The Dark Trail

by J. C. Fields

  “A text message from Kevin Marks.”

  Both Gibbs and Kruger followed the big man back the way he had approached. When they got to where JR sat in the front seat of an FBI technician van, the computer hacker looked up. “How fast can we get back to Springfield?”

  ***

  High over the Rockies, the HA-420 HondaJet headed east as Kruger sat with his eyes closed. Across the aisle, JR looked up from his laptop and asked, “You asleep?”

  “No.”

  “Sorry about what I found.”

  Without opening his eyes, Kruger said, “Better to know than not know.”

  “So now what?”

  A long silence ensued until Kruger opened his eyes. “Why does every two-bit hood think he can get to me through my family? It’s getting old, JR.”

  “Marks or Markovic, whatever his name is, might not know his men in Baltimore and San Francisco are dead or under arrest.”

  “He will soon. Then he’ll just find some other crazies to do his bidding.” Kruger stared out the window next to his seat. “Where did you say the calls from Marks’ cell phone originated?”

  “Vancouver.”

  “We can assume he fled to Canada after the arrest of Blake and Lyon.”

  “I believe it’s more than an assumption.”

  “I need to talk to Clark and see what they’ve found in Wyoming.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  ***

  Clark answered Kruger’s phone call on the second ring. “I was just about to call you.”

  “I hope you have good news?”

  “We’re making progress. One of the forensic techs started looking at security video of the store Marks owned. Guess what they found?”

  “Not in the mood, Ryan. Just tell me.”

  “There’s a dressing room with a hidden door into Marks’ office. She found numerous shots of the same man using that specific dressing room and staying in it for a far greater time than a normal customer trying on clothes.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve identified that individual.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s the leader of a white nationalist group here in Wyoming with a rather lengthy criminal record.”

  “Huh.”

  “We arrested him last night.”

  Kruger sat up straighter. “Is he talking?”

  “No, he just keeps telling us he’ll only talk to you.”

  Shaking his head, Kruger closed his eyes. “Not that again.” He paused and turned in his seat to look at Knoll, who was sitting behind JR. “Sandy, tell the pilot we need to divert to Lander, Wyoming.”

  With a nod, the big man stood and walked toward the front cabin.

  “We’re on our way, Ryan. I’ll call you with an ETA.”

  JR said, “What about Steph and the kids?”

  “They’re being watched over by a team of FBI agents for now. We’ll make this little detour as quick as possible.”

  ***

  Clark’s assumption of the role of Special Agent in Charge meant he was using the Fremont County jail as his headquarters as more of Kevin Marks’ associates were identified and arrested. When Kruger, JR, Knoll and Gibbs arrived, he led Kruger to a video monitor of the interrogation room where the thin-waisted man with broad shoulders sat.

  As he studied the man shackled to the floor and table he asked, “What’s his name?”

  “He goes by numerous alias—Fred Rivera, Freeman Rogers, Forest Roberts, plus a few others.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Ah, that was more difficult to determine. His fingerprints are not on file in the FBI database. However, Department of Defense had them.”

  Taking his eyes off the prisoner, Kruger glanced at Clark. “And?”

  “Franklin Russell.”

  “Which service?”

  “Army. He served six years as an MP.”

  With his eyes back on the monitor, Kruger asked, “Which alias did he use when you arrested him?”

  “Fred Rivera.”

  “Well, let go see what Mr. Rivera has to say.”

  ***

  The door to the interrogation room opened and two men entered. The prisoner watched as the tall man with a file folder sat down across from him. “You Kruger?”

  Kruger remained quiet as he opened the file folder. Ryan Clark leaned against the now closed door.

  Russell asked again. “Are you FBI Agent Sean Kruger?”

  Looking up, Kruger smiled. “Maybe. Who are you?”

  “Fred Rivera. Why am I under arrest?”

  “Why did you ask to speak to me?”

  The prisoner blinked several times and shrugged. “Heard you were in charge. Now, why am I under arrest?”

  Kruger extracted two pictures from the file and turned them so the prisoner could see. The man said, “So, I’m entering a dressing room to try on jeans, I like new jeans. That’s not a crime last I knew.”

  The next picture Kruger turned around was a shot of the man entering Kevin Marks’ office through the hidden door. “You weren’t trying on jeans. You were meeting with Marks. A man who has been identified as a Russian agent and provocateur.”

  The man identifying himself as Fred Rivera stared at the picture wide eyed. “What do you mean Russian agent? Marks ain’t no…” Realizing what he had just admitted, the prisoner looked up at Kruger.

  With a knowing smile, Kruger said, “Your real name is Franklin Russell. You spent six years in the army as an MP, a dishonorable discharge for assault and you have a criminal record that should be required reading by every FBI agent in the country. Care to comment?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “Eventually.”

  “What do you mean, eventually?”

  “The problem is Kevin Marks has been classified as a terrorist and enemy combatant. You are accused of aiding and abetting with him, which puts you in a dangerous situation. If you choose to cooperate with us, those charges might be amended. And I want to emphasis the word, might.”

