Reign in Hell

by William Diehl

  “This is Mr. Vail. After today, I’m sure he’ll be a regular, too.”

  “Joy geen. I would certainly hope so. Are the gentlemen drinking?”

  “I’ll have the usual.”

  “Oolong for Mr. Hardistan. And Mr. Vail?”

  “Beer, please.”

  “May I suggest Yellow Dragon, Mr. Vail. It’s Chinese beer. I highly recommend it.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Vail said with a smile.

  “I’ll send the waiter over with some starters and menus. His name is Sam.”

  “Thanks.”

  The old gentleman walked away, his back as straight as a ramrod. Vail felt vaguely uncomfortable. Was the lunch to size him up, tell him the facts of life, pick his brains? Hardistan did not strike him as a get-acquainted kind of guy.

  Vail looked around the place, marveling at its austerity.

  “Don’t worry, the booth isn’t bugged,” Hardistan said.

  “The thought never occurred to me. Should it have?”

  “Not really, we’re on the same side, remember? I thought we could enjoy lunch and a little privacy while I brief you. You won’t find too many bureaucrats or politicians here.”

  So that was it, he was to be “briefed.”

  The waiter brought a platter of fried shrimp and chicken with their drinks. The menu had a large variety of Cantonese dishes. Across the top was printed CHINESE RESTAURANT.

  “That’s the name?” Vail said. “Chinese Restaurant?”

  “I don’t think Mr. Keye could think of anything appropriate so he opted for the obvious.”

  They ordered lunch and noshed on the fried shrimp and chicken starters.

  “How did you find this place?” Vail asked.

  “When I was fairly new with the Bureau I was assigned to the Washington office. At the time this was a nice Chinese neighborhood, probably four or five blocks square. Little Chinatown. There was a homicide right down the street. A jeweler was killed, gunned down in his shop, but nothing was stolen. Most of the Orientals either couldn’t or wouldn’t speak English and the cops were getting stonewalled. We got called in because there was evidence that the killers may have come from San Francisco. Keye was an assistant chef at a restaurant called the Shanghai Gardens, just around the corner. He could barely speak English. He was also an illegal. No passport, no visa, nothing. But he came to us and told us the whole story. A tong on the West Coast had decided to move into this area. The murder was a warning. The locals were too scared to say anything. Keye realized the only way to put a stop to it was to tell us what he knew, even though it meant deportation to Taiwan. We cleaned up the West Coast gang and I prevailed on the Taiwan embassy and the Immigration Department and we got Keye a passport and a green card. He immediately learned English—superbly, as you can tell. When he became a citizen, I was his sponsor. And when he started the restaurant, I was his first investor. I own ten percent of the place. Not enough to retire on, but it pays for the groceries.”

  “That’s a nice story.”

  “Well, we’re not always bad guys,” he said. “I eat here two or three times a week when I’m in town.”

  “You’re not married?”

  “My wife died four years ago. I have a son thirty-one, a lovely daughter-in-law, and two granddaughters. Tony just got his seat on the New York Exchange. Thank God he didn’t follow in my footsteps.”

  “I don’t suppose I have to tell you anything about my personal life.”

  “Well, we never did establish whether you prefer baths or showers.”

  “I’m a shower man.”

  “I figured as much.”

  “I could be a little paranoid, you know. The feds were really pissed off because I took that case away from Riker. How did you feel about that?”

  “We spent a lot of time on that case.”

  “So did we.”

  Hardistan held up his hands. “No argument. You did a helluva job. With a fairly limited staff, I might add.”

  “Great lawyers,” Vail said, and after a moment added, “I think they’re all frustrated cops. Very intuitive.”

  “Anyway, the Grand County RICO case is history. I’m glad you’re on our side this time.”

  “I may not fit into the bureaucratic mold.”

