A Spy Came Home (Mac Ambrose Book 1)

by HN Wake

  23 years ago

  Ella’s Bar was small and smokey. A long wooden bar dominated the entire space. A neon sign out on the street shone back through a high, small window and cast a blue haze across the smoke.

  Mac stepped in behind Dusty.

  She immediately saw Joe at the bar. He was smoking, drinking a beer, and talking quietly to Ella the bartender, a curvy, gregarious woman with frizzy blond hair. Ella looked up, spied Dusty and Mac, and raised her eyebrows. Joe turned.

  Echo and the Bunnymen played on the jukebox.

  Dusty’s wave was goofy, long limbed. He ambled over to the bar, his voice scratchy and deep. “What’s up cats?”

  Joe’s eyes were darkly circled, his hair unusually unkempt. Ella set two beers on the bar. “You kids are lucky I like you.”

  Dusty began regaling his latest drama, his hands billowing around him as he talked. Mac pulled out the bar stool next to Joe.

  The noise around her merged into a soft buzz. She could no longer distinguish Dusty’s voice. Below the bar, she tentatively took Joe’s hand.

  Instantly, his fingers wrapped around hers.

  With her free hand, she lifted the bottle of beer. It was cold and slimy with condensation and it slipped. She dropped Joe’s hand to grab the bottle with both hands, but it hit the wooden bar and sent foam gurgling up through the neck. She quickly took a large gulp. The foam expanded in her mouth, threatening to explode through her nose. In a panic, she swallowed. The beer burned her throat and forced her to release a loud, phlegmy cough.

  Next to her, Joe stared ahead, politely ignoring her shame.

  He placed his hand up on the bar. She reached over putting her hand on his, for all to see.

  Present day

  Five minutes later, 89 pinged her back in the chat room. “The closest I got was Peru. Given what I’ve recently sent you, I’m taking it you’re not in Peru.”

  “Indeed. I’m not in Peru. Thanks.” She lit a cigarette. “I also need an email worm. Maybe Straight Jacket? Non traceable. It will be discovered.”

  “Roger that. I’ll send to your new Hushmail. Can only be used for about a week, on one target. Lasts maybe five days then disappears.”

  “Perfect.”

  “It’s not cheap.”

  She grinned. Gotta love hackers. “Understood. How much?”

  “10”

  Translation: $10,000. Seriously gotta love hackers. She typed him back, “Will send tmrw.”

  “And per our last convo: my clients are really pushing for some new talent. They have big money. Guarantees of no wet work.”

  She typed, “Bad timing.”

  “Well, good luck with your current endeavor. At least your email is clean as a whistle. For now. I heard NSA is sniffing hard on Hushmail.”

  “Let me know when it’s not clean.”

  “That’s another 10.”

  Classic. She replied, “Roger. Will send that tmrw too.”

  “Live long and prosper.”

  All fail-safes fail at some point. The key is to know when. Law enforcement will catch up with the account but she’ll have dumped it by then.

  10

  New York, NY

  “Hi, Jimmy. Good morning to ya. Listen. I’m doing a piece on the SFG.” Stacia held the receiver to her ear in one hand and twirled her Mont Blanc through the fingers of her other. Around her, the New York News newsroom was loud. “Do you mind if I ask you some off-the-record questions? I just want some color.”

  Jimmy, a friend from college, was now the Communications Director for the junior senator from Arizona. His reply was measured. “Stacia, careful who you mess with.”

  “Right? Funny you say that.”

  “I’m serious. Those are some heavy dudes.”

  “That’s just it. Seems like everyone is afraid of them.”

  “Probably because we are. This all off-the-record?”

  “Absolutely. So how are these guys so powerful?”

  “All I can tell you is that they are. When they come around to our office… kissing ass to them is the worst part of my job.”

  “Do they make threats?”

  “They don’t need to. They let you know that they are making a scorecard on a particular bill.”

