by HN Wake
“This part of your ‘close-out’?”
All over the world, the wheels of government bureaucracies are greased by small, white lies. “Yes, related. Thanks, Ruby.”
“No problem. Hey, Cal, good to hear from you. Hope to see you back here soon.”
“Me too, Ruby, me too.”
Once a licensed arms shipment sets off, the State Department relies on the cooperation of a number of agencies including the ATF, Customs and Border Protection, and the CIA to check on the products and the end user. It is common for the documentation to flow through the various information management systems.
Cal dialed a second number.
Five years ago, the Bureau had sent Cal on an introductory course called ‘Tech Counter Infiltration’ taught by a lecturer named Rautum Gosh. An Indian with American citizenship, startling intelligence, and unlimited energy, Rautum - nicknamed Ranty - worked in counter intelligence in the CIA. To drain some of his intensity between operations, his bosses often bartered him to other agencies for training. He and Cal had become good friends during the five-day course.
Somewhere in the bowels of Langley, Ranty responded, “Cal! Absolutely splendid to hear from you, my friend. To what do I owe this honor?”
“How’re you keeping these days?”
“Superb, superb, Cal! My first is going to high school in a month. I’m absolutely astounded that I am old enough to have a 13-year-old. My second is just a genius, genius. I’m going to put her on the medical route as soon as she’s in high school. And of course my wife is happy and healthy. What more can a man want? How are you, my friend? It’s been a while. Have you found a nice partner yet? A woman I mean?”
“All good here. But no, working too hard for that.”
“Ah, yes, yes, I completely appreciate that.”
“How’s the ‘deep, deep’ work going?”
“Superb as always. Although I’m forever trying to convince the Mandarins up on the top floor that we need new crawler programs. Always new threats from afar. Programs I can write, mind you. Not something they have to contract out. But they just refuse me any sort of leeway, leash, what have you. It’s an odd thing over here. They always want to be seen spending. Must spend out their budgets. Can’t have our in-house experts do it; don’t want to get caught saving any taxpayers’ money. Must bill it out to the highest bidder. Congressional oversight what it is these days. Did I just say that out loud? I must be losing my mind down here. Where were we?”
“Always the same. Am I right?”
“Absolutely. What can I do for you?”
“Do you think you can you grab a coffee later today?”
“Sure! Let’s do our coffee shop in Dupont?”
“Five p.m.?”
“Done. Splendid. I like the intrigue! We don’t get enough down here in the caverns. Slight hyperbole as I’m sure you understand.”
“Indeed I do, Ranty. See you at five.”
Cal set down his phone, narrowed his eyes at the second Blue Lantern cable shining from the screen.
“My, my. Missing M4s,” Ranty whispered to himself while looking over the two cables.
He and Cal sat under the blue awning of an empty Dupont Circle coffee shop. The cooler day had broken one of the summer’s heat waves. Taking advantage of the temperature, evening commuters were strolling along the sidewalks.
“Let us begin by dissecting the content.” Ranty held up a finger. “First, Blue Lantern inquiries are very routine. Nothing extraordinary about that. These appear to be in order.”
“Yes.” Cal knew ‘yes’ was the best word in the English language. It was open enough to encourage, short enough to not interrupt, and ambiguous enough to place the onus of the conversation on the other person.
“We know State Department doesn’t check the end use of every arms exported under license. Or military components for that matter.”
“Yes.”
“We also know Blue Lantern coordinators mostly check key target areas. Let us say, counter terrorism, for example. In, well, let’s say Pakistan.”
Cal nodded.
Ranty tapped the edges of two documents together on the table. “We also know that out of all the items we export in the defense sector - helicopters, grenade launchers, high-tech satellite components - that small arms shipments are probably the easiest to lose.”
“Yes.”
Ranty placed the documents flat down and laid his hand across them. “So. The fact that there was a Blue Lantern check on these M4s in Pakistan is no big deal.”