  “I don’t think it’s quite sunk in yet, Martin. You are a special prosecutor and an attorney general of the United States. You’ve got awesome power. The power of the USA is at your disposal, compliments of the President. You’re also my boss. My job is to back you up all the way on this, cut through the red tape, assist in gathering legal evidence, and make damn sure when you go into court there aren’t any smoking guns to surprise you. It’s your show. You need anything, you have the full force of the Bureau behind you. I’m here to make a nasty job as easy as possible.”

  “How about the ATF and the IRS? I just smoked Randolph. I’m sure he doesn’t like me.”

  “It’s immaterial whether he likes you or not. Unless you’re interested in some kind of popularity contest.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “We need the ATF, we got ’em. We need the IRS, we got ’em. Randolph is a scared little loser. He was brought in to help Pennington develop a program to clean up the Service. It’s rotten to the core, as everyone knows. Bunch of incompetent pencil-pushing sociopaths who get their jollies hassling innocent taxpayers. The man wants to abolish it, make the auditors tow the line. No more fishing expeditions in the guise of audits. They find something, they stipulate it, and that’s all they can talk about in an audit. Any shenanigans will be turned over to the Department of Justice. The DOJ will have all the police powers. The IRS won’t even have subpoena powers. Pennington made that clear when he appointed Randolph. So what does Randolph do? He runs to some of his pals on the Hill, promises them they’ll never see an audit as long as they live if they’ll scratch the President’s plan. Pennington found out and keel-hauled him. He’s through. Just a matter of time. So is the IRS.”

  “I pissed Hooker off, too.”

  “Well, Hooker fashions himself Iago to Pennington’s Othello. The man knows it. He thinks for himself. He listens to Hooker and throws away about ninety percent of what he says. He’s a high profile errand boy, that’s all. As far as national security goes, he’s very good. He’s bloodless. Does that job. Write him off. There’s nothing he can do for you that others can’t do better.”

  “You’ve been around a long time.”

  “Twenty-five years.”

  “How do you evade the bloodbaths when the guard changes?” Hardistan smiled. “I keep out of their way,” he said.

  He gave Vail his official card. On the back he had written the private numbers of his home, his cellular phone, his beeper, and his car phone.

  “Call me anytime,” he said. “I’m a light sleeper.”

  Nice speech, pal. If you want me to trust you, it’s going to take more than talk.

  “I’ve got a question,” Vail said. “How come the Sanctuary got so important so quick without the FBI being on top of it?”

  “Fair question. They’re very slick. They learned from the mistakes the Klan and the Posse and the rest of the assholes made. They kept a low, low profile. Took their time. Moved very quietly. Their paramilitary units were and still are disguised as churches. They didn’t cause any trouble, didn’t go on the Internet with their message, didn’t cavort with the other paramilitaries. They just got good. And they had themselves a genuine war hero to head up their outfit. Engstrom loves it. He’s got his own private army.”

  “So what makes you so sure they’re involved in RICO?”

  “You talked to two of them.”

  “Nothing that will stand up in court.”

  “You remember the shootout with Roy Marsden out in Oregon about two years ago?”

  “He was the radical guy, robbed a couple of banks?”

  “Right.”

  “He and three or four of his people were killed, weren’t they? Along with a couple of law office
rs.”

  Hardistan nodded. “Four. A sheriff, two state troopers, and one of my best agents. We recovered several weapons from the house. Marsden was using an M-16. The serial numbers had been removed with acid but our lab was able to reconstruct the number. The gun was traced to the manifest of weapons stolen from the Helena, Montana, National Guard armory two years ago. Then eight months ago George Waller turns himself in. He hasn’t told us a lot, but during one of his debriefings he told us Marsden bought three M-16s from the Sanctuary. That’s when they made our A list.”

  “Maybe the Sanctuary bought them from the real thieves.”

  “In that case they’re brokering stolen weapons to other paramilitaries and they conspired in two murders.”

  “So why didn’t you take them down?”

