She waited, rehearsing in her mind the questions she would ask and the opinions she would solicit. The amenities of the library were many but antiquated. The views from the windows were pleasant, the lawns and greenery a distraction from the formal interior. The hermetically sealed air was musty but overridden with a deodorizing floral spray. Very unlike the sole occupant, everything about this room was perfection. Not a trace of dust could be detected. Not a lamp was out of place. Not a tendril of the Turkish rug beneath her feet was askew. Above the fireplace and between bracketing bookcases holding personal photos of the Vice President’s family and books penned by previous residents, hung a spherical Vermeer-like mirror reflecting a distorted perspective of the sunlit windows opposite. It was a curious object, adorned with an artful frame, yet fitting.
She sensed rather than heard distant footsteps before the Vice President blustered inside in a spurt of energy. He approached with an extended arm. They shook, his grasp surprising light and the palm of his hand welcoming to the touch. In a thunderous voice, he said, “May I say, Ms. Kidd, I’ve admired your writing for quite some time now, but more so of late.” While his delivery was formal, his grin belied something else. Amusement perhaps. Possibly curiosity. Definitely interest. In her and why she requested an interview. It was a courtesy granted. Few journalists were granted such access.
“Thank you for meeting with me, sir.”
He brushed off her comment with a flap of his free hand while his eyes bored into hers with keenness, taking her in as if trying to divine the thoughts running through her mind. “Not at all ... not at all.” His reputation of being both incisive and charming were founded.
“You may admire my writing, sir, even if I take the compliment as a formality rather than an honest opinion.”
He winked before saying, “Much more than an honest opinion, but purely from an educational perspective, you must understand. By rights I must remain an observer rather than a champion.”
“You don’t intimidate me for a second, Mr. Vice President.”
He chuckled. His manner was engaging. Up close and almost too personal, he was taller than she expected. The gloss of a well-seasoned politician enveloped his persona in an afterglow, like a gift from the gods. Perhaps it was the sunlight entering through the windows, but she didn’t think so. Men like Frazier ‘Frank’ Daugherty weren’t ordinary men; they carried charisma with them like a ubiquitous aftershave. She had always believed that certain men and women weren’t necessarily born for greatness. They were chosen. For excellence, for influence, for stature, and for historical context. Many had arrived fully formed, it was true, either for folly or for honors glorious. Individuals could make their own choices, of course, leading them toward praise or shame or infamy. This one had lived up to the promise, whether by fortune, misfortune, or circumstance, it was impossible to know. No matter the Vice President’s political positions or whether his powers and influence were being used for good or evil, he was well-regarded in all quarters.
He was still considering her, his blue eyes twinkling even while his mouth was set into a straight line. “You intimidate me, Ms. Kidd.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Stirring up trouble,” he said with that same glint in his eyes.
“Speaking truth.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“My middle name.”
“You don’t give up easily.”
“And never will, sir.”
Crowned with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair and graced with a face that was usually readable, though not at this precise moment, he was searching for the appropriate words to say next. “I’m skeptical about many of your theses, most notably your latest.”
“It’s called reporting.”
“Journalistic latitude.”
“Let’s not quibble.”
“Yes, let’s, but with mutual respect. What I said before wasn’t just flattery or facetiousness. I have sincerely admired your work over the years. Let me also say this as preface: I have an open mind.”
She probed his intent with some humor of her own. “But a closed heart.”
His frown was imbued with spiciness. “Let us just say, I haven’t always appreciated your suppositions. But your research? Your thoroughness? You make opposing arguments difficult, to say the least. I respect your abilities. But sometimes I feel as if I’ve been led down the primrose path.”
“And may I say the same of you?”
The sparring and mutual admiration over, he threw his hand out toward a grouping of club chairs, an informal setting where the display of power wasn’t quite as intimidating as this man. They sat on opposite sides of a glass-inset table, chosen less for function than for the calculated separation between an interviewer and her interviewee. It was to be a game of tennis, then; tossing the proverbial yellow ball of probity back and forth while the table stood between them as the inviolate net.
The mellow furnishings, the subdued wallpaper, and the idyllic backdrop of trees beyond the windows lent a coziness to the room. If she could allow herself to relax, Vikki would have, but she couldn’t afford to let her guard down. Her purpose wasn’t so much to extract damning information or capture meaningful quotes but to engage the Vice President and gauge his reactions. She wanted him to be at ease. She didn’t want to make him feel in any way defensive, though he probably lived every minute of every day in a defensive posture. He was lighthearted man, a man who could distract you with smiles and offhand remarks. Based on her previous interactions with him in public venues, she was under no delusions. He was always at the top of his game, sharp and very much on point.
“First of all,” she began, “I wanted to get your reaction on the Coyote situation.”
Whatever the current circumstances of her chief informant, whether he lived or died in the next few days, the next few months, or when he was old and gray and of no use to anyone anymore, she had a job to do — to find out if there were traitors walking the halls of government, and if there were, what they were up to. This wasn’t going to be an easy interview. It needed finesse. And diplomacy.
