“I just do my job,” Zale said. “Sometimes a few people die so that a society’s way of life can be preserved. That’s just the way it is.”
“Maybe it’s time for your job to be finished,” Roader said.
“Sorry, Wade, that’s not the way The Associates work. You know how it goes.”
“You disgust me.”
“Save your disgust and your righteous indignation. I’m you, Wade. I’m all of you. I do what you and all the other hand-wringers are afraid to do. Do I like it? Not especially. But I do it because I have to. Where would this country be without me and people like me? We’d be bankrupt, and we’d still be sending men in to die by the thousands all over the world, with no hope of winning, just like they sent me to Vietnam.” He raised his right hand and held the stumps of his fingers in front of Roader’s face. “I left three fingers in that miserable shithole of a country in ‘69. A lot of guys left a lot more there. A lot of guys never came back. I saw then, more than forty fucking years ago, that there was no chance. Vietnam was lost—it was always going to be lost. But I could see that it didn’t happen again, and I found ways to make things work. Things that your poll numbers don’t tell you. Things that most Americans don’t want to think about.”
Roader stood up, his face burning, his guts churning again. “I don’t want to see you again. I won’t see you again.” The chief of staff turned and walked toward his waiting car.
“He’s weak,” Zale said. “He’s a weak asshole, a poor excuse for a man and an American.” He watched Roader go. “But I have an idea, and it’ll take care of many of our problems. Many of this country’s problems. And that’s our job, isn’t it?”
Landon turned to look at him.
“I’m going to beat Ann at her own game,” Zale said. “She’s conjured up April 19, but you and I both know it’s not about ideology. Ann prides herself on no agenda, being a professional, all that shit. So the people she’s hired will be the same. Hired hands. Mercenaries. And what do you do if you want a mercenary to turn against the one who hired him?”
“You offer him more money.”
Zale smiled. “Exactly.”
“To do what?”
“We’re going to send April 19 to Chicago.”
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about these damn protests. They’re eating up the country, breaking down the social order, undermining the civil authority. Our authority. They have to stop, and this is the opportunity to do it. I’m going to take care of a festering problem, throw April 19 back in Ann’s face, and in the process, Mendoza will be so weakened that he’ll be dead politically. He makes me nervous—I think he’s too independent, and he should never have been anything but just another junior senator.”
Landon’s face went slack. “April 19 to Chicago … the protest and counterprotest. Victor, there will be thousands of people there. I don’t understand this. You’re going to send Ann Gray’s April 19 people into the middle of that protest? But Ann doesn’t have anything to do with the protests. What does that—”
“I’m going to wipe them out and restore order. That’s what we do. We find ways to maintain order and control, things that people like Roader won’t do. Ann is also going to find out she shouldn’t be trying to send ‘messages.’ And I’m going to use her own people to do it and use the money she made for us from the mine. Maybe then she’ll understand who’s in control.”
“Victor, you can’t. All those protesters … they’re going to be packed so tight, thousands of them—”
“I can’t?” Zale looked down at the other man. “You’re telling me what I can’t do, Terry? Really?”
A silence fell between them, and Zale could feel the other man’s fear.
“Don’t get any ideas in your head,” Zale said. “You tend to your accounting.”
Landon shook his head. “You’re wrong about one thing, Victor.”
“And what is that?”
“I think you do like it. I think you like the manipulation and the behind-the-throne power. And I think you like the killing. In all these years, I’ve never seen it as clearly as I do now. You like it, don’t you?” Landon stood up. “Don’t bother answering that.”
Landon turned and walked in a different direction from Roader, leaving Zale sitting alone in the shadow of the Washington Monument.
CHAPTER
33
The Cessna Caravan landed in Oklahoma City a little before eight o’clock in the morning and taxied to the extreme western edge of Will Rogers World Airport, to the JPATS hangar and the Federal Transfer Center. The FTC was a low-profile facility of the Justice Department’s Bureau of Prisons, a holding center for federal prisoners and illegal aliens who were in the process of being moved elsewhere. The Oklahoma City location in the center of the nation was ideal—early each morning one MD-80 jet took off flying east, the other west, moving hundreds of prisoners in federal custody between locations.
The SOAP flights were another matter. Originally the acronym had stood for Service Owned Aircraft Program, but nowadays it was a generic term for smaller planes used to transport “special” prisoners—politicians or athletes or particularly notorious and violent prisoners, those convicted of terrorism-related charges. Like the members of April 19. They would fly to their new “home” in California on a smaller plane, similar to the Caravan. Tolman had asked to meet with the April 19 shooters as soon as possible, but the facility’s warden told her she could only see them right before they boarded the plane. He steadfastly refused, even in the face of Tolman’s broad jurisdiction, to deviate from his protocols. Tolman respected him a little for that.
The warden set them up in an unused office in the FTC and Tolman ordered breakfast, seeing that the others were fed. At a few minutes before ten, the warden came into the office and said, “There’s a man at the gate, a Bart Denison. He won’t come inside the facility, and says he’s here to see you.”
Tolman stood up. “Showtime, kids.”
