Root and Branch

by Preston Fleming

  The moment he stopped speaking, Margaret Slattery raised a slender hand.

  “Excuse me, Nelson, but I have a question about the trade embargo you mentioned. I think I understand the goal, as applied to belligerents like Iran, Pakistan, Sudan and Somalia. But what about moderate Muslim countries like Egypt and Bangladesh and Indonesia? How are they supposed to react when they see their fellow Muslims starving or dying of disease for lack of imported food or medicine?”

  Blackburn regarded Slattery with a tired smile, as if he had expected such a question from her. While Zorn admired her temerity, he feared she might be sticking her neck out too far.

  “Countries with large Muslim majorities have a choice, Margaret,” Blackburn replied. “They can help the international community eradicate violent jihad, or they can condone it and become pariah states.”

  To Zorn’s surprise, Slattery offered Blackburn a polite nod and let it go. Leslie Trotter was next to speak.

  “What if a country pretends to reject jihad and cooperate with us, but secretly harbors known jihadis?” the tall blonde woman from the DNI’s office asked. “Will the White House look the other way or will it send our operators to go in after them?”

  Blackburn let out a deep sigh.

  “You know, Leslie, I was around in the eighties when Western governments allowed Palestinian skyjackers to sip their sweet coffee and smoke their hubbly-bubblies unmolested in the cafés of Beirut and Damascus. That negligence spawned a new generation of terrorists and a fresh batch of deadly tactics. We didn’t wake up to it until the 9/11 attacks and the train bombings in London and Madrid. America won’t make that mistake again. Our new policy is one of global zero-tolerance toward Islamist-inspired terrorism. Wherever we find it, we’ll hit it hard.”

  “And how exactly will that zero-tolerance policy apply here in the States?” asked Audrey Lamb, the Justice Department attorney. “Terrorists residing overseas don’t have constitutional rights. U.S. citizens and residents do.”

  Zorn noticed Charlie Scudder’s face cloud over as Lamb spoke. But Blackburn offered her a knowing smile.

  “Ah, Audrey. As usual, you’ve put your finger on a key issue. You see, in rooting out the jihadist, it’s not enough to have a guilty suspect. We also aim to have an innocent system. During a national emergency, that isn’t easy. Compromises may be required.”

  The expression on the DOJ attorney’s face, which had brightened upon hearing the words “innocent system,” darkened on hearing the word “compromises.” Margaret Slattery likewise cast a disapproving glance at Blackburn and folded her arms across her chest. The strategist seemed to detect the shift in mood and glanced around the table to see how the other attendees reacted.

  “The president has made his intentions clear,” Blackburn resumed in a firm voice. “He expects this group, and our respective organizations, to crush the intifada as rapidly as humanly possible. To do this, what’s needed is an indomitable will, a readiness for sacrifice, and the stomach for an ugly fight.”

  Once again the two female attorneys scowled, while at the table’s far end, Leslie Trotter recoiled, her eyes flitting about the room as if searching for an exit.

  Blackburn seemed to notice this and shifted uncomfortably in his seat while exchanging glances with Charles Scudder. As if on cue, Scudder picked up where his White House colleague left off.

  “By now it must be abundantly clear to every thinking person that, while our Bill of Rights protects those who practice the Islamic faith, radicals who seek to create an Islamic theocracy by force of arms commit the crime of sedition. To preserve the republic, such outlaws must be prosecuted or otherwise removed from our midst.”

  Margaret Slattery looked unpersuaded and raised her hand once more to speak.

  “According to the latest polls, Charlie, a million Muslims living in America favor some form of violence against civilians on behalf of political Islam. Even more favor sharia law, and many are American citizens. Surely, you don’t propose to put them all behind bars or deport them. Where on earth would you keep them? Or send them?”

  “If they want to live under sharia law, why not send them where it’s already in effect?” Pat Craven jumped in. “I don’t know anywhere else that will take them, do you?”

