blue was a panel, political hour. “Move from racism to too much policy control. Be very clear about getting racism out of the conversation. You know the talking points, ‘We are not racists. We are talking about access to control, to influence.’ “
“Yup. Got it.”
“Replay today’s images. Mob rule. Blacks marching down streets. Angry. Then juxtapose that to the police. I want only black police. In formation. I want a shot of the black mayor. This is black on black. Only black faces. Crop out the whites in the shot.”
“Got it.”
“The panel. Talk to me. Who can we get on the far right, hard core sentiments?” He meant a racist.
Jackie rattled off five potential speakers for the panel.
“Jonah Innery. He’s just verbal enough. Tell him we’ll take care of him. I’d even go as high as 5,000.” He steepled his fingers to his lips as he crafted Innery’s sound bites. “ I want ‘too much influence’ then ‘One incident and it shuts down the city’ and ‘These mobs overtake our city.’ It would be good for him to get in ‘Tragic shooting, not about racism’ and ‘Why is this all about Black Lives Matter now?’ “
She nodded, smiled.
“Tell Jonah we’ll give him $5,000 if he hits all those points.” He rubbed his lips. “Now we need a moderate.”
“Marceline Rackard?”
“Yes. But don’t pay her. She’s desperate for the coverage. Tell her I want her to drop, ‘Why are all these people out on the street? Don’t they have jobs?’” Warrick was seeing the panel discussion take place in his mind. “We’ll move the panel to the argument of blacks being lazy.”
“Got it.”
“We need one more. I want another female on this, to look like we’re empathetic to Alicia Cade being a woman. But make it someone hot. Marceline isn’t hot enough.”
“A presidential expert
?”
“Yes. Tie this back to the president. Talk connects to Justice Department. Show the attorney general. He has too much influence.” He meant because the attorney general was black. “Who have we got?”
“Liza Krugman.”
“Yes. Again, no fee. She’s happy to get on our platform.”
“Got it. It’s good.”
He continued, “This evening, I want our social media plastered. Get Jane and Randy ranting about this on both their blogs.”
“You want some distance on this?”
“This is not—“ he finger quoted, “Patriot News official. Work with Debbie down in communications. She just did a piece for the blogs on the shooting in Florida two days ago. She’s tested the latest key words. ‘More violent, resentment, blacks aren’t trying hard enough.’”
Jackie scribbled.
“Keep the comment sections open and do some tickling.” By tickling, he meant he wanted Patriot News staff to plant incendiary comments. “I want the trolls and the ranters foamed up.”
She nodded.
“In a week, make that part of Randy’s hour: how numbers on social media around Elijah Cade broke records. Do some breakdowns with charts. 90% of Americans on social media think this story is really about the powerful influence minorities have in this country. Throw some tweets up on screen, focus on influence. Let’s distract the viewers from the actual police shooting and make this a story about how scary it is that blacks are rioting.”
23
New York, NY
The shade in the fourth floor window of the apartment building in Alphabet City was drawn against the morning sun. Ernest parked across the street with a clear view and dropped the car into park. He rolled down his window. The air, still crisp from the night, brushed a slight chill against his skin. A slate grey sky felt close, a curtain drawn against a blue sky.
Ernest liked this neighborhood. Toward the East it was young professionals trying to find cheap apartments. Toward Broadway it tended to be more lively with young NYU students packed into tiny apartments, living it up in the big city. Did any of these residents understand the fabric of law enforcement that guarded the city, trying to keep them safe behind those windows?
The Lincoln had big, comfortable seats that held up well under his weight. The interior smelled old because he had bought it used. He didn’t believe in buying new. Not on an FBI salary in New York. Especially in New York.
Ernest sipped a coffee and settled in for a long watch. Boring watches came with the job. Despite what they hammered home during the sixteen weeks at Quantico—understand the texts, study long and hard for the exams, learn your skills—and the sagging bookshelves of forensics and criminal pathology tomes, it turned out patience and self-motivation were just as important.
The agents who were the most successful were methodical and diligent. Ernest always wanted to be the most successful.
During his first rotation in the FBI counter-terrorism division of New York branch, he had been added to a squad of salty, older agents investigating US connections to 9/11. Under the ringleader, Lester Carmichael, they had taken in the huge, awkward newbie like a lost, clumsy puppy. They showed him what real grunt work meant: long days, tireless searches through data, surveillance, returning to dead files. During those two years they had also become a family with inside jokes, spats, and camaraderie at local bars.
Ernest hit a preprogrammed number on his phone.
Lester picked up immediately, “Ernest, what’s up?”
Lester had taken his pension five years earlier about the time he lost most of his mobility. The doctors had said he may be able to walk unaided if he did 20 hours of physical therapy a week, but curmudgeon Lester had laughed at the suggestion and accepted the braces and the walking sticks. He’d seen that life was too short to spend what you had left of it in some physical therapy room and had turned his disability into a motivation to learn new things. He took up Indian cooking classes and taught a History of Law Enforcement class to undergraduates at a community college in Queens. Sometimes he went to the children’s ward of his local hospital and showed off his skills with his braces--he was pretty good at the moon walk—to the kids getting new equipment.