“Ms. Tolman,” the warden said, “what the hell is going on? This transfer better not be turned into a circus. It’s bad enough with the media around, since these nuts have blown up more buildings. We’re all a little on edge, and whatever you’re doing isn’t helping.”
“I’ll handle it,” Tolman said, and the warden scowled after her.
They left the building, passed a guardhouse, and walked outside the high walls surrounding the three-story brick building. The sun was already high. Bart Denison was waiting for her just outside the walls. “Meg Tolman,” she said, and shook his hand. “Care to come inside where it’s cool? You’re going to wilt if you stand outside in that suit for very long.”
“No, thank you,” Denison said. “I’d prefer we not have this conversation inside a government building, Ms. Tolman.”
Tolman looked amused. “Think I’ve put a bug in the Federal Transfer Center, do you?”
Denison didn’t smile, his dark face remaining impassive.
Tolman cleared her throat and gestured at the others. “Dr. Nick Journey, RIO consultant. His son Andrew, his friend Dr. Sandra Kelly. Darrell Sharp, U.S. Marshals Service, retired.”
Denison looked Sharp up and down. “You look a little young to be retired.”
Sharp said nothing, folding his arms.
“Ann Gray,” Tolman said.
Denison pointed at the others. Andrew was hopping up and down, holding Sandra’s elbow and his father’s hand. “Only you, Ms. Tolman. Not your consultants and … friends.”
Tolman pointed at Journey. “We were attacked on Saturday night. That boy had a gun held to his head. His father has a right to know what’s going on.”
“No,” Denison said. “He doesn’t.”
They stared each other down, Denison completely unmoving.
“We’ll go,” Journey said. “We’ll wait in the building. Do what you have to do, Meg.”
Tolman looked at Denison. “I’m going to tell them later. You know that, right?”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Denison said.
“Don’t advise me.”
Denison shrugged. Journey and Andrew, Sandra, and Sharp turned toward the building. Sharp looked toward Tolman several times, and she inclined her head toward him—It’s okay.
“Ann Gray,” Tolman said. “She’s a freelance assassin who has done three jobs for the Agency.”
Denison took a few steps along the grass at the edge of the FTC property. To his right, on the other side of the FTC entrance, the street was blocked off. High fencing with razor wire stretched into the distance. It reminded Tolman of the mine site in Hall County. She looked at the CIA man. He was compact, trim, and fit, and despite her comment about him wearing a dark suit in the sun, he didn’t seem to be perspiring at all.
“The Agency doesn’t conduct assassinations,” Denison said. “It’s against the law.”
“I don’t have time to dance with you. Let’s get to it. I found the connection to CIA by cross-referencing her name with the word ‘assassin.’ You know Ann Gray. You’re listed as the control officer. You were her handler.”
“I know her professionally.”
“Professionally, she’s an assassin.”
“Not exactly,” Denison said. “Ann Gray likes to call herself—”
“A manager, an operator. Yeah, I get it. But let’s dispense with—”
“You talked to her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that she’s rather more interesting than the average operator. Ann Gray specializes in helping individuals or corporations or governments achieve certain objectives. She’s schooled in international business and law, and of course has other talents as well. If, in the course of managing a project, a situation comes up that requires some wet work, then she does that, too.”
“Wet work. Jesus, you guys are a riot. ‘Wet work.’ ‘Black operations.’ You like your euphemisms, don’t you?”
“Where did you talk to Gray?”
“Sorry, Mr. Denison,” Tolman said. “I’m asking the questions. Gray has worked for the Agency, right?”
Denison hesitated a bit. “We’ve used her as a contractor in the past.”
“To do what?”
“I’m not getting into past contracts.”
“Where does she come from?”
Denison shrugged. “We think she was born in South Africa, lived in Spain, Austria, the Netherlands, and the States. But no one can be sure. She covers herself too well.”
“Is she working for you now?”
“No.”
“Should I believe that?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Of course it is. Why did you fly all the way out here to meet me when I dropped her name?”
“Have you seen the news this morning?”
“No, what is it now? Aside from April 19?”
“No, not them,” Denison said. “We received word late yesterday that France’s ambassador to the U.S., and one idiot congressman, were going to hold a joint news conference this morning. They did.”
Tolman stopped walking. “The French ambassador?”
“Yes. Congressman Delmas Mercer of Louisiana is introducing a resolution in the House to retroactively recognize the Confederate States of America as a sovereign nation during the four years of the Civil War, in order to give the French treaty rights. Ambassador Daquin is claiming that the French negotiated a deal with the Confederacy, and that if this woman, this spy, hadn’t died, it would have been law. If the Confederacy is legitimized, they could possibly have legal recourse, as insane as it sounds.”
“That can’t be right,” Tolman said. “No one will buy it.”
The CIA man looked at her. “Have you been paying attention to the state of American politics? Have you seen the desperation of the French government’s monetary crisis? Desperate and troubled people will buy almost anything, if it furthers their own agenda. Mercer is telling the world that we stole the map from France, and we must be true to our steadfast allies, and on and on.”