  “I thought we were blockading those countries,” Leslie Trotter piped up from the end of the table.

  “We’re not blockading all of them,” Max Steiner answered. “Some Islamist regimes are quietly cooperating with us and have shown a willingness to accept our unwanted jihadis. For a price, that is. Many of those countries possess vast domains outside government control. Places where warlords hold sway, and where electricity, paved roads and flush toilets are rarities. The governments send their own hard cases there, and the warlords find uses for them. And once someone’s out there, it’s not easy to find his way back. I happen to like that model.”

  Zorn noticed Margaret Slattery’s green eyes open wide. And for the first time during the meeting, she grabbed the note pad she had pushed away earlier and began scribbling.

  “Sorry, but I just don’t see that as realistic,” Audrey Lamb objected. “For a whole host of reasons. For starters, video footage of mass deportations would leak, igniting a media firestorm. And you can imagine the effect that images of sobbing mothers and children would have on voters in the next election.”

  “Then where would you propose sending the Category Ones, Audrey?” Craven demanded.

  For a long moment, silence reigned. Then Max Steiner’s voice rang out.

  “To hell, if it can be arranged.”

  The DOJ lawyer gasped.

  “Do jihadis even have a hell?” Scudder asked, a thin smile forming on his lips.

  “They will soon, and we have planes waiting to take them there,” Steiner added.

  For a long moment, a frigid silence reigned. It was a sinister comment and Zorn wondered exactly what Steiner had in mind. He cast a quick glace at Audrey Lamb and thought she might get up and leave. Then Margaret Slattery came to the problem from a different angle.

  “It’s one thing to prosecute someone based on probable cause, Charles,” the White House attorney pointed out. “But to do it based on an algorithm is quite another. Do you mean to say that the president’s emergency powers permit us to detain and remove not just deportable aliens, but U.S. citizens and permanent residents, purely on the basis of their Triage scores?”

  “Yes, I do, Margaret,” Scudder answered. “It’s settled law that, in times of crisis, the president has the authority to balance national security interests against constitutionally protected liberties. Lincoln did it in the Civil War, suspending habeas corpus and emancipating slaves without compensating their owners.”

  He paused to let Slattery reply, but seeing her continue to jot on her notepad, he went on.

  “Later, Woodrow Wilson shut down newspapers and prosecuted journalists during the First World War. Roosevelt went even further in World War II. Need I mention the detention of Japanese- and German-Americans? Do you honestly believe that our current president lacks the authority to do similar things, now that America has been hit with nuclear EMP strikes and jihadists rioting and detonating bombs in our streets?”

  “He might do it, but it would stretch the constitution to the breaking point,” Slattery responded. “Must we really destroy the constitution to save it?”

  All eyes were on Scudder now, and Slattery’s smoldered with contempt. Zorn felt sudden discomfort at the growing realization that what had become legal today in America might be far from what he imagined possible.

  “Is that your considered legal opinion, counselor?” Scudder replied with an eyebrow raised in challenge.

  “It’s my considered personal opinion,” Slattery answered, meeting Scudder’s gaze head-on. Zorn admired her courage, but couldn’t see that she had gained much by it.

  “Ah, I see,” the NSC official answered, turning away from her to look around the table. “Just out of curiosity, how m
any lawyers do we have in the room?”

  Zorn raised his hand, as did Slattery, Lamb, Trotter, and the man from FBI.

  “Christ, it’s worse than I thought,” Scudder commented with a hollow laugh. “Fortunately, I can assure you that the president’s chief counsel has submitted a classified legal opinion affirming that DHS and the FBI have all the powers they need to detain or remove whomever they choose, U.S. citizen or otherwise. Margaret, I believe you’ve read that opinion. Would you like to comment on whether my characterization is accurate?”

  Slattery’s freckled face reddened as she reached for a carafe to pour herself a glass of ice water.

  “Sadly, it is,” she replied. “In my view, the opinion gives the president virtual carte blanche.”

