by HN Wake
He typed in an internet search for Khan Trucking Company based in Peshawar Pakistan. The screen filled up with Arabic looking alphabet soup, probably Urdu.
He dialed Benji. “Hi, Benji. It’s Cal again.”
“Hey, Cal. How’s it going? Two calls in, what? Two weeks? You must be on to something. And let’s be clear, I don’t want to know about it.”
“Absolutely. Another favor. I’ve got a trucking company in Peshawar and I need their telephone number. I can’t read Arabic. I’m at a loss.”
“Huh?” Followed by a long pause. Finally Benji asked, “What’s the name?”
“In English it’s Khan Trucking Company.”
“Ok, let me find it.”
Ten minutes later Benji called him back with an international number 92 91 234 54678. “And, Cal?”
“Yeah?”
“I think maybe you shouldn’t call me anymore about this Pakistani stuff.”
“Understood. Thanks, Benji.”
Cal stared at the desk phone suspiciously, remembering Ruby’s words about Prism. He slowly punched in the Pakistani number.
A deep, male voice answered. “Hallo? Hallo?” This was followed by a string of Urdu.
Cal gently hung up his phone.
A new message arrived in his inbox from Ruby. The subject line read Phone Records. Adrenaline surged through his limbs as he clicked open the attached spreadsheet. Two files contained hundreds of lines: one was the 12-month log of all calls made from the main line of Scimitar and one was the log of Boare’s cell number.
Cal’s eyes raced down the first page, but he quickly become overwhelmed.
Moving slower, he placed the cursor in the upper right search window, typed in the number from Jack - the Khan Trucking Company telephone number, 92 91 234 54678 - and hit enter. Immediately, the spreadsheet highlighted two calls made to the Pakistani number last week.
One call was made from Boare’s cell and one was from the Scimitar main number.
Cal’s instinct was right. Boare was involved with Khan Trucking and the disappearance of his own M4s.
In ATF parlance, that was known as gun trafficking.
15
Manayunk, PA
A fresh voice answered the line, “SFG Lobby. Good evening.”
“Good evening, I’d like to speak with Neil Koen’s office please.” Mac had affected her Southern accent.
“I’ll transfer you now.”
A moment later, a different female voice said, “Neil Koen’s office.”
“Yes, hello. This is Mrs. Bodie’s assistant, Dora, calling.”
“Yes, Dora, we were expecting your call.”
“Mrs. Bodie is quite keen to help out the SFG Lobby. She believes the political work you are doing is exactly the type of thing her late husband would approve of.”
“Well, perfect. We aim to please.”
“Mrs. Bodie is looking to commit some additional funds.”
“Isn’t that fantastic news?”
“She wants to make sure that your advocacy efforts are top notch.”
“Of course.”
“Well, let’s just say they’re a respectable family for a number of reasons here in New Orleans.”
“Of course.”
“They do their homework, you see.”
“Understood and quite understandable, really.”
“Let me speak plainly, if I may. She’ll want some hand holding, white gloves preferably, by Neil Koen personally.”
“Ahhhhhh, understood.”
“Would it be possible for me to have an initial meeting with Mr. Koen?”
“How does tomorrow work at 3 p.m. for you?”
“It works just fine. See you then.”
Mac reached the end of Main Street where it met the Belmont Avenue Bridge. The cars passed over the bridge seamlessly, out of Philadelphia and into the wealthy, Main Line suburbs where the houses were larger and the streets were better paved. In Manayunk, the potholes from a long, hard winter could swallow a small car.
Above her, a solid, arched stone structure loomed against a darkening sky. The Manayunk Bridge, built for trains hauling material for the mills, had an unusual reverse curve as it lined up with Main Street. It stood bleak and abandoned now.
She loped down the wooden stairs and out onto the towpath along the canal. Once used by horses towing canal boats between mills, the three mile path had been refurbished for bikes and runners. This evening the gloom settled down around the bushes and trees.
She leaned against the railing to stretch her calves and tightened the laces on new running shoes. Hitting play for her music, she started off at a swift pace beside the murky canal. Her feet hit the gravel in long, well-practiced strides. She matched her pace to the music in her earphones, sinking down into a melancholy rhythm.
23 years ago
Mac rushed out of the big drafty house, slamming the front door. The old BMW sat low by the curb in the dark, its headlights beaming ahead 20 feet.
She slipped into the passenger side. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Joe was alarmed. “Are you ok?”
“Yes. Just angry.”
He reached out to take her hand. “What happened?”
She recoiled. “Don’t. Don’t try to play me.”
“What?”
“Don’t be nice to me right now. I don’t want you to play me. I can’t handle that right now.”
“I would never do that.”
“Ok. Forget I said it. Can we just go? Please. Just get me out of here.” She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears started to fall.
“You got it.” His feet worked magic on the clutch and gas. The BMW exploded down the street, tailpipe roaring, making her smile through the tears.
