by HN Wake
His eyes raced to July and started skimming.
There.
A Washington DC number had been called five times in the last week of July. A Northern Virginia number had been called twice.
He would bet money that those calls had been from Boare to Scott’s office and cell phone. Cal imagined Boare, with his gleaming smile, making an offer to the Senator.
Cal pulled up his cell phone and called Ruby.
“Ruby here.”
“Hi Ruby. It’s Cal. How you doing?”
“Fine, Cal. I heard you did a great job with that briefing last week.”
“Yeah thanks. Listen, on that note, I’ve got just a few more telephone numbers I need checked.”
“Cal, I think you may be pushing your luck on this. You’ve handed over the investigation, right?”
“Ruby, you’ve been a huge help and I know it and appreciate it. I’m really sorry to push. I just need to track down these numbers and hand them over to the Task Force.”
She hesitated. “Well. I guess. Ok, shoot.”
“Just two numbers. The first is 202 444 5555.”
He heard her tapping on her keyboard. “That one’s easy. It’s the landline over at the SFG Lobby headquarters on Capitol Hill.”
The street outside the window went still. Not a single car drove past.
Cal blinked. “Ok, thanks Ruby. Now the second: 703 453 3232”
He heard her tapping.
“That’s the private, unlisted number for Charles Osbourne.” She took a breath. “Cal, what are you doing with SFG numbers in your logs?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You better be damn careful.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to get that feeling.” He said softly, “Thanks, Ruby.”
He gently pressed the ‘end call’ button.
In Sudoku, as cells filled, your options diminished. There were only so many numbers that could be used in the remaining spaces.
He turned back to the screen. Slowly, he double clicked and re-opened the Scimitar 3rd Quarter Expenses file.
He scrolled to the page with the July accounting.
On July 31, Scimitar’s accountant had listed the amount of $50,000 as an ‘SFG donation’.
The air left Cal’s lungs.
Scimitar had used the SFG to pay off Senator Blake Scott.
Apparently, the life of a US diplomat was only worth $50,000.
37
Capitol Hill, DC
She had given Amanda 24 hours to digest her dilemma. That was plenty of time for someone to recognize they didn’t have a lot of options. It was more than enough time, actually, when that someone only had one option.
Mac closed in on Amanda as she stepped off the escalator at the Metro station. “Amanda! Great to see you. Can I get you a morning coffee?”
Startled, Amanda turned to Dora. She hesitated, but only for a minute, then tightened her lips and said, “Ok.”
“Great. Let’s hit the cafe across the street”
Mac watched Amanda over her coffee, waiting.
Amanda took a sip, looked around the cafe. “Ok.”
“Ok what?”
“I’ve decided to help Ms. Bodie. To help the SFG Lobby clean house.”
“I think that’s best for the organization.”
Amanda handed her a single paper, folded into quarters. “It’s an email from last year. From Neil to Charles.” She looked sad, distant. “It’s just not ok. It’s not right.”
“You’re doing the right thing.”
“So we’re done? I’m done.”
“If the email is enough. Yes. I hope so.”
“What is Ms. Bodie going to do?”
“Trust me that whatever she does, your identity will be protected.”
“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to loop in an investigative reporter.”
Amanda’s voice trembled. “A reporter?”
“It’s the quickest, most public way, really. Trust me, you’ll be fine.”
Amanda stared at the ceiling, holding back tears. “He was my boss for four years. He was trying to do right by the SFG. He’s not a bad guy.”
“Except he is.” She reached out to grasp Amanda’s wrist. “The SFG is going to need you when this comes out. You did the right thing.”
Twenty minutes later, Mac opened up the folded paper. It was an internal SFG email chain.
To: Charles Osbourne
From: Neil Koen
Subject: Response to Newtown
Date: Dec 18, 2012
1. Newtown was a shock to the culture. Key demographics question defense of firearms.
2. Demographic Background: Our base has declined since 1970s.
Rural: from 27% to 17% of population
Rural household gun ownership: from 70% to 56%
Montana, New Mex, Wyoming gun ownership: from 65% to under 40%
Northeast gun ownership: from 29% to 22%
Our base is dangerously homogenous.
They are of the lowest income and education levels, based in Southern, Red States (OK, TN, IN, NV, AL, LA, KY, AR, MS, WV)
Older
Republican
White
Primary Source of News: Fox News
Secondary Source of News: Conservative radio talk shows (Research - significant tendencies toward anger and protectionism.)
3. SFG research shows key demographic is activated (read donations) through the emotions of fear, anger and pride (e.g. patriotism.)
Recommendation: Refocus strategy on a) increased hyperbole and misinformation and b) on urgent, dramatic fear of gun restrictions.
To Sum: Misinformation > Fear > Increased SFG Donations
Actions:
Campaign jargon should utilize key words: steal, affront, infringement, freedom, gun ban, founding fathers, tyranny, government thugs, constitutional rights, break in doors, seize guns, destroy property, common law, natural right, inalienable, fundamental principles, enemies of the constitution, confiscation.
