Slattery’s eyes narrowed.
“But you don’t see that he intends to take ESM far beyond that?”
“Of course, he’s made that quite clear. Scudder said that his goal is to eradicate every last vestige of political Islam from American soil. He has no interest in free speech, freedom of religion or the presumption of innocence. And he clearly doesn’t mean to stop with deportations. I wouldn’t be surprised if drumhead executions were part of the design.”
Slattery let out a sigh of relief and reached for her glass of wine.
“Then you’re with me? To stop Scudder from carrying out his plan?”
“I’m against abuse, Margaret, yes. But I’m not prepared to scrap ESM entirely. Not while the intifada is still raging. At the moment, ESM is the only tool kit we have.”
Slattery put down her glass and crossed her arms.
“So what would you have us do, Roger?”
“I don’t know there’s much you and I can do just yet. Not without hard evidence of crimes being committed. The ESM program is so compartmented that the only access I have is to Triage interview data and air logistics activity. I don’t have the slightest clue what happens to detainees after they reach the overseas transit sites or are sent on for repatriation.”
“So are you saying we should do nothing?”
“Don’t twist my words, Margaret. All I’m saying is that we need to collect more information. Right now, we don’t know what the repatriation process consists of. Did you hear what Steiner said yesterday about wanting to turn deported jihadis over to Islamic warlords?”
“My god, yes. He sounded like some Nazi quoted at the Wannsee1 Conference! Some nonsense about the jihadis soon getting their own hell and Steiner taking them there. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”
“Do you suppose anyone else there felt as we did?”
“I can’t be sure, but I think Audrey would agree with us. If we could show her evidence of foul play, I think she’d be willing to pursue it inside DOJ.”
“How about your White House colleague, Blackburn? Rumor has it he and Scudder don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
“I used to think so, too. Now I’m not so sure. I get the sense that Nelson is placating Scudder for the moment and waiting for him to screw up. Besides, Nelson warned me not to pester him about DHS until I was ready to call in an airstrike against them. And I’m not there yet.”
“Which takes us back to the need for more information, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Slattery agreed, pouring herself some more wine. “And I propose we work together to collect it.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes, we already discussed it at your hotel bar. What I propose is that we comb through the ESM materials available to each of us, along with any other evidence we can collect, and put together a dossier to hand to DOJ when the time is right.”
Though Zorn had been expecting such a proposal from her, he gave her a hard stare.
“Do you realize what we’d be in for if the dossier were traced back to us?”
“Yes, but we’d have whistleblower status. We’d be protected under federal law.”
“Not with those NDAs we signed. We waived those protections, remember? No, before anything I could give you goes to DOJ, I’d need to withdraw from my government contracts first and head back to France. Even that might not be enough. For you it could be far worse.”
“I’ll take that risk. I’m a lawyer. I’m expected to have faith in the system.”
“Maybe so, but if I give you any information to pass to DOJ, you’ve got to promise not to name me as a source.”
“You have my word.”
“Okay, then. I’m willing to help you, Margaret. But first, let’s figure out exactly what we’re looking for and how to find it. One idea that’s occurred to me is to give DOJ a list of low-scoring Triage interviewees who are also U.S. citizens or green card holders and see if any were handed over to DHS for removal.”
“Perhaps you could also find out from your air logistics contacts what happens to the detainees after they’re sent overseas. The people at DHS and Tetra seem to trust you.”
“Trust is probably too strong a word,” Zorn quipped, feeling like an outsider on the ESM team. “But, yes, I suppose I could make some calls and ask a few questions.”
“I’d also love to know more what goes on inside those transit centers. Your planes fly there, don’t they?”
Zorn put down his wine glass without drinking.
“Are you suggesting that I hitch a ride on a deportation flight?” Zorn asked, swallowing hard. “That’s not as easy as it sounds, Margaret. I’d need advance approval, and DHS would want to know why I asked. I think that might be too much of a stretch.”
