Kyle scribbled notes.
“But with Islamic militants and jihadis on the rise, our interim government knew these weapons could and would be used against them as well,” Malik had said.
“Let me guess,” Kyle said, holding up a hand. “The US helped you round up the weapons and get them out of the country?”
Malik smiled and nodded. “Exactly! It was good for everybody! Don’t you see? It helped us control the jihadi militias. We did what we could to help the US, which had a use for them.”
“A use for them?”
Malik shrugged.
“Where are the weapons now?” Kyle had asked.
“On the ship,” Malik said. “In the harbor.”
“Now?” Kyle had said, stunned at Malik’s revelation.
Forty minutes later, Kyle, Jamal, and Malik climbed out of Malik’s official vehicle at the Tripoli harbor. It was not a large port, just several concrete and asphalt docks where rusted and aging cargo ships were tied beside stacks of rusting cargo containers.
Three armed men, two with automatic rifles, appeared from the ship’s shadowy interior wearing dark polo shirts embroidered with the distinctive yellow Atlas Global logo, sun glasses covering their eyes, full beards covering their faces. They bristled when they saw Kyle.
“What’s he doing here?” one of the Atlas Global agents asked Malik. The agent was shorter than the others, but looked and acted very much in charge. He had closely cropped, sandy brown hair, and looked extremely fit, as did the others.
Malik explained he was showing Kyle about how the new Libyan government was cooperating with the US and how important it was that people did not think Libya was against the US.
Kyle handed his business card to the Atlas Global agent.
“Jesus H. Christ,” the agent said, turning the card over in his hands. Glaring at Malik, he barked, “You brought a fucking reporter here?”
Malik looked surprised, then confused, realizing he’d done something wrong.
“Who are you?” Kyle asked.
“None of your fucking business,” the Atlas agent barked, and turning to Malik, growled, “Get him the hell out of here.”
Malik had grabbed Kyle by the elbow and led him away, but by then bells were clanging in Kyle’s head like he’d hit the jackpot at a slot machine. On the way back to Malik’s office, Kyle pummeled the general with more questions. But Malik remained tight-lipped, staring out the window at the passing cityscape as if it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.
Kyle thanked Malik as they parted in the parking lot. Back at his hotel, Kyle went straight for the bar, found a quiet corner, opened his lap top, and began flipping through his notes as he pounded out an extensive memo to Frankel.
Kyle realized he’d stumbled into a secret operation to funnel weapons to Syrian rebels, something that President Harris had said publically he was not going to do. But in fact, he was. Kyle had just enough facts to write an analysis, a speculative article about what had really happened at the consulate and why.
As he wrote, the US’s claim the attack on the consulate was about an anti-Islam video was laughable. The consulate was attacked because that is where the jihadis had thought the massive weapons stockpile was being kept. The weapons had already helped depose Gaddafi and the Islamists wanted the weapons now to help them install fundamentalist rule. But the weapons weren’t there. They had been at the CIA’s annex before being loaded onto a cargo ship. And, the US had other uses for the weapons. Sitting in the cool darkness of the hotel bark, Kyle had ordered a beer, and when it arrived, he took a long drink and began to write.
Chapter 11
Kyle wiped a bead of sweat from his right temple. He shifted his weight to relieve the nagging ache in his left knee. He wore low cut hiking shoes, not his usual cowboy boots, and swiped his palms on his jeans, feeling the heat under his light cotton shirt. He adjusted his sunglasses and lifted a notebook to shade his eyes. An oversized American flag rippled noisily atop a tall flagpole behind him.
Kyle scanned the valley once again. Sloping, tree-covered hills rose gently to distant, snow-capped peaks, clear and sharp against a deep blue sky. A fleet of hulking black SUVs, jeeps, and military Humvees lined the curved driveway nearby. The SUVs were part of the motorized convoy that had delivered him and the other reporters, along with a platoon of political aides, to the lodge in advance of the arrival of President Harris and the congressional leaders. Kyle turned back to the grassy expanse where the President’s helicopter was about to land.
The ranch retreat was certainly remote enough, Kyle thought. President Harris and his political adversaries wanted to get away from the fishbowl of Washington, D.C., the White House had said. The geography alone seemed to provide ample protection for this elite gathering. Beyond the landing site, broad and well-stocked trout ponds extended to the piñon and ponderosa pine forests that covered the surrounding hills. And beyond the nearby slopes was some of the most remote and pristine high country in North America. The Vista Verde Ranch was a playground for the rich and the super-rich and had been for more than a century.
Kyle shifted from foot to foot, growing anxious. He and the others had waited dutifully for an hour now, behind a half-circle of yellow plastic rope where they’d been herded by the White House staff like corralled animals and kept clustered outside the massive stone and wood main lodge of the Vista Verde Ranch. This was the so-called “lame-stream” news media, a phrase that turned his stomach. Lately the derisive tones had become worse. Reporters and correspondents were labeled as “enemies of the people.” It was understandable because most residents of the far right were presented as nut jobs, blinded by their allegiance to a political ideology often contrary to simple and obvious facts. It was championed by a small group in the US Congress who called themselves the Liberty League. Ironically, they opposed government in general and any new laws in particular. They exerted undue influence because the conservatives needed them to keep their razor-thin majority on both houses of Congress. The Liberty League claimed to be the true voice of the people. But they weren’t. They were the voice of their own misguided groupies, yet if anyone pointed it out, they were called enemies of the people.
