by Mike Lawson
Attorney General Simon Wall and FBI Director Kevin Collier both shook the speaker’s hand when he entered Wall’s office, but neither was particularly effusive in their greeting. They knew Mahoney was being lambasted in the press and that his approval ratings had slipped when he refused to support Broderick’s bill. Wall and Collier, in other words, didn’t feel that they had to be nice to a man who might not be the speaker much longer.
Simon Wall was a lawyer, a political appointee, and close friends with both the president and the chairman of the Democratic Party. He had a seal’s head: wet-looking, slicked-back dark hair and warm, liquid brown eyes magnified by the lenses of his glasses. He looked harmless – but he wasn’t. FBI Director Kevin Collier, the man who looked like Mahoney’s old Boston terrier, was Simon Wall’s puppet.
Mahoney didn’t like either man.
Wall and Collier took seats at a small round table, and Mahoney settled into the third chair and began to speak. ‘Yesterday the DEA arrested a meth dealer in Winchester, Virginia, who is also the head of a white supremacist group. The guy who hijacked the New York shuttle, the cabdriver who tried to blow up the Capitol, and the son of my friend who tried to fly his plane into the White House were all coerced by this drug dealer’s people. In other words, these recent acts of terrorism, which the FBI has pinned on al-Qaeda and three Muslim Americans, were really the work of a bunch of white-power nuts. In other words,’ Mahoney repeated, ‘you two guys, who jumped with all four feet on Bill Broderick’s band wagon, are gonna look like a couple of idiots.’
Wall opened his mouth to say something, but Mahoney continued. ‘Now I’m gonna tell you what really happened.’ And he did. He told them what Jubal Pugh had admitted to DeMarco. When he finished he said, ‘What you’re gonna do is this. The FBI’s gonna take charge of this shithead that the DEA’s arrested, and you’re gonna offer him immunity from prosecution provided he can give you all the people who were involved in this thing. I’ve already told the guy you’re gonna do this.’
‘What?’ Wall said. ‘You don’t have the authority to—’
Mahoney rose to his feet. ‘I gotta take a piss – if it’s okay with you, Simon, I’ll use the can here in your office – but in ten minutes I’m holding a press conference right in front of this building. I’m gonna explain to the media how we were about to pass a horrible goddamn law because of terrorist attacks that were really orchestrated by these racist peckerheads and not by good Muslim American citizens, but, thank God, the diligent agents of the DEA and the FBI have uncovered the truth. This means you guys have about half an hour to figure out a way to put a spin on this that makes you look less stupid than you really are. Now, Simon, where’s your shitter?’
A platoon of lawyers and FBI agents invaded Winchester, Virginia, and took charge of Jubal Pugh, his people, and all the evidence the DEA had gathered. Jubal’s gang was placed in a federal lockup in Washington, D.C. Jubal himself was placed in a cell at Quantico and protected around the clock by the FBI.
The day after Pugh was taken to Quantico, Patsy Hall walked into DeMarco’s office in the Capitol. How she’d located his office, he didn’t know. She threw open the door, and it banged off the wall so hard he was surprised the frosted glass didn’t shatter. DeMarco took one look at her – all hundred and ten pounds of her trembling with rage, eyes blazing so hot they could have started a forest fire – and he was glad they hadn’t allowed her into the building with a weapon.
‘You son of a bitch!’ she screamed. ‘I spent five years trying to nail that bastard, and you’re letting him go. Letting him go!’
‘I’m sorry, Patsy, but it’s for … for the greater good.’
‘Yeah, well you can kiss my ass for the greater good.’ She paused a moment and added, ‘You used me, you prick.’
With that she turned and left, leaving DeMarco feeling like hell.
* * *
The press ripped the late William Broderick asunder and praised Mahoney to the skies.
Those politicians who had resisted Broderick’s efforts stretched their arms and patted themselves publicly on the back for their fortitude. Those who had sided with Broderick blamed the FBI for getting the facts all wrong. Hearings would be held, they promised.
