False Flag

by John Altman

  The boy stared trancelike at his father, tangled in the possibility of the moment. Do it, Jana told herself. Don’t think about it, just do it. Like grabbing a snake. She glided forward, dropping to one knee, one hand reaching for the boy’s shoulder, soothingly, as the other went for the ampoule.

  “That gets a slow clap,” said a woman on TV. “Here’s another tweet I got last night …”

  Silas was dropping the ampoule. But Jana’s hand was beneath it, plucking it out of the air easily, confidently. Her other hand landed on his shoulder, and she pulled him close, murmuring faint reassurances, handing the ampoule behind herself without looking. She felt Michael whisk it away, and she held the boy close. Not faking compassion, she realized, as she was with Michael. Life was strange. “Okay,” she murmured. “’S okay, okay, okay, okay. Okay, okay, okay.”

  “What color are your New Year’s Eve underwear?” the woman on TV asked brightly.

  Silas had drawn in a breath, caught in the moment before tears. Still stroking his back, Jana threw a look over her shoulder. Michael held the ampoule. He looked pale. Something had been dredged up inside him. His mouth hung open. It occurred to her that he might be every bit as dangerous, holding the ampoule, as his young son. She disengaged, felt the boy’s entire body tensing just as she let it go. Gently she took the ampoule from Michael, and kept moving, gliding toward the stairs now, as Silas finished winding up and let his tears loose.

  Upstairs. In the master bedroom, the black case sat open on the floor, the chair he had used beside it. She knelt, holding her breath. Apparently, the months buried underground had ruined the lock. She checked the ampoules. No broken glass. Checked again. And again. Now her own hysteria was bubbling up. What kind of a fucking joke was this operation, when a five-year-old kid could get his hands on …

  Her eyelid was twitching again, worse than ever, pulling her face into a fun-house mask. She remembered suddenly a woman from her childhood: the crazy old cat lady of the neighborhood. All the kids had laughed at her. Always wearing soiled black, dirt on her face, dirt beneath her fingernails. Dead flowers on her balcony. No husband, no children, just the cats—a dozen at least. Nerves dead at one corner of her mouth, lips slack, face prone to erratic jerking and twitching. She had probably been about the age Jana was now.

  Silas was still howling from downstairs, louder than the wind outside.

  She counted down from five. And again. Her breathing turned to long, slow strokes. But the eyelid kept twitching.

  At last, she stood again, joints creaking. The gristle of her knees popped hollowly. Tendons and skin, liver and spleen.

  She had thought the case would be safe on the high shelf. But nothing was safe. She saw that now.

  Twelve days.

  She turned to the dresser. Michael’s soon-to-be ex-wife’s dresser. A few rejected perfume bottles still sitting on top. Drawers still half-filled with clothes. Jana had helped herself to the remnants of the woman’s wardrobe. It gave her a feeling of secret power, a feeling that she was getting away with something.

  She opened the top drawer, cleared space for the case, and tucked it back into the corner, covering it with a yellowing bra. She shut the drawer.

  It was the best she could do for now. Tomorrow, if anything was open, she would have Michael buy a new case.

  Twelve days.

  Downstairs, the cries were abating. Disaster averted.

  But her eye was still twitching, making her feel like the strange old lady, the laughingstock of the neighborhood.

  Bluemont, VA

  A K-9 van arrived at first light.

  The men who climbed out moved gingerly and spoke quietly. The dogs sniffle-snuffled for a few seconds and then lunged toward the toolshed.

  Someone handed Dalia a thermos of coffee and a foil-wrapped sandwich. Egg and cheese on a soggy, greasy roll. She took a bite, closed the foil, and left the sandwich on a nearby fender. Then she turned 360 degrees, drinking in the view. With dawn breaking, she could appreciate for the first time the beauty of the valley: snow-spotted glades, primeval forest rising in cathedral spires.

  Horowitz stepped out onto the porch. Tired, shoulders sloping, safety goggles propped high on his forehead. Skinning off gloves, he came down and joined her. “Methylphosphonic acid in the basement.”

