Enemies Foreign And Domestic

by Matthew Bracken

  “That’s it? Okay, all right. Uncuff him and put him in a chair.” Malvone calmed himself down again. “Mr. Fallon, are you all right? Can you talk?”

  Brad looked around the room, his head still bent over. Shanks uncuffed his hands and pushed a chair behind him. Fallon sat down stiffly, rubbing his wrists where the cuffs had dug into his skin, and saw the deep gash in his left palm for the first time. Dried blood covered his swollen hands; they stung painfully as his circulation returned.

  “Get him a glass of water,” said Malvone, slipping easily into the good-cop role. Jaeger went to the refrigerator and returned with a small plastic bottle of mineral water. Fallon needed to use both hands to hold it, and they shook as he drank from it.

  “Brad, I’m not going to waste a lot of time with bullshit cop routines. As you’ve no doubt noticed, we’re not exactly regular police, and this sure as hell isn’t a regular jail. So I’m not going to try to trip you up on details, I don’t have the time. And I’m not going to ask you where you were last Saturday just after dawn. I know where you were. I know you shot the Attorney General.”

  ****

  Brad Fallon kept his expression blank, nothing could surprise him any more, and in the present circumstances the bald man’s assertion was not much more absurd than anything else which had happened in the last two weeks. He continued massaging his wrists, studying the cut on his hand with his head down.

  “You made a nice shot Saturday morning; you blew Sanderson’s brains all over the place didn’t you? But then you are a great shot, aren’t you? So where’s the rifle you used? It was a .223 or thereabouts, and not much of the bullet was left, as I’m sure you know. So, did you use your AR-15?”

  Despite his impassive face, Brad was overjoyed to be out of the locker, and even the hard-backed chair which was now supporting him in a comfortable position felt like heaven. He didn’t want to go back in the box, and he didn’t want to get zapped with any more cattle prods. He wanted to keep these men happy if he could, but he could not admit to a shooting he knew nothing about. “I sold my AR-15 a few years ago.”

  “I see,” said Malvone, disappointed. “And you wouldn’t happen to have a receipt or a bill of sale, would you?”

  “It was a private sale, for cash.”

  The STU leaders around the table greeted this statement with smirks, rolling their eyes and muttering “ri-i-ight” and “yeah, sure.” Private sales between individuals were still legal then, they had only been outlawed a year before the Stadium Massacre. Now all firearms transactions had to be reported on numerous state and federal forms under penalty of perjury, but Fallon was claiming a legal prior sale of his semi-automatic AR-15, a legal sale with no paper trail. This loophole had been closed for a year; there was no longer such a thing in the United States as a legal firearm sale with no paper trail.

  Malvone continued undeterred. “Well Brad, it doesn’t matter now. What about your Mini-14? That’s another .223, but personally I could never get a Mini-14 to hit the broad side of a barn. That’s not exactly the weapon of choice for a long-range head shot, is it Brad?”

  He paused before he replied, “…I wouldn’t know.”

  “But you would know Brad. You’re an expert rifle shot, even with antique military rifles like your Swedish Mauser. Now that’s a 6.5mm, and you didn’t use it on Sanderson, but did you know that Senator Randolph was shot with another antique military rifle? A Russian Nagant, a real piece of shit, but it was plenty good enough to kill a United States Senator. What do you know about that rifle Brad?”

  Again he waited before answering. “…I wouldn’t know anything about it.” The room was so comfortable, and the men seemed to be in such a friendly mood, that he wanted to stay as long as possible. He absolutely did not want to go back in the hell box!

  “That was last Tuesday Brad, up in Maryland. That’s not too long of a drive from here, is it? But let that pass, for now. Randolph was a bitch from hell, and personally, between you and me, I’m glad she got capped. Shit, she’s doing more good for the cause dead than she ever did alive.

  “But that’s all in the past now Brad, and we’re thinking about the future.” Malvone paused; the only sound in the room was the rattling and humming of the window AC units. Shanks spit his Copenhagen quietly into a paper cup, never taking his eyes off of Fallon. Silvari also studied him closely, his forgotten cigarette burning in his hand, its smoke curling and twisting.