Ernest eyed the fourth floor. “Not much.”
“How’s the syllabus? Whatcha reading now?”
Two years ago Ernest had printed off the Harvard MA syllabus in Ancient Civilizations and had been making his way through the reading list. “The Decline of the Roman Empire.”
“The decline?”
“Yeah.”
“Depressing?”
“Nah. They put up a good fight.”
“So it’s good?”
“I’m liking it.”
“Happy to hear it. Now what’s the real reason you’re calling me?”
Ernest filled him in on yesterday’s discovery of Reddenbacker’s surveillance equipment.
Lester summed it up. “So someone rich has hired a PI. But it can’t be why you’re calling me. Who’s in the photos?” Lester was a clever son of a bitch.
“A senator and his aide.”
“Bingo.”
“Yup.”
“Which senator is he peeping?”
“Some conservative out of Idaho.”
“Ha.” Lester was a die hard, yellow dog democrat. “Let ‘em have him. What did Castle say?”
“Follow him. Hopefully catch him in something suspicious.”
The door to the apartment building opened. Ernest sat up.
An older, heavy-set man in frumpy clothes stepped out with a new camera bag slung over sloping shoulders. He wore an old man’s hat. His pants hung low, bundled at the cuffs. He favored his right leg, maneuvering the stairs with a slight limp.
Ernest said into the phone, “I gotta go.”
Lester hung up without a word.
Otis Reddenbacker turned right on the pavement, heading west along 8th Street.
Ernest placed a NYC temporary license on the dashboard—it would get him out of parking tickets—and slipped on his dark aviators. People didn’t stare at large men wearing reflective aviator sunglasses. He fell in line a half block length behind Reddenbacker. Given he was an old cop, although a small town cop, Ernest had to be careful he didn’t make him squirrelly. Not too many hulking 6”5’ goons walking along 8th Street this early in the morning.
But Reddenbacker turned out to be an easy mark. He didn’t look around and his pace was slow. The camera bag hanging off his shoulder thudded slowly against his hip.
Four long blocks later at the corner where Lafayette Street, Eighth Street, Fourth Avenue, Cooper Square, and Astor Place met, the old man lumbered to the Astor Place subway. The entrance was marked by an ornate cast-iron kiosk of the Beaux Arts architecture: a rounded dome, glass panel sidings, and a canted roof. Reddenbacker carefully made it down the stairs.
Ernest followed, fishing out a subway card and swiping at the turnstile. Inside, plaques of beaver emblems lined the tiled station walls, a reference to the fur trade that contributed to John Jacob Astor's fortune. In places, the old tiles were streamed with water marks.
Reddenbacker waited further down the platform for an uptown train, never looking around.
Ernest leaned against a wall, sipped his coffee, and stared straight ahead, keeping Reddenbacker in his peripheral vision. Voices echoed around the rounded tunnel. Overhead, the girders were rusted. How long could they hold up that roof? Ernest didn’t like subways. He much preferred being able to see the sky.
In Loyal, mostly snakes lived underground.
24
Langley, VA
Herbie strode down the hall to the nearest men’s bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He pulled out the slips of paper and read it through once. It was a two-month-old field report like many he had written himself, explaining his actions as part of an approved operation, updating his superiors in Langley. These cables were sent through diplomatic channels and kept in the system.
But
the situation report in his hands made him pause. There were so many things about it that were off. Mac had clearly been writing to protest the operation, but had done her part and completed the mission. He also knew, despite the official and terse tone, she was entering it into the system so that there was some record of her protest. She had labeled it Confidential. Not Secret. Not Top Secret. Which meant a wider audience than just the two recipients—Odom and Hawkinson—could get access if they went looking. The fact that she had routed it to only the two men meant that it was very likely a black op, off the record, not officially sanctioned.
Herbie drew one conclusion: Mac had submitted the cable into the Agency system as a ticking time bomb. A shit bomb fermenting. It would stay hidden until someone went looking for it. Like someone with oversight. Like the President or the Senate Intelligence Committee.
Herbie read it again.
SITUATION REPORT/SITREP: OPERATION THAI CONSOLIDATED
Origin:Bangkok
Classification:Confidential
To: ODOM, F - LANGLEY
HAWKINSON, B - LANGLEY
Date: 2 July
PRIORITY
REF: Thai Consolidated Seafood, Human Trafficking
1.As requested, over a five-week period operative has traced source of workers for fishing boats that supply Bangkok based Thai Consolidated Seafood, Inc.
2.Week One: Mission began in Rhakine State, Myanmar. Operative arrived to Myanmar by ship and reached shore by small boat, which was secured under cover of night. Operative was accompanied by translator (native Rohingya) hired in Bangkok. We were able to infiltrate a small Rohingya village and during the early morning interviewed 20 villagers. Their stories were consistent. Over last two years, at least 100 villagers, mostly young men, have been urged by ‘brokers’ to leave home and travel through the jungle to Bangkok with promises of employment. Rohingya face systematic violence and persecution by the Myanmar government due to their Muslim religion. Many leave voluntarily.