“Agreed.”
“But. Last year it appears that this Coordinator - Bradley - assigned to the US Embassy in Islamabad, was doing routine end use checks and stumbled onto the fact that these M4s were missing.”
Cal nodded.
“So, something was amiss in Pakistan with a particular defense shipment. Now. I imagine 700 M4s is a lot. How big a cargo pallet would that be?”
“I estimate a shipping container.”
“Ok, so if these did go missing, it would require paying off people all along the chain of custody —” A stream of people passed by on the sidewalk and Ranty waited for them to recede. “Some kind of schedule to get these out of the Special Services warehouse, then a safe house to hide the guns. All in all, this isn’t petty theft. This had to have been quite organized.” Ranty tapped his fingers again on the documents. “All interesting facts. But as I’m sure you’ve surmised, the biggest question is why this fellow Maar - who is clearly on the inside - is sending these cables to you? One could hazard a guess --”
Cal beat him to the conclusion. “Fast and Frenzied.”
“Indeed. Maar knows you’re the type of ATF agent to pursue something, to do the right thing, all the way to the end. He wants you to investigate what happened to these missing M4s. This is all very interesting.” Making up his mind, Ranty said, “Well, my friend, let me suggest next steps. I verify these are authentic and logged into the State and CIA systems. Let me see if they are being pursued. We only have two cables. Perhaps the investigation was already properly resolved.”
“You have that clearance?”
“Cal, let me just say, it’s absolutely charming that you would ask that. I am one of the Agency’s key tech aficionados. One of perhaps three, if I had to hazard a guess. Likely, not to put too fine a point on it, the best. Although I’m sure the other two would like to think they are superior to me even though I best them at every turn. Even the top, and I do mean the top, have seen the fruits of my exquisite work.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Top, my friend, means down at the WH. White House. My signature goes directly. But I digress. My point, Cal, is that if anyone is going to chase the authenticity of these cables, it will be me, and no one in the Agency will ever be the wiser.”
“That’s more than I could ask for, Ranty. Thank you.”
9
Philadelphia, PA
The rising escalator delivered Mac and the other Washington Amtrak passengers up into the arrivals hall of 30th Street Station. The shops and cafes along the perimeter bustled with waiting passengers. The early morning sun beamed through towering windows. From the huge old-fashioned timetable board, arrival and departure times toppled like dominos, echoing off the blond granite walls.
She passed under the soaring sculpture of Michael the Archangel holding a fallen soldier, past blue uniformed policemen with service dogs, and out the West colonnaded exit.
In a spot designated by the private seller, tucked up by the chain link fence of the far corner of long-term parking, she reached under the left back tire of a red 1968 Alfa Romeo two-door 1750 and retrieved its key. She unlocked the trunk and stowed her roller bag. She unlocked the driver’s side door, dropped her courier bag on the passenger seat, and settled in.
It took the old motor 15 minutes before it purred properly, smoothly.
Dropping the race car into first, she gunned the motor and pulled out onto Market Street. She crossed the highway and headed into Center Cit
y, the Alfa’s exhaust roaring.
The traffic was light as she skirted around Rittenhouse Square. With a feeling of unusual freedom, she made an instantaneous decision and guided the Alfa toward South Street. The famous street had changed, but its gritty tenor remained--tattoos, piercings, bondage sex shops. She passed what used to be the punk record store.
Back up Broad Street, she circled around City Hall, America’s most expensive city hall and the world’s tallest masonry building. The construction fences circling the foundation made her smile; she couldn’t remember a time City Hall wasn’t under construction.
Since she had been gone, Philadelphia had become the world’s city of murals. Over 3,600 gigantic images in amplified colors covered whole sides of buildings, telling the tale of the city’s history and celebrities including Mayor Rizzo, Julius Irving, artists and activists. The Alfa growled down streets and past enormous artwork.