The House voted on the Broderick Act – everybody was happy to call it by that name now – and the bill was defeated by ninety-five votes.
Mahoney was a happy man.
Surprisingly, so was Nick Fine.
The governor of Virginia, who couldn’t run again because of term limits, appointed Fine to fill Broderick’s seat until a special election could be held. The governor acted quickly and without consulting a number of people he should have consulted. The governor extolled Fine’s virtues, spoke of his experi ence, and implied that having two African Americans in the U.S. Senate wasn’t exactly stacking the deck. He said that if Fine had been in charge, Bill Broderick’s vile proposal would never have seen the light of day.
Miranda Bloom, DeMarco’s lobbyist friend, told him later that someone, name unknown, had made a substantial contribution to the University of Virginia. The donation came with a caveat: it was expected that the university would offer the governor of Virginia a position on its staff, the university being close to the governor’s home and a place where he had stated numerous times that he’d like to teach when his days of government service were over.
58
And then it all fell apart.
The day before he planned to have the boy install the devices, the workers at the refinery went on strike.
He blamed himself for not having known that a strike was pending, but as the facility was more than a hundred miles from Cleveland, the local papers hadn’t discussed the likelihood of a strike, nor was the plant of such significance that an imminent strike had made the national news.
These accursed people. Their greed was without limit. Even the lowest-paid workers at the refinery, the guards and the people who mopped the floors, lived better than people he had seen in Africa and Afghanistan and Palestine. They owned cars, often two or three. They lived with families of four in homes where a dozen people could have dwelt. They squandered their money on alcohol and pornographic DVDs – and they wanted more, always more.
The papers didn’t say how long the strike would last. On one hand, a stoppage could work to his advantage. If the facility wasn’t operating, security would be even more lax. And for all he knew, the security force was also on strike and had been replaced by temporary guards even less qualified than the existing ones. The problem was that if the refinery wasn’t operating, he didn’t know if there would be enough hydrofluoric acid in the tanks to cause the calamity he desired. He was not going to waste all the work he and the boy had done by blowing up empty tanks.
An Internet article he had read said there was talk of bringing in nonunion workers to replace those on strike, but it was uncertain if that would happen or when. Another article he read said that before going on strike the workers had conducted illegal slowdowns, sick-outs, they called them, and he didn’t know what that meant in terms of chemical quantities on hand. No, he didn’t like all the new variables caused by the strike. If they brought in different guards, they might follow different security procedures. And if they brought in replacement workers, the refinery most likely wouldn’t operate at maximum capacity, which could mean less of the chemical would be released. He just didn’t know.
It was God’s will. He would have to wait until the strike was over or find a different target.
After all, what did it matter if he had to wait a month or two? It had taken more than four years of planning to fly the planes into the Towers. And there was another reason why waiting could be good. He didn’t understand what had happened with this senator and his bill. It had appeared that the bill was going to pass in the American parliament or whatever they called it, when suddenly this senator was killed and the next thing he read was that the terrorist attacks were really caused by some madman, some drug dealer,
and not by true believers. Now they were saying the law was not going to pass and, if anything, the government was now apologizing to Muslims for what it had been about to do to them.
So maybe waiting was good from that perspective as well. Let things return to normal, and then, when the tanks were destroyed – when thousands of people were killed, when dead schoolchildren were seen lying on the ground, when the wounded were shown blind and horribly burned – then the furor would begin all over again. And this time the whites would demand that this dead senator’s law be passed and there would be no doubt who was responsible for the attack.
The real problem with waiting was the boy’s mother. In the first few months after her husband’s death she had been almost catatonic, and when he’d first met the boy, she was still in that state. But in the last week or so, she had started to come out of it and was beginning to take an interest in her son’s life again. She knew the boy had stopped going to school, and when she first found out about this she hadn’t said too much. But now she was beginning to nag the boy about his education.
He had told the boy to tell his mother that he had a job, a job at a factory where he sometimes had to work nights. Where the mother came from, it was not unusual for boys her son’s age to have jobs, and she was so isolated from others of her kind and so ignorant of American norms that she accepted the explanation. To reinforce the lie, he gave the boy a small amount of money to take home each week to his mother as proof that he was working. But now she was asking questions. Where was this factory? What did he do? Did he have a future working there? And who was the man who called so often?
