by HN Wake
Unlike the times when she had walked down the red dirt streets of Johannesburg’s Soweto or through the stench of Manila’s Smokey Mountain landfill, today she was not a dispassionate observer. Today she felt more American, more invested, than she had in a long time.
The taxi driver slowed, pulled over at her destination.
She said, “Give me 10 minutes.”
He nodded, put on the radio, and cranked back his seat.
She walked slowly towards the Polo Grounds Tower, a housing project complex of four, 30-story buildings that sat on a brown, scrubby lot next to the elevated Harlem River Drive. Now home to robberies, shootings, murders and gang activity, the lot used to be the home of the New York Giants.
She reached the black fence along the perimeter of the bleak towers and stared past a decrepit sign. She imagined the scene that must have unfolded yesterday in a 5th floor apartment.
Returning home early from school, 10-year-old Anna walked into a screaming match between her brother and mother. Anna’s brother, his face contorted in rage, reached into the closet and pulled out a large, matte-black assault weapon. Anna froze by the door. Her mother wailed in fear. He shouldered the rifle, wrapped his left hand around the ridged barrel, and placed his right hand around the trigger. Cartridges sped through the barrel with a zap zap zap and spewed out the top. Her mother flew across the room, bullets slamming into her. Empty cartridges rained on the floor. The gun turned, pointing at Anna. The bullets ripped into her chest. The floor met her. A warmth spread across her stomach, a chill across her chest. In her ears, Anna’s heart slowed.
At the fence, Mac stooped down and picked up a small, round rock. She slid it into her pocket and turned her back on the housing complex.
In the taxi, she said, “I need to go to Connecticut. To Newtown.”
The last US gun law was passed in 1994. It banned semi-automatic guns that resembled fully automatic ‘machine guns’ in the sense that they had detachable magazines and two other characteristics (such as a telescoping stock or a flash suppressor.) It was called The Assault Weapons Ban. It had a 2004 expiration date.
Newtown, CT
Mac approached the school from across a green, sports pitch set among lush trees. Clover overran the field; tall stalks thrust up white, spindled flowers above the grass. Her foot struck a partially buried baseball diamond. With long, unhurried strides she carried on toward the empty parking lot in the distance.
She reached the drive and followed the arc of the bus route. At the fence, next to a demolition crane, she stopped and stared at the red brick building. The front had once been a wall of glass. Now it was boarded up with plywood. Stenciled metal letters read Sandy Hook Elementary. She listened for the sounds of birds or crickets, heard nothing.
Glancing back down the drive, she imagined the scenes as they would have unfurled that day.
A 20-year-old dressed in black shirt, sneakers and fingerless gloves, stomped toward the school, green utility vest swinging bulkily around his thin body. He reached the school, heard the sounds of playful screeches bouncing off tiled walls and bells chiming across the intercom. He lifted the weight of the matte black, semi-automatic Bushmaster rifle. He shot through the security door.
The principal and the school psychologist stepped into the lobby to investigate the noise. He shot and killed them.
Two other staff members were shot in the hallway.
Across the school, teachers heard the shots and ushered students into bathrooms and closets, hiding them and distracting them with reading and drawing
He entered two, first-grade classrooms in rapid order, spraying bullets from the assault weapon, as if on a battlefield.
In one room, he killed a substitute teacher, a behavioral therapist, and 15 first graders. A six-year-old girl that played dead was the only class survivor.
In another, he shot the teacher and killed five children. He shot a behavioral therapist and the six-year-old boy she had been shielding. Nine children fled. Two survived by hiding in a classroom bathroom.
The school’s custodian ran through hallways, alerting classrooms. The school librarians hid 18 children in a storage room. One teacher and one reading specialist pulled children out of hallways.
Ten minutes after the carnage had begun, the 20-year-old placed a Glock 20 to his head and ended his rampage with one shot.
Mac blinked, her focus returned. She turned and began a slow march across the field. The research from last night looped in her mind. Following the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, the US Senate again failed to pass any new legislation governing guns.
In the middle of the field, Mac slowed to watch a cloud pass in front of the sun. Up ahead, the taxi driver watched her. Something caught her eye in the tall grass; a plastic, pink barrette rested among green stalks. It was an inch long with the imprint of a small flower. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.
4
New York, NY
The Italian restaurant on Bond and Bowery played to rustic Mediterranean roots with exposed brick walls, single candles burning on simple, metal plates, and deeply scarred wooden tables. The air in the small space was heavy with garlic, basil, and tomato. At the corner table near the kitchen, Penny and Freda huddled over red wine glasses and a ceramic bowl of olives.
They jumped to their feet when Mac walked through the door.
Penny gave her a tight hug. “Oh my God, it’s been way too long.”
Freda leaned in for an efficient hug and cheek kiss. “I can’t believe you’re home.”
Mac was stiff and nervous, her movements jerky.
Penny motioned to the table. “Sit, sit, let me get you a glass of wine.”
Mac forced her shoulders to relax. “Yeah, good I guess. It’s weird to be here after such a long time. Twenty years. Some things are exactly the same. Some things are completely different.”
They wanted to understand, but couldn’t.