On Museum Row, she cruised down Benjamin Franklin Parkway, past the Franklin Science Museum and the new Barnes Foundation. Ahead of her, the colossal Art Museum rose above the stairs made famous by Rocky.
Mac downshifted the Alfa into second gear, hugged the curve below the Art Museum, and accelerated into East River Drive’s straight away.
The Schuylkill River is one of the city’s defining features. Before it meets the larger Delaware River out by the airport and the Navy Yard, it winds along Route 76 through the expansive Fairmont Park, passes Boat House Row, and curves south below the Art Museum. The drives on either side of the river, set among lush parkland and connecting many of the city’s 1,000 bridges, deliver commuters to the wealthy, Western suburbs.
Mac breathed in the summer air, letting very old memories wash over her.
23 years ago
Mac and Joe stepped out of Bachelor’s Boathouse in rumpled sweats and thick winter parkas. Over the grey river, a misty haze filtered the sun, threatening snow. At the curb, they folded gangly teen legs and arms into a 20-year-old, army green, BMW 3.0CS.
She settled into the passenger seat and installed her feet on his dashboard. He started up the car. Simple Minds blasted through the speakers. “I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby.” Grinning, she turned down the volume.
The wiper sliced through the accumulated mist. He gassed the motor, belching black smoke out the exhaust pipe and sending carbon wafting through the interior. He waited for her to fasten her seat belt then surged the car neatly into the traffic.
She picked up her Big Gulp from the center console, took a huge swig, and threw her head back dramatically against the head rest. “God, he’s such a dick. He’s always working the anger angle. It’s hard enough to row in the cold. My hands are frozen icicles. We don’t need his shit.”
Joe quickly downshifted, hugged the East Drive curves. His feet worked the pedals like a professional driver.
She was oblivious to the high speed. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be a team? Fuck. He’s making each of us in the eight mad at each other. What’s up with that?”
“Maybe he knows what he’s doing.”
“Fuck that. We’re allowed to question a coach.” Calming down, she took another huge sip, the sweetness swirling down her throat. A rusty hole in the foot pad on the passenger side sporadically sprayed a fine mist of water.
She asked him, “How’d you decide on this car?”
“I could afford it.”
“Where’d you get the cash?”
“I worked for it.”
“Where?”
“My dad owns vending machines around town. He lets me restock them. I get to keep the coins.”
She studied him. Loose, light brown hair hung just above intelligent, soulful blue eyes. His scrubby five o’clock shadow was emerging across his chin and up his cheeks. She’d met his dark-haired Armenian father and his Quaker mother. As the singular son among five sisters, he was probably the only American male with that particular genetic combination.
The BMW roared along the drive.
She tilted her head. “I can say something to her.”
He glanced at her. “What?”
“If you want me to. I can say something to Freda.”
He pulled to a stop at a red light. She watched him, waiting, while taking another sip.
The light switched to green. He gunned the car, then quickly released the brake. The BMW exploded forward. The cola in her Big Gulp crested against the lid and arced out across her chest. He snorted with laughter.
She screeched, “You did that on purpose!” Her shock was turning to laughter.
The BMW raced over a bridge. Simple Minds blared on.
Calming, she smiled. “I can’t believe you just did that. It’s called respect, Mr.”
Thirty minutes later, the BMW pulled up to her big house in the sleepy Chestnut Hill suburb.
She reached for the door handle. “Thanks. Same time tomorrow?”
He looked forward through the windshield. “I never said it was Freda.”
“What?”
“I never told anyone I liked Freda.”
Mac’s hand hovered over the handle. “You don’t like her?”
“I mean, I like her fine. But I’m not into her.”
“So who do you like?”
He shrugged, stared ahead. “You.”
Her eyes widened, glanced away, and fixated on the long, dark street. She pulled down on the door handle and unfolded out of the car. He looked over as she shut the door. She stared back at him through the window, confused, speechless.