The Vice President sat back and leaned the side of his face against a fist, a thoughtful finger extended beside his eye and a bracing thumb placed beneath his jaw. “Is it a situation? Or something else? The circumstances may be tragic, but the facts are straightforward.”
“May I remind you, sir, not all jury trials end in a verdict. Sometimes they’re deadlocked.”
“And may I remind you of the glaring facts.”
“I know them well. But the details surrounding the facts should not get lost.”
“Such as?” His eyes were lamps, glowing and steady. Frank Daugherty was a man of authority, a man of standing, a man used to having his own way.
“He worked for the Homeland Intelligence Division.”
“Is this on background?”
“Our entire conversation is on background.”
“Very generous of you.”
“You’re not my only source.”
“Is that what I am? A source?”
“I put it badly. I only meant to say that I have talked to others and heard rumors on the wind, and I wanted to see if you heard the same rumors or have the same opinions others have. Nothing you say here will be repeated anywhere else. You can see I’m not taking notes.”
“You might we wearing a recording device,” he suggested with a sly grin.
“Your electronic surveillance would have picked it up by now,” she said, also with a sly grin.
His eyes narrowed, and then they smiled. “Or maybe you have a stenographic memory.”
She smiled sweetly this time. “I’m only here to find out what you think, not what you know. You must have an opinion of recent events.”
“Maybe so. But how would it be relevant?”
“Well,” she said with a smirk, “sometimes the inferences surrounding the facts take on greater meanings than the facts themselves. The Coyote incident has put t
he Homeland Intelligence Division in the crosshairs.”
“I’ll concede that,” he said.
“Apart from the leaks―”
“One doozy of a leak, which has made our country vulnerable from without.”
“You’re referring to the unearthing of an up-to-now secretive program run by the aforementioned agency, which has been spying on us in violation of our rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, freedom of movement and association, and unreasonable search and seizure.”
Her statement made him noticeably uncomfortable, almost to the point of squirming. But he was a disciplined politician who knew how to measure his responses. “Allow me to put it a different way. I was referring to an intervention by foreign enemies.”
“Excuse me, sir, but―”
“Allow me to finish.” He sniffed in a cleansing breath. “How do we know the data wasn’t planted? By the Russians, the Chinese, the North Koreans, or the Arab League, even our European allies for God’s sake ... all of them known for hacking, for influencing elections, for disseminating lies, and for using propaganda. Pick one or pick all, any one of these bad actors could be behind recent events. Or be allied with each other to bring down the greatest nation on Earth.” He paused to let his words sink in. “However we analyze the situation, clearly Coyote is a double agent, an instigator, a terrorist, a traitor, call him what you will.”
“Proof?
“Gut reaction. And elementary math. I can add one and one as well as any first grader.”
“Do I have to mention the other incidents?” There was no point in tallying them. “Coyote couldn’t have pulled them all off.”
He shook his head dismissively. “Perhaps they were merely a series of unrelated coincidences.”
“Too many goddamn coincidences.”
He brushed his hand aside. “Or a coordinated plot.”
The ball had landed on her side of the court. She grasped the advantage with both fists. “And then there’s the Fellowship.”
He tilted his head as if to feign deafness or confusion. Afflicted by neither, he thought over her implication and sorted out the choices he had at his disposal. To accept, renounce, or take the middle road. “The Fellowship?”
He chose the middle road of ignorance. But Vikki had her own road. The straight one. “Led by an elite gang of oligarchs, hand-picked and sworn to oath.”
Now there was no point in his denying it. “A conspiracy theory most everyone with a rational mind dismisses out of hand.”
“Except for several glaring facts.” When he didn’t counter her, she went on. “Since the 1960s, select senators, house members, cabinet secretaries, and Supreme Court justices have been initiated into the Fraternal Order of Clairvaux. It’s been reported that Vice President Daugherty is himself a member in good standing.”
“Please continue. I’m fascinated.”
“I don’t think I have to elaborate further.”
It may have taken decades of planning and indoctrination, but the secret society had steadily made inroads in high places, electing members of Congress, infiltrating the judiciary, and influencing the executive branch, all to enacting favorable policies that protected the elite and left out the people. The first three words of the Constitution were relegated to the dust heap. Money, power, influence, and war were all that mattered. Nothing was considered sacrosanct, not even the cries of the sick, the hungry, or the dying. It was the monolith of group thinking that left the voices of conscience behind.
The Vice President leaned forward, hands clasped and eyes fixed on her. “Surely, no one would fall for that balderdash.”
She had almost forgotten where she was and in whose presence she sat, so consumed was she by the object of her interview and so entranced had she become by his demeanor. “Only craven men. Or ignorant ones.” She hadn’t meant to be quite so direct, but there it was.
“This is America. Not Nazi Germany. Or Communist Russia.”
“There’s always the promise of the Fourth Reich or a reunited USSR or another World War.”
“Please proceed.” He remained in the same posture, to either concentrate on her words or intimidate her. Or both.
