A Spy Came Home

by HN Wake

  3. To confuse the IRS.

  4. To appeal to a broad audience - each audience only gets part of the messaging

  On her screen, she pulled up a new folder and gave it a name, ‘SFG Research.’ With quick, sharp keystrokes she started conceptualizing her sound bites based on the day’s research: Franchise. Opportunistic. Delusions of Grandeur. Dominance. Monopoly. Shadowy.

  Two hours later, while chatting on the phone and looking through her office window to the building across the street, Freda felt the nagging sense of a presence in her office. She slowly spun her chair. On the office guest chair, Stacia sat crossed legged with both hands resting on her knees, middle fingers to thumbs, eyes closed, her glasses pushed up into her spiky, black hair.

  Freda spoke softly into the phone. “Uh, listen, someone’s just walked into my office. I’ve gotta take this. I’ll call you back.” She hung up, shaking her head at Stacia. “Ok stealth yogi. What is it?”

  Stacia opened her eyes slowly and said, “Just trying to keep you posted on the big SFG story.”

  “Ok, go ahead.”

  Stacia dropped her hands to grab a document off a table and handed Freda a printed timeline. “First of all, looks like the radical, zealous gun rights group we know today as the SFG, wasn’t always so radical or zealous or hell-bent on opposing gun restrictions.”

  Freda read through the timeline.

  Stacia continued, “In fact, the SFG supported controls on guns all the way up to about the 1980s at which point they seized on the language in the Second Amendment as their raison d’être.”

  Freda faked anticipation: none of this was new to her.

  “In 1998 they elected the current CEO, Charles Osbourne.” Stacia looked up.

  “I need something new other than Osbourne is a jackass.” Freda looked at her expectantly.

  “That’s what I’ve got so far on their history.”

  Freda sighed. “I’m not sure you should have interrupted me for a history lesson. That was mildly interesting but nothing really new.”

  “Well, then let me give you some numbers. In 1973 a half of all American households had a gun. Now it’s only one third. That’s a significant decline. Of that, only about 6% of households own 65% of those guns.”

  “So civilians interested in guns in America is declining? That’s also only mildly interesting.”

  “And hunting? Forget about it. Only 6% of Americans hunt even once a year. Nobody, nobody, hunts anymore. It’s not clear to me why the SFG keeps blathering on about hunting.” She read from her notes. “An astounding number of Americans support some regulation. One poll found 92% of Americans support background checks for gun purchases. Even gun owners want better regulation.”

  Freda waited impatiently.

  “So here’s what’s really interesting. Just as Americans are buying, owning and using less guns, the SFG’s power is on the rise. Their budget quadrupled - quadrupled - in the 2000s. The SFG is now the one of the most influential lobbyist on Capitol Hill. Their power is disproportionate, steady, strong, and consistent. Their increasing influence is actually counter-intuitive to what is happening on the ground in terms of gun ownership.”

  Freda tilted her head with an ‘and then?’ gesture.

  Stacia looked at her notes and shrugged. “That’s it so far.”

  Freda steepled her fingers, her condescension was thick. “So thanks for that history lesson, my young Jedi. None of that is news or investigative journalism. Please go back to your desk and find me the messy. Go attack this like a garbage bag on a Christmas wreath.”

  Freda picked up the phone, spun her chair, and dialed back her previous caller. As the call rang through, she held her hand over the receiver and yelled over her shoulder to Stacia’s retreating back, “We need to know how these guys have such a stranglehold on America now!”

  7

  New Orleans, LA

  Mac had extensive training in firearms, but she had never been to a gun show. She stepped into the air-conditioned hall and did a quick assessment of the 100 tables neatly laid out in rows inside the 60 x 60 square foot room. Over 80 customers, pallid in the bad lighting, walked slowly down the aisles, speaking in hushed voices. The air was ripe with the smell of metal and beef jerky.

  She made a wry face when her mind connected sport hunting to beef jerky.