Again, had this not been America, had this been anywhere else in the civilized world, the boy, as man of the house, would have told the woman to mind her own business. But this was America. The woman thought she had the right to meddle in the affairs of men, particularly her son’s affairs.
The best thing would be if the mother were to die, but in some way that would increase the son’s bitterness toward his own people.
He would have to give that some thought.
59
Unlike with the two men who had tried to blow up the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel, Myron Clark didn’t have to sleep-deprive Jubal Pugh to get him to talk. He didn’t have to bring in his glowering six-foot-four partner to intimidate him either. All he had to do was turn on his tape recorder. Pugh knew the only way he was going to stay out of jail was if he told Myron Clark everything he knew.
In response to Clark’s first question – How did he become involved in the terrorist attacks? – Jubal shrugged and said, ‘Got a letter in the mail.’ He said this like the letter had been a coupon flyer from a pizza place. ‘The letter said I’d make two million bucks if I was willing to do a few things to support a patriotic cause. And there was five grand in cash in the envelope, just for meeting the guy who sent the letter. That got my attention.’
‘And where’d you meet this other patriot at?’ Clark asked.
‘At a restaurant in Winchester,’ Jubal said. ‘The Waffle Shop. Guy called himself Mr Jones. Sounded like a highfalutin’ bastard.’
Clark guessed that meant the man didn’t have the dulcet tones of one raised in an Appalachian hamlet.
‘Anyway,’ Jubal said, ‘the first thing he did was name the guy who supplies my ephedrine.’
‘What?’ Clark said.
Pugh explained. The man who supplied the ephedrine that Pugh used to make his meth was the head of a Mexican drug cartel and lived in Mexico City. Mr Jones told Pugh that he’d done some work for the cartel and if Pugh wanted to check on his background, all he had to do was call his supplier and ask him about a man named James Flint and the job in Guadalajara. He said the Mexican was expecting Pugh’s call.
‘But I also figured Jones was sending me a message,’ Pugh said. ‘He was telling me he could fuck up my meth operation any time he wanted.’
‘Are you trying to say Jones forced you into helping him?’ Clark said.
‘Nah, I guess not. I’m just saying he had some leverage on me.’
‘And did you contact this Mexican?’ Clark asked.
‘Yeah. He knew Jones, or James Flint, or whatever his name is, and he said the man was someone I could trust.’
‘So you became partners with a man you’d never met based on the word of a drug lord.’
‘No, I became his partner ’cause he was payin’ me two million bucks. And I did try to find out who Jones really was,’ Pugh added. ‘I had Randy take his picture. Randy was up at the counter, drinkin’ coffee, and while I was talkin’ to Jones, Randy snapped off a shot with my Kodak.’
Clark didn’t bother to tell Pugh that the picture wasn’t worth a damn.
‘And later Randy tried to follow the guy,’ Pugh said, ‘but he was too slick for that.’
Clark refrained from commenting on the slickness quotient of Jubal or his boy Randy.
‘So then what?’ Clark said.
‘Well, then he told me what he wanted me to do,’ Jubal said.
Pugh said Jones gave him a broad outline of the plan and said he’d pay Pugh in installments following each successful phase. Pugh said he was impressed with Jones’s thoroughness and negotiated for another half a million.
‘I mean, I knew the shit was just gonna fly if I did what this fella wanted, and I figured another half million was only fair, considering I was taking all the risks.’
‘Yeah, sounds like you were a real bargain,’ Clark said. This guy Pugh, with his ferret’s nose and his tiny eyes and his unshaven chin, was just repulsive.
Pugh said that after he agreed to work with Jones, they left the restaurant together. In the restaurant parking lot, Jones gave Pugh a laptop, a schedule specifying when he was to turn the laptop on, and told him to hide the laptop someplace where it wouldn’t be found in the event that some law enforcement agency – like the DEA – obtained a warrant to search his house.
