Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  “If I remember correctly, you were also knocked down by the explosion. Maybe you’re confused, as well.”

  “I don’t think so,” Jack told him. “And my memory’s just fine.”

  Forsyth smiled again. It took some effort. “Or maybe you’re just disappointed that our investigation hasn’t turned up any Muslims for you to kill?”

  The shot went straight to the heart, and after a split second of stunned surprise, the reporters around Jack laughed uproariously, nodding and shaking their heads.

  It was, Jack had to admit, the perfect response. It immediately branded him a crackpot who shouldn’t be taken seriously.

  Jack thought of Tom Drabinsky and felt his own anger rising in his chest. He had a hard time believing the story this smug little jerk was selling, and he felt sick at the thought that Drabinsky’s sacrifice might be explained away by a lie.

  Something Jack had learned quickly as a combat journalist was that anything the commanding officers had to say should be taken with a heavy dose of skepticism. The soldiers on the ground were the ones who knew the truth, and that’s who he needed to go to in order to find it.

  He had no idea why the FBI would lie about this, but could only assume that they’d been unable to make any progress in the case and needed an easy scapegoat. Someone the President could point at to assure the public that the federal government was doing its job.

  A quote from Isaiah came to mind: “As for my people, a babe is their master, and women rule over them.” It was to this state America had fallen.

  A few more questions were asked, but Jack tuned out the rest of it, knowing that it was just more nonsense. And when the party broke up, he immediately moved toward the podium, approaching Vince McElroy, one of Drabinsky’s crew.

  “Vince…” he said, keeping his voice low.

  McElroy turned, not quite looking him in the eye. “Hey, Jack.”

  “What’s going on here? Do you believe a word that guy said?”

  McElroy gave him a halfhearted shrug. “We caught the bad guys. Isn’t that all that matters?”

  He started to turn away and Jack grabbed the sleeve of his uniform. “Wait a minute—wait. Are you telling me you’re falling for this crap?”

  “They’ve got the evidence, don’t they? Besides, like Tom always said, we’re just the garbage collectors. It doesn’t much matter what we think.”

  Then he pulled himself free and walked away.

  * * *

  Jack was headed back to his car when his cell phone rang. He dug it from his pocket and checked the screen: Tony Antiniori.

  “That was a load of bull if I ever saw one,” Tony said. “And I’ve been around for a long, long time.”

  “You watch from the boat?”

  “Yes, and I didn’t much like what I saw. Wouldn’t mind taking that FBI strunze straight up to the drop zone and letting go.”

  Jack smiled. “So what do you think we should do about it?”

  “I’ve got an old pal who lives up in Higgston,” Tony said. “I already gave him a call and he had some interesting things to say about the government’s star witness.”

  “Like what?” Jack asked.

  “You up for an early lunch?”

  “Sure.”

  “Meet me at Pagliaci’s in half an hour. We’ll talk.”

  7

  It was several months before Jack realized that Tony Antiniori had a limp. Only a keen eye could spot it, and when Jack finally did he wondered if it were a temporary thing.

  They were strolling through North Beach at the time, doing the rounds of the local bars, when Jack noticed the hitch in Tony’s step and said, “You hurt yourself?”

  Tony immediately corrected his walk, and the limp all but disappeared. But when Jack gave him a quizzical look, Tony said defensively, “You spend enough time doing twenty-foot jumps out of a Huey Slick with sixty pounds of gear on your back, you’d be walking funny, too.”

  Jack didn’t know the extent of Tony’s injuries from his days in Vietnam and the Gulf, but based on the stories he’d told, the old guy had to be in constant pain. That he hid it all so well and still managed to maintain a relatively balanced disposition was a testament to pure will.

  But that was Tony Antiniori.

  Jack was sitting at his favorite booth at Pagliaci’s on the Wharf, looking out at the bay and sipping a cup of perfect, nonbitter espresso, when Tony walked in, Eddie tucked under his arm. His limp was more pronounced than usual—a sign that he was hot and bothered about something.

