by HN Wake
“I saw your testimony on Fast and Frenzied. Wow. You either have gargantuan rocks or IQ amnesia. I’m not sure which.”
Cal grimaced and replied, “Yeah. Me neither. Probably just straight up stupidity. Hey, you’re still working Pakistan, right?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the low down on the —” he read from the cable, “Pakistani Counterinsurgency Capability Fund?”
“What’s a Latin America guy doing asking about the PCCF?”
“Just curious. It came across my desk.”
Benji chuckled. “Really? It came across your desk? Out in purgatory? The PCCF pops up over in the ‘close out’ sarcophagus?”
Cal looked around the bleak office, waiting him out.
“What will the universe think up next?” Benji asked no one in particular. There was a pause down the phone line. “Actually, the less I know the better. Well, let’s see. It’s the 3 Billion --”
Cal sat up. “With a B?”
“Yeah, it’s the 3 Billion budget over five years. From 2009 to 2014. It’s for the Pakis to get the standard shit. It was a carrot for them to go fight the Islamist militants in their tribal area. You know - Pushtan.”
“So, how’s it going?”
“Mostly copters. Those Pakis love flying around. I can’t blame em. You ever been up in those mountains? Holy crap those are god forsaken. Nothing but scrub and mountains. A few goats. I mean, god-fore-saken.”
“They order the full budget every year?”
“Absolutely. Wouldn’t you if someone was giving you free military hardware?”
“What do you think about it? The PCCF? What’s your personal assessment?”
Benji considered this. “By and large it delivered. The Pakis bought our equipment. And they got some training. But the entire relationship with Pakistan hasn’t been smooth, as you know. Our issues with them are not exactly classified; the whole damn world knows those guys use and abuse us. So, what was intended as a PCCF carrot to get them in line basically turned into a spigot. They didn’t really change their attitude but we keep sending shit. I hear the White House has pushed to kill next year’s budget altogether.”
“So the spigot is getting turned off next year?”
“That’s what I’m hearing.”
“Any funny business with the PCCF?”
“What do you mean?”
“No scandals? No skimming?”
“Nah, pretty much business as usual. USG buying arms from US manufacturers and sending it overseas to our Paki friends.”
“That’s a lot of money to US manufacturers.”
“Yeah, I guess. Same shit different country. You know the drill.”
“Got it.” Cal hesitated. “And nothing weird going on with Blue Lantern in Pakistan last year?”
“I would think you Latin American guys have enough on your plate with Blue Lantern in Mexico to be worrying about Blue Lantern in Pakistan.”
“Yeah, just covering all the bases.”
Benji grunted. “The less I know the better.”
“Just sniffing.”
“Sniff all you like, but as far as anything I’ve heard, the PCCF is all systems go this year. And there are no issues with Blue Lantern.”
“Ok, thanks, Benji. I appreciate the intel.”
“Anytime. Cal, keep your head down over there for a bit. You’re not exactly the Bureau’s favorite guy right now.”
“Yeah, that’s the same advice the Director gave me.”
“That guy’s pretty sharp. What about those suits? Rumor has it he drops like a G on each. Can you imagine? Anyway, I recommend you do your time and then come on back in. We don’t like to lose too many good ones. Even if they do narc on us once in a while.”
After hanging up, Cal read the cable for a fourth time. Everything about the cable was routine. Nothing indicated a law had been broken. Nothing, in fact, in the content of the cable should have pricked an ATF agent’s investigative curiosity. Especially a whistle-blowing agent currently on the back foot and hated by the Bureau’s entire senior staff.
The fact that someone emailed him a Confidential State Department cable from a civilian, anonymous email was, however, astounding.
2
New York, NY
The doorman at the Bowery Hotel, wearing a long-tailed red jacket and a bowler hat, held the door as Mac walked into the lobby. She was instantly transported into a turn-of-the-century English manor. Dark, wood panels lined the walls. Chintz chairs and red velour sofas floated on a spacious oriental rug before a huge marble fireplace. A massive flower arrangement in reds and blues dominated a table by the front door. Soft, club music played in the background.
The Bowery Hotel is where the celebs go to hide out. As long as you are not a high profile celebrity, it’s a good place to go unnoticed.
Mac stepped to the reception counter, slid off her wide, white sunglasses, patted her shoulder-length blond wig, grinned goofily, tilted her head and pitched her voice an octave higher. “Hi. Oh my God. There’s a package here for me. Under Maar. M-A-A-R.”
The receptionist returned with a small envelope. “Here you go.”
Mac opened it, pulled out a license and a credit card and handed them back to the receptionist. With an exaggerated grimace and the same ditzy voice, she squeaked, “Oh my God. My wallet totally got stolen.”
“Oh no!”
“Totally!” Another dramatic shake of her head and a wobble nod to the cards, she said, “But those are my replacements, so now I can check in.”
The receptionist checked the new ID against her computer. “Well, welcome to the Bowery. You’re all set.”
Mac grinned widely, grabbed her room keys and wandered over to the elevators.