  And cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine in the shed. She nodded without surprise. They had also found a grand jumble of fingerprints throughout the house, left by the Korns and various tenants—but none belonging to Jana or, Dalia suspected, the mystery man. Bleach worked wonders on hard, nonporous surfaces carrying latents. It worked less well on aerated sarin and turpentine that penetrated invisible nooks and crannies on walls and ceilings.

  A man standing near the edge of the search grid whistled. They went over, dodging the jury-rigged windbreaks and the scaffolding of big lights recently switched off, still warm. The man was young. He wore a nice shirt beneath his coat. He smelled of cologne. He had been planning, Dalia thought, to ring in the New Year in style. Instead, he was crouching here, pointing at a muddy spot below police tape that snapped despite the windbreak. “Tire track. Good one. Not the Silverado.”

  They bent to inspect a serrate tread with shallow ridges and grooves. To Dalia, it didn’t look like a good track. It didn’t look like much of anything. But the man was photographing it with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

  Inside the house, members of the forensics team were helping themselves to Hattie Korn’s coffee. Many had been on the team that went over the house the first time, during the sheriff’s investigation, and declared it clean. Their mistake had wasted valuable days. Dalia held on to the resentment for a moment. Then she let it go, took a place in line by the urn, and drew a mug of coffee both better and hotter than what was in the thermos.

  Horowitz came banging through the front door again, looking energized. He drew a mug and joined her at the table. “Good news or bad?” he asked.

  “Good.”

  “The tread belongs to a Kumho Solus KR-21. Original equipment on Hyundai Elantras and Sonatas since 2011. There’s Ralph Korn’s ‘little blue Japanese thing.’”

  She considered. “Bad?”

  “Ten thousand, four hundred Elantras and Sonatas registered in the Washington metropolitan area alone. We can cut it down. Start with blue Hyundais registered in DC to military veterans with brown hair. Run plates; look for outstandings. But cars can get repainted, and registered to anyone with forty bucks and a signature. In the end, we’ll have to go door-to-door … five-thousand-plus times.”

  Dalia closed her eyes. She felt a strange unmoored sensation, as if the earth had fallen out from beneath her chair and she were spinning dizzily through space, falling, falling.

  Ellicott Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  “Here, kitty kitty. Here, Licky Licky. Here, girl.” Michael made a puckering noise with his lips. “Kitty?”

  The cat favored Michael with a flat, skeptical gaze, ears cocked forward. Leaning against the counter, the woman watched blankly.

  “Come on, Licorice. Kitty kitty. Nice kitty.” The kissy noise again.

  Suddenly, Licorice came padding across the kitchen. She paused a few inches from his outstretched index finger, sensing something not quite right. Sat back on her haunches, tail switching, and gave him a look of great sagacity.

  He moved his left leg closer to the cat. Near enough now that she could reach out and bat it with one playful paw, were she so inclined. He wagged the finger in her face. She leaned forward, sniffed, then bunted his fingertip aggressively with her forehead. Chancing a tentative lick, she laid back her ears and scrummed her face along the nail, leaving her scent. She gave no indication at all of sensing the Purina Whisker Lickin’s tuna cat treats—her favorite—hidden inside the prosthetic leg mere inches from her face.

  He looked at the woman. She nodded.


  But now the acid test: the dogs.

  He took off the leg: nine clicks. Then he shook the cat treats from the plastic casing onto the linoleum. Licorice pounced and gobbled them up. Michael felt something black and dangerous rising inside him. Eleven days. Would the woman really care for his cat as promised? He tried to picture it. The voice inside him started to offer an opinion. He shut it down, wet a paper towel, and cleaned inside the shaped cavities before refilling them with Purina Moist and Meaty Burger with cheddar cheese flavor. MMMMMMMMMMMM! read the packaging. Beefy, moist, meaty, tender, yummy! Quick, no mess.

  Licorice, no snob, stood watching, tail switching again. He tossed her a dog treat. She sniffed, licked, then picked it up and carried it away like a dead mouse, to her treasure corner.