  He weaved through the maze of white-clothed tables, struggled into the leather booth across from Jack, and sat Eddie between them. The Pescatori brothers didn’t normally allow dogs in their establishment, but for Tony they made an exception. The way Tony coddled Eddie, Jack sometimes wondered if what he was witnessing was a very slow, very deliberate dognapping.

  Tony said, “The streets were packed with Euro-Peons. Did you order yet?”

  Jack shook his head, then reached over and scratched Eddie under the chin. “Waiting for you two.”

  “I’m so steamed up right now, I’m not sure I can eat.”

  “Because of the press conference?”

  Tony nodded. “Darleen spent the night, and we were in bed this morning when we watched it. Killed the mood the minute that FBI douchebag opened his mouth.”

  Tony may have had his injuries, but that had never slowed him down when it came to the ladies. Darleen was a neighbor and his latest hookup. And if Tony Antiniori had passed up a morning liaison because of a routine press conference, that was saying something indeed.

  “You know me,” Tony went on. “I may have my share of secrets, but I’m pretty much what you see. I didn’t spend years in the jungle so some federal strunzo, a piece of shit, could lie to my face. I wanted to reach through my TV set and throttle that son of a btich.”

  “Imagine how I felt.”

  “You ask me, the way he slapped you down only confirms he’s a spokesmouth for some scumbag plot. Good thing I wasn’t in that room.”

  Jack smiled. “Easy, boy.”

  “I mean it. I saw that video you made. Your friend Drabinsky reminded me of some of the men in my unit, and it just about kills me to see these people use his sacrifice to sell their fairy tale.”

  “I thought exactly the same thing.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Jack took a sip of his espresso. “So what did you find out about the government’s star witness? Tell me about this friend of yours in Higgston.”

  “Met him years ago, while I was stationed up at Fort Lewis. He’s Higgston born and raised and he’s known this Clegg character since he was six years old. Says he’s a drunk, a liar, and an idiot all rolled into one.”

  “But why would Clegg lie?”

  “Why else?” Tony rubbed his thumb back and forth across his fingertips.

  “You think somebody paid him off?”

  “Makes sense to me. According to my friend, the Constitutional Defense Brigade is just a bunch of middle-aged tax dodgers sitting around bitching about the new world order. The only thing they’ve ever organized is a Saturday-night beer party.”

  “What about the C4 and the weapons?”

  “My buddy says the guns are all legal and you and I both know the C4 could have been planted. And get this: William Clegg didn’t try to join the CDB until two days after the bombing.”

  Jack immediately understood. “Someone manufactured a witness.”

  “That would be my guess. Nobody in the CDB can stand the guy. What does that tell you?”

  “The CDBers get angry just hearing his name,” Jack said. “On camera, it plays like they’re angry about something else.”

  “Like having their ring busted up,” Tony said.

  “So why would anyone fall for this nonsense?”

  Tony shrugged. “Same reason they always do. Everybody wants to believe. You’ve had some experience with that.”

  Jack nodded glumly, the
n took another sip of espresso. “I made a few phone calls, myself. Tried to get hold of Officer Beckman. Turns out he’s on medical leave in Florida.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  “No kidding. I saw his injury. Maxine took a bigger hit than he did and she’s already back to running ten miles a day.”

  “So who else did you call?”

  “Some of my old contacts at the FBI, but nobody seems to want to talk to me.”

  Tony gave him an amused look.

  “No, not just because it’s me.” Jack grinned.

  “The wall’s gone up,” Tony said, once again serious. “All because some punk said he thought the car belonged to an Arab.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  Tony thought for a moment. “He had to tell them more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tony leaned closer. The restaurant wasn’t very crowded and he didn’t want his voice to carry. “The carjack victim could have been Egyptian, Druze, Bahraini, and no one would give a damn. Or flip that around. What kind of Arab would the government care about?”