“Well, if anyone has reason to request it, I should think it would be you.”
“You don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Zorn replied, swirling the straw-colored wine in his glass while pondering how he might actually pull it off.
A moment later he raised his eyes and saw Slattery looking at him through lowered eyelashes in a way that suggested there might be a reward for doing what she asked. Was she coming on to him? Or had the excitement of their risky new venture heightened the sexual tension between them?
“I’ll give it some thought,” Zorn added at last. “Maybe I can pull some strings.”
“That would be marvelous,” Slattery answered with a come-hither smile. Then she deftly changed the subject. “But I see we’re running low on fuel. Come, let’s open another bottle.”
She rose from her bench, held out a hand to help Zorn up from his, and led him to the refrigerator. There, she opened the fridge door with a flourish and pointed to the bottom shelf, where eight or ten bottles lay side by side.
“Pick one, any one,” she said.
As he knelt to examine them, he removed his jacket and laid it across the kitchen counter.
“Which would you prefer?” Zorn asked, examining one label after another. “Chardonnay? Sauvignon blanc? I see you have a nice Vouvray here, too.”
He pulled the last bottle off the shelf and Slattery stooped beside him to view the label, putting an arm around his shoulders to steady herself. He felt an immediate surge of animal spirits as he held out the bottle for her to view.
“Yes, that one,” she said softly, her lips brushing his ear.
They rose together to their feet and Zorn set the bottle onto the stone counter in such a hurry that for a moment he feared it might tip onto the floor. In the next moment they were in each other’s arms. Zorn hadn’t felt the thrill of a kiss from a woman not his wife in three decades. He drank in her scent and ran the fingers of one hand through her hair while the other ran down her back and over her bottom. At the same time, Slattery pulled apart the knot of Zorn’s tie and began working loose the buttons of his shirt.
When Zorn’s fingers found the zipper at the back of Slattery’s black dress, she pulled him close.
“This way,” she said, running the tip of her tongue across her lower lip, and led him by the hand to her bedroom.
By now the sun was below the horizon, and the lighting sufficiently dim to obscure the uncomfortable fact that neither of them was young. Zorn’s fingers once again felt for the zipper tab to Slattery’s dress, lowered it slowly to her waist and watched the dress slide off her shoulders, leaving the jade beads around her white neck. As they kissed, he felt her unbuckle his belt and loosen his trousers.
The bed was beside them. They were almost home. With a few deft movements, Slattery’s bra, slip and panty hose were at her feet, along with Zorn’s shirt, trousers and shorts. They embraced again, and Zorn felt the warmth of her thighs entwined with his. She leaned back, and Zorn lost his balance, falling onto the bed beside her, one arm around her soft waist. His hand dropped lower. She was ready for him, and he for her.
Only then did he feel the icy grip of fear seize hold of his spine. Yes, it had been thirty years since he had felt the s
ort of thrill he felt now. He had desired Margaret Slattery from the moment he laid eyes on her, and now, to discover that she desired him as much, was intoxicating. But there was good reason why his mind and body rebelled. He willed himself to relax and follow through, but he couldn’t.
At last Zorn rolled onto his back, one arm still pinned beneath Slattery’s shoulders, and let out a long breath.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “It’s no use. For thirty years, I’ve managed not to stray. I can’t go through with it.”
Without a word, she rolled toward him and laid a thigh across his, while one hand slid down his belly and below.
“That’s not the sense I get down here,” she said while nibbling gently at his shoulder.
“I realize that,” he said, drawing a sharp breath. “Different systems.”
He let out an involuntary laugh and Slattery joined in.
“Well, I’m glad to see that the system that usually counts most has taken my side,” she replied, snuggling up against him. “Can we just lie here for a while, then? I promise I won’t take unfair advantage.”
Zorn took her hand in his.
“Of course we can.”
But in that moment, the ringing of Slattery’s home telephone broke the silence. She stiffened.