  “With what? Waller hears they sold the guns, blah blah blah. The same as the armory job in Helena. It’s his word against everybody else in the heist. Would you proceed with that kind of evidence?”

  “Nope.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “Have you been able to infiltrate this bunch?” Vail asked.

  “We’ve tried. They’re paranoid and very smart. Most have had military training of some kind, several in intelligence. Mainly we have people in the area working legitimate jobs and keeping their ears open. Except for Waller, we haven’t been able to turn any of them. And we didn’t turn him, he jumped in our lap.”

  “I wasn’t real impressed with little Ralphie. I think he got in trouble and found a home in the witness protection program. I don’t think he’s really changed. He’s still a nasty little bigot and a thug at heart despite all that Bible thumping.”

  “That’s a keen analysis considering you only talked to him for an hour or so.”

  “I’ve been at this game almost as long as you have, Billy. I don’t have to hear nigger, kike, and spic more than once to peg a racist pig.”

  “You got a man inside the club in Grand County, didn’t you?”

  “I have a young fellow who went into Grand County for six months before we started moving against them. He listened to the grumbling and the rumors. Instinctively he knew what was the McCoy and what was bullshit.”

  “That would be Flaherty.”

  “That would be Flaherty. Tough kid from Boston. Very streetwise, very instinctive.”

  Hardistan nodded. “One of the few prosecutors we ever permitted to go through the Academy. He was so good we tried to steal him from you.”

  “I know, he told me.”

  “I hope you don’t hold that against me,” Hardistan said, trying a smile.

  “On the contrary, shows you know your business.”

  They both laughed.

  “Anyway, Derm got a job in one of the mills, went to the commission meetings, read the newspapers, kept a log of all the lies they told, either outright or by omission. Made friends, kept his ears open. Pretty much put the case together. He had the whole link analysis in his head by the time we started building the case. He was the one who pegged Kramer as the weakest link in the chain. He was correct all the way across the board. And he loved every minute of it. The Serpico in him sneaked out.”

  “How did Ms. Parver feel about his undercover work?”

  “You subtly telling me how good your security people are?” Hardistan said, “It’s something we’re fairly effective at.”

  “So I’ve heard. Parver and Flaherty have been living together for a year or so. Almost as long as Jane Venable and I’ve been together.”

  “You considering sending Flaherty in on this job?”

  “I can’t. The Grand case was all over Court TV, World News, somebody would make him. In the Grand case, there was always the possibility someone might tumble to him and some trigger-happy local goon might put a bullet in his back, but out there…” Vail shook his head. “We’d probably find him hanging from a tree somewhere with a note pinned to his chest.”

  “They’re more subtle than that. You wouldn’t find him at all. But you’re right, this is a deadly situation.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Grand County was about greed and power. A bunch of dirty old men who were really amateurs at the game. This is about fanaticism. The moral issues here are clear and concise. The hit on the arms convoy is a very clear statement. It changes the ball game. The body bag thing, that really got to the old man. He went totally ballistic over that.”

  “Waller suggested it was an act of war. If that’s what it is, moral issues become immaterial.”

  “If they’re at war, let them make the declaration.”

  “I think they already have. In their heads, I mean. Making it formal is a tough call.”

  “It just means they aren’t ready yet,” Hardistan said.

  “You’ve got all this figured out already, haven’t you?”

  “Some of it is logic. They have four units plus the headquarters command. That’s roughly six thousand men and women ready to move out into the population and go undercover.”

  “When I talked to Jordan at the Grave, he bragged about it.”

  “Jordan likes to brag. We get more out of his bragging than from Waller’s confessions.”

  “He says when it comes, it’ll be guerrilla warfare. Hit and runs. Domestic terrorism.”

  “Lost Trail Pass.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You think Lost Trail was a test run?”

  “Hey, that’s your call. I’m a neophyte, remember.”

  “Not anymore. You got eighteen months to top your performance in Grand County.”