  “Off the top, Saudi, Iranian—”

  “Stop right there,” Tony said. “That’s the entire list. One a supposed ally, one an enemy. No one else could put a scare into Washington. Suppose the guy is GIP.” Tony was referring to the General Intelligence Presidency, the Saudi spy network. “He goes rogue, plans an attack. The Saudis won’t want that to become public knowledge. Spoils their image as being oh-so-damned-concerned about our security.”

  “Well, they are,” Jack said. “Who’s gonna bail them out when Iran goes nuclear.”

  “Exactly. My point is, that’s one reason to hush things up. It would make the Saudis look bad. But that’s not what happened.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I made some calls. There has been no uptick in GIP activity here. Zero.”

  “So the Saudis are not looking for this mysterious Arab,” Jack said.

  “Right. And they would be—looking hard. Now, suppose the guy is Iranian. That would mean those bad boys aren’t just shuttling weapons into Iraq anymore. They’re active here and trying to blow a hole in one of our cities.”

  Jack sat back. “Interesting theory. But the Arab could also be an independent operator, a radicalized student, any number of things.”

  “Agreed, but that’s not the point. Americans go right to the worst possible scenario, and a bunch of mini-Ahmadinejads running loose on our shores is one of those.”

  “I buy that. But what could this Leon kid have said that tipped them off?”

  “Have you ever read any of the government white papers on Iran?”

  “Not since I was stationed in the Gulf and they were part of the eyes-only press packets.”

  “Profiling has gotten a lot better since then. You know—the kind of stuff we’re not supposed to be doing but are.”

  Jack laughed.

  “I won’t get into the psychology of it, but here’s the shout-out for the young Iranian male,” Tony said. “Neatly pressed button-down white shirt, long sleeved. Sunglasses, day and night. Beige or light-colored slacks. Loafers, no socks. Expensive gold wristwatch. Think you’d notice those things casing out a carjack?”

  Jack nodded.

  “That, my friend, is why the FBI thinks this guy is Iranian. Maybe they know more than that, maybe Leon’s report and the explosion dovetailed with something they already knew, someone they were already watching.”

  “But it’s enough to trigger a good old-fashioned multiagency cover-up,” Jack said. “A bunch of local wackos seem a lot less threatening than an Islamic terrorist cell. And with only one man dead, people are bound to forget about this the minute some celebrity goes into rehab. It becomes a nonevent. And nonevents don’t threaten political careers unless someone wants them to.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’re a cynical bastard?”

  Jack smiled and was about to respond when a voice rang out from across the dining room, calling Tony’s name.

  They both looked up to see Danny Pescatori emerging from the kitchen with a grin on his face—a short, squat, powerful Sicilian who, along with his brother Carlo, had been running Pagliaci’s for over thirty years now, ever since their parents had retired.

  Pagliaci’s on the Wharf was a San Francisco institution. It had been standing on this very same spot for nearly a century, serving Sicilian seafood that made your mouth water just thinking about it. It didn’t hurt that it boasted a view of two dozen bobbing fishing boats, Alcatraz Island, and the bay, stretching past the Golden Gate Bridge to the Headlands.

  Jack had been coming here for longer than he could remember, and always found it difficult to say no to the shrimp. The Pescatoris made sure that he got the “A” shack supply, which was reserved for family and friends. Shrimp that always smacked of the sea. Briny, not slimy.

  But it was Tony who was the mainstay here. He’d practically grown up in the place and the Pescatoris always treated him like a brother. He knew more about the wharf and wharf politics than anyone really should, and had once said to Jack, “If I told you even a third of what I know, I’d be in cement shoes before you could peel one of those shrimp you love.” In San Francisco, almost all Italians of a certain generation knew each other like extended family.

  As Danny Pescatori emerged from the kitchen, he made a quick side trip to the front counter, then crossed the dining room toward them, waving a small card. “Hey, hey, Cousin, what did I tell you?”

  Despite his mood, Tony’s eyes lit up. “The gala?”

  Danny reached the table and dropped an invitation in front of him. “Next Saturday night, VIP entry.”

