by Jack Bowie
Yang sat down and handled a file across the desk. “I was going through the backlog and was able to complete a decoding. I thought you would want to see it right away.”
Robinson hesitated. “Is it commercial?” he asked. Agency policy required that any intercepted commercial messages be immediately logged and archived. Access was extremely limited to avoid any insider trading scandals. It wouldn’t do to have too many millionaires popping up at the NSA.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, let’s take a look.” Robinson reached for the file and brought it down to his lap. As his eyes scanned the purloined transmission his expression never changed but he began to rock slowly forward and back in his chair. Yang had done it.
“Interesting. Is there anything more?”
“Not yet, but I’ve put the routings on the priority list. I’ll get anything else that takes the same path.”
“Good. Start a file. Call it,” he glanced down at the page, “QUARTERBACK. Eyes only. Let’s see what shows up next.”
“Yes, sir.” Yang rose and headed toward the door.
“And Kam . . .”
“Yes?” he turned back.
“Congratulations. I’ll let the Director know of your success.”
“Thank you, Garrett.”
Robinson watched as Yang closed the door behind him. He was caught. This was a major breakthrough. It needed to be reported. But to who?
* * *
Roger Slattery fidgeted uncomfortably in the back of the assault-proof Escalade wondering where he was about to be taken next. His boss, the Deputy Director for Intelligence at the CIA, had called an hour earlier and requested his presence in the parking garage “for a meeting.” It hadn’t been that unusual, he had had any number of similar requests in his past, but he doubted this time he was about to be whisked off to some godforsaken place on the other side of the planet to save the free world. Been there, done that, and his advanced age made such a request quite unlikely.
More probable was that his boss had gotten entangled in yet another political tar-pit and was looking for some off-the-book suggestions on saving his hide. Slattery had known the man for over twenty years and every request from the DDI had caused some upheaval in Slattery’s life. At least it was now not likely to involve implements of physical torture.
The passenger door opened and Peter Markovsky slid in. As soon as the door closed, the driver—Slattery only knew him as Glen—started them out of the underground garage. Markovsky was a small, owlish man, with short white hair and penetrating eyes hidden behind a pair of thick wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He was career-CIA, having seen extensive field duty in Europe and the Middle East. In addition to being a recognized expert in expressionist art, he was one of the most cold-blooded agents in the history of the Agency.
“Sorry to be late, Roger,” he began with a friendly tone that made Slattery even more uncomfortable. “Had a call with the Director that went long.”
“No problem, Peter. Where are we going?”
Markovsky smiled like a cat eyeing a canary. “Come on, Roger. Can’t we just go for a pleasant ride in the countryside?”
The car emerged from the garage into a torrential Washington rainstorm. The wipers were barely able to clear the sheets of water from the windshield.
Slattery stared out the side window at the deluge then turned back to his boss with a frown.
“Okay, so it isn’t a pleasure trip,” Markovsky conceded. “We’ve been summoned to the NCTC by Carlson.”
The National Counterterrorism Center, or the NCTC, as it was commonly-known, was a pristine new addition to the country’s visible commitment in the fight against terrorism. Located in McLean, Virginia, it was just a few minutes ride from Langley. NCTC employees, under the guidance of the Director of National Intelligence and including members of the constituent intelligence organizations, planned, gathered, analyzed, and reported on information related to terrorist activities.
“A new threat?” Slattery asked.
Markovsky shook his head. “Not that I know of. The DNI called this morning and asked that I bring my best counter-terrorism expert to today’s meeting. You drew the short straw. I need to give you some background on this one, however. It gets a bit touchy.”
Slattery shuddered. This sounded like a deep tar-pit.
“Steven Carlson had all the right credentials,” Markovsky explained, “Marine General, operational responsibility for Middle East counter-terrorism and a stint as Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. And after he was approved as DNI, he did all the expected things: he formed committees, commissioned analyses, and generated reports. All with the anticipated results—nothing changed.”