“You know what I’m talking about. The modern Fascist movement that would show the way forward for a united empire of many nations. Europe, Russia, Australia, Brazil, Argentina, New Zealand, South Africa, Canada, and of course, the United States, the home of the brave.”
He sat back and crossed a leg, but his stare remained fixed.
“Drawing on the Bible for symbolic resonance. The destruction of the Temple. The resurrection of the Dead. And the Second Coming. All toward envisioning a path towards racial supremacy. Anti-Semitic in nature, militaristic in fact, racially justified, and appealing to the common illiterate in search of a supreme leader, or body of leaders, who will institute a government of totalitarianism in exchange for safety from the enemy, whomever the enemy might be. Today the Middle East. Eurasia tomorrow. Eastasia next year.”
“Fantasy. Fiction.”
“Not for the Fellowship.”
“To be honest, I don’t think they have a chance in hell of pulling off what you’re talking about.”
“Not unless they unleash their chosen strongman.” Now was the moment for her to rope him in. “As you may or may not know, Senator Wallace Reed intends to call me to testify before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”
“I haven’t heard that. How do you know?”
“Trusted sources.”
“For what purpose?”
“He wants to call for an investigation into the hacking of the Homeland Intelligence Division. He wants to find out whether classified documents were illegally disseminated to the news media, in particular to Victoria Kidd, a freelance journalist publishing a series of articles related to a secret dossier purportedly passed to her by a felon at large, one John Jackson Coyote, former cybersecurity expert with HID, accused of killing his coworker, formally arraigned to stand trial for her murder, but currently on the run.”
He nodded thoughtfully, none of it new to him, except of course for the impending witch hunt that would portray Victoria Kidd as an enemy of the people. “Rumors have it he’s flying around the globe, seeking political asylum from one country or another. Russia, North Korea, China, Brazil.”
“Sightings of him were reported in Grand Cayman, but then he disappeared. For all anyone knows, he could have been assassinated by now. Or renditioned in an overseas black site by the CIA. Unsubstantiated reports had him unlawfully transported through Tuzla Air Base in Bosnia-Herzegovina before being transferred to Rabat in Morocco and finally flown to Afghanistan, there to be interrogated and tortured by the CIA.”
His eyebrows shot up. “True? Or untrue?”
“Untrue. But that was the plan.”
“He’s a resourceful S.O.B., isn’t he?” His was rhetorical question that didn’t require an answer. “And your source ...?”
“Confidential.”
He considered the implications. “Allow me ask a direct question.”
“Have at it,” she said, knowing what the question would be.
“Did Coyote pass the classified documents to you?”
“I’m not at liberty to say one way or another. Here. Or under oath.”
“Then you’re prepared to go to jail?”
“If it comes to that.” And appended her answer with an emphatic, “Yes.”
“Allow me to ask another question. If Senator Reed already knows Coyote passed classified information to you, why call you in to testify?”
Vikki tsked as if the Vice President were a bad boy. The answer was plain to them both.
“He’ll want you to give him up,” he answered for her. “Can you? Give him up? Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with him?”
“I don’t need to get in touch with him.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Let me put it to you another way. “Have you made a compact with him?”
It was a curious question. She debated whether to tell him and decided she lost nothing by doing so. “Only that I would expose the unprecedented and illegal program of mass surveillance perpetrated by the government on its citizens.” And immediately followed up with a question of her own. “Reed is also a member of the Fellowship, is he not?”
This threw the Vice President. He blinked but said nothing.
“I’ll take your silence as confirmation. I didn’t really know one way or another, but now I do. But let me go on and tell you how I see it.”
He nodded for her to proceed.
“The President is concerned, rightly so, about the political blowback of Senate investigations. Coyote’s infiltration into the workings of government has reflected badly on her administration. I’m sure you also have a personal stake in letting this story die, especially since the President’s second term ends in two years. You intend to put your hat in the ring. No need to confirm or deny. It’s baked in, isn’t it? Reed has similar ambitions. Which is why he’s going after Coyote with everything he’s got. After all, the people demand it, the nation requires it, and the world needs to know if America is or is not a lawless country. Eventually he will hold a press conference and declare Coyote a traitor before the verdict is in. He will do it for political gain since he pictures himself in the Oval Office. And he will use me as a scapegoat. What he doesn’t know is that I intend to go after him with everything I’ve got.”
“I heard there are well over a million documents in Coyote’s dump.”
“Those numbers are ridiculously low.” She stood. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Vice President. I’ll show myself out.”
He stood with her but did not accompany her to the door.
When she reached her car, an officious man dressed in a muted gray suit approached her. “If I may, Ms. Kidd.” He reached out a hand. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five, probably straight out of Harvard Law School, and so clean-cut you could wring him out like a washcloth. Yet he had about him an aura of subterfuge, as if he knew something interesting. “Sebastian Ayres. The vice president’s aide-de-camp, as he likes to call me. He asked me to deliver this to you.”
Espionage Games Page 13
