by P A Duncan
“If your loser friend Lamar sold—”
“No! He was as shocked as I was.”
“Who do you think stole it?”
“I don’t know. When Jerry and I stored the stuff, I thought no one was around, but someone must have seen us.”
Prophet’s lizard stare didn’t change, but he again went through his duffel and gave Carroll a business card.
“Someone in my network. He sells demolition supplies. I’ll contact him, and you can get whatever you need. He’s close to the target.”
Carroll slipped the card into his wallet. “I checked on the truck availability, and that’s no problem.”
“Good. Two consultants will help you construct the device.”
“I’m glad. I’ve been worried about the size. I’ve stopped at libraries along the way to look over The Anarchist’s Cookbook. I want everything to go right.”
“You’re not the only one. You’ve got to make sure it works at any cost. Understand?”
That was another day-mare. The bomb didn’t blow, and he went back to the truck to set it off. And Siobhan was there, reminding him she’d said Prophet would insist he do that.
“Yeah. Got it. With the consultants, no problems, right?”
“No problems. I’m starving, and I’ve got a craving for Chinese.”
“The order-in menus are in the nightstand.”
Prophet found them and looked them over. “You look like a scarecrow, boy. Haven’t you been eating?”
Carroll glared and didn’t care if Prophet saw. “Boy” was what Addams had called him.
“I had to watch my funds, so I cut back on eating.”
“And snorting Duval’s bad speed. I have a bag of quality Rocket Fuel in the duffel. Make it last the rest of the way. When the time comes, I need your head clear and your body strong.”
I get it, motherfucker, he thought; you’re the general, I’m the foot soldier; we’re the ones who win the wars. “I’ll be ready.”
“You better be.”
“You know from the first time we discussed this I was committed to it. Nothing has changed.”
“What about your cunt?’
“Don’t fucking call her that!”
Prophet laughed, and Carroll wanted to smash his face.
“If she were here,” Carroll said, “she’d probably do a better job. She’s done it before.”
The humor left Prophet’s face. “The bitch isn’t here, and she won’t be. This is man’s work.” Prophet stood, his eyes fixed on Carroll, reminding Carroll of a snake he’d encountered once in the Arizona countryside. “From now on, you and I are road buddies.”
Damn. That would make it harder not to carry out his orders about Lamar and Jerry. He’d face that if the time came.
Carroll asked, “Do you want the food delivered, or do you want me to go get it?”
26
Probable Causes
White House Situation Room
President Randolph rubbed his eyes. “All right,” he sighed, “I understand the grievance. The new gun laws, a perception of losing individual rights, Ruby Ridge, Killeen.”
A succinct summary considering all the words Alexei had used.
Randolph continued, “We know the elements in your black box, and we’ve seen the four suspects’ profiles. You said the forces needed for a terrorist act are a sense of history, of destiny, and of place. I understand the history. From the descriptions of Patriot City, I see where the destiny comes from. So, we’re left with the place and the act itself. Right?”
“Yes,” Alexei said, optimism washing away some of his fatigue.
“The location would be highly symbolic?”
“Yes. The extreme right is into symbolism.” With some reluctance, Alexei turned to Emmet Brasseau, who’d stayed quiet for some time. “Former AD Fitzgerald authored an excellent treatise on fringe groups some years ago. Certain right-wing movements are successful because they appeal to the disaffected and their fears. He pointed out these movements are led by a manipulator, who insists upon isolation from society, which the leader considers out of sync with his core beliefs.”
“I’m aware of Mr. Fitzgerald’s many accomplishments,” Brasseau said, now the defensive one. “What are you getting at?”
“It’s a well-wrought paper. Too bad he didn’t pay attention to it during either Ruby Ridge or Killeen, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is the leader of this conspiracy, subject number four, provided a place in Patriot City where subject number one was welcomed, propped up as a hero. Patriot City reinforced his beliefs and gave him a purpose and a destiny, which—”
“Yes, yes, I get that. Our political system has lost meaning for people on the fringe.”
“Not that simple. They’re content to live apart and to have the government leave them alone until they’re provoked.”
“Provoked? What do you… Oh, yes, Ruby Ridge, Killeen, blah, blah,” Brasseau said.
Randolph clenched his jaw so tight Alexei heard his teeth click.
“Let me share the complexity you seem to want to ignore,” Alexei said. “For years, short wave radio programs, crudely published newsletters, computer bulletin boards, fax networks, and now chat rooms and forums have harped on a government conspiracy to take away guns. People listened and stockpiled weapons, ammo, freeze-dried food because, they believe, someday they’ll have to fight the government as their forefathers did. Most of them thought that wouldn’t happen in their lifetimes. Until an FBI sniper, who is a minority, shot Vicky Weaver, a white, Christian mother with a baby in her arms, followed by the persecution of the People of the Eternal Light—”
Brasseau shot up, his face flushed with anger. “I will not sit here and allow you of all people to disparage my country!”
