Collateral Damage

by P A Duncan

  As they followed yet another Secret Service Agent to the White House Situation Room, Alexei murmured to Mai, “I hope this is the last time we have to discuss this topic with these people.”

  “It has been an insufferable number of times without getting our point across.”

  “Maybe this time’s the charm?”

  President Geoffrey Randolph wore golf attire, in preparation for the Martha’s Vineyard vacation he’d depart for after the meeting. He shook hands with both of them but lingered over Alexei.

  “So glad to see you looking so well, Mr. Bukharin. Sit down, sit down,” Randolph said. Everyone took their places around the table.

  Randolph nodded to Emmet Brasseau, who cleared his throat and said, “Thanks to a lengthy discussion with Attorney General Vejar, I now have a more objective picture of The Directorate’s history, things I should have taken the time to learn before.”

  Alexei looked at him and smiled. “Flailing about, were you, Director Brasseau?”

  Mai ducked her head to hide her smile. Brasseau went so white, Alexei hoped Brasseau might faint. I know, you son of a bitch, Alexei thought, and now you know I do.

  Brasseau took a while to compose himself and stammered, “I, uh, I’d, uh, like to apologize. To you both.”

  Alexei looked at Mai and raised an eyebrow. Genuine or required by the president?

  “Based on your previous information,” Brasseau continued, “I’m initiating reforms within the Bureau, new ways of doing business.”

  “You need to understand the FBI is the single government agency with the most potential to abuse people’s rights,” Mai said. “The average citizen excuses you because you have the color of law, even when your actions are obvious abuse of power. As I’ve said before, those actions fulfill prophecies for the far right. You make their recruiting drives more productive.”

  Brasseau blinked and looked at his hands where they lay on the table. “I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’ve received copies of our after-action report. Let’s use this opportunity to answer questions you may have, discuss any loose ends you perceive,” Alexei said.

  “Do you have an idea of the identity of John Doe number two?” Brasseau asked.

  “That was subject number four from my March briefing, the Christian Identity preacher, Elijah the Prophet,” Alexei said.

  “Was?” asked Brasseau.

  “He’s dead. I shot him.”

  “How? Where?” ATF Director Noel Stark asked.

  “After Carroll left the truck, Prophet exited the passenger side. That’s where I shot him. Given his proximity, little would remain of him, other than, perhaps, that leg you can’t match to anyone.”

  “Mr. Bukharin,” Brasseau said, “you were concussed.”

  “Some things are memorable.”

  “He was the mastermind, the head of this Patriot City network,” Stark said. “Why would he risk his life by delivering the bomb?”

  “John Carroll delivered the bomb,” Brasseau said.

  Alexei answered Stark. “Elijah induced John Carroll to build a bomb and deliver it. Elijah saw himself as God’s agent on earth, not to mention the successor to the Nazi war criminal who founded Patriot City. He gave John Carroll cash, drugs, pep talks. He devised the plan. He kept Carroll focused. He selected the target. He likely lit the fuses.”

  Vejar, Brasseau, and Stark exchanged an uneasy glance. From assets in the FBI, Mai and Alexei knew the ATF was puzzled it found no explosive residue on Carroll’s clothes or body. That plus someone else lighting the fuse were mitigating factors the federal prosecutors weren’t interested in.

  “However,” Alexei said, “revealing that John Doe number two was on site and what happened to him might risk exposure of The Directorate’s involvement, something none of us wants.”

  “Perhaps he should remain an active suspect,” Randolph said.

  “In a few years, you can announce he was merely another customer in the rental office the same time as Carroll,” Alexei said.

  “Excellent suggestion,” Randolph said. “What else?”

  Brasseau and Stark peppered them with questions and scribbled notes from their replies. Mai’s responses always included a mention of Patriot City’s network and its involvement.

  “You don’t think we have everyone involved?” Brasseau asked her.

  “I don’t. The car was moved.”

  “The car?”

  “Carroll’s car. When I first found it that morning, it was behind the community center. That’s where I removed the license plate. Less than a half-hour later, I went back to intercept him, and the car was gone. Before Carroll arrived at the Becker Building in the truck. When I spotted him walking away from the truck, he was headed in a different direction, but it was the same car he was arrested in.”

  Brasseau frowned, tapped his pen on his pad. “We may be able to account for that in the timeline. He could have parked the truck, moved the car, gone back to the truck to—”

  “No. Alexei saw him park the truck and exit. Given when he parked the truck and the time of the explosion, not enough time.”

  “As I said, Mr. Bukharin was concussed.”

  “My agents confirmed those times,” Stark said.