  She gazed through the atrium. “Just like that. They mention a scorecard and —”

  “You can bet my boss will fall in line.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m not the only one with that experience on the Hill.”

  “Yeah, I bet not. Ok, thanks a ton, Jimmy. Chat soon.”

  She set down the phone and wrote ‘scorecard’ on her pad. She looked up a second number and dialed.

  “Senator McClaran’s office. Melody Hallwell speaking.” Melody was a contact she had met at a networking function last year.

  “Hi, Melody. Stacia DeVries from the New York News.”

  “Hi Stacia. What’s up?”

  “Yeah, I’m doing a piece on the SFG…”

  Melody let out a loud cough.

  Stacia rushed on, “Right? You’re not the first with that reaction. I’m trying to get some background. All off-the-record.”

  “Well, listen, I’m going make my comments short and sweet. My boss is a Democrat in the middle of a red state. He absolutely wants a 100% on all SFG scorecards.”

  “So that’s it. He votes what they tell him to vote.”

  “I didn’t say that exactly, but you can go there if you want.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Melody.”

  Stacia hung up and underlined ‘scorecard’ on her notepad. She dialed a third number. This call was to a cousin working for a Republican Congressman out of Oklahoma.

  He chuckled sadly. “You know, Stacia, that there’s the new Senate bill coming up on assault weapons, right? So I asked my boss this morning what he thought about the SFG. He said he can’t remember the last time someone took them on. He thinks it was maybe way back in the early 90s. They’re just too powerful, too big.”

  “What if that’s all bluster? They claim six and a half million members. But other sources put that number closer to one million. By some loose and generous math we can say the SFG represents less than 1% of all Americans. That is a tiny constituency.”

  “Yeah, but they get em out to vote. We’re all afraid of them.”

  “So you don’t think the Payne bill is going to pass the Senate?”

  “No way. The SFG is already out doing the rounds. I saw their lobbyist, Neil Koen, walking past the Senate cafeteria last week.”

  On the other side of the atrium, Freda walked slowly up to the Editor in Chief’s office and leaned on the doorframe. “Knock, knock.”

  Jack Diamonte was a thick man with a head of full, white hair, a square jaw and reading glasses that sat low on his nose. He rarely smiled even though his humor was quick and often painful. He didn’t look up from his document. “Yes?”

  “You see the gun hearing?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve got Stacia DeVries working on a profile.”

  Jack redlined the document. “All right.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  He made another edit. “I know you will.”

  Freda lowered her voice. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

  “I know you will.”

  “Maybe we make her point on other leads.”

  Jack finally looked up, the red pen hanging in the air. “We’ll see.”

  Penny’s 55th floor office looked out over Times Square and down Broadway. From her desk, she heard a group of young staff in the hallway chatting about the latest movie. She had never heard of it.

  Cliff Tripp, another partner in her practice, popped his head around her door. “I just heard the price fixing issue is back on the front burner for our publishing clients.”

  She jumped in her chair. Cliff had the demeanor of a college kid despite being a few years older than her. His joviality never seemed to wane. Even delivering bad news, he smiled.

  S
he said, “Oh. Really? Crap.”

  “Yeah. I think they’ll call us in the morning. You feel up to speed on it?”

  She hesitated. “That’s such a bear. I can’t believe they’re bringing that up again.”

  “You got it? I can help tonight if you need me to.”

  She shook him off. “No, no...” In that instant her mind wandered. She was a polished, svelte version of herself calling a team of lawyers into her office. Wearing a fur-collared Chanel suit, the impeccable Penny poured a glass of champagne for herself. She pointed long, red fingernails at each of the team members. Heavy gold bangles clanged on her wrist as she assigned them menial research on the antitrust case. She sipped from her flute, her lipsticked mouth curling into an Anna Wintour half smile.

  At her door, Cliff coughed.

  She reddened. “Got it. Thanks for the heads up, Cliff.”

  He winked, turned and disappeared down the hall.

  She chuckled to herself. Did he just wink?