Slattery remembered when George W. Bush signed the bill creating the Director of National Intelligence position in 2004. The 9/11 Commission had described the suspicion, distrust, and even animosity among the members of the US intelligence community. It had been a complex, overburdened amalgamation of sixteen primary agencies and a varying number of other civilian and military groups. The DNI position, and NCTC, were created to eliminate the duplication and competition, and to provide a single source of validated, integrated information on America’s enemies.
At least that was the theory. The problem was that no one could organize away decades of deeply-ingrained behaviors. The spooks only talked to other spooks, the military only to other soldiers, and no one talked to Justice.
It was stupid. Slattery knew that our enemies talked to each other more than we did. But at least as far as he was concerned, the vote was still out as to whether Carlson could change any of it.
“After a couple of years of frustration,” Markovsky continued, “his covert training apparently took over—he went black. He formed a small group of trusted representatives from across the community to help him direct the intelligence effort. He calls us his ‘advisory group.’ We’re off the record and have no operational responsibilities. That’s still the purview of the individual agencies.”
“Does it work?” Slattery asked with only a bit of trepidation.
Markovsky stared into his lap then turned back to Slattery. “I’ll let you decide. I think we’re here.”
Ten minutes later, Markovsky and Slattery were settled in one of the innumerable Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities, or SCIFs, in the NCTC. It had been six months since Slattery had last visited the building. He could have been in this SCIF or any other. They were all the same: stale, recirculated air, bland, yellow walls, and the requisite pictures of the reigning President and DNI. Just the place for Carlson to hold court.
Markovsky was seated in an upholstered leather chair near the end of the long conference table while Slattery fidgeted in a hard plastic seat against the wall behind him.
The DDI stuck his head into a pile of papers he pulled from his briefcase, leaving Slattery to watch the posturing and strutting of the attendees. There were only six chairs at the table. He recognized the three that were occupied. In addition to Markovsky, there was Jerome Garcia from Homeland Security, David Scott from the State Department and Admiral Georges Delacroix from the J3 Operations Directorate of the Joint Chief’s office. Delacroix was a huge Louisiana Creole who towered over the other attendees, even seated. Markovsky said he spoke for all the intelligence groups of the military including the DIA.
So far, Slattery had to give Carlson the benefit of the doubt—he had picked an excellent team. His selections were not the agency directors: those figureheads cared more about their appointments and the political climate than substantive issues. They avoided taking sides and making real commitments. These were the rogues, the outspoken employees that knew their agencies’ strengths and weaknesses; knew how to work the system to their advantage, and knew that the only thing that counts is results.
Claude Stroller, Markovsky’s counterpart from the National Security Agency arrived, and took a seat next to Slattery’s boss. He whispered something in Markovsky’s ear, then turned back to speak with
an associate sitting behind him. They had a short exchange, Slattery couldn’t catch any of it, and Stroller returned to his own paper work.
General Steven Carlson marched in next, trailed by a single staffer, not the brood of gofers that normally accompanied him. The DNI looked older than Slattery had remembered. How long ago had it been since he had visited Langley? He still had the ramrod carriage of a Marine drill sergeant, but bags of skin hung limply under his eyes, and his skin showed a yellow pallor; too many days protecting the nation’s secrets.
Carlson scanned the room, stopping at the remaining empty chair at the table.
“We’ll wait until our final representative arrives,” the DNI announced, showing only a slight irritation at the delay.
As they waited, Slattery returned to the unfamiliar man sitting behind Stroller. He was dressed casually: blue blazer, khaki pants, starched oxford shirt and a striped rep tie. A look out of place in the sea of dark pin-stripes. As if he sensed the attention, the man turned toward the CIA agent. He gave a quick look, then went immediately back to his papers. Apparently Slattery wasn’t important enough to warrant continued attention.
All heads turned at the sound of the electronic latch and the last member of the advisory group entered.