“I’d better take that,” she said before kissing him on the shoulder and sitting up in bed. “My cell phone is in the car so whoever it is knows enough to ring me here.”
She dashed off to the closet, wrapped herself in a terry robe and made for the phone in the hall. Zorn waited half a minute before slipping on his shirt and trousers to follow her into the living room. She was back on the white settee again, holding the cordless phone to her head with one hand while the other was balled into a fist in her lap. Her face had mutated into a mask of suppressed rage.
Zorn returned to the bedroom, where he set about dressing himself. From the living room all he could hear were occasional monosyllabic grunts and an occasional, “Yes, mother,” and “No, mother.” He waited another five minutes then went to the kitchen, taking the initiative to open the Vouvray and pour out a glass for each of them.
Upon re-entering the living room, he took a seat on the settee opposite Margaret and slid a glass of wine across the coffee table to her. She remained rigid, the handset pressed to her ear, and didn’t seem to notice his presence at all. At last, she nodded and said through gritted teeth, “Yes, good night to you, too, mother.”
And a moment later, as if awakening from a spell, Slattery drew a deep breath and looked up at him, shivering beneath her thick terry robe. She spotted the glass of Vouvray, seized it, and downed half of it at a gulp.
“Funny how family has a special way of bringing out the worst in us,” Zorn observed.
She looked up and met his gaze with a penitent expression.
“I’m sorry you had to hear me like that,” she told him. “It’s just that, no matter what I say to her, she finds a way to twist it around. So I stop talking to her. And then, when my memory fades and I let her in once again, she repeats the treatment. You can’t imagine how steaming mad that makes me.”
Zorn nodded. Yes, he could imagine. It had been long ago, but he remembered times when he had felt similarly oppressed by his overbearing father. All at once he felt a closer connection with this odd, headstrong, high-principled woman. He moved around to Margaret’s side of the coffee table and sat beside her, holding her hand in silence.
Zorn couldn’t say how long they had sat that way before Slattery turned to face him. Her face was drawn and she looked dog-tired.
“Listen, I don’t want you to go, but you probably should.”
“Yes, I think so,” he replied, releasing her hand.
“And it’s probably a good thing for us to forget about what happened tonight.”
“Well, not forget, exactly. I’m not sure that’s even possible. But I agree we ought to put it aside.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re going back on your promise to investigate the abuses, does it?” she asked, biting her lower lip.
“No, Margaret. I said I’d work with you and I will. And I’ll do my best to visit one of those foreign transit sites, if it’s at all possible.”
“But how will I know if you do?” she asked, cradling her wine glass with both hands. “I mean, if DHS or whoever sent those men after me has hacked my phone, how can we communicate without being intercepted?”
Zorn pulled a checkbook-sized notepad from his pocket and wrote something on it.
“This is the name of a sterile email account that I keep for special situations,” he said, handing Slattery the ripped-off page.
“Log in, draft a message, then save the draft without sending it. When I log in later, I’ll read your message and delete it. It’s an old trick that terrorists use. It’ll work just fine until we come up with something better.”
“Good, I’ll do it. For all we know, DHS may be watching you, too.”
Zorn raised an eyebrow.
“DHS? Why would they be watching me?” he asked with a disingenuous smile. “I have no secrets from them.”
“They have, from you,” she replied, and swallowed the last of her wine.
Chapter Eleven: Missing
“Force and fraud in war are the two cardinal virtues.”
–Thomas Hobbes
MAY, WASHINGTON, D.C.
It was a sun-drenched Sunday afternoon on the National Mall when Jack Nagy waded into the throng of demonstrators protesting the American naval blockade of Iran and Pakistan. Nagy had disguised himself as a homeless person, wearing distressed jeans, a knit cap and a shapeless hoodie, and carrying a filthy backpack in one hand, into which he dropped an occasional cigarette butt or discarded bottle. Though the young demonstrators considered him harmless and ignored him, they might have thought differently had they known that the stubble-faced old man was actually a Tetra contractor sent to gather DNA samples for DHS from the demonstrators’ castoff butts, bottles and coffee cups.