Later they sat in a dark room on a deep, blue sectional in the quiet mansion. On the television, Duran Duran swayed on the deck of a sailboat slicing through the Mediterranean. A painted model in a loin cloth did a dramatized feline crawl across the deck of the boat, sleek and strikingly out of place.
Joe kissed her neck softly.
Mac whispered, “Why do you like me?”
He eyed her soberly. “You’re smart, strong and beautiful.”
She was stunned by his sincerity and the speed of his answer.
He shrugged. “It’s rare - all together.”
Ten minutes later, she chose her words carefully. “I’m strong because I have to be.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know.”
“I didn’t chose it as a personality trait.”
“I know.”
“I have to out-maneuver her.”
He watched a video, letting her find her voice.
“She smashed down my bedroom door last night.”
He didn’t look at her, just held her hand.
“She was banging so hard it came off the hinges. Literally. The door is off its hinges. She was screaming that I hadn’t walked the dogs yet. I just stood there, saying nothing. It just made her angrier. So she slapped me. Across the face. My head wobbled around. Like really wobbled.”
He squeezed her hand again.
“I went cold. All the times she’s hit me. I stared right at her. I said to her, ‘Did that feel good? Did it work for you? Do it again, Mom.”
Her face finally cracked, tears dropped freely. He leaned over and gathered her in his arms.
Later that night, in the darkness of his bedroom, she whispered into his ear, “We agreed, right?”
“It’s time to live a little. Away from home. We’re young.”
“I already miss you.”
His hand held her head against his chest. “I know.”
Present day
She estimated it was the two-mile mark along the canal when she first smelled the faint metallic scent of paper recycling. On the opposite side of the canal, the darkened silhouette of a huge factory emerged. Below it, a group of geese had found a secluded, dammed part of the canal.
She slowed, then stopped beside the
still water. A goose honked, perturbed by the intrusion. Dark green algae blooms rode the pond’s gloomy surface. She turned off the music, listening to the noises emanating from the dark shadows.
A metal bridge, corroded and speckled in rust, spanned the pond and touched down between overgrown bushes on the opposite bank; it was a languishing reminder of Manayunk’s once proud history of growth, prosperity and optimism.
A strong wave of self-pity ripped through her.
She snapped on her music, turned and trotted back down the towpath toward Main Street.
In the loft, she cooled her body under a lukewarm shower.
Later, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, noticing new creases around her eyes and laugh lines around her lips. Detached, she assessed her face as appropriate for a 45-year-old woman. She understood she should feel resentment or shame, but she had no interest in trying to hide her age or reverse time.
She walked through the loft picking up a t-shirt, shorts, letting dampness evaporate off her body.
In the far corner, she dragged a chair over and stepped up onto the seat. She placed a video camera up in the windowsill, facing it toward the northeast corner of Pretzel Park. She checked the line of sight, turned it on, and jumped off the chair.
A black and white image of the park appeared on her laptop screen. With a few clicks on her touchpad, the view expanded to include the sidewalk leading into the park, past the dog walk, and around to the southwest corner.
She configured the software on her hard drive for the video to run in 20-second intervals.
Outside the sky was a gun metal grey.
Except most guns are black these days.
She lit a cigarette, placed on headphones and logged onto Skype. A phone was picked up in an office in Andorra in the Pyrenees mountains between Spain and France. A Catalan accent answered, “Hallo?”
“Señora Bovary si us plau.”
“Who is calling?”
“Tamara de Lempicka.”
“One moment, please.”
A brusque, cigarette scratched voice picked up. “Ah, my long lost friend Tamara. How are you? It’s been far too long since we’ve heard your voice.”
“Yes, but no news is good news for women, no?”
“Indeed. Especially for women like us.”
“Checking in, five five zero one.”
“Indeed. What can I do for you my dear?”
“Just confirming my latest package has arrived. It would have been post-marked Hong Kong.”
“Received. I have already stored it with your other items.”
“Efficient as always, my darling. That’s it for now.”
“Well, let’s hope it doesn’t need to see the light anytime soon. Your instructions remain the same?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course. Well, you stay safe, my dear Tamara. We look forward to seeing you in Andorra soon, but not too soon.”
“Agreed, dear Madame. Ciao.”
She noticed something down on Cresson Street. There was a dark lump on the grass near the stop sign. It was dense.
She retrieved lightweight Swarovski Swarovision binoculars from her courier bag. Many of her male peers got very particular about binocular specs - weight distribution, eye relief, and field of view. To her, these were better than most, worked well, and got the job done.
Through the binoculars, she pulled into focus the image of a fresh goose corpse. She wasn’t sure when it had died. She couldn’t be sure it hadn’t been there when she first moved in to the loft earlier in the week. Pedestrians must have walked by it every day.
From the silent loft, she gazed at the corpse for a long moment through the binoculars.
Thunder cracked in the distance. She began counting slowly to herself. ‘1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi.’ At the ten count, lightning illuminated Pretzel Park. The weeping willow danced and bobbed in the growing wind. The storm was still a distance off, but it was going to be a big one when it arrived.
TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE SENATE VOTE
It has the features of a specific person, Dora Maar, whom Picasso described as 'always weeping'. She was in fact his close collaborator in the time of his life when he was most involved with politics.
- Jonathan Jones
A strong woman is a woman determined to do something others are determined not be done.
- Marge Piercy
16
Capitol Hill, DC
In the spacious, marble-walled, granite-floored hallway outside Room 226 of the art deco Dirksen Senate Building, Mac stood in a growing line waiting for an early morning hearing of the Judiciary Committee. With oversight for the Departments of Justice, Homeland, FBI, and ATF, it was one of the most influential committees in the Senate. Most Senate Committee Hearings were open to the public. Most, but not all. The Select Committee on Intelligence, for example, often heard from top intelligence officials behind closed doors.
Capitol Hill staff strutted past with an over-preponderance of cardigan sweater-sets, outlet mall sneakers, and badges. When Senator Martha Payne strode down the hall, a reporter called out, "Senator, why introduce legislation now?”
She paused for the cameras. “We believe the sentiment in the Senate is turning. We believe they are listening to their constituents. It's time to take these weapons intended for war craft off our streets.”
Inside the hearing room, Mac found a seat in the last row near the aisle. She watched as Senators entered through a private door, stepped onto the raised platform and found their seats. Of the 18 members of the committee, only four were women.
The room hushed and eyes turned as a short, round man with a shock of black hair and full lips, entered from the rear, lumbered down the aisle, and settled at the testimony table in the center of the room. His beady black eyes took in the Senators and he gave a small nod to a few on the right.
Mac followed his movements closely. Hello, Mr. Charles Osbourne.
Five men in dark suits filled in the chairs behind him. One of the men was Ichabod Crane-thin and tall, with a shiny, bald head encircled with closely cropped Caesar hair, coke bottle glasses, and a long chin. He leaned in to Mr. Osbourne’s ear and whispered something grave, serious.
Mac squinted, trying to read his lips. Hello, Mr. Koen.
Osbourne turned laboriously in his seat and took prepared documents from Koen.
The Senate Chairman opened the hearing. “We continue our series of hearings on Senator Payne’s proposed ban on military style, semiautomatic assault weapons. These weapons have been used in mass shootings from Newtown to Aurora to Tucson to Blacksburg. Such mass shootings are accelerating. Beyond anything we could have imagined just a few years ago." He solemnly looked around the room. “I don't need to tell this room what is at stake. Such a weighty subject requires we hear from all sides.” He looked down to the witness table. “Mr. Osbourne, Executive Director of the Society for Guns, this Committee seeks your expert testimony.”
Having watched hours of Osbourne online, Mac half-listened as he settled into a monotonous reading of his statement. She wondered what it must be like to be so self-assured, to be so smug. What kind of background bred this sense of infallibility and lack of curiosity?
Thirty minutes later, Osbourne slowed and read the last sentence of his speech. He looked up and said to the Senators, “I welcome questions."
The Chairman nodded to Senator Payne. “Senator?”
Senator Payne sat forward and looked down her nose through her glasses. “Do you, Sir, believe assault weapons should be available for civilian use in the United States?”
Across the room, eyes turned back to the witness table.
“The hyperbole on machine guns…” He stumbled, his lips protruded as he regained his composure. “Let's be clear. What the media says about assault weapons is propaganda. It’s misinformation. Many guns are used in sport. Most are used in sport, in hunting --”
Senator Payne interrupted, “—Sir, in this room last week we�
�ve heard that in the last twenty years more than half of mass shooters had high capacity magazines, assault weapons or both. These are the guns you are saying are being used in sport. This legislation isn’t about sporting guns, Sir.”
While she spoke, Mac watched as Osbourne’s lips moved rapidly, as if streaming silent mumblings to himself. But Osbourne was undaunted. He responded, “Our members know the truth. They will not believe these lies. They are not victims. Our members stand united and strong. We’re talking about liberty for our members.”
Senator Payne slowly took off her glasses, impatient in the face of illogic. “I believe, Sir, that you are either misled or you are purposefully misleading your members. I’m not sure which is worse.”
Mac exited the hearing early and positioned herself in the hallway across from the door. When Osbourne appeared thirty minutes later, he was accompanied only by Koen. They passed near where she was leaning against the cold wall, pretending to read email on her cell phone. They both wore finely made, hand-tailored suits and expensive shoes.
Koen said, "You were fine. The written testimony was fine. You handled it fine.…”
Putting the phone to her ear as if on a call, she fell in line behind them. She noticed what appeared to be face powder on Osbourne. In the crowd it was easy to stay close.
A journalist raised his camera and Osbourne slowed, looking forward into the lens, lifting his chin slightly to stretch his thick neck. Koen stepped out of the frame long enough for the photo to be taken.
The duo continued down the busy Dirksen Building hallway. Mac let them go.
She had confirmed what she needed.
Later that afternoon, she stood before a townhouse set above street level on 17th St. between P and R Streets. The sidewalks were empty; most residents of this professional neighborhood were at work.