  Across the hall, men lifted and sighted guns with a confidence born from watching Hollywood action movies. Most of them fit into stereotypes. The shuffling Louisiana hillbillies stood out right away; they were gaunt, dirty, tattooed and unshaven. The old timers wore outdated gear and congregated by the antique paraphernalia. The preppy bubbas sported bright golf shirts and conversed animatedly with the sellers about gun specs. There were a few military and outdoorsy types. At one table, a trio of well-dressed black men were getting background checked by a white guy wearing a Nazi t-shirt.

  She passed a hulk of a man explaining the virtues of a particular box of ammo to a customer. His voice was scratchy. “These are the best from Nevada. You can shoot for an hour straight and no failures.”

  She stepped between two men to examine a table of assault weapons. The young guy to her left hefted up a rifle, shouldered it, slanted it sideways, and pantomimed slapping a magazine in the chamber. His movements were practiced, precise. His arms were sleeved in cheap tattoos.

  At the next table, she looked over the 100 handguns under a black netting. The seller glanced up. “Let me know if you want to look at anything. I can get them out.”

  She pointed to the Berretta M9.

  He placed it in her hand.

  She moved slowly, disguising that this was, in fact, her gun of choice. She lifted the two-pound gun up and down, holding it awkwardly, faking a look of amazement. “How many rounds can I put in the clip?”

  “That’s the standard M9. Magazine comes with 15 rounds.”

  She straightened her arm and looked down through the sight. “What’s the range on this type of gun?”

  “Maximum about 1800 meters but it’s most effective at 50.”

  “What do you think of it?”

  “It’s the standard military issue so you know it’s reliable. It works in temperatures from -40 up to 140 and only has commercial ammo failure in like every 35,000 rounds.”

  “How much is it?”

  “That one’s new. It’ll cost ya $680.”

  “If I wanted this today. Could I have it?”

  “Yes. You have Louisiana ID?”

  She nodded.

  “We do a background check.” He tilted his head toward his girlfriend - a bleached blond in stretched Lycra - sitting at the end of the table, speaking into a cell phone, and reading from a clip board. “We call it in.”

  Mac rotated the gun over and under. “How long does that take?”

  “15 minutes.”

  She eyed the table with the assault rifles. “ And those?”

  “Same.”

  “15 minutes?”

  “Yup.”

  She handed him the handgun. “Let me think about it.”

  On her way out, she slowed by the SFG booth. A 19-inch flat screen was displaying a looped, ‘best of’ video. In the first clip, Charles Osbourne stood on stage before a cheering SFG annual convention. He yelled, “The Payne ban on semi-autos flies directly in the face of our Second Amendment rights. It would allow the government to invade our homes and seize our means of protection!”

  Mac glanced at the kid manning the booth. “Can you turn up the volume?”

  On the screen, political celebrities crossed the stage. Sarah Palin bleated, “If you ban guns, you take them away from responsible people.” Glenn Beck gave a Sieg Heil salute and bellowed into the microphone. “SFG members unite! Americans unite! Those before us fought for our rights! We shall be victorious!”

  On the screen, the audience was uproarious.

  In the final clip, Charles Osbourne introduced a speaker. “I’d like to welcome our single largest supporter from the gun i
ndustry: Mr. Boare and Scimitar.”

  From behind the microphone, Chuck Boare cautioned the crowd in a somber tone. “Now is not the time to capitulate. We are fighting a battle over the Second Amendment with dark forces in this country! We will not give an inch!”

  The crowd thundered as Osbourne and Boare pumped AR 15s into the air like prizefighters.

  Mac noticed the redneck youth manning the booth was leering at her. She turned toward him and stared blankly. He wagged his eyebrows in a comical ‘come on’. She remained unblinking.

  Slowly, he lost his grin.

  She stood stock-still.

  His eyes hardened.

  She held his gaze, immobile.

  Finally, he flinched, glancing left.