Inside the hotel room on the fifth floor, she pulled the duvet cover from the bed, folded it, and set it down on the closet floor. She glanced under all the lampshades and underneath the desk. She took out her cell phone, turned on the flash, and took a photo down the air vent placed high on the wall. The photo revealed an empty air duct.
Satisfied there was nothing overtly planted in the room, she picked up the bedside table phone, and dialed room service. “A jug of coffee, please. Thanks.”
She threw her roller bag up on the bed, unzipped it, took out her cosmetics bag, and distributed her lotions and makeup along the marble and chrome console sink in the bathroom. She laid the shower mat down by the tub.
She placed her courier bag on the bedside table, dropped down onto the crisp sheets, grabbed the remote and flipped on the news. She unfolded seven New York Posts and set them across the bed. Flipping through the big, loose pages, she skimmed the stories.
Boy, 13, in gun attack: Brawl ‘revenge’
A studious Harlem 13-year-old named Elmo coldly opened fire on a teen rival to avenge a humiliating beat down, sources said yesterday….
NYPD locks down Harlem neighborhood after fatal shooting
Metal barricades separate residents from street traffic. Visitors must pass through checkpoints manned by armed guards. Weary citizens feel like prisoners in their own homes….
At the knock on the door, she let in a waiter with a tray and handed him a tip on his way out. She peeled off her wig, settled back on the bed, poured her first coffee, and continued reading.
3 wounded in Harlem shootingA gunman shot three men across from a Harlem playground this afternoon, police said…
An hour later, she rummaged through her courier bag and pulled out her laptop. She lifted the cover, logged into the hotel Wi-Fi, and clicked on Tor. The program would direct her internet surfing through a series of proxy servers and routers so that no one could track her IP address.
She pulled up the very boring Louisiana Secretary of State’s official website, logged into the state database, and searched the names of private foundations. She did not find anything remotely similar to the name ‘Julep Foundation’; she reserved it. She filled out Form 12:204, the Louisiana Articles of Incorporation, and use
d her new Visa card to pay the $75 application fee and the $30 fee for the 24-hour expedited process.
She clicked over to the IRS website and the online Form SS-4, an application for an Employer Identification Number. She filled out the application with the new Julep Foundation information and hit submit. A warning popped up on her screen: “U.S. GOVERNMENT SYSTEM! Use of this system constitutes consent to monitoring, interception, recording, reading, copying or capturing by authorized personnel of all activities. Continue?”
She hit the agreed button, smiling sardonically and thinking, You have no idea.
She poured coffee, leaned back against the bed’s headrest, and typed in a new key word search. “history US gun control”
From behind a podium emblazoned with the New York City seal, Mayor Fisk was wrapping up a speech at City Hall to a room of journalists. He said, “This isn’t an issue for tomorrow. It’s an issue today. If Capitol Hill is hamstrung, we don’t need to be. I’ll take questions now.” He scanned the crowd and nodded toward Freda. “First from the New York News.”
“Thank you, Mayor.” Freda held up her pen. “We’ve got new legislation making its way through the Senate. What do you say to those Senators that may not support it?”
“Good question. Two facts. One: the legislation coming before the Senate is common sense gun control. Two: a significant majority of Americans want common sense gun control. So, to any Senator against this legislation I would say, ‘You aren’t representing your constituents.’ It’s that straight forward.”
The mayor fielded a few more questions then said, “That’s all for today, folks. Thanks for coming.”
Camera shutters clicked as he and his team exited. Journalists closed their notebooks and headed for the back doors.
Freda crooked her head to the young, intense woman next to her. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later, as the taxi fought its way up 8th Avenue, Freda said, “We need something on gun control.”
Stacia’s flat, Midwest accent was obscured by short, staccato bursts of speech. “There’s a lot. A lot on gun control. Tired. Worn-out shit. On gun control.”
“I know, that’s the point. We need something fresh, leading up to this new assault weapons ban. We need to capture some attention.”
Stacia pushed against the tortoise shell glasses on her small, pixie face and shifted in the stiff, black seat. “Please tell me… Please tell me you’re not assigning me to bring the sexy back. To gun control.”
“I am.”
“This is what happens: there’s a shooting in a school or a mall; the networks go on a frenzied, 24-hour cycle; ratings spike; people wait for gore and body counts; a day later they tune out. It doesn’t affect them directly —“
“We need a new angle --”
“Unless it happens like three blocks away. Then maybe we pay attention. For 24 hours. Maybe. 24 max.”
Freda regarded her patiently.
“Wait. Are you serious?” Stacia asked incredulously.
“Serious as a heart attack from the hundredth Big Mac. We need something new and intriguing on this”
A bike courier careened into their lane and the taxi driver slammed on the brakes, jostling them.
Sliding her glasses back up her nose, Stacia continued. “In no particular order. First, liberals have been fighting this fight - for what - a 100 years? Second, the Second Amendment says we can have guns. Third, the Society for Guns - SFG - is going to fight forever against any kind of regulation. Fourth, the SFG rates Senators and Congressmen on their gun records. Like report cards. Five, the SFG has a shitload of members and a shit ton of money. They’re winning and it doesn’t appear to change. That last one is number six. They’re winning and that doesn’t appear to be changing. What is new there? There is nothing intriguing about gun control. It’s a lost cause.”