  Vail was visibly shaken by the comment. “News travels fast,” he said.

  “I debriefed the President on the Lost Trail ambush. He told me you agreed to do the RICO and he also said the information stops with me. Hell, I’m working for you now,” he went on, “weren’t you going to tell me?”

  “I just want a little lead time before the news gets out.”

  “You’ve got that.”

  “Getting back to the ambush, I think laying the bodies out was a military statement. They were honoring the men who were killed.”

  “Well, it may have seemed like an honorable thing to them. Far as I’m concerned, it was barbaric. They’ve been reading too many comic books.”

  “It shows a very dedicated mind-set.”

  “I don’t care what it shows, we’re going to take them down.”

  Vail smiled. “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

  Hardistan put his leather briefcase on the table and snapped it open. Inside were several videotapes, some booklets, and a small leather wallet about five inches square and a half-inch thick. He took it out and zipped it open. Inside were twenty plastic pockets. Each held a CD ROM.

  “This is a lot of information. The CDs contain everything we know about this group, its ties to other paramilitary groups, some confidential reports, photographs and background on the key people, even some speculation. I had my staff put it together for you. The videos are mostly surveillance tapes. There are some government booklets, some hate literature we’ve gathered through the years from the Klan, the Posse Comitatus, so forth. Enough to give you an idea of what this movement is really all about.” He took out a small paperback book. “This is a copy of The Turner Diaries. It’s their textbook. The writing is terrible but the message is scary. An instruction book on urban guerrillas. The nice thing about the stuff on the CDs is it’s indexed. The briefcase is yours. My treat.”

  Vail moved things about in the case and studied the items, then picked up the leather wallet, turned it over, flipped through the sleeves. “Lotta homework.”

  “Look, you’ve got a year and a half to make a RICO case. That’s impossible.” Hardistan pointed to the briefcase. “But that’s about two years’ worth of hard work, so you’re that far ahead of the game. It’ll cut the odds a little.”

  “Thanks,” Vail said, and laughed. “I hope it doesn’t take me that long to absorb it.”

  “I don’t want to sound
presumptuous. I know one of your strong points is delegation, so this is probably unnecessary advice but I’ll suggest it anyway. Divide up the material among your top people. Let each one become an expert in a phase of the investigation. And you’ve got me and Jim Hines for backup.”

  “Of course. But the boss still has to know it all.” He put the wallet back in the case and started to close it.

  “There’s one more thing,” Hardistan said. He reached into one of the file pockets on the inside of the top of the case and took out a folder. “This report is classified ‘Secret.’”

  “More surprises?”

  “We jumped onto their computer for about three hours a while back.”

  “You illegally hacked their computer network?”

  Hardistan looked across the table at Vail for a moment. “It was research. We just wanted to get a leg up on their operation. The only thing we got of interest was a reference to ‘Specter.’”

  “The Phantom Project?”

  “Jimmy filled you in on that, huh?”

  Vail nodded.

  “Fully trained in every dirty trick known to man. Assassination, explosives, torture, the works. They were masters at the trade and extremely effective. There were a handful of them used in ’Nam and Nicaragua and later in the Mideast, all Engstrom’s people. They were given assignments and cut loose. When they completed their mission, they’d come back in and get another folder. These guys were predatory in their efficiency. After Desert Storm they were considered too hot to handle and their mission was terminated. The military tried to rehabilitate them, but four of them left the program. One went to work for French intelligence and was killed in Algeria. Another one was an intelligence specialist in Desert Storm, also terminated. The other two are still out there somewhere, freelancing.”

  “Hines says the file on them is sealed.”

  “No, it’s gone. No records whatsoever. Everything we know about them we got from interviewing people in military intelligence, ex-C.O.’s, and one or two guys who worked with them.”

  “Any pictures?” Vail asked, leafing through the sheets.

  “Just that one.”

  “I’ve seen this. Hines showed it to me on the plane.”