  It was a black-tie dinner at the Legion of Honor that promised appearances by the governor, the mayor, two senators, a roster of movie and rock stars that would make Woodstock look like a block party—and the President of the United States himself. At $7500 a plate, only the top tier would be there.

  Tony had been angling for this invitation for months. Not because he particularly cared about going—he wasn’t a fan of the current occupant of the White House—but because Darleen was hot to go and Tony knew he had to try to get them an invite.

  Not surprisingly, Danny Pescatori had come through.

  “I owe you, Cousin.”

  “Shut up, you. The day you owe me anything is the day I retire.”

  The sight of the invitation must have perked Tony up, because he suddenly declared that he was hungry.

  As usual, they both ordered off the menu, Tony asking for Carlo’s special seafood sausages, while Jack decided to stick to the “A” shack shrimp, drenched in marinara. He also ordered the pup his usual hamburger.

  The little guy actually licked his chops as if he knew exactly what was coming.

  When Danny went to put in the order, Jack said, “So where were we?”

  Tony sobered, pocketing his invitation. “Trying to pin down exactly what the FBI wants to cover up.”

  “Well, whoever’s behind it is crazy if they think they’ve heard the last of it. We know their story’s bull, and if there’s any truth to Leon Thomas’s statement, I need to find out. I owe that much to Drabinsky.”

  “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

  “Same way I always have. Keep whacking at the piñata until it finally breaks.”

  “You may not like what you find inside,” Tony told him. “Or worse yet, it may not like you.”

  “I’ve never let that stop me.”

  Tony nodded. “Fair enough. So what’s your next step?”

  Jack thought about it a moment. Then he said, “I think it’s time to call Bob Copeland.”

  8

  The Beat Café seemed like an odd place for a meet.

  It was located next to a strip club in North Beach, and Jack thought of it as really nothing more than a hamburger joint with a gimmick. Done up like an old 1950s coffeehouse, its walls were adorned with huge photographs of beatniks,
now long forgotten.

  Pay a small fee and you could walk through the restaurant to the back, climb a set of wooden steps, and find yourself in a tiny “museum” full of more photographs, newspaper articles, and even furniture, all centering around the prehippie Beat Generation.

  The museum had a kind of quiet, reverential charm, but was the last place Jack would have picked to rendezvous with a source. If anything, he would have chosen the Etna Café, which was just around the corner. At least you could get a decent drink there.

  He checked his watch, a vintage Hamilton Gilbert he’d inherited from his father that could well have been part of this museum.

  It was nearly nine P.M.

  He stood staring at a stark, moody portrait of an attractive blonde when he felt a presence next to him.

  Bob Copeland.

  “It’s always about the girl, isn’t it?” asked the rough, smoky voice. “Carolyn Cassady. She was the real driving force, you know. Married to Neal Cassady and sleeping with Jack Kerouac.”

  Copeland was a stout man with a bulldog face who had always reminded Jack of one of his heroes, Winston Churchill. Without the accent, of course.

  “That must’ve made for an interesting home life,” Jack said.

  Copeland waved an arm. “All this nonsense destroyed Kerouac. He was a true American literary giant who despised the so-called Beat Movement that hacks like Ginsberg ruthlessly promoted.” He looked at Jack. “Did you know Kerouac voted for Nixon?”

  “I had no idea.”

  Copeland shrugged. “It’s all ancient history. Which is what we’ll both be a few years down the line. Think anyone’ll ever erect a museum in our honor?”

  “Doubtful,” Jack said.

  A former Defense Department official, Vietnam combat veteran, and a leading proponent of cyberdefense, Copeland was a member of a conservative think tank who divided his time between Washington and San Francisco—Jack’s most reliable “anonymous” source back in the days of Truth Tellers. He had a direct line into the D.C. nerve center and Jack had been all too happy to mine that connection.

  The man also had a love affair with clandestine theatrics, which was why he always chose their meeting places. That usually meant the Museum of Modern Art, or the Academy of Sciences, but maybe Copeland was looking for a change of pace these days.