Target advertisers/appearances on Fox News and conservative talk shows.
Intentional misinformation: spin all national, state and local efforts for gun regulation on government persecution of gun owners and confiscation of guns.
To: Neil Koen
From: Charles Osbourne
Subject: Re: The 2012 elections: New 5 Year Strategy
Date: Dec 19, 2011
Agreed. Approved.
Mac stared out the front window of the Alfa at the top dome of the Capital building in the distance.
Amanda had not only given her Neil’s head on a platter, she’d also delivered Charles. Had she known what she was doing? Mac surmised not. Amanda’s trust in Dora had blinded her.
It was a huge victory.
But the layers of deception tasted sour, bittersweet. It was the same metallic hint that preceded bile. She closed her eyes and the memories of similar, successful operations flickered past in a parade of lies wrapped in lies. Was there a penultimate deception that would finally cause the bile to erupt?
She reached for her courier bag and pulled out her laptop. She opened an app and began a fast-forward scan through a black-and-white video of Pretzel Park cached on the hard drive in the loft.
Ten minutes later, she slowed the fast-forward. In the grainy background, a shadowy, ghostlike image of a man walked a dog. The date stamp read 8:05 a.m. He started in the northwest corner and followed the dog to the dog park. He let the dog in through the gates and sat on a bench reading a book for ten minutes. Then he whistled for the dog, snapped on the extendable leash, and rambled around the park to the northwest exit.
In her Alfa, Mac released a long-held breath.
38
North Capital, DC
The elevator in the ATF headquarters stopped on every floor, disgorging and ingesting puffed-up, harried agents. When it finally reached the seventh floor, Cal waited for it to clear then pushed off the back wall and stepped toward the
open door.
Standing in the elevator lobby, Director Wilson glanced up and saw Cal. He barked, “Goddamnit! No. No. No. The Task Force has taken over. I do not see you here. Because you are out in Arlington closing out Fast and Frenzied.”
The elevator doors began to shut. Behind Wilson, three agents stood frozen in place.
Cal slid his toe between the doors.
Wilson breathed in deeply through his nose and glared.
Cal held up a manila folder. “Maar sent another email.”
Wilson spun and strode back down the hall, mumbling, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Cal swept between the three immobilized agents and fell in line with Wilson, handing him the folder. “This one is Top Secret.”
They reached Wilson’s office.
Cal continued, “It connects the missing Scimitar guns to the killing of a US Diplomat in Afghanistan.”
Wilson stopped.
Cal added, “But we never heard about that. As ATF, we should have heard about that.”
Wilson glanced down at the folder in his hands like it was burning him.
“So I did some digging around.”
Wilson’s eyes closed and his chest rose and fell in deep breaths.
“There’s been a cover up.”
Wilson stepped into his office, circled behind his desk and sat down slowly. “Do you have some kind of career death-wish, Agent Bertrand? You successfully handed over a very high-profile trafficking investigation to a cross-agency Task Force. You redeemed yourself in my eyes and in most of senior management here in this building. You made your way back in. Now you come here a week-bloody-later with tales of a cover-up of a diplomatic shooting?”
“A diplomat got shot in Afghanistan six months ago. In July. The M4 in the shooting was under the same Scimitar Pakistan license - 88088”
“Jesus.” Wilson slowly opened the folder and read.
Cal summarized the background for the folder’s contents. “So first, as we know, the M4s go missing from Pakistan. Blue Lantern investigates but hits a dead end. Here in the US, using domestic phone records, we find out it was actually Scimitar who sold the guns and ran them into Afghanistan.” He nodded to the folder. “Then eight months later a separate Blue Lantern investigation - that cable there, Sir - finds one of Scimitar’s missing M4s has killed a US diplomat in Khandahar. That cable was seen by the most senior people over at State and CIA. They knew a US-made gun killed one of ours. But they didn’t know Scimitar had actually trafficked it.” Cal paused. “Either way, they buried that cable.”
Wilson was deep in thought.
“So I dug in to it,” Cal said. “Who had the motive to bury it? Sir, I believe Scimitar paid off the Vice Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee to bury the cable under cover of ‘national security’.”
Wilson’s head snapped up. “Senator Blake Scott?”
Cal nodded.
“Please, for the love of god and his children on this earth, tell me that’s some kind of sick, sick joke.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Scott?”
“Yes.” Cal indicated the folder. “The most obvious player is Scimitar. They had already gotten away with trafficking these guns. They certainly didn’t want anyone finding out one of their guns also killed a US diplomat. So if I’m Chuck Boare, and this cable pops up, what do I do? I call up my friends over at the SFG because I’m their biggest corporate donor and tell them to fix it with one of their most beloved Senators - one Blake Scott, Vice Chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee - that oversees State Department Blue Lantern Operations and budgets.”
A stunned Wilson asked, “Did you just say SFG?”
Cal nodded.
Wilson’s eyes drilled into Cal. “You had better have something solid, Agent.”