Slattery couldn’t help but join the rest of the attendees as they stared at the figure striding toward the table. Mary Ellen Flynn, Special Assistant to the Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation, was built like an Olympic swimmer. Five feet ten, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, she was a poster-child for FBI recruitment. Her fiery red hair was pulled back from her face and tied in a neat bun; a concession to the conservative nature of her colleagues. Dressed in a trim light-blue double-breasted suit, cut to highlight her tiny waist, and tight-necked white silk blouse, she walked confidently into the room, completely aware that all the other eyes were focused on her entrance.
Flynn’s specialty was counterterrorism and she had been on assignment to the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division since Slattery had met her three years ago. She took her seat and spoke directly to Carlson.
“I’m sorry for being late, General. I wanted to get the latest status from our agents in the field.”
“That’s perfectly alright, Mary Ellen,” Carlson replied. “We had just gotten settled ourselves.” Carlson adjusted the papers on the table in front of him and took a deep breath.
“Before I begin, I wanted to explain the new participants in the room today. You all know that there is an election coming up and the potential for significant changes in this group’s membership as a result. I have asked each of you to bring a trusted associate as a first step in mediating any succession disruptions.
“I will not bother with introductions for the sake of time. Given your chosen professions, I’m sure you will remedy this omission expeditiously.
“Admiral Delacroix, if you could summarize the Joint Chief’s recent report on chemical warfare threats?”
Chapter 5
Tyler, Georgia
Monday, 11:30 a.m.
Holly pulled his Ford pickup into the graveled parking area and collapsed across the steering wheel. Things were moving too fast. He had always felt he could hold the pieces of his life together: his family, the store, and his commitments to his friends. But the last three months had pushed him to the edge of collapse.
First his family, then his business went to hell-in-a-handbasket. Then all the shit with Charlie and Gary. When would it end?
He needed something to eat. Maybe a sandwich and beer would help his mood.
Holly walked out of the blinding Georgia sunlight and into the cave-like darkness of Ricky’s, a crumbling brick and stucco greasy spoon three miles outside of Tyler. The familiar smells of frying oil and tobacco smoke immediately calmed him. His eyes hadn’t yet accustomed to the dim fluorescent illumination, but he navigated automatically across the beer-soaked sawdust floor to a barstool, oblivious of the other patrons. It was his first mistake of the day.
“Well, if it’s not the local revolutionary,” came a voice next to him.
Holly turned and saw to his disgust that the voice came from George Brown: owner, editor, and chief reporter of the town’s only newspaper. Brown was a transplanted Yankee who, Holly was convinced, had come to Tyler simply to make everyone’s life miserable.
“Why don’t you just shut the hell up, George?”
“Jesus, Macon. Having a bad day already? You must have been up all night plotting the destruction of the IRS.”
“Hey!” A short, bald gnome popped up from under the bar. Ricky Dalton’s head had been hairless for as long as Holly could remember. And that was a helluva long time.
“You two cut the shit,” Dalton continued. “It’s too early in the day.” Brown nodded and went back to his lunch plate. “What’ll it be, Macon?”
“Gimme a barbecue and a draft, Ricky.”
“Comin’ up.” Dalton grabbed a mug from the drain pad, filled it with an unlabeled amber fluid, and slid it down the bar to his friend. He then disappeared through a door behind the bar marked “Employee’s Only.”
Holly raised the glass, emptied it in a single swallow, and slid the mug back down the bar. Dalton would get the hint.
Holly had just started to relax when his barmate tossed another grenade.
“Saw Charlie last week.”
Holly spun on the stool toward the reporter. “Charlie? What the hell are you doing talking to him?” Charlie Kearns had been Holly’s predecessor as the head of Citizens for Liberty.
“I thought I might do a story on the wages of crime. I went down to Jesup to talk to him.”
“I’m surprised he talked to you. After the way you reported the trial.”
“He doesn’t have anybody else to talk to. He said he hadn’t seen you in over a year.”