  Twenty minutes later, Mac rode an open-air streetcar with a city tour book on her lap. She flipped through the images of the city’s French, Haitian and Spanish inhabitants. Photos displayed steamboats plowing through the Mississippi river, horse-drawn carriages rolling along wide streets, and plantation slaves working cotton fields.

  The trolley rumbled on the tracks. Up ahead, she saw the sign for the Audobon Garden and pulled the bell, jumping off at the golf course.

  She walked along the west side of the course through huge, branched trees blanketed in Spanish moss. Runners rushed past. The smell of pungent mold tickled her nose.

  At Prytania Street, she peeled off from the park. Two blocks in, she stopped before a large, white-columned house. Four white-washed rocking chairs sat on the veranda. A bright red welcome mat lay at the step before a huge front door with a round, brass knocker.

  She reached into her courier bag and pulled out a well-worn Saints baseball hat. She tiptoed up the large steps, stood on the red mat, pushed open the mail slot, and quietly pushed in the folded hat. She placed her fingers on the brass mail cover, closed her eyes, and said a small prayer.

  There was only one last task to do in New Orleans.

  Mac sauntered into the Canal Street Wells Fargo. The AC was on full blast and the LED ceiling lamps bleached out the room; it was like being in a walk-in freezer.

  She spotted the manager’s desk and headed for it. She sat down in front of the older, black woman who looked up and saw a trim, blond woman in a light blue cardigan over a khaki skirt.

  The manager said, “Good mornin! How can I help you, my dear?”

  “I need to open a bank account for a family foundation.” Mac’s southern accent was drawn-out but concise.

  By contrast, the bank manager’s accent was thick and sugary. “Sure thing, honey. I’ll just need your ID, Employee Identification Number and your certified Articles of Incorporation.”

  Mac slid the documents across the desk.

  Looking up, the manager asked, “Ok, Ms. Maar, are you the signatory on the account?”

  “Yes. I will be.”

  “Right. What type of deposit will you be using to open the account?”

  “I have $500 in cash and a cashier’s check.” She handed her both. “How long will it take the check to clear?”

  The bank manager was surprised by the size of the Credit Suisse cashier’s check, but replied calmly, “This one should be about five days.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Ok, well, this will only take a moment. Sit back, relax and I’ll be right back now.”

  A few tellers looked out from behind Plexiglass windows; each window offered a rainbow of lollipops in small, glass jars. Two surveillance cameras peeked out from high corners. Customers used the ATM near the door.

  The bank manager returned ten minutes later with official documents. “Now, what will you need for this account? Checks?” She indicated a line for Mac’s signature.

  Mac signed the document. “No, actually. ”

  “Will you be needing a debit card?”

  “We’ll mostly be doing electronic transfers, so no need for any cards, really.”

  “Ok, well is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “What will I need to set this account up online?”

  “You just type in your account number at our main web page and this pin.” She pointed to a number on one of the documents.

  “Ok. You’ve been super helpful.” Mac smiled widely. “Thanks so much.”

  “My pleasure. Thanks for banking with Wells Fargo. Now you have a great day, ya hear?”

  The Julep Foundation was locked and loaded. Everything was in place.

  THREE WEEKS BEFORE THE SENATE VOTE

  When you are inside this picture you are inside pain; it hits you like a punch in the stomach.

  - Jonathan Jones

  How wrong is it for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself?

  - Anaïs Nin

  8

  Arlington, VA

  The wall clock clicked over to 7:58 in the morning, momentarily interrupting the silence hanging over the fourth floor of the business mall. The New York News was on the computer screen, Cal’s weathered boots were propped up on the desk.

  He bit into a toasted ‘everything’ bagel with cream cheese, half wrapped in stiff wax paper, and the blackened, burned edges scraped the roof of his mouth. He took a sip of coffee to relieve the pain.

  It had been a week since he had received the Confidential Blue Lantern cable.