She shook off their confusion. “Let’s start with you guys. That’ll be easier. How are the kids? I want to hear it all.”
An hour and a second bottle later, Penny turned confidential. “So. I guess it’s time to ask. We’ve always suspected but never knew. You’re CIA, right?”
Mac ran her finger over a large crack in the roughhewn table. The candle between them sputtered. The word stuck in her throat. “Yes.”
Penny said, “I knew it.”
Freda’s mind started running. “I have a million questions.”
“I’m not sure I can answer them. A lot of stuff I can’t tell you.”
Penny asked, “So where have you been?”
“Mostly Asia. Sometimes the Middle East.”
“Scary places?”
“Yeah, some of them.”
“What can you tell us?”
Mac turned thoughtful. “Technically, I’m what is known as a Human Intelligence Operations Officer. I spend a lot of time building relationships with well-placed foreigners and eventually try to convince them to become agents for the US. If they do, then I manage them.”
“You ‘run’ them,” said Penny.
Mac smiled. “I gather information - information the President needs to defend this country. It’s anything from security to military to tech to economic. Langley gives me directions and off I go. I’m alone a lot. I travel a ton.” She shrugged, playing down the job. “To be fair, it’s a lot of down time.”
Freda shook her head. “Mac from Germantown, as we live and breathe, sitting in front of us telling us she’s a CIA agent. H to the hella.”
Over her wine, glass Mac mumbled, “Officer.”
“Right, I meant officer. The foreign guys are the agents.”
Penny was subdued. “It’s just like we’ve always suspected.”
“Yeah, a bit weird for me too.”
“Really?”
Mac admitted, “Yeah, it’s not like I talk about this stuff all the time. It’s a bit…no, it’s a lot - disorienting. I’ve spent a lot of time conc
ealing the truth.”
“So did they train you in firearms?”
“They trained me in all kinds of things.”
Freda asked, “Have you ever killed anyone?”
Her shoulders tightened. “Indirectly, yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
“A lot of things bother me.”
An hour later, a third bottle of wine was nearly empty. They had caught up on the gossip about high school friends and careers. Penny and Freda had shown Mac videos and pictures of their kids.
The front door of the restaurant opened and the three women watched two couples, laughing over a shared joke, enter the restaurant. The hostess seated them four tables away.
Penny asked. “Do they know you’re here, in the US?”
“No. Not yet,” Mac replied.
“How long before they figure it out?”
“I have a lot of room. That’s the nature of the job. They think I’m deep cover in Asia. They’ll reach out to me in about 2 weeks. When I don’t answer, they’ll start looking for me.”
“Then you’ll check back in?”
Mac shrugged. “I haven’t decided.”
Surprised, Penny asked, “You might quit?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
Penny lowered her voice. “Did you get the money?”
Mac nodded.
“How did it go?”
“Swiss bankers are enormous kiss asses. I showed up, flashed a fake id, they handed me a cashier’s check.”
“As easy as that? Money is cleaned?”
“As easy as that.”
Freda asked, “How did you know our donor would have a Swiss bank account?”
Mac said, “First of all I know the donor is Laura.”
Both women were startled. Penny tried to cover. “What? Wait --”
Mac interrupted, “Don’t tell me any more. Laura’s secret is safe with me. And all rich folks have Swiss bank accounts.”
Freda moaned. “God, I feel so poor. I should never have gone into journalism.”
Penny assuaged her. “I’m a freaking litigation lawyer for a top law firm and I don’t have a Swiss bank account. That’s for the super wealthy only, Freda.”
Mac interrupted their banter. “So, tell me what you’re thinking.”
“In theory, it’s quite simple,” Penny said as she sat upright in her chair. “Senator Martha Payne is introducing a new bill, an assault weapons ban. When it hits the Senate floor, we need to give the Senators the freedom to vote the way their constituents want.”
Freda leaned on the table. “Mac, we need you to put the SFG out of commission long enough for the Payne bill to pass.”
“What’s my deadline?” Mac asked.
Freda said, “The bill is in the Senate Judiciary Committee. It’s due to pass out and go to the Senate floor in four weeks.”
Mac nodded slowly. “Ok.”
In that moment, the restaurant went silent as the two couples started eating.
Freda and Penny stared at Mac.
Freda whispered, “Just like that?”
“My work will be done in four weeks.”
Freda’s eyes went wide. “Christ, I’m glad nobody else is hiring your type in the US.”
Mac continued, “I’ll do this on one condition. You tell no one. I mean no one. From this moment forward you never mention this. Not to your husbands or your boyfriends. No one. Ever.”
Freda held up her hand. “Not a problem here.”
“That means we did not have this conversation. I am a friend from high school that you hear from once in a while. These drinks, this night. Sure.” She looked around at the almost empty restaurant. “We met up. We ate olives and drank red wine. We caught up on gossip and old boyfriends and who is married to whom. We never had any conversation about anything serious. We didn’t discuss politics or guns. Can you do that? Complete lock down?”
They both nodded.