  She picked up the phone, waited as it connected, and said, “It’s me. I’m going to have to cancel.”

  “What?”

  “Something just came in.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m showered and shaved. The babysitter is on her way. The boys are ready.”

  “I’ve got a big case, Kenneth. Something just walked in my door 5 minutes ago. I’ve got to get on it --”

  He hung up on her.

  On the window sill, a photo of her two smiling boys backed up to a view from the top of the world.

  Stacia stepped into Freda’s office as the sun began to set. She sat in the seat opposite the desk, closed her eyes and templed her fingers in front of her chest. The room smelled like expensive perfume and a fresh piece of Dentyne.

  Freda looked up. “Ok, Dalai Lama, let’s get to it.”

  Stacia opened her eyes, dropped her hands. “Just focusing my thoughts.”

  “I don’t have all day.”

  “Ok. I’ve spoken to six contacts on the Hill. All of them say their bosses are afraid of the SFG.”

  “Well, my, my. Investigative reporting at its finest.”

  “Why do you bust my balls so much?”

  “Cause you yank mine. Please get to the point.”

  “Ok. The main point is that they didn’t really know why or how the SFG is so powerful.”

  “Don’t they think it’s cause they have gobs of cash at their disposal?”

  “They didn’t know. So I dug into the SFG’s finances.”

  “Now you’re talking my language.”

  “I found some very interesting facts about the SFG and their money.” Stacia settled into her story. “The SFG has ten separate legal entities. The largest of the five nonprofits - the big whale if you will - is designated a 501c4. 501c4s are also known as ‘social welfare organizations.’ The SFG big whale raised $300 million last year.”

  “Yup, gobs of cash. Where does this war chest come from?”

  “Well, interestingly, 501c4’s do not have to identify their donors.”

  “So the big whale raised hundreds of millions and we don’t know from whom.”

  “They pull in from membership dues and ad sales, royalties, and subscriptions --”

  “Ad sales and subscriptions?”

  “The SFG has magazines and their own store.”

  “Please be joking.”

  “You can buy a gun holster with an SFG logo that clips onto your bra.”

  “May I never hear those words uttered out loud for the rest of my life.” Freda shook her head. “Go ahead.”

  “Now get this. Because of their designations, the big whale can’t spend more than 50% on politics.”

  Freda’s jaw slackened, stranding green gum on her back teeth.

  “Exactly.” Stacia flipped her pen back and forth between the tips of her fingers excitedly. “That being said, they claim they spend almost $100 million a year in ‘membership outreach’ such as newsletters, emails --”

  Freda held up a hand, stopping her. “Woah, woah. Newsletters and emails on gun issues? Surely that’s political?”

  They look across the desk at each other.

  “Exactly.” Stacia continued, “They also spend a similar amount a year on advertising.”

  “Advertising on and around the issue of gun freedom.” Freda crooked her head. “Also political.”

  Stacia nodded.

  “So they’re spending crap load millions on newsletters and advertising but claiming it’s not political.”

  Stacia waited for Freda.

  “If it were determined that it was political, would they lose their non-profit status?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So who determines if their spending is political?”

  “The IRS.”

  Freda summed up slowly. “The IRS determines if SFG is spending on politics?”

  “Yup.”

  Again, they stared at each other.

  Freda’s voice dropped. “When was the last time any SFG entity was audited by the IRS?”

  “From what I can tell, the IRS looked into them back in 1993. It made the headlines. Nothing since then that I could find”

  “Some of the largest non-profits fighting one of the most politically charged issues in America under one umbrella and the IRS hasn’t audited any of them in over 20 years?”

  “These guys have powerful friends.”

  11

  Arlington, VA

  It was ten minutes before 8 a.m. and the fourth floor of the business mall was silent. The accountant wasn’t due for another hour.

  It had been two days since the second Confidential Blue Lantern email had arrived and Cal was anxious in anticipation of Maar’s next move. As he reached across his desk for his coffee, his inbox pinged.