  “What kind of cooperation are you looking for?”

  “Names.”

  “I can provide you with lots of names. Whose names?”

  “I want the names of the person or persons who ambushed six FBI agents at a cabin owned by Dorian Monk.”

  Russell shook his head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Kruger’s mouth twitched. “Are you sure you want to go down that path, Franklin?”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, Agent Kruger.”

  With a loud screeching of metal chair legs on concrete, Kruger pushed back his chair and stood. “I’ve arranged for your transfer to ACX Florence in Colorado, pending your trial. Make sure you appreciate being outside during the trip, Russell. It will be the last time you see the sun for a long time.” He turned and opened the interrogation room door.

  Just before exiting through the door, Kruger heard, “I know more than you think I do.”

  Turning, Kruger said, “We know quite a bit already, Franklin.”

  “You don’t know the real story. Get me a deal and I’ll tell you.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “You have to trust me.”

  “Something I’m not inclined to do at the moment. Tell me something I need to know, and I’ll speak with the federal prosecutor. Otherwise have a nice life in the dark hole you’re headed to.”

  Kruger waited a few seconds while Russell contemplated his future. Finally, he heard, “Sit down. It’s complicated.”

  ***

  The interview with Franklin Russell lasted four hours. Clark brought coffee in for all three men and another chair so he could take meticulous notes, despite the fact there would be a recording of the entire conversation.

  As Russell was taken back to his holding cell, Kruger and Clark returned to the vacant sheriff’s office the FBI agents used as their command center.

  After closing the door, Clark turned to Kruger. “What do you
think?”

  “I think I believe about half of it. I’ll make a call and have a few agents check out the fishing lodge in Manitoba. If they find anybody there matching the description of the men Russell told us about, I might believe a little more of his story.”

  “What about his comments on Dorian Monk?”

  “That’s more complicated. I don’t believe for a minute Monk was acting on Kevin Marks’ orders.” Kruger paused and walked to the window. As he stared out, he continued, “Monk was more of a Ted Kaczynski-character than a robot. Both were math geniuses and both possessed a deep-seated hatred for their fellow man. The main difference is Monk hid his inner demons better than Kaczynski and may have been smarter, too.” He turned to look at Clark. “I think there is another explanation.”

  “And that is?”

  “I think Marks used Monk as a tool for recruiting.”

  “Not following you.”

  “Think about it for a moment. Marks has this elaborate clandestine communication system set up where he can exploit what Monk is doing and use it to draw in like-minded individuals.”

  “What was his purpose? He’s a Russian, not a white nationalist.”

  “Bingo, Ryan. Marks was a Russian, but he was posing as an anarchist. An anarchist who was organizing a group of individuals in a rural, isolated part of the country to fight the Federal Government. What if the Russians are doing this all over the country in rural areas?”

  “Kind of like the French Resistance in World War II.”

  “Yes, only they’re using social media to exploit these individuals. Something the French didn’t have.”

  “What’s the end game, Sean? It seems awful complicated.”

  “The Russians are long-term strategists, Ryan. Unlike the United States, we demand instant results. The Russians are looking out ten, fifteen, maybe fifty years. Our country is already divided politically. What happens if more and more lone wolf attacks create a public demand for less freedoms and a more authoritarian government? One that would be more in line with the current Russian government.”

  Clark stared at Kruger for a few moments before responding. “We’d be conquered from within.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How do we stop it?”

  “That, my friend, is a good question. One I don’t have an answer for right now.”

  Chapter 47

  Washington, DC

  Washington Post reporter, Tracy Adkins shouted a question as a gaggle of reporters followed the senior senator from the state of Montana, Jordan Quinn. “Senator, why have you changed your support for President Griffin?”

  Having ignored all other questions so far, he stopped his rush for the elevators and turned toward the reporters. “I have not changed my support for President Griffin, but I must be critical of any action I deem to be an overreach.”

  Adkins followed up. “Which action did you feel an overreach, Senator?”

  “His sudden dismissal of Secretary of Homeland Security, Joan Watson.”

  Another reporter next to Tracy said, “My understanding is she resigned on her own.”

  “Nonsense. She was fired by the president.”

  The reporters started shouting questions again as Quinn’s Chief of Staff leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  Quinn stared at the man and blinked rapidly. Turning away from the reporters, he hustled toward a bank of elevators.

  ***

  When the two men were alone inside, Quinn said, “Why didn’t he call my cell phone?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. Linda took the call. She said your son said it was urgent. He gave her a number for you to call.”

  Quinn took the piece of paper his Chief of Staff handed him and stared at the number.

  While the number did not appear in his cell phone contact list, he knew the number. It did not belong to his son. Looking up, he said, “Thank you, Tim. I’ll find a nice quiet corner somewhere and call him back.”

  “I hope everything is okay at home, sir.”

  As the elevator door opened, he said, “Yes, so do I.”