“If you break this code, I’ll disappear and you’ll never hear from me again. What we’re talking about is illegal. If they find me, they’ll find you and you’ll go to jail and never see your kids again. We’re about to irretrievably cross a line into some serious shit that I take very seriously and for which the US government has spent a lot of time training me very seriously. This is big girls playing with the real wolves.” Mac stood up. “I’ve gotta use the bathroom. Take a minute and make sure you’re in. 150%. If you have doubts, now is the time to pull out. We can go back to wine and charcuterie.”
When she sat back down ten minutes later, Freda said, “You know I’m in, of course. Penny’s in too.”
Mac hailed the waitress and ordered desert and coffee for the table. She pulled out two cheap cell phones and placed one in front of each woman. “From this point forward this is the only way you communicate with me. I’ve loaded them up. If you need me, text or call me. I’m the only number in there. If I tell you to get rid of the phone, immediately flush the sim card down the toilet, wipe the fingerprints from the phone, and drop it in a public trash bin. On the street kinda public. Not in your offices.”
Freda grinned. “All spy-like.”
“These are just basic precautions. NSA, NSC, CIA, MSS, phone companies, internet companies - they know everything. So we go basic: we stay off the grid. They don’t have as many foot soldiers as they do tech guys these days.”
Penny whispered, “Who is they?”
“All of them. Depends on whose business we disturb.”
Freda eyed Mac. “Did you just say MSS - as in the Chinese?”
Mac nodded.
“Jesus. I’m a managing editor at the New York News and I’m sure - that compared to what you know, I’m a babe in the woods.” She asked, “When do you start?”
“You don’t need to know that.”
Freda said, “We know why we’re doing this. Mac, why are you doing this?”
Mac watched the smoke rise from the flickering candle. “Two reasons. First, my two closest friends asked me. And I learned last night that more Americans have been killed by guns in the US than have died in all of this country’s wars. I didn’t spend my adult life overseas defending a country that’s killing its own damn self.”
5
Lexington, KY
The low, red brick building sat in a valley between two rolling green hills, hidden from the road to Lexington. A long driveway meandered past a modern, Plexiglass signboard with brushed, silver letters that read Scimitar Defense Ltd.
In the lot, Mac pulled up next to a brand-new, tan Porsche Panamera parked in the single VIP spot. She stepped out of her red, rented sedan as a blue-eyed blond in a tight fitting pale pink sweater stretched across a C-cup. The sticky Kentucky summer heat enveloped her. She gently smoothed down a fitted, print mini-skirt.
She sauntered through the glass door into a chilly reception area. A low hum buzzed from a distant manufacturing floor.
She reached the reception desk and smiled at the young woman. In a thick, southern Louisiana drawl, she announced, “I’m hear to see your CFO. I’m from the accountants.” Just as the receptionist picked up the receiver on her desk phone, Mac leaned over conspiratorially. “But can I use your little ladies’ room first?”
The receptionist smiled sympathetically and pointed down a side hallway. “Of course. It’s just down that hall. Second door on your right.”
Mac blinked her heavily mascaraed eyes. “Lifesaver! Thank you!”
She sashayed down the hall on tall, wedge heels, swinging her pink handbag.
Glancing back over her shoulder, she confirmed the hallway was empty and stepped into the bathroom. It also was empty. In the last stall, she unraveled half a roll of toilet paper and flushed it. Unsatisfied, she unrolled the rest of the roll and flushed this. On a third attempt, the toilet backed up, water roiled over, and a lake spread across the tiles, beyond the stall walls.
She counted silently to ten.
She slammed open the bathroom door and rushed down t
he hall. She turned the corner flapping her hands. “Oh my god. You have to come help me. The toilet! It’s backed up!”
The receptionist jumped up, hurried past her, and dashed down the hall.
Mac squeaked, “Last stall. Oh my god.”
The receptionist threw open the bathroom door and rushed in.
Mac quietly returned to the empty lobby, stepped behind the desk, lifted the phone receiver, and dialed an international number. On the third ring, a deep voice answered with an Arabic accent. “Hallo?”
Holding the receiver to her ear, Mac stretched the phone’s cord as she peeked around the corner and down the hallway. From behind the bathroom door, she heard the receptionist pumping a plunger and muttering, “Stop stop stop.”
In her ear, the male voice grew insistent. “Hallo? Hallo?”
Mac slowly set the receiver back down on the cradle. From the side pocket of her pink handbag, she pulled out the business card from the Zurich art gallery and carefully placed it in the receptionist’s pen holder.
She walked out the lobby door, back into the summer heat.
Two hours later, Mac watched the tan sports car speed past her on the country road to Lexington. She set off after it in the rental car. Other than a few cars passing in the oncoming lane, the road was empty. She hung back and let the sports car take the curves out of line-of-sight. The road was a straight shot into Lexington with only dirt turn-offs; she wouldn’t lose the sports car.
Ten minutes later, she watched the Porsche slow and pull into the gravel parking lot of a country bar. It was a ramshackle, wood planked building with peeling paint. High in the peak of the weathered roof, a neon light blinked weakly in the late afternoon sun announcing the bar’s name as ‘Homers’.
Out on the road to Lexington, she cruised past the driveway for another three miles then circled back. She pulled into the far corner of the parking lot, her tires crunching gravel.