He watched her wander up the walkway and saw her open the front door. He waited while she closed it.
Present day
Manayunk, long a working class enclave, was originally home to the workers from the textile mills along the Schuylkill River. Now, many of the city’s young professionals and students had mixed with the locals, moving into the town homes that rose up the hills and looked down over Main Street.
She sat on a bench in the middle of Pretzel Park between two Catholic churches, St. Josaphat’s and St. John the Baptist. Instinctively she knew it was noon. Her internal clock was almost never wrong. A few minutes later that was confirmed when noon bells began in both churches. These two old churches had stared at each other across the green park for generations; they had learned to synchronize their bells.
In the quiet that followed, a car rumbled along Cresson Street’s cobblestones and a SEPTA commuter train shuddered past on the turn-of-the-century, elevated tracks. She stared across the street, above the tracks, at a sign that read “Space for Rent’ in one of the tall windows of a vacant warehouse.
A young real estate agent in a cheap suit led her through the second floor of the warehouse. It was laid out for a modern office; cubicle walls neatly divided an expanse of grey carpet. She pretended to be interested as he rattled off the specs.
He droned, “All the phone jacks are in. It’s wired for at least 100 computers. Fully renovated a few months ago. Perfect for a medium sized company with a nice, modern brand --”
She interrupted, “What’s the top floor look like?”
“Oh, that hasn’t been renovated yet. The owner is working up one floor at a time.”
“Can I see it?”
Slightly startled, he responded, “Sure.”
Up on the top floor, he fumbled with the keys and opened the door to a cavernous space of damaged raw floors, faded walls, and exposed ceiling beams. The air was still and hot. A clawfoot bathtub, an ancient toilet, and a stained sink were hemmed in on three sides by poorly constructed drywall. A rectangle of grey linoleum demarcated a kitchen, home to a stainless steel sink and a battered refrigerator. An architect’s drafting table, layered in dust, sat flush against a wall of dirty, paned windows. Across the street, a brick building - the original painted sign read the ‘Manayunk Bottling Works’ - was now an interior design showroom.
The real estate agent stood by the door as she walked the length of it, the wooden planks creaking under her feet. She tes
ted the kitchen and bathroom faucets. Cool, clean water ran out. “Is this space available?”
“What?”
“We’re a tech start-up, a small team, we need the space and the creativity. This is perfect.”
“Uh, let me make a call.”
“Ask him about the wiring. I’ll need electricity.” As he stepped into the hallway, she wiped her finger across the thick dust on the green drafting table.
Two minutes later the agent stepped back in. “He said, sure, if you want it. He’s willing to do six months up front. He said the wiring is fine. He can flip the switch today.”
Staring through the spattered window to the park below, she said, “I’ll take it.”
Six hours later, the loft was spotless. The floor had been mopped, the porcelain in the bathroom nook had been bleached, and the kitchen had been scrubbed. A broom, a bucket, disinfectant, and a mop stood in the kitchen corner. Gleaming windows were open to the summer breeze and the setting sun.
A brass lamp sat on the floor next to an old metallic fan noisily blowing air across the 1000 thread-count sheets on a single, twin mattress. There were no curtains on the windows. She had no intention to hang any.
Along the bank of windows, the newly shining drafting table hosted her 13-inch laptop with a hard drive, speakers, and a mobile hotspot drive tied to her new alias and the address of the Manayunk Bottling Company. The connection in the loft was strong, lighting up three bars.
Next to the laptop were two cellphones, each identified with hand written labels on masking tape that read ‘SFG’ and ‘NYC’. Next to the phones was a well-worn leather envelope the size of an airplane pillow. Inside were escape documents - clean passports, credit cards, and ATM cards to hidden bank accounts.
Sipping a beer, Mac pulled up Tor and got online. She typed in a website address, logged into a private chat room, and left a message. “42 here.”
A response appeared almost immediately. “Hey 42. It’s 89. How goes it?”