It was the oldest game in the book. Rather than refute the facts, it’s easier to discredit the source. It was how lawyers got the guilty to go free. Argue that the accuser is the problem, not the crime. Trust in the traditional news media was at an all-time low, way down there with politicians. Garbage collectors had more respect.
Some said the news media only had itself to blame, because objective journalism required that each side have its say. But what if both sides were lying? Political spin was countered with more spin, until it all spun out of control. Journalists knew it was all nonsense and so did most readers and viewers.
Because of the perceived new media bias, David Benedict’s Wolfe News had mushroomed into the most popular source of news and information in the nation. The Wolfe News message was that what you see and hear anywhere else was a twisted version of the truth. Only on Wolfe News could one get the facts. It didn’t matter that Wolfe News was effectively the mouthpiece of the Liberty League and got its facts wrong as often as right.
Kyle shook his head to clear his musings as the gleaming green and white Marine Corps One presidential helicopter circled high over the pine-covered slopes that defined the valley. He lifted his notebook to shade his eyes as the presidential helicopter descended, the flag casting a wavering shadow over the news media scrum.
The Marine One downdraft raised a swirling cloud of dust and grit as it settled onto the expanse of sparse grass where a white “X” has been spray-painted inside a large white circle. The chopper’s engine wound down and the spinning blades slowed as the side door opened and stairs flopped out and onto the ground.
President Harris appeared in the doorway, glanced from side to side, smiled broadly, waved, t
hen stepped to the ground. America’s first black man to be elected president, he wore an open collar white shirt, his shirtsleeves rolled up on his sinewy forearms. The cuffs of his dark pants rested on polished shoes. Harris stepped aside and waited for the others to emerge.
Next came Martin Blount, the senior senator from Tennessee and the Senate majority leader, an elderly, frail looking man with a receding chin and sunken chest. Thick-lens glasses enlarged his eyes, lending him a wide-eyed look of permanent astonishment. He glanced around furtively, as if he didn’t want to be there, and carefully descended the steps.
Blount was followed by Troy Divine of Texas, the Speaker of the House. Known as “The Ram” for his ability to cram legislation through Congress, Divine wore alligator hide cowboy boots, jeans, and a bright red western-style shirt with pearl snaps and white piping, along with a bolo tie made of a large piece of turquoise. He adjusted his wide, white cowboy hat and took a deep breath of the mountain air, puffing out his barrel chest, then flashed a wide, toothy smile.
Harris walked to a small lectern with two foam-covered microphones and turned to wait until he was joined by Blount and Divine. The three men stood side-by-side as Harris squinted in the sunlight to collect his thoughts.
“The Congress and my administration have been at odds for much of my two terms in office,” Harris began. “At the invitation of the leaders in the House and Senate, I have agreed to meet this weekend in hopes we can move this country forward.”
One of the regular White House correspondents raised a hand.
“Let me finish,” Harris said with a wave. “I know there are many skeptics who are critical of my decision to meet here in this particular way. But, that kind of criticism is nothing new. I’ve been hearing it for the past few years. It’s an unfortunate fact of political life that Congress has done nothing but stonewall any and all efforts to solve America’s toughest problems, here at home and abroad. That being said, we’re committed breaking this impasse, knowing that it can only help the American people in the near and far term.”
Harris turned to the men at his side and nodded, then looked back at the press. “We’ve agreed to keep remarks at a minimum so we can get down to business immediately. There is no time to waste. I’ll take just a few questions.” Harris pointed to one of the television network reporters. “Yes, Jim.”
“Why do you think you’ll be able to reach compromise now after years of political gridlock?” the correspondent asked.
“It’s simple,” Harris said. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Kyle raised his hand and Harris pointed to him.
“Members of your own party have criticized this meeting,” Kyle said, “saying that not only is it useless, that the location is, well, questionable because of its remoteness.”
Harris scowled and shook his head. “As I’ve said many times before, I will meet with anyone, anywhere to do what’s right for America. I can think of no other place more conducive to our work than this. I don’t believe that the deer and elk around here, or the eagles, or the trout in the pond pose will cause any disruptions.”
A few of the correspondents chuckled.
“Seriously,” Harris continued, “in addition to my normal security contingent, this ranch is the headquarters of Atlas Global Security, one of the world’s most highly respected private security companies. As you know, Atlas Global provides security for many of our diplomatic missions. Highly trained, dedicated, and experienced men and women staff all of these agencies. I have no worries that this location is ideal for the work we have to do.”
Harris pointed to another reporter.
“Let’s hear from Senator Blount and Speaker Divine,” the correspondent said.
Harris nodded, stepped back from the small lectern, and motioned both men forward.
Blount leaned close to the microphone, and glancing around with his enlarged eyes, said, “Well, there’s not a lot I can add to the president’s remarks. I think it’s pretty clear why we’re here.”