“Me of all people?” Across the table, Alexei stood to show how much taller than Brasseau he was. “I left everything and everyone I loved to serve this country. I’ve been a citizen for twenty-four years, longer than I was a Soviet citizen. I’m briefing you about a threat to my country, and if we’re to stop this, we need to know the enemy.”
“Emmet, sit down,” said Randolph. “You, too, Mr. Bukharin.”
Brasseau glared at Randolph but sat. Alexei waited to sit until Brasseau did.
“Once those two events happened so close to each other,” Alexei continued, “everything changed for the people on the fringe. The end was nearer than they thought, but some, including these four subjects, want to hasten that end. Subject number four constantly preached about cleansing this country—my country—and repopulating it with white, Christian babies.”
“My agent’s report confirms that,” Stark said.
Randolph rose, everyone following him. “Time for another break. I need to have dinner with my family. I’ll have something sent down here. I suspect you have more ground to cover.”
“Yes, sir,” Alexei said, smiling. “My record’s intact, though. It took me three days to convince Boris Yeltsin about the coup against Gorbachev. Without vodka, it may only have taken one.”
Randolph laughed at that. “Mr. Bukharin, you’re having dinner with me. We’ll meet the rest of you back here at seven. Mr. Bukharin, the Secret Service will escort you to the private quarters now. Emmet, stay a moment. Sheryl, Noel, go into the anteroom. Dinner will be brought in shortly.”
Alexei didn’t want a break, but his voice had grown huskier, his accent thicker as the day wore on. He loosened his tie and caught Brasseau’s glare at him.
I’m eating with the boss, motherfucker, Alexei thought.
After dinner, the Secret Service returned Alexei to the Situation Room and left him there alone. He’d stacked his briefing packet and notes a certain way and saw no one had tampered with them. He sat down, surprised at how tired he was. When a steward brought in a carafe of coffee, Alexei accepted a cup.
Noel Stark entered and poured himself a coffee. “Boris Yeltsin, huh?” Stark said. “That must have been a hoot.”
“H
e’s an interesting man.”
“That was diplomatic, Mr. Bukharin. Before anyone else returns, can I ask you some off-the-record questions?”
“If I can answer off the record.”
“Sure. That Patriot City bug-out was quick. Shocked me.”
“The Nazi I mentioned had more than a half century of experience founding organizations and later eradicating evidence of them.”
“Was that the body found in the main house?”
“Yes,” Alexei said, his lips pinched.
“Somebody was seriously pissed at him. Autopsy showed a crushed larynx and trachea.”
Alexei said nothing, and he and Stark stared at each other.
Stark continued, “This is my first exposure to United Nations operatives working here. Seems like another layer of oversight.”
“We have no oversight authority. We gather intel, we advise, but we can defend ourselves.”
“A lot of these nutso groups, and Agent Wolfe confirms this for Patriot City, think the U.N. lurks around every corner, ready to overthrow the government. Didn’t your presence feed that paranoia?”
“The leader of Patriot City didn’t know I was from the U.N. until Assistant Director Fitzgerald revealed that.”
Stark smiled. “I guess since the CIA can’t work inside the country, it’s good you guys are around. Do you think Patriot City has been reestablished somewhere?”
“Not to the same extent. My understanding that was several years in the making. The print shop and communications network are still active, but those are easy to move. If the leader is smart, and he is clever, he won’t create Patriot City II.”
“Why not?”
“Too easy to infiltrate a physical place. No, he’s biding his time, waiting to strike.”
Stark shook his head. “I consider myself a patriot, but these guys… They’re the opposite of what I consider a patriot.”
“The best thing about America is we acknowledge an individual’s right to have a different opinion, even from the government. In the America these people envision, they will allow no dissent, assured by force.” Alexei checked his watch.
“The first thing you learn about Randolph,” Stark said, “is he has a whole different concept of time. What’s Emmet got against you?”
“I’m a spy.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t sit well with his high moral standards. He’s so fucking holier-than-thou. Pisses off a lot of the Cabinet. Snapping back at Emmet usually shuts him up. I suspect Randolph gave him a big earful earlier, and he hates that. He has no respect for the President. I separate the guy from the office, and I respect the office.”
Sheryl Vejar’s entry quelled that discussion. “I can’t believe you were on time,” she said.
“What was I thinking?” Stark replied. “I’ve explained the Randolph Clock to Mr. Bukharin.”
A half-hour late, Randolph entered, making no excuses. He’d changed into jeans and a golf shirt. Alexei longed to remove his tie.
“Let’s get to the terror act we’re here to learn about,” Randolph said. “You have our attention, Mr. Bukharin.” He looked at Brasseau. “All of us.”
Again step-by-step, Alexei took them through everything he and Mai had accumulated. To preclude any protests from Brasseau, Alexei peppered his discussion with the fact he and Mai had neither seen nor heard anything illegal beyond that documented in the ATF’s Patriot City report.
Noel Stark got it first. “An ANFO bomb. You’re talking about a two-ton ANFO bomb. Fuck me, that’s… A fucking two-ton, fucking ANFO bomb.”
Brasseau flushed at the language.
“Yes.”
“That’s a far cry from blowing up Goddamned stumps.”