  At first, Cal had tried to convince himself the email was a mistake. Maybe Maar had intended to send it to someone else. Maybe it had gotten waylaid in Cal’s inbox by accident. It hadn’t had an explanatory cover letter; perhaps someone had been expecting it, someone who knew what to do with it.

  But Cal hadn’t been able to convince himself Maar had made a mistake in the recipient of the email. Cal’s email address was not publicly available; Maar must have typed it in.

  Cal had tried to ignore the email, pushing it out of his consciousness. But it had returned on a regular loop, its sentences hovering in front of his eyes like a projected slideshow.

  Finally, he had accepted the assumption that Maar had sought him out. So every few hours he searched on the internet for new variations of Pakistan, arms, export, purchase, PCCP, and Blue Lantern. He hadn’t learned much. Actually, he hadn’t learned anything. Without additional background, Cal was stumped.

  The wall clock ticked to 8 a.m.

  His email inbox chimed.

  He stopped chewing. His stomach tightened. He dropped his feet, set down his bagel and toggled his screen over to his inbox.

  A second email from Maar had arrived. Like before, there was no cover message; the email only included an attachment. He quickly double-clicked on the attachment icon.

  It was a second Confidential Blue Lantern cable.

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

  Origin:Embassy ISLAMABAD/AMEMBASSY ISLAMABAD

  Classification:CONFIDENTIAL

  To: SECSTATE WASHDC

  Info: AMCONSUL PESHAWAR

  Info: AMCONSUL LAHORE

  Info: AMCONSUL KARACHI

  Date: 15 August 2012

  PRIORITY

  REF: STATE 88088

  1. Blue Lantern Coordinator Islamabad has been unable to verify end use of 696 M4s imported under License 88088. Pakistani military officers confirm receipt but do not have documentation for follow-on transfers.

  2. The arms have been diverted.

  3. Post has growing concern that end use of cargo may not be resolved satisfactorily.

  4. Post has requested support from Blue Lantern Coordinators in Peshawar, Lahore and Karachi for further investigation. Further investigation has commenced.

  - BRADLEY

  Four thoughts stampeded across Cal’s brain:

  1. Last year the Pakistani Army lost 696 US-made M4s.

  2. Maar is intentionally leaking these to me.

  3. Maar understands Blue Lantern checks.

  4. Maar is someone who has clearance to classified State Department cables and who can get them from a classified server to a
civilian email.

  Time to start sniffing. And by sniffing, he meant doing this very quietly under the noses of his superiors. Because he was assigned to a dismal ‘close-out’ and he was sure as hell not authorized to investigate guns that had gone missing in Pakistan.

  The Arms Export Control Act strictly controls the sale of US-made defense items to overseas buyers. The US manufacturer must first register with the Treasury Department. This involves a background check on legal status, export eligibility, foreign ownership, personnel, and products. Once registered, manufacturers then apply to the State Department for an export license for the sale of a particular item to a designated user. These license applications are matched against a ‘watch list’ of known or suspected export violators. Resale or transfer by the end user is prohibited. Once a sale is approved, a license number is assigned to a shipment.

  On his desk phone, Cal dialed a well-known number. Over at the ATF headquarters on New York Avenue near Capitol Hill, an optimistic, cheerful woman who had been with the Bureau for over 15 years answered, “Ruby Shelton.”

  “Hi Ruby, it’s Cal.”

  “Cal, how are you? How’s the annex? We miss you around here.”

  Cal grimaced. “We, huh? That include the boss?”

  “Ok, well, I miss you. The team just isn’t the same without you.”

  “Thanks, Ruby. It’s fine over here. Really.”

  “Well, if you say so. What’s up?”

  “I’ve run across something and I just wanted a check on a DOC license number.”

  “Sure, Cal. What’s the number?”

  He glanced at the screen. “88088.”

  “Could take a while. The State system is slow.”

  “No problem. Thanks, Ruby.”