“It was actually not so difficult to connect the dots. We had all of Scimitar’s documents from the raid last week.” Cal nodded to the folder. “Chuck Boare called Neil Koen at the SFG Lobby office five times and Charles Osbourne’s private cell phone two times once that cable was sent up.”
Wilson flipped through to the phone records and saw the highlighted calls.
Cal continued, “So Scimitar wanted this buried. Obviously. But a scandal is also not in Scott’s or the SFG’s interest either. Nobody wants the very lax arms export control framework examined. Too many of their constituents - the manufacturers - benefit from the status quo. Scimitar, Scott, and the SFG all have motive.” Cal leaned over and pulled up the last paper in the folder, the accounting spreadsheet with one highlighted transfer. “In the same week as the phone calls, Scimitar transferred $50,000 to the SFG.”
“Can you connect that $50,000 to Senator Scott?”
“Not yet. But I’ll bet a large amount of my salary, Sir, that an amount similar to $50,000 made it from SFG Lobby into Scott’s re-election campaign.”
Wilson leaned far back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mules you rode in on, Bertrand. What you’re saying…” he coughed. “What you’re saying is that Scimitar, Senator Scott and the SFG covered up the killing of one of our guys by a Scimitar M4 that Scimitar had trafficked. Jesus.”
“Actually, Sir, it was one of our gals.”
“Excuse me?”
“It wasn’t one of our guys. The diplomat was one of our gals.”
Wilson watched as Cal dropped a black and white photo from the web of Neha Malhotra onto the center of his desk and whispered, “Fucking hell.” He stood, turned to the window, weighing his options.
Cal concluded. “I believe this last cable reveals a lot about Maar. First, I believe this is personal. He must have known Malhotra. So this feels like he’s getting justice. Second, I believe he played me. I believe he reeled out the emails like breadcrumbs, just enough to get me to pursue each lead: first he wanted me to find Scimitar’s involvement, then he wanted me to find that Scimitar paid off Scott through the SFG. He walked me right to it.” Cal paused. “Third, I believe Maar has ‘need to know access’ which means --”
At the window, Wilson’s head dropped in defeat.
Cal finished the thought. “Maar is one of us. Maar is American. CIA, DOD intel somewhere, NSA or maybe State.”
“Ok, leave this with me. I need to figure out who’s going to lead this.” Wilson turned, his anger building. “Agent, it sure as the fucking dawn follows the night is not going to be you.”
Cal turned to leave.
“You’ve done it again, Agent. You’ve dropped me so far into the shit I may not make it out.”
Cal was through the door when Wilson yelled, “If Maar sends you another email, I’m assigning it to a different agent. We’ll take care of Maar later.”
Cal was halfway down the hall when Wilson yelled louder, “No more chasing Maar, Bertrand. You hear me? That’s an order. No more Maar. Get back to Arlington and do your job.”
The elevator was slow arriving to the top floor. In the elevator bank, the two warring news stations blared.
CNN played a clip of Senator Martha Payne talking to reporters in the Capital Rotunda. “The influence of the gun lobby is extraordinary. We’re watching the votes for next week. This will be a fight to the last vote. I’m confident my colleagues will vote in the interests of the American people.”
The elevator arrived and Cal stepped in, his mind racing. The elevator stopped on every floor, letting agents off and on.
It took another ten minutes for him to walk across the ground floor lobby and out onto New York Avenue where he squinted into the glaring sun. His mind replayed the moment he dropped the black and white photo of Neha Malhotra on the Director’s desk.
So this feels like he’s getting justice.
Cal’s head snapped up.
Maar dropped the Scimitar, Scott and SFG breadcrumbs in the lead up to the vote.
FOUR DAYS BEFORE THE SENATE VOTE
Picasso's ''Weeping Woman,'' stolen 17 days ago…was found undamaged today in
a locker at a railway station, the police said.
- New York Times, August 20, 1986
With public sentiment, nothing can fail; without it nothing can succeed.
- Doris Kearns Goodwin
39
Philadelphia, PA
“It’s weird you wanted to meet here.” Penny took in the hushed atrium, the pale walls, and the modern angles of the new Barnes Foundation museum.
“I like museums.”
“It’s just…this wasn’t here when we were kids. I would have thought we would have met at like the Art Museum or something. You know, somewhere we knew.”
“Nothing wrong with trying something new. How was the train down?”
“Totally easy. I’m going see my mom for dinner then head back. Nice to get out of the city once in a while.”
“How’s she doing?”
Penny said, “Fine. You know, same, same.”
They wandered into the first room. Modernist paintings in rich gilded frames cluttered the walls. Tourists surrounded them, many listening to audio tours on rented equipment.
Penny said, “You know you never really did tell me what you do. I imagine it isn’t all James Bond stuff, right?”
“The James Bond stuff happens like once a year. Those movies are the condensed, edited version of spy work. Walking into a casino and playing cards against a target is so not what I do.”
“Have you done that?”
Mac laughed. “Played cards against a target? Nah. But I’ve bluffed a lot.”