  Malvone asked quietly, “Brad, we want you to tell us where to find the rifle you used on Sanderson, and we want you to tell us where to find Ranya Bardiwell.”

  He was still numb, but even so a fresh chill rolled through him upon hearing her name from this bald stranger’s mouth. He didn’t understand their trying to blame him for shooting a politician he had barely heard of, or why they were interested in Ranya. The men in the room must have been fed lies from someone else, from another informant, or from someone else who had been broken in the hell box, and was ready to make up any crazy story to get out of it.

  But they knew about Ranya and him, and nobody else did. He tried to think of how they could have even connected him with Ranya, he needed to pinpoint when and where they had been seen together. The boatyard on Saturday? It was possible, but that meeting was unplanned.

  A sudden flash of insight told him where: her father’s funeral. He knew that the feds routinely staked out funerals when “persons of interest” died, to see who attended. If they’d seen them together at the funeral, he just had to hope they hadn’t seen them together since. He was sure they hadn’t called each other on cell phones, at least not since last week when she had come over to visit Guajira.

  “Come on Brad, they’re not hard questions,” said Malvone. “Where’s the rifle, and where’s the girl? She found Sanderson for you, didn’t she? We know all about it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that rifle, I didn’t shoot anybody. I don’t even have any rifle like that.”

  “What about Ranya Bardiwell?”

  “…I don’t know where she is.”

  “So when was the last time you saw her?”

  Brad waited, closing his eyes as if he was trying hard to recall. “Umm… At her father’s funeral. Last Thursday I think.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since then?”

  Brad stepped off the edge, took the chance. “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I haven’t seen her since then.” He was fairly sure they had been seen together at the funeral, but he couldn’t be certain that they had not been seen together since then. If the feds had seen them together since the funeral, he wouldn’t be able to defend his lie. But realistically, how could he get in any deeper trouble than he already was in? These men, these secret police, they weren’t concerned about showing him their faces, so in all probability they had no intention of ever releasing him. All he could do was play for time, attempt to shield Ranya, hold out as long as he could and try to give her a chance to escape.

  Malvone said, “Get him out of here.” When Brad was cuffed and led away, he said, “Bob, get some guys working on him. Start with water; and no marks on him for now. But get the answers today.”

  ****

  Across the cracked concrete acres, hidden in the brush under an old utility trailer, Ranya held the small binoculars pressed tightly to her eyes. They were focused on the front door of the white cinderblock building where she had seen Brad dragged in handcuffs by a pair of goons.

  After ten long minutes the door was pushed open again, and the same three came out. It was Brad in the middle for certain; she got a clear look at him, he was still in his blue shirt and khaki shorts and boat shoes. This time he was handcuffed in front, not behind, which was a small improvement in his condition. They walked the thirty or so yards back to the second building on the far left and went inside, and the two goons emerged a few minutes later. One of them went back into the other building, the second man walked past it and into the first hangar, and stopped and
talked with a few other men. Three of them walked with him back to the cinderblock building where Brad was a prisoner, and they went inside and closed the door again. Each time the door had opened a grinding machine noise escaped.

  She could only guess what the men were going in there for. They were inside the squat building with Brad, on an abandoned military airfield after his secret arrest. That could only mean one thing, and it would not include Miranda rights or a free phone call to a lawyer.

  And it was completely her fault! It was her fault that Brad was in there, probably getting beaten—or worse—by a secret police torture squad.

  She thought, and all I’ve got is my .45 pistol and twenty-two rounds of ammunition, against their fifteen or twenty men armed with pistols and submachine guns. With so many of them there, a solo rescue was out of the question, especially in daylight, even if they weren’t exercising much caution.

  But what about after dark, especially if they’re going out for another raid, out for another night of arson and murder? If most of the shooters are gone and only a smaller group of guards is left behind, then the odds might be better than suicidal. But even if she went back to the cache and retrieved an AR-15 and a dozen thirty round magazines, it would still be only one against many…

  If… If… If… If this was a movie, if I was Rambo, I’d find a way to sneak over there undetected and rescue Brad. But this is not a movie, and I’m not Rambo, and in the real world one person with twenty-two pistol bullets just does not win against twenty trained killers armed with submachine guns.