Pugh gave a little sniff. ‘Like I was an idiot or something,’ he said. ‘And then you know what the bastard said to me next?’
Clark just shook his head.
‘He said it was a damn good thing I agreed to do the job, because there was a rifle pointed at me, and if he took off his cap I’d have a third eye in my head. That actually kinda pissed me off.’
Pugh told Clark that after that one meeting, he never saw Jones again and all further communications were by e-mail, either that or through Jones’s man Jack.
‘Jack?’ Clark said. ‘Who the hell’s Jack?’
‘This foreign guy who worked for Jones.’
‘Foreign guy? Where was he from? What country?’
‘I dunno,’ Pugh said. ‘He spoke English but he had an accent, maybe Russian, somethin’ like that. He seemed to think it was funny calling himself Jack. He showed up at my place one day and explained he was just there to make sure things got done right. He was also the guy, by the way, who was gonna shoot me if Jones took his ball cap off at the Waffle Shop. Said he woulda killed me easy, bein’ only three hundred yards away.’
‘Wait a minute!’ Clark said. ‘Goddammit, what in the hell are you talking about?’
Ten minutes later, it all became clear. Jones, not trusting Jubal and his men to follow orders, had sent in someone he could rely on to oversee things. Myron Clark had figured that Jones selected Pugh because Pugh was willing to kill for money, because he had an organization already in place, and if things went wrong a racist like Pugh would be the perfect patsy to blame things on. But Clark had always found it hard to believe that Jones, particularly for an opera tion this complex, would have such confidence in Pugh’s ability. So Jones had assigned a straw boss, a man to manage Pugh. Jones would send Pugh the e-mails and tell Pugh where to send his men, and Jack would be there to make sure they did what they were told to do. But all Pugh could tell him about Jack was that he sounded ‘Russian or something, was white, and kind of a smartass.’ Physically, the description Pugh gave of ‘Jack’ was useless – blond hair, light bl
ue eyes, ‘sorta handsome’ – but Clark left the interrogation immediately to let his boss know that Pugh had had some outside help, a pro, maybe Russian mafia, maybe someone with a military background, but somebody good enough with a rifle to shoot Pugh from three hundred yards away if Jones thought he needed to be shot.
‘So how’d you do it, Jubal?’ Clark asked. ‘How’d you get these people to commit these acts of terrorism?’
Pugh said it was the same in all three cases. They told Reza Zarif, Youseff Khalid, and Mustafa Ahmed that people close to them would be killed if they didn’t do what they were told. Pugh said he had no idea how Jones had identified the Muslims, but it was obvious that Jones had done a lot of research to find people with some sort of grievance that could later be considered a motive for doing what they did. All Pugh knew was that a target would be identified, and detailed instructions for how to capture the target and use his loved ones to coerce him were all provided by Mr Jones and his man Jack.
Pugh said Randy and two other men did all the work. One of those men was the late Donny Cray. The second person was the guy Danny DeMarco had shot, Harlan Rhodes. Danny had not killed Rhodes, and he was currently in a hospital in D.C. being guarded by federal agents.
‘What about this guy Jack?’ Clark asked.
‘He went with ’em, but he didn’t do any of the heavy liftin’. I mean, he never killed anybody or anything. He’d just make sure that Randy and Donny and Harlan knew what to do.’
According to Pugh, the day Reza Zarif tried to crash his plane into the White House, Randy and Donny Cray entered Reza Zarif’s house at 3 A.M. wearing ski masks and they tied up Reza’s family. Then Randy handed Reza a gun and a box of shells and told him to load the gun. When Reza refused, Randy lit a cigarette and said he was going to blind Reza’s son with the cigarette if Reza didn’t do what he was told. Reza loaded the gun. Then Randy explained to Reza what they wanted him to do and said if he didn’t do exactly what he was told, he was going to make Reza watch while they raped his wife and children – including his son. Randy explained to Reza that Harlan Rhodes had a taste for boys, having spent some time in jail.