  Scudder nodded and cast a triumphant glance at Nelson Blackburn, who returned his look with an anxious expression.

  “All right, let’s take a ten-minute break,” Scudder announced.

  Thus far, neither Zorn nor Larry Lawless had been called upon to speak, which was fine with Zorn. For though he opposed Triage scores being manipulated to justify deportations of non-violent Muslims, he wasn’t prepared to give up his DHS contracts over it. Not yet, at least. For that he would need to know more about Scudder’s plans and see solid evidence of abuses. Because if the ESM program ever did become an Abu Ghraib-like fiasco, he could not permit Zorn Security to be caught up in it.

  Zorn hung back as the other participants rose from their seats and filed out of the stuffy conference room. A minute later, he made his way out to fetch a fresh cup of tea and caught up with Larry Lawless as he strode toward the coffee island.

  “Doesn’t sound as if Charlie has everyone singing his tune quite yet,” Zorn quipped in a low voice after making sure no one else was within earshot. “I wonder what else he intends to lay on us once he’s done with the team-building.”

  His remark was intended to draw out Lawless, and Zorn smiled inwardly when the Tetra executive signaled with his eyes to follow him to an empty corner of the reception area. The other Tetra man, Max Steiner, was nowhere in sight.

  “You did right by staying out of the debate,” Lawless advised. “If Scudder wants your opinion, he’ll ask for it. We’re here because he wants everyone’s explicit buy-in. If past experience is any guide, he and Blackburn won’t let up until they’ve bludgeoned the last foot-dragger into submission.”

  “So whose lead are we supposed to follow? Scudder’s or Blackburn’s?” Zorn asked. “Both sit in the White House, but I get the sense they have different agendas.”

  “We can’t afford to cross either one of them,” Lawless noted before blowing on his coffee to cool it down. “But if we can keep both of them happy, I expect our contracts will be locked in for a long time to come.”

  The late morning session focused narrowly on budgets and performance measures. Monthly targets were set for the number of Triage sites in operation and interviews performed. On the air logistics side, deportation targets were set high enough to make the removals business more profitable than Zorn had dared hope. But what if the DHS continued to manipulate Triage scores despite Craven’s recent assurances? Or if the ESM program went off the rails in some other way?

  Zorn pondered these questions while Slattery and Lamb argued at length that the removal targets were set too far high. But Pat Craven insisted on keeping the original targets and the lunch hour arrived without consensus.

  Lunch consisted of deli sandwiches and salads served buffet style. Some attendees ate standing up in the reception area, while others carried their food back to their seats in the conference room. Little dialogue took place in either space, and Zorn had the impression that no one relished sticking around for the afternoon session. Twice Zorn tried to make eye contact with Margaret Slattery, to see if she might want to share her thoughts, but each time she turned away.

  Zorn also kept an eye peeled for Max Steiner, who had vanished during the morning break and remained out of sight for much of the lunch period. When at last he entered the buffet room, just in time to throw together a plate of food to take back into the conference room, Zorn noticed Pat Craven enter a few steps behind him, his brow deeply furrowed and glistening with sweat.

  When the group reconvened, Scudder exuded confidence as he settled into his chair at the head of the table. He opened the session with a single word.

  “Removals,” he said. “Why so important? It’s simple. Because law enforcement is completely overwhelmed.”

  The deputy NSC advisor looked around the table and met no objection.

  “Think about it. Our criminal justice system was designed to handle isolated crimes committed by individual lawbreaker. Over the years, capabilities have been added for organized crime, youth gangs and drug cartels. But today we face elusive jihadist networks operating on a global scale, using highly trained operatives to carry out bombings and mass shootings and using social media to incite lone wolf sympathizers to random violence.