At the same time, Nagy’s superiors at Tetra might also have had second thoughts about him had they noticed how little effort he gave to gathering the DNA samples and how over-attentive he was to his cell phone screen and the wireless earpiece he wore. The reason for this was that Nagy’s primary reason for working today’s demonstration was not to gather DNA, or even to collect demonstrators’ mobile phone subscriber identities, which the sophisticated tracking device concealed in his backpack was designed to do.
Instead, Nagy had reconfigured the portable IMSI-catcher1 for an entirely different purpose: to locate his daughter by detecting and tracking her cell phone signal if she were present on the mall. After wading into the crowd, Nagy set off toward the Washington Monument with backpack in one hand and cell phone in the other. If Carol’s phone signal came within range of the IMSI-catcher, the device would send a low tone to his earpiece. A specialized app on his cell phone would also show direction and distance. Then, the combination of audible tone and visual display would help him home in on Carol’s signal.
Of course, the entire exercise was predicated on Carol being present and her cell phone switched on. For over two hours, Nagy walked the length and breadth of the mall, past the Washington Monument, past the World War II and Vietnam Veterans Memorials, all the way to the Lincoln Memorial and back, through throngs of demonstrators, counter-demonstrators, park police and gawkers. Nagy scarcely gave the memorials a glance as he passed them by, since he had seen them all many times before and his primary objective today was to locate Carol, learn where she had been, and offer his help, if she’d take it.
Nagy kept his distance from the occasional skirmishes between masked, black-clad, helmet-wearing Antifa members and their antagonists, most of whom were burly working-class youths and middle-aged bikers wearing flag-themed denim outfits. The Antifists usually took a thrashing in these encounters, as their opponents generally outweighed them and had more fighting experience. But occasionally the masked youth
s managed to isolate and outnumber an adversary, pulling him to the ground and stomping him without mercy until his comrades or the police intervened.
When this happened, Nagy went out of his way to trail the Antifists and gather any of their discarded trash that might contain recoverable DNA. Not only was he paid to do this, but he delighted in identifying the masked cowards and building government files on them. For years, the left-leaning mayors and police commissioners of certain cities had let these anarchists run wild, and now it was time they were brought to heel.
By late afternoon, when the demonstration had largely dispersed, Nagy had filled half his backpack with DNA samples without detecting any sign of his daughter. Either Carol had not come to the mall, or had left her cell phone behind, or had swapped her old phone for a new one, perhaps an untraceable burner model. In any event, he would keep looking until he found her, no matter how long it took.
The next day, Zorn was on his way out to lunch when the receptionist stopped him, holding up a message slip.
“Excuse me, Mr. Zorn, but you had a phone call from someone called Jack Nagy.”
“Did he leave a message?” Zorn inquired, picking up the slip with Nagy’s name and number.
“Yes, to meet you for a drink. Tonight, he said. Same time and place as last time.”
“No other details?”
“Nope,” she replied with a smile and a shrug, apparently accustomed to taking cryptic messages for secretive people in the private security business.
Zorn walked two blocks from the office building to the alehouse where he often ate lunch at the bar. As he waited for the waiter to pour his draft pilsner and take his food order, Zorn’s eyes turned to the television behind the bar, which was tuned to the news. A car bomb had exploded minutes earlier in Richmond, Virginia, just outside the federal courthouse. A radical Islamist group claimed responsibility, but no suspects had been apprehended. Casualties were in the dozens, with several fatalities. The news depressed Zorn, but it also alarmed him, because federal courthouses were very well protected. For the bombers to have brought the car close enough to bring down the building’s entire south-facing façade meant that this had likely been a sophisticated operation.
Root and Branch Page 17