“Holy shit,” Tolman said. “Christ, Denison. How did this happen?”
“We think Gray told someone—whether it was Mercer or the French, we don’t know—about the map.”
“What the hell is she doing?” Tolman said. “And how did she get the map in the first place?”
She almost told Denison that Gray had sent the map to Journey, but thought better of it. She didn’t trust Denison.
Hell, who can I trust? she wondered.
“To answer your first question, the Agency would like to know,” Denison said. “To answer the second … Gray stole the map from the French. She stole it for the Agency.”
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“All this—,” Tolman said.
“No,” Denison said quickly. “Whatever you’re involved in has nothing to do with the Agency.”
“Maybe you’d better explain this to me, Mr. Denison. We’re in the business of stealing maps from churches in other countries? Friendly countries, I might add.”
“Don’t be naïve, Ms. Tolman. When we find things in other countries that have a bearing on our national interest, we take them. Other countries do the same here. It’s the perfect kind of job for a contractor like Gray. We’d used her on a couple of other jobs over the years—and no, I’m not going to discuss those operations with you. Six years ago, we found out through our regular assets in Europe that some old papers and maps had been found in this church in Montluçon, France, things that related to the French in North America in the 1860s. We have an interest in historical documents—our analysts can piece together past operations, get a picture of how certain regimes behaved, consider the possibility of future operations. We never know what we’re going to get.”
“But you steal artifacts on a regular basis.”
“I’m not going to respond directly to that. We heard of this discovery, and when we learned that there was a map of Texas in the 1860s, the decision was made to try to obtain it.”
“Why didn’t you offer to buy it?”
“I’m not going to respond to that, either. We approached Ann Gray and she obtained the map for us and took it out of France.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Nothing,” Denison said.
“Nothing.”
“Our analysts looked at it, people determined the actual site, and went to it. There was nothing there. It was determined that the map was of no further use to us, and the file was closed.”
“Why didn’t you just give the map back to the French?”
“And admit we took it in the first place? Be serious.”
“So what did you do with it?”
“We sold it.”
“You what?”
“It became surplus government property. We sold it. Not through the Agency, of course, but through the General Services Administration, the GSA. It was sold, along with hundreds of other items.”
“Jesus,” Tolman said. “You guys…”
“It was worthless to us. The letter that Congressman Mercer talked about … we didn’t have it. We knew nothing about some proposed treaty between the French and the Confederates.”
“You didn’t know what the Silver Cross was?”
“Not until we heard last night about what Daquin and Mercer were going to do.”
Tolman’s mind was racing. “And now you want to find Gray because you’re afraid the French are about to name the CIA as having stolen the map from their soil.”
“It becomes a difficult situation to navigate.”
“No shit. ‘Difficult to navigate.’ Tell me about April 19.”
Denison pointed toward the walls of the FTC. “I suspect you know more about that than I do.”
“Gray is April 19,” Tolman said. “Somehow. She also ran the Silver Cross … Panhandle Mining … she ran the operation that mined all that silver. But she’s also April 19.”
“Ann Gray and April 19? I don’t think so. Gray has no political age
nda. She has no ideology. She only believes in herself. She only takes on jobs that are ‘interesting’ or ‘challenging.’ Early in her career, from what we can piece together, she did anything. The first traces of her are at the end of the Cold War, when Communism was falling apart in Eastern Europe. She was a courier, then reportedly assassinated a high-ranking member of the East German Stasi, days before the Wall fell. And no, that job was not for us. As her reputation grew, she became more selective. She’s very, very good at what she does. One of the best in the world, actually, and that is precisely because she has no political agenda of any kind.”
“But you’ve been out of touch with her for six years?”
“We paid her for the job in France, then she vanished. You see why I think it’s interesting that you may have talked to her.”
Tolman massaged the muscles in her neck, feeling the sun beating down on her. She wished she had water. “What do you know about Edwin Barry Cable?”
“Who?”
“April 19,” Tolman said. “The GAO shooting last April.”
“I know nothing about it. I know what everyone else who watches TV or uses the Internet knows.”
“You talk in circles,” Tolman said. “You know that, right?”
Denison shrugged. He took off his gold-framed glasses, cleaned them with a crisp white handkerchief, and put them on again. “Comes with the territory.”
“Who bought the map?”
“You understand that the Agency had no part in the sale of the map. The GSA—”
“Who bought the fucking map?”
Denison was still and quiet. His gaze bore into Tolman, unblinking.
Tolman raised both hands, then let them drop, slapping against the legs of her dusty jeans. “Don’t you Agency guys ever sweat?”
“No,” Denison said.
Tolman almost smiled at his deadpan tone.
“Ann Gray has put us in a difficult position,” Denison said. “No one else could have leaked the existence of the map—and your alleged letter from Napoleon III—to the French. The French government is just about bankrupt and their economy is on the edge of collapsing. They see an opportunity for money here, and one idiot congressman decides to renew the debate over secession so the French can have ‘treaty rights’ with the Confederacy, retroactive to the Civil War. This is not a good place for our country—or the world—to be, is it, Ms. Tolman?”
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