  “Today we can no longer afford to ‘let a hundred men go free rather than see one innocent man suffer.’ We must take the offensive to put these bad actors out of commission. Since the intifada began, our police have detained thousands for carrying out jihadist violence and they haul in more by the day. What to do with them? Spend untold millions and clog the courts prosecuting them, or turn them loose for lack of resources?”

  “No more catch-and-release!” the FBI man spat out. By now Zorn had learned that this was George Krajewski, a senior player in the Bureau’s National Security Division. “Pushover judges are putting these guys back on the street faster than we can haul them in.”

  “Not any more, if I have my way,” Scudder retorted, staring back at Krajewski with palms spread flat on the table.

  “And how are you going to do that?” the FBI man challenged, all but rolling his eyes. “The Bureau and local police are still being told to handle each case by the book.”

  “We’ve done some research on intifada-related arrests,” Craven joined in, with a nod from Scudder. “Half of all suspect intifadists are non-citizens and more than two-thirds of the hard-core Islamists entered illegally or on temporary visas. Which means these people are removable, without a hearing, at the discretion of the local ICE office.”

  “Could those numbers possibly be right?” Leslie Trotter asked from the opposite end of the table, sitting back in her swivel chair with one long leg crossed over the other. “Two out of every three jihadis are removable, just like that?”

  “Absolutely,” Pat Craven answered. “Anybody want to challenge me on it?”

  All eyes turned to Margaret Slattery and Audrey Lamb, but neither rose to the bait.

  “Which means,” Scudder repeated for emphasis, “that we don’t need probable cause of a crime, or a prior criminal record, or even a serious immigration violation to pluck these people out from our midst. All we need is a high Triage score. Bad interview? Bang—they’re gone.”

  Despite Slattery’s and Lamb’s objections, the idea of de-fanging the intifada by deporting non-citizen Islamists seemed to strike a chord with others in the room.

  “Okay, Pat,” Krajewski came back. “Let’s assume for a moment, just for discussion’s sake, that ICE could get away with deporting any nonresident alien who rated a high Triage score. For sure, that’s going to reduce the Bureau’s caseload. But what you’re proposing comes out to five thousand removals a month, at a minimum. That’s nearly as many monthly deportations as ICE has enforcement officers. Where would you get the staffing?”

  “We anticipated the need and will be getting help from contractors,” Craven replied, nodding toward Lawless and Steiner, who smiled in acknowledgement.

  “What about transit facilities?” Leslie Trotter joined in. “You can’t do hundreds of deportations every day and send the deportees back to their native countries without some sort of transit sites. And if you intend to keep those facilities secret, that sounds very much like the CIA black sites fiasco. In case I did
n’t already make it clear, the intelligence community will have absolutely nothing to do with secret overseas detention centers.”

  She ended her speech by folding her arms tightly across her chest and swiveling her chair away from Craven.

  “We’re not asking for the intelligence community’s help, Leslie,” the DHS official replied in a languid tone. “These are ICE transit centers, not CIA interrogation centers. Their sole purpose is to hold detainees for short intervals until we can fly them home. No waterboarding required.”

  “So long as you leave the intelligence community out of it, you can do whatever you like with your so-called ‘transit centers,’” Trotter sniffed, pronouncing the last two words as if they were toxic.

  “Then you’ve got yourself a deal,” Craven concluded with a pressed-lip smile.

  “And you won’t be requiring anything from the Pentagon beyond letting your contractors run some deportation flights out of our stateside air bases?” the man from DOD questioned, licking dry lips.

  “Correct,” Craven answered. “As I’ve said, all this has been worked out at higher levels.”

  Next it was the FBI official’s turn to come to terms.

  “Will you be needing any cooperation from the Bureau for your repatriations?” Krajewski asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t want FBI headquarters to be blindsided somewhere down the road.”

  “Not a thing, other than the information you’re already providing on suspects through the Triage database,” Craven answered with a lopsided grin. “Your field offices will continue to bring cases against U.S. citizens and permanent resident aliens, and ICE will handle the nonresidents. You prosecute, we deport.”