  Jordan Quinn’s four terms in the United States senate provided him with a few personal conveniences other senators did not possess. One of those amenities included a little hideaway office on the Capitol Building’s third floor behind a committee room. Only a handful of individuals knew it was his space and fewer had access to it. With the door locked, he sat in one of the leather wingback chairs and stared at the slip of paper handed to him. With a deep breath, he punched in the number and touched the send icon.

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to call back.”

  “It wasn’t convenient at the time.”

  “Convenient? Convenience is a luxury our relationship does not recognize, Senator.”

  “What do you want, Marks?”

  “Are you familiar with actions the FBI is taking against your next election?”

  Quinn stared at the floor, deep lines appearing on his forehead as he pressed the cell phone to his ear. “I’m not following you. What’s the FBI doing?”

  “They are systematically dismantling my operation and subsequently your largest source of campaign donations.”

  The senator did not answer right away as his mind raced through the consequences of the FBI finding out where the majority of his campaign funds originated. “How bad?”

  “Let’s put it this way. Unless you stop it, there won’t be enough money available for an election to city council in Butte.”

  Quinn stood and screamed into the phone. “How dare you threaten me, Marks. I’m a US Senator.”

  “It’s not a threat, it’s a promise. Stop the FBI investigation or certain private information about you will suddenly become public. You’ll be gone as quickly as Joan Watson.”

  Seated again, Quinn placed his free hand over his eyes. “I’m not sure what I can do at this point.”

  “Get me the address of an FBI agent named Sean Kruger.”

  “How’s that going to stop what they’re doing?”

  “He is the one responsible for the FBI’s interest.”

  Silence filled the room as Quinn shut his eyes. “What are you going to do, Marks?”

  “A detail you have no need to know about. Now get me the address, Senator.”

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Quinn sat at his desk in the Hart Senate Office Building, his door locked and the handset of his desk phone pressed to his ear. The individual on the line listened as the Montana Senator presented his case. “As Chairman of the Appropriations Committee, David, I find it highly irregular for a private citizen to be funding a division of the FBI.”

  David Clayton, Senate Majority Leader and a staunch supporter of President Roy Griffin did not answer right away. After a sigh, he said, “Jordan, we’ve had this discussion before. You were there for the negotiation with President Griffin and wholeheartedly agreed this was a great idea. Besides, it’s temporary until it proves its worth and then we can either fund it or not.”

  “Who’s the director?”

  “Again, Jordan, there isn’t a director. It falls under Stumpf.”

  With his voice increasing in decibels, Quinn spat out, “That’s not what I agreed to, David. We agreed this would fall under Homeland Security.”

  “The structure stayed the same, but the new department will stay within the confines of the FBI.”

  “Why wasn’t I and my committee informed about this change?”

  “There was no need since the new department is already funded.”

  “Again, David, I find that highly irregular. This increases my concern that Griffin is abusing his power.”

  Although Quinn could not see it, David Clayton rolled his eyes. “Oh, good grief, Jordan, you’ve been around this town long enough to know how these things work.”

  “David, there is growing concern within the Senate about Griffin’s—”

  “Stop right there, Senator. Just because you’ve had your feelings hurt abo
ut not being constantly in the know, get over it. The new department is already showing results.”

  “What do you mean, showing results?”

  His patience wearing thin, Clayton said in a calm manner, “The appropriate committees will be informed at the proper time.”

  With a bit of desperation in his voice, Quinn spat out, “For gawd sake, David, you act like you don’t know what they’re doing. You have to shut them down until we know.”

  “Why are you so concerned about something this minor, Senator?” Clayton’s calm demeanor evaporated with the sudden change of tone in the conversation.

  “As Chairman of the Home Security and Government Affairs committee it is my sworn duty to know these things.”

  “That’s incorrect. We are oversight, not management. I suggest you calm down and rethink what you are asking.”

  “I disagree. This arrangement is unconstitutional, and I will do my best to stop it.”

  Before Clayton could respond, the phone call ended.

  ***

  David Clayton replaced the handset of his desk phone and tapped his lips with an index finger. After a few minutes of staring at the phone, he picked it up and punched in a number.

  “White House. This is Bob Short.”

  “Bob, it’s David Clayton. How are you this morning?”

  “Fine, Senator. How can I help you?”

  “I need to see him. Could you squeeze me in today?”

  Robert Short, Chief of Staff for President Roy Griffin said, “Let me check, Senator.”

  Clayton heard the clicking of a keyboard and then, “How much time do you need?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “How about two-thirty this afternoon?”

  “Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”

  “What’s your topic?”

  “A concern about one of his projects.”

  ***

  Roy Griffin sat in a wingback chair in the Oval Office, his elbows resting on the arms and his fingers creating a steeple that touched his lips. Joseph Kincaid sat on the sofa next to him as they listened to Senate Majority Leader David Clayton recounting his conversation with Jordan Quinn. Sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion across from them, the Senator finished his narrative.