  I’m not Rambo, and I can’t do it alone. So…let’s go find Rambo. Let’s try to find the closest person to a Rambo I know, or at least that’s what they used to say at Freedom Arms… Maybe an old Rambo, but the only Rambo I know. If I can even find him, and if he’ll even help me…

  She took a final drink and put the plastic bottle and her binos back into her daypack, slung it on, then crawled backwards and retraced her steps to the stagnant canal. Her clothes and her hands were torn, she had been scratched up and pricked by thorns and itched in a dozen places. She could even feel things crawling under her clothes.

  She knew that if she was successful in getting Brad away from this place, then she could go on antibiotics and take the time to nurse her wounds. And if she wasn’t successful, then she’d have no need for antibiotics… Anyway, her present discomfort was far overshadowed by the brutal torture that she imagined Brad was being subjected to.

  Hang on Brad, and I’ll be back later. Just hang on…

  37

  Jaeger and Shanks returned to the office and took their seats at the beat up conference table again.

  Malvone said, “Okay, let’s get back to business. Bob, what do you have lined up for tonight?”

  “We’re still working down the rod and gun club list; we’ve got surveillance on these two, Bancroft and Kincaid. We’re going to take a little breather tonight, do the surveillance in shifts and let the troops get some rest. ”

  “No, I’m sorry Bob; we can’t let them rest up, not yet. I’ve got a new mission that’s got to go down tonight; they can sleep after it’s over tomorrow. Here’s tonight’s target.” Malvone passed a thin file folder from his briefcase to each STU leader. They contained printed images of a thin-faced nearly bald man in his late fifties or early sixties, biographical data sheets, copies of magazine editorials, and printed excerpts from what looked like internet chat sites.

  “This guy is Leo Swarovski; anybody heard of him?” asked Malvone.

  “Oh sure,” said Shanks, “he writes for gun magazines. I’ve seen that name for years.”

  “Exactly. He’s what you call a ‘prolific writer.’ Swarovski writes under his own name and a couple of pseudonyms for a half dozen gun magazines, plus he’s written a dozen books on guns and military history. He’s not a member of the Black Water Rod and Gun Club, but he’s a friend of Burgess Edmonds, and that’s close enough for government work. It’ll fly out in TV-land.

  “And he’s been a real thorn in our side for years. Every time the ATF has stepped on its dick in the last 20 years, Swarovski’s been all over our case. He calls us ‘F-troop’ and ‘jackbooted thugs’ and the ‘gun Gestapo’, all that crap, and right in print, right in his articles! He’s one of the worst Constitution fanatics you ever saw, he’s a real Second Amendment nut case, and he’s extremely anti-government.”

  Michael Shanks said, “The man really knows his guns though, I’ll give him that. And he used to be a pretty well known competition shooter. I think he won some national combat pistol shooting championships in the 1980s.”

  “That’s all true,” replied Malvone. “And he’s still pretty sharp. He shoots almost every day; he reloads his own ammo, the whole nine yards. So he’s not going to be a pushover. His wife’s a serious shooter too; she used to be regular Annie Oakley, and for a while she was nationally ranked in trap and skeet. So I’m expecting these two to be dead-enders all the way. They’ll shoot back if we give them half a chance, so we’re not going to. This is going to be a straight-up no-knock raid: door charges, flash-bangs, the works.”

  “This is in Richmond?” asked Silvari.

  “The Richmond suburbs,” replied Malvone. “Closer to Petersburg.”

  “Then this isn’t going to be like Edmonds, this isn’t going to be an accidental fire, this is going to be an overt law enforcement raid? Are we going overt now, are we going to intentionally blow our cover?” asked Bob Bullard.

  “It’s just going to be reported that the raid was conducted by a federal law enforcement tactical unit. The details beyond that will all be protected under the Patriot Act: there’s no Freedom of Information Act for terrorism-related cases. It’s all clamped shut, there’s a total blackout, so the STU Team itself will still be covert.”

  The other leaders around the table nodded in agreement.