It was end of the business day and crowds streamed from the back side of Penn Station forcing the taxi into stop-and-go lurches.
Freda softly said, “That’s exactly what I would have said. But maybe they’re not the elephant in the room we think they are.”
“What are you thinking?”
“We assume their influence is huge. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s smoke and mirrors. Let’s dig into them. Let’s start with the organization. How many active members? What are their demographics? Then let’s look at their cash. How much do they really have? Where do they get it? Maybe they aren’t as threatening as they claim to be.” Freda looked over at Stacia. “I’m seeing potentially a front page series here. Yours.”
“Jack won’t let me. He’s got it out for me.”
“What?”
“He ignores me in Monday meetings. He walks right past me at the water fountain. He’s never going to let me lead.”
“He walks right past you at the water fountain?”
Stacia’s jaw clenched. “Totally blanks me. Every time. I wait till he leaves his office then I hit the water fountain. He has to walk by me.”
Freda’s sarcasm dripped. “You could slip a note in his locker before gym class.”
“I. Am. Not. Joking. You tell me how a 2nd year reporter on the city desk gets the attention of the Editor in Chief?”
“Wait, how old are you?”
“24”
“Jesus, what’s the rush? You know how long I did local investigative before anyone moved me up to anywhere?”
“How long - in total - did it take you to get to be a managing editor?”
“15 years,” Freda said proudly.
Stacia’s face registered dramatic shock.
Freda protested. “I’m only 44! I’m the youngest managing editor the paper has ever had!”
“Practically 12 Years a Slave.” Stacia gave a sad, slow shake. “A lifetime.”
“Your generation…is so… impatient.”
“And I bet if you were a guy, you would have gotten there faster.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s still a man’s world. That’s all I’m saying.”
Exasperated, Freda looked out the window.
Stacia mumbled, “I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will. It’s a great opportunity.”
“Jack won’t like it.”
“Leave Jack to me. It’s my front page.”
Stacia gave her a questioning look.
“Holy Mother of crap on a crepe,” Freda responded. “It’s my front page. How ‘bout you just do your job and we get the story out there?”
“Ok. I’ll do it.”
“I know you will. I’m not asking you, by the way, I’m telling you.”
“I said I’ll do it,” Stacia mumbled again.
“I know you will.”
3
New York, NY
At 2 a.m., Mac opened the window, letting the fresh air chill her skin. She squeezed her strained eyes and soaked in the sounds of the city’s nightly rituals. A vehicle revved loudly as it battled into second gear. Heavy wooden crates crashed onto the sidewalk. A block away, a warning blared as a delivery truck reversed.
She lit a cigarette and slowly blew the smoke out the window. Her mind settled around what she had learned.
The United States had only passed nine national gun laws.
The first was passed in 1934 (The National Firearms Act) during prohibition to rein in gangster violence, making it difficult to obtain especially lethal guns (sawed-off long rifles, shotguns and machine guns) and regulating concealed weapons.
It would take another thirty years and the assassinations of Jack F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy to reignite interest in regulating civilian gun use. A 1968 law (The Gun Control Act) established a number of regulations on civilian purchase and use: prohibiting convicted felons from owning firearms; requiring licenses to buy or sell guns; and introducing procedures to track serial numbers and control imports. Four years later, the Bureau for Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms - initially a division of the IRS within the Treasury Department - was creat
ed to enforce these new regulations.
Five hours later she still hadn’t slept.
She opened the window for another cigarette. On the television, the local newscaster was discussing another Harlem shooting. She turned up the volume.
She searched for the incident on the internet, scribbled down the address. She took a quick shower and threw on jeans, a t-shirt, a windbreaker and a baseball hat. She grabbed her courier bag, dropped in her cell phone, a notebook, a pen, her wallet, a bottle of water, and a protein bar.
In the heart of SoHo, on the corner of Broad and Waverly, she stepped into a healthy fast-food chain and ordered a salad full of quinoa and kale. Certain foods were hard to get overseas. She took a leap of faith and ordered a wheatgrass shot.
She sat with her tray at the corner window watching the morning crowd - an anonymous melting pot of whites, Asians, blacks, and Hispanics - stream by. She was mesmerized by the variety. A woman in a flamboyant combination of pink and leather stepped around a tall, dark man in a lumberjack jacket. Teen girls with enormous, dangling earrings and lengthy hair-weaves giggled past suited businessmen.
She picked up the shot of wheatgrass, stared at it a long time, then swallowed it back. The tangy, bitter aftertaste of a freshly mowed lawn lingered in her mouth.
This may be home, but much of it felt shockingly new to her.
Out on Broadway, the towering buildings blocked out the sun as she hailed a cab. The driver’s accent was West African, probably Gabon.
To his reflection in the rearview mirror she said, “First stop: corner of 8th Ave and West 155th.”
He nodded, unfazed, and pulled out into northbound traffic.
She added, “I’m going to need you for a few hours.”
He nodded again.
“Take the side streets. I want to see the neighborhoods.”