Brasseau winced, fingers curling into fists atop the table.
Stark rubbed his temples. “An ANFO bomb that size is feasible but impractical. How would they transport…? A large truck would do it.”
Alexei said, “A rental truck, one it’s common to see anywhere, even in a city.”
“When is this going to happen?”
“April nineteenth.”
Brasseau apparently couldn’t restrain himself any longer. “This sounds familiar.”
“We indicated before one year wasn’t long enough.”
“For the grievance to fester,” Randolph added.
“Yes, sir. The extra year was necessary for the logistics also.”
Brasseau rolled his eyes.
“Your partner,” Randolph said, “had a great deal of interaction with her subject.”
“That was her aspect of the mission. Befriend him. Learn if our suspicions were correct. She determined he’s the key, the warrior who will execute the mission.”
“You make it sound like a military operation,” Stark said.
“To them, it is.”
Randolph put on his concerned face and leaned toward Alexei. “Your partner, was she in danger?”
All three cabinet members exchanged glances.
“She can take care of herself.”
“If she were convinced this guy is going to do the deed, why didn’t she kill him?” Brasseau asked.
“Because she’s not an assassin.”
Vejar was quick to interject. “Mr. Bukharin, are you ready to outline proposed actions?”
Brasseau held up a hand. “Before we get to that, are you done with the background?”
“For the most part. I can work that into the proposal,” Alexei said.
“Before that, I’d like to discuss something with the President.”
“Emmet,” Stark said, “a two-ton bomb is damned important.”
“Noel, hear me out. We’ve all listened to this man, and he’s provided an excruciating amount of detail. It’s obvious, however, he has no idea where this is going to happen.” Brasseau looked at Alexei. “Do you?”
He had no choice except to be honest. “Not at this time, though our analysts continue to extrapolate from our mission notes. In my proposed plan, I will lay out how coordinated surveillance will—”
“All that time your partner spent in intimate contact with this subject, and she never thought to ask?”
“Director, I understand you’ve conducted undercover operations?”
Brasseau’s eyes flicked away and back. “Yes.”
“With the New York mob, correct?”
“Yes, but—”
“What would have happened if you’d asked too many questions or the wrong question? I’ll answer for you. The FBI would still be looking for your body. You recorded incriminating conversations about crimes that had already occurred. My partner was trying to determine if a crime was going to happen. That requires a different approach.”
“She missed the where.”
“You walk a thin line between causing suspicion and building trust. When she thought she’d built trust with the subject, the preacher forced a break with her.” No way would he tell this prig Mai had let herself get beaten in a futile attempt to build trust.
Again, Vejar knew when to intercede. “Emmet, we have enough for surveillance, and that will get us cause for warrants.”
Brasseau looked toward Vejar, not at her, but fixed his eyes on a point over her shoulder. Elijah would do that when talking to women. Same bigots, different religion, Alexei thought.
“We have a string of coincidences,” Brasseau said. “The missing detail is crucial, and the fact these guys didn’t boast and brag about it, which they usually do, tells me the threat is bluster.”
“The right-wing groups you’ve dealt with in the past are not as committed as these men are,” Alexei replied. “To them, as I said, this is a military operation. They understand need-to-know. Finding out where is not beyond our grasp, as I’ll explain within the parameters of the action plan.”
Brasseau shook his head. “Absolutely not. Without knowing where, it would be impractical for us to authorize the amount of surveillance that would be required.”
“FISA,” Alexei said, letting the a
cronym hang.
Randolph and Vejar looked at each other. That could be their out: the panel of senior judges whose sole purpose was to authorize national security wiretaps. Everyone in the room, especially Brasseau, would know those judges could authorize surveillance to begin even before they issued the warrant, as they’d done in ninety-nine percent of the cases brought before them.
Vejar looked at Alexei, her eyes alight, but Brasseau broke in.
“Again, before we proceed,” he said, “I need to discuss this with the President.”
“Go ahead,” Alexei said. “I’ll address your concerns.”
Brasseau gave Alexei a smug smile before he turned to Randolph. “Government officials only, Mr. President.”
Randolph leaned back in his chair, elbow on the armrest, a forefinger stroking his nose.
Alexei decided to do the opposite of what Brasseau would expect; he took the decision from the President.
“By all means,” Alexei said, “I’ll be happy to wait elsewhere for your discussion.” He rose with his briefing packet and notes in hand.
Randolph came to his side. “Thanks, Mr. Bukharin. The agent outside will take you to an anteroom.”
Alexei looked at Brasseau, who squared his shoulders and sat straighter in his chair, as if he were a kid who’d won a prize and wanted everyone to know it.
27
Inevitability
The Directorate
Not long past midnight, a weary Alexei Bukharin went through the security checkpoint to enter Directorate HQ.
“Burning some midnight oil, sir?” the guard asked. Her cheeks flushed when Alexei smiled at her.
“Something like that.”
“The Boss said for you to go to his private quarters.”
“Thanks.” Alexei collected his briefcase and pressed the button for the elevator. He rubbed his tired eyes.