  “I gave the Richmond Field Office SAIC a heads-up call. When you’re finished with Swarovski, the Richmond ATF is going to assert federal control and take charge of evidence collection. It’s already set up. When you’re done, you just get in your vehicles and come back.”

  Bullard asked, “What kind of ‘evidence’? Does he have any contraband?”

  Malvone answered, “He’s got, or a least he had, at least a dozen assault-type rifles that we know of. And he’s owned at least three fifty caliber sniper rifles, including one semi-auto Barrett. Plus you can bet he’s got rifle scopes out the ass. Maybe he got rid of them all, maybe he didn’t; you’ll find out soon enough tonight. But even if he did get rid of everything illegal, it doesn’t matter, because you’ll be bringing some of your own as insurance.”

  Hammet interjected, “We can bring some of Edmonds’s scoped hunting rifles, that’ll tie them together.”

  “Sniper rifles George, sniper rifles. But that’s the idea. And we’ll bring some of our confiscated militia weapons too. That’s all we actually need, any contraband weapons of his own will just be icing on the cake.”

  Bullard added, “Don’t forget he’s an ammunition reloader. And that means he’s got gun powder, so we can stick bomb making on him too. That always looks good on a domestic terrorism case.”

  “Right you are Bob, right you are. But the only ‘case’ we need to make is in the court of public opinion, because Swarovski’s going to be carried out of his house feet first.”

  Malvone continued, “Now you might be thinking that doing this asshole Swarovski will be a good night’s work, and it will be, but it’s not all, it’s just one step leading up to the main event. Tomorrow the STU is going to break out from the rest of federal law enforcement; we’re going right to the top of the pack. Oh, we’ll still be an anonymous ‘ATF tactical unit’ out in TV-land, but we’re going to be very, very popular where it matters. I’m telling you, Randolph and Sanderson getting sniped, that hit too close to home!

  “Want to know why I don’t want Fallon or Sorrento marked up? Have you wondered about that? Have you wondered why we h
aven’t turned Fallon over for a public arrest? I mean, here’s the state AG’s assassin, that’s quite a feather in our cap to bring him in, right? We could have done the big media perp walk and taken the credit, but we didn’t, and here’s why: Fallon and Sorrento haven’t finished their crime spree yet. They’re driving up to Washington tomorrow to assassinate the Homeland Security Director, but they’re not going to make it all the way.”

  The men passed sly looks and winks to each other around the table. Jaeger said, “And let me guess who’s going to discover the plot and save the day, just in the nick of time.” He turned and gave Michael Shanks a high-five.

  Shanks added, “And naturally, these two desperados will be taking along a couple of Burgess Edmonds’s finest long-range sniper rifles for the assassination attempt.”

  “Well I’m done here now, you guys don’t need me any more, I can go back to DC,” Malvone joked. “Really, I can see you guys have grasped the concept. So tonight we’re going to leave some of Edmonds’s rifles at Swarovski’s place. Tomorrow, Fallon will be found with another of Edmonds’s rifles, and if Swarovski’s still got them, one of his fifty calibers. That’ll tie them all together in one nice tight bundle. Fallon and Sorrento as the trigger men; Edmonds and Swarovski as the money man and the organizer. Cut and Print. In fact, it’s the information I’ve got in my briefcase now that’s going to lead you to Fallon and Sorrento tomorrow, the information you’re going to ‘find’ in Swarovski’s house. So this time, don’t burn his damn house down!”

  They all laughed at that one, and exchanged knowing nods.

  Jaeger said, “Boss, at the risk of sounding like an ass-kisser, I have to say you are one scary freaking genius.”

  “Well Tim, I don’t know if I’m a genius or not, but I’ll admit I did have kind of a ‘eureka moment’ a few years ago, a real shot of pure 100-proof insight. You know about ‘plausible deniability’, and how we use it all the time to avoid taking any blame for screw-ups. By ‘we’, you know, I mean the government. If there’s any possible alternative explanation for a screw-up, no matter how far-fetched, you just deny, deny, deny; and if there’s no rock-solid direct proof, eventually the problem goes away.”