  Michael closed the hidden compartments. He worked the vacuum seals, then washed his hands under near-boiling water. He filled a saucer with dishwashing detergent and hot water, dipped in another paper towel, and fastidiously cleaned the carbon fiber shell. Wiped it dry and cleaned it again. He wiped it dry once more, clicked it back into the liner’s pin, and tugged down the cuff of his jeans.

  New Year’s Day. The dog run was crowded despite the cold: people desperate to get away from families they had been shut indoors with for a too-long vacation. Big dogs, small dogs, happy dogs, sad dogs, regal dogs, silly dogs, old dogs, puppies, and their owners. Michael had never been a dog person. Too slobbery, too eager to please. With cats, you had to earn it. Dogs had no standards. They loved indiscriminately. Which made their love worth very little indeed.

  The woman had stayed home—they had agreed it was not worth the risk of showing her face outside. Michael stood alone by the edge of the run, leaning against the fence, the false leg with treats sealed inside pressing against wrought-iron bars. Plenty of space between those bars for the scent to waft invitingly into the run. Here, doggy doggy doggy.

  The dogs ignored him.

  It was the last hurdle, cleared and already receding into the past.

  Eleven days, and he would be gone. He would be gone in eleven days. Say it enough and it might mean something. Eleven days, eleven days, eleven days. Gone, gone, gone. As a child, he had thought about death. He had lain awake at night thinking about it. Gone, gone, gone. Forever, forever, forever. No more Michael Fletcher. Forever. Just words. They meant nothing. But with enough repetition, he had sometimes been able to get a flicker of meaning, a glimpse, a chill: forever. No more him. Forever. He had glimpsed just enough to scare the living shit out of him. Forever. Gone forever. Forever, forever, forever.

  Like Seth, said the voice.

  Like Seth.

  Back home, he changed into sweats, bundled up, and went for a run. He ran until his heart pounded behind his eyes and his knee flared in pain with every footfall. He ran until his brain throbbed and his lungs twisted into a knot and he burned, shivered, trembled. Then he glanced over his shoulder and there was a rushing dark riptide, forever, forever, forever, threatening to grab him, entangle him, suck him under, drag him down. And he dug in, facing forward, narrowing his eyes, and ran harder.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ellicott Street NW,

  Washington, DC

  “Dispatch, this is five-oh-five. I’m ten-twenty-three at one-thirty-two Ellicott Street Northwest.”

  “Ten-four, five-oh-five.”

  They stepped out of the prowler into a cold, windless sixth day of January. Clouds hung motionless in the pale afternoon sky. Officer Jimmy McAlester caught the eye of his new partner and gave a small paternal nod. Beth returned it—good kid—and followed him up the walk, one pace behind.

  Weapons holstered, faces parked in neutral, they stepped up onto the porch. The curtained windows revealed nothing. A pamphlet pushing life insurance stuck out of the mailbox. Jimmy reached forward and bent back the corner to check the addressee. Then he nodded at Beth again. Play it cool, his expression said. A knock and talk without a warrant was friendly and entirely legal. But anything the slightest bit overbearing, anything that could conceivably be deemed coercive, raised the specter of the Fourth Amendment, moving the encounter legally closer to a search and seizure and making the collective eyes of the ACLU pop with glee.

  Beth rang the doorbell. They waited.

  Footsteps. Creaking floorboards. When the door opened, Jimmy blinked. Then he grinned. “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit. I saw the name, but I didn’t …”

  He hugged the man in the doorway. Patrol Officer Beth Walsh watched with bemusement, her head tilting inquisitively beneath its peaked blue cap. Behind the man was strewn evidence of a child or children: Laser Pegs, Legos, a Tonka backhoe.

  Jimmy laughed, leaving one hand fondly on the man’s shoulder. “Should have put it together. I’ll be goddamned.” He turned to Beth. “Beth Walsh, Michael Fletcher. We fought Ali Baba together.”

  She smiled. “Thank you for your service.”

  “This guy. He could clear a Humvee like you’ve never seen. Talk about your WMDs.”

  “This guy,” Michael Fletcher said, “he jerked off so much everybody else’s sheets turned stiff.”

  “Talk about stiff. This guy didn’t ever change his underwear. End of the tour, they were walking around by themselves.”

  They grinned foolishly at each other. “Good to see you, soldier,” Jimmy said finally.