Brown was right. Holly hadn’t visited his ex-best friend since just after the sentencing. He wanted to remember Kearns as the vital, bull of a man he was before they broke him. What was he going to say anyway?
“And I just reported what I heard, Macon,” Brown continued. “It wasn’t that complicated.”
“You heard what you wanted to hear, you bastard. Charlie never meant to do nobody no harm. Those ATF bastards broke into his place, trashed it, then arrested him for possession of explosives. For a couple of stupid sticks of dynamite. He’d been cleaning his fields that way for years. Never did try him for that though. Did they?”
“No. He just tried to kill some cops. Guess that’s not important.”
Holly slammed both fists on the bar top. “Jesus, George. After the Feds confiscated all his savings he couldn’t pay his mortgage. Then the damn city bankers came to steal his land. He told ‘em to stuff their goddamn papers. So they came back with the Patrol and Charlie tried to scare ‘em off. That’s all he did, just try to scare ‘em off!”
“You gotta obey the law, Macon. You can’t go shooting at people just ‘cause you don’t like what they’re doing.”
“You can if what they’re doin’ ain’t right. You’ve got a right to protect yourself. That’s what the Constitution says, George. You ought to read it sometime.”
“I’ve read it, Macon. And you’re way off base. You’re living in the past. You and all your crazy friends. The sooner you realize it, the better off we’ll all be.”
“One of these days somebody’ll come after you, newspaper man.” He poked his finger at Brown’s face. “Then you’ll think different.”
Holly turned and saw Dalton reappear from the kitchen with his sandwich. There was no way he was going to put up with anymore of this crap.
“Wrap that up for me, Ricky,” he yelled. “I’m leaving. The air in here’s making me sick.”
* * *
“What was all that about?” asked a man sitting next to Brown.
“That, Mr. Luckett, was Holly Macon, keeper of the flame of liberty and head redneck of Tyler, Georgia.”
“Oh. Your favorite foil. You’ve done quite a few
pieces on him as I remember. I’m surprised he didn’t rip your face off.”
Brown shook his head. “I’m not. Actually Macon’s not all that bad. He might be a decent guy if he wasn’t mixed up with all this militia shit. And he’s got bigger problems than me to deal with lately.”
Brown took another bite of his Ricky’s Special, southern spit-grilled pork barbecue with the hottest sauce Brown had ever tasted. It was probably just as well the sauce was so pungent, the meat would have been inedible without it. He looked over at his friend’s order and noticed the sandwich was barely half eaten. It floated in a pool of dark orange grease on the paper plate.
“What’s the matter, Taylor? Not hungry?”
“It’s a little too, eh, spicy for me, George.”
“Bullshit. You’re just getting soft up there in the big city.” Brown chugged the remaining half of his beer and slammed the glass mug on the bar. “Another round for me and my friend, Ricky,” he called.
“Not for me,” Luckett replied waving his hand over the draft. “It’s a little early in the day.”
“Jesus,” Brown muttered, “you used to be a real reporter. Must be getting soft hanging around with all those politicians.”
“Maybe just a bit smarter, George. You don’t have to attack everything head on to get something done.”
Dalton brought another beer and had almost escaped when Brown lit into him. “Hey Ricky,” he began. “Did I introduce you to my friend here?”
“No, George. You didn’t.”
“This is Mr. Taylor Luckett. He’s a big shot reporter up north.” Brown chugged another half mug. “Washington, Dee Cee. If you ask him real nice, he’ll make you famous.”
“Don’t think I need that, George,” Dalton replied with a smile. “What brings y’all down to Tyler, Mr. Luckett?”
“Just a little vacation, Mr. Dalton. George and I worked together in Baltimore and he keeps telling me what a wonderful place Tyler is. I had some free time so I came down for a visit.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay.” A couple called from a booth and Dalton nodded in reply. “Got work to do. Nice meetin’ you, Mr. Luckett. And don’t go believing everything George here says about us. We’re just a bunch of simple country folk tryin’ to get by.”