  His heart raced.

  It was a third email from Maar.

  SUBJECT: BLUE LANTERN: POST-SHIPMENT END-USE CHECK ON LICENSE 88088

  Origin: American Consulate Peshawar/AMCONSUL PESHAWAR

  Classification: CONFIDENTIAL

  To: SECSTATE WASHDC

  Info: AMEMBASSY KABUL

  Info: AMEMBASSY ISLAMABAD

  Info: AMCONSUL LAHORE

  Info: AMCONSUL KARACHI

  Date: 20 August 2012

  HIGH PRIORITY

  REF: STATE 88088

  1. Blue Lantern Coordinator Peshawar has confirmed from local post contacts that a shipping container with contents matching description of diverted M4s imported under License 88088 - 58 racks @ 12 weapons each - entered Afghanistan by truck via Towr Kham crossing two days ago. Destination unknown.

  2. It has been confirmed that cargo was shipped over land by intermediary Khan Trucking Company (English translation), headquarters Peshawar.

  - SINGER

  Cal swiftly reviewed what he knew:

  696 US-made M4s were sent to the Pakistani Army.

  The M4s went missing from Islamabad.

  The M4s were later seen being transported through Towr Kham into Afghanistan.

  A company named Khan Trucking was involved.

  Ranty is verifying the legitimacy of the cables.

  Ruby is tracking down the DOC license number 88088.

  His phone rang and he answered quickly. It was Ruby.

  “Whatta ya got?” he asked her.

  “Sorry for the delay, but I’ve got that company on the DOC license number you asked for a few days ago. ”

  He grabbed a pen. “You never owe me an apology.”

  “It’s a company out of Lexington, Kentucky called Scimitar Defense Ltd.“

  He jotted it down. “Thanks a million, Ruby.”

  “Good luck with your ‘close-out,’ Cal.”

  “Thanks. It’s just getting interesting.”

  From an internet search, Cal learned that Scimitar Defense Ltd. was a relatively small, privately held, licensed manufacturer of firearms and firearms parts. It produced guns for the US government, Department of Defense, state and local
law enforcement and consumers. The company was best known for manufacturing the M4 rifle.

  They have had consistent annual growth, growing year-on-year by about 115%. They had 148 employees, all based in their plant outside Lexington. Their latest revenue was reported at $33 million.

  That was a pretty, shiny penny.

  The company website was slick. Glossy images of guns were set against a dark grey, metal background. Downloadable PDFs listed the various options and prices for customizing a gun.

  The company was founded by Chuck Boare, the current CEO, in 1995. He was a local press darling with over 30 articles describing him as a home-grown success story, a Robin Hood for guns. All the articles contained a photo of a nice looking guy with soft jowls and swept hair. He was always cleanly dressed, holding black assault rifles. Boare was never in camouflage, never behind sunglasses; he was approachable, white, shiny teeth widely visible.

  A linked video showed Boare confidently walking on stage at an SFG convention, pumping an M4 in the air and roaring into the microphone. “The Second Amendment can not be ripped from us. We will defend our rights.”

  In a second clip, Boare spoke with a female reporter by the side of the stage. He openly flirted with her. “I supply the finest tools in this fight. I’m the maestro - yes I like that - I’m the maestro for the music of freedom.”

  He turned and flashed a smug smile into the camera.

  As an investigator, Cal had learned to trust his instincts. Early in an investigation, instinct is often your only guidepost. His instinct told him that Boare had the perfect profile - a megalomaniac with influence and wealth - of someone who thought they were above the law.

  Cal placed the two videos side by side on his screen. He played them simultaneously in slow motion, catching glimpses of the man’s true character. Boare stepped up onto the stage and paused, reveling in the crowd’s roar, and smiled to himself. His head was held high. On stage, he brandished the M4 above his head, eyes wide. Later, off stage, Boare leaned in close to the female reporter who instinctively took a small step back. Boare leaned in further, pushing her boundaries.