  “What you been up to, Jimmy?” A cat tried to dash outside, and Michael bent and scooped it up absently.

  “DCFD replaced me, believe it or not, while I was out defending truth, justice, and the American Way. Waiting list to get back in. So …” He flicked his forefinger against his badge. “Sergeant Jimmy McAlester, at your service.”

  “Ah, but that’s a bonny lad,” said Michael. “Stick with it, champ; you’ll make your mama proud.”

  “This guy.” Jimmy jerked a thumb. “Loves to bust balls. How about you, Mikey? Still sitting on the sidelines, watching other people’s lives through a viewfinder?”

  “You know it. But a better class of people. Up on the Hill.”

  “Good for you. How’s Stace?”

  Michael shook his head. “Heather?”

  “Naw. I got a new one. Twenty-two years old. Tight as a drum. How’s the kid?”

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Pain in the ass. Listen, we oughta grab a beer.”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ll give you a call. I got your address.” He gestured at the mailbox. “Speaking of which, guess you’ve got a car—came across the ticker.”

  “A 2013 Hyundai Elantra,” said Beth. “Aqua.”

  Michael nodded toward the closed garage. “Gonna dust for coke?”

  “Waste of time. I know a guilty man when I see him.” Jimmy chucked Michael’s shoulder. “Duty calls, buddy. I’ll be in touch. Take her easy.”

  “Pinch the tip, Jimmy.”

  Back in the cruiser, Beth twisted her hat more firmly onto her head. “Gotta say …”

  Jimmy McAlester looked at her. “What?”

  “Nothing. Just, on paper, he hits all the marks. Brown hair, athletic build, vet, split from his wife, has a little kid—that’s five for five.”

  Until this moment, during their four-month partnership, Beth had pleasantly surprised him by not saying anything stupid. But here was a doozy.

  Only a kid, he reminded himself. And a good one at that. Just trying to do her job. “You couldn’t tell, I guess, but that man gave a leg for this country.”

  She blinked. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, I guess you didn’t. But show me a vet who doesn’t split with his wife after he comes back. It just happens. Women, too. It’s something that just happens.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “He’s a goddamn war hero.” Jimmy heard his own voice hot, shaking a little, and told himself to dial it back. �
��You gotta learn, girlie, that good police work’s not about what’s on paper. It’s about reading between the lines. You got to develop a sense for people.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Salt of the earth, that motherfucking guy.” He unclipped the radio from below the dash and clicked the button. “Dispatch, this is five-oh-five. We’re ten-twenty-six. Moving on to Macomb.”

  “Ten-four, five-oh-five.”

  * * *

  From the high window, Jana watched the prowler pull away from the curb.

  She heard Michael climbing the stairs: clump, creak, clump, creak … He appeared in the doorway. Face crumbling. She nodded. He came to her. She embraced him, patting his broad shoulders, stroking them. “Shh,” she purred. “It’s okay. They’re gone.”

  * * *

  By the eighth of January, four days before the State of the Union, a task force made up of MPD, FBI, INS, Secret Service, and the Washington Regional Threat and Analysis Center had investigated every Hyundai registered to a military veteran in the Washington, DC, metropolitan area.

  So the net was cast again, wider.

  State police, federal marshals, and ATF joined the effort. A new list was drawn up, including not just Hyundais manufactured since 2011 but also Kias, which could take Kumho Solus KR-21 tires in a pinch. ARGUS and StingRay and IMSI Catcher and packet interceptors and parabolic microphones and infrared cameras provided initial intelligence—Head of Operations Barry Innes being not nearly as concerned as Sergeant Jimmy McAlester about legally covering his ass—but ultimately, the owner of every car fitting the profile got a rap on their door, and a knock and talk, often followed by a request to be invited in for a look around. Most people were agreeable. Most people wanted to be good citizens and were eager to help out. Some refused and were looked at more closely. Several ran, were apprehended, and proved to have warrants out or drugs on the premises.

  On Ellicott Street NW, Michael Fletcher, having slipped through the eye of the needle, sat down to Friday night dinner with his son and the woman who called herself Kristen.