“Why do you think you can accomplish something at this meeting when you haven’t in the past?” the correspondent asked.
“As members of the opposition party,” Blount said, “we have certain specific goals we would like to discuss with President Harris. Among them are badly needed changes to the health care act, what has become known as Harris Care. That’s one. We also want to re-examine the Wall Street reforms because we believe they are severely restricting investment and economic growth. Another is border security. This country is being flooded with illegal immigrants. Those are just a few of the issues, but they’re the big ones. If we can make progress on any those fronts, then I’ll count this meeting as a success.”
A couple of the other correspondents raised their hands, but Blount waved them off, and instead turned to Divine, who stepped to the lectern, smiled and nodded, and gripped it with both hands.
“Tell ya what,” Divine said. “I’m happy as hell to be here and, well….” He paused and looked around the ranch, his eyes settling on the trout ponds. “I can’t wait to throw a line into that water over there. I hear tell they got some trophy trout in there.” Divine grinned widely, nodded, and waved as he stepped away. “Thanks for coming. We’ll be talking to y’all later.”
As Divine, Blount, and Harris walked toward the lodge, other reporters shouted out questions, but Harris only waved. The press conference was over.
The trio was greeted by the staff of the Vista Verde Ranch who had lined the steps, including the lodge’s chef who wore a tall chef’s hat, and the house maids, all dressed in black with white tops and crowns. Television cameras tracked the men’s progress up the steps and through the lodge’s open doors.
Kyle turned to one of the other correspondents. “That was worthless.”
The man, who had swapped his suit for jeans and a safari shirt, grimaced behind sunglasses. “Welcome to the White House press corps,” he said.
“I never joined,” Kyle said softly as he turned, and like the other correspondents, began to drift away, each tapping numbers into their phones. Kyle dialed, listened to the ring, and after a moment, Frankel answered.
“Harris didn’t say much. The leadership didn’t say much either. They’ll have a statement later when they have something to say.”
Frankel exhaled noisily. “We need a story, Kyle, something strong for tomorrow’s paper. We just can’t go with only Harris’ lame remarks and happy talk.”
“Let’s just forget the usual he-said, she-said stuff,” Kyle said. “I’m going to write an analysis that this is Harris’s last ditch effort to salvage the last year of his term, and well, the legacy of his administration.”
“Kinda states the obvious, doesn’t it?” Frankel said.
“Maybe, but that’s the point of this exercise,” Kyle said. “I can work in a variety of issues and write about Harris’s opposition. The conservatives need to get something big out of this meeting as well. Because of the Liberty League, they’re labeled as the party of no. This could change their image.”
“Okay,” Frankel said. “But ‘just say no’ has been working for them. When can you have it to me?”
“Give me a couple of hours.” Kyle hung up and headed to one of the many outlying bungalows scattered around the main lodge and half hidden in the surrounding forest. The rest of the White House press corps and the congressional and presidential staffers were also housed in bungalows, while President Harris, Speaker Divine, and Senator Blount were in the main lodge’s upper rooms. Kyle would not be alone. He’d be bunking with his cousin Raoul, who was a key part of the Atlas Global security detail at the lodge, the right-hand man for his boss, Hank Benedict.
***
An hour and a half later, Kyle looked up from his laptop to the knock on his cabin door. “Come in,” he said.
Raoul’s face popped through the open doorway. “Howdy
, primo,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him. “Am I disturbing the genius at work?”
Kyle motioned to the bungalow’s leather couch. “Have a seat.”
Raoul wore tan cargo pants, a dark black polo shirt emblazoned with the Atlas Global logo, desert boots, and his camouflaged boonie hat. “You finished? Or what?”
“Almost.” Kyle scanned the last few sentences of his story, and satisfied, closed out the story, attached it to an email, and clicked the mouse to send it to Frankel. The tension in his neck and shoulders extended down his back. “God. I haven’t written on deadline for a long time.” He rolled his shoulders several times, then leaned back and stretched his arms high above his head, twisting his head one way and then another, the cartilage crackling.
“It could be worse,” Raoul said.
“How’s that?”
“Not writing at all.”
“Good point,” Kyle said. “I have a request.”
“Just one?”
Kyle groaned. “I want to check out the accommodations and security detail.”
“Are you a terrorist?”
“It depends on who you ask,” Kyle said. “I’ve been called the enemy of the people.”
“The security is as good as it gets,” Raoul said. “Trust me.”
“I’d still like to see it.”
“Why are you so fixated on security up here? Who in the hell could get up here, anyway? There’s nothing easy about it. And even if they did, they’d encounter the largest collection of protective services this country can muster.”
Kyle shrugged. “Let’s see, okay?”
Chapter 12
A dozen Secret Service agents and an equal number of Atlas Global personnel surrounded the lodge, but at a distance, some in the shadowy pines at the edge of the valley, most wearing sun glasses and bulky holsters under their loose-fitting clothes. Raoul touched the brim of his hat and nodded to the two Atlas Global men posted at the entry to the lodge as he and Kyle scaled the steps and pushed through the large, double wood doors.
Enemy of the People Page 7