  “We have other considerations,” Mai said. “The ATF described the bomb as complex, involving several hundred bags of fertilizer. You haven’t found the discarded bags.”

  Brasseau’s frown deepened. “He left them in the truck for the blast to dispose of.”

  “You’ve recovered no evidence of cellulose from the bags.”

  “Duval, Parker, or this preacher, disposed of them.”

  “Duval’s wife was giving birth in Arizona, and he was there. You’ve found no evidence of the bags in any dumpster or landfill within a two-hundred-mile radius from Kansas City,” Mai said.

  “Elijah would never have dirtied his hands with menial work,” Alexei added.

  “Who helped John Carroll, who had no previous explosives experience except for homemade firecrackers, build this sophisticated bomb?” Mai asked. “Whoever mixed the ingredients had to be covered in fertilizer dust. You found no trace on any of Carroll’s clothing, none in his car.”

  “Also in the back of the truck,” Brasseau said.

  “No clothing fibers in the truck’s debris,” Stark said.

  “How do you account for it?” Brasseau asked Mai.

  “Someone else built the bomb or, at the least, discarded the fertilizer bags and clothing.”

  Randolph leaned forward. “Who?”

  “Specialized assistance.”

  “An Army buddy?” Randolph asked.

  “Not likely. The FBI have interviewed everyone he served with and found nothing.”

  “Damn it, who?” Randolph said.

  “Only two terror groups in the world are experts in the precision use of ANFO bombs,” Mai said. “I discount the IRA. After fertilizer tagging, they switched to Semtex. Those in the IRA who could have helped are dead, in prison, or reformed.”

  “I’m not asking again,” Randolph said.

  “I think you suspect, since you have CIA and Mossad presence on your crisis team. Parker may have made contact with al Qaeda.”

  “Impossible,” Brasseau said.

  “Because you have facts to the contrary or because you choose not to consider the possibility?” Mai asked. “I draw your attention to the after-action report, in which I described encountering two men of middle-eastern extraction walking toward the community center. That does fit the timeline.”

  “Kansas City has a significant Muslim population,” Brasseau said. “Your observation isn’t sufficient evidence to say this is anything except domestic terrorism.”

  “Oh, it’s domestic terrorism, but that doesn’t rule out a foreign terrorist connection. Consider the obvious similarities to the 1993 World Trade Center bombing,” Mai said.

  “Coincidence,” Brasseau said, “or Carroll read about it. Maybe he chose
that method to throw suspicion off him.”

  “In eighteen months of conversations with him, he never once mentioned the World Trade Center bombing,” Mai said.

  “I can’t comment on evidence,” Brasseau said, “but this is a case the government will not lose. The American people feel safe in the belief we have everyone associated with the bombing. The people wanted us to move quickly, and we did. These men will be tried, convicted, and the American justice system will prevail.”

  “Unknown others remain,” Alexei said, “namely the aforementioned Patriot City network.”

  “Harmless now,” Brasseau said. “If it ever existed.”

  Ah, we’re back to normal, Alexei thought. “I’ll give you a logical future target. Something with high visibility offering many potential casualties. A large international contingent brought together in a spirit of peace and cooperation.”

  Brasseau looked away, but Randolph said, “The Atlanta Olympics.”

  “A perfect target for a perfect hatred,” Mai said.

  “The Olympics involves the biggest security operation this country has ever seen,” Brasseau said. “I’m surprised you’re not aware of that.”

  “Let’s not insult my intelligence, Director. I find it tiresome,” Mai said. “Our security chief is involved in the planning. He’s concluded the focus is wrong. You think an external group will attack the Olympics. You’re not considering international terrorist groups subcontracting with domestic groups, nor are you looking into threats from domestic groups. It isn’t always a big bomb. Small ones achieve the same objective, which is terror.”

  Brasseau shook his head. “Parker and Carroll. It only takes two for a conspiracy. Duval is state’s evidence. We have the lone bomber.”

  “When you captured him, he was alone,” Alexei said, “but he wasn’t alone in this act. The people trained at Patriot City who comprise its network want to alter this country’s government at any cost. We had the first payment in Kansas City.”

  “We’ve looked for evidence of this so-called network,” Brasseau said, “and we can’t find a thing. These groups are usually disorganized and have little hierarchy.”

  “Believe that, if that makes you feel safe,” Mai said.

  “Actually,” Stark said, “militia groups have shown a decrease in membership since the bombing, according to Norton Ball’s organization that tracks these things.”

  “Because in the media you tried to connect John Carroll to a specific militia, when his only connection was to Patriot City,” Alexei said. “Membership in known groups before the bombing may be down, but more groups have sprung up since. A terrorist tactic is to sponsor an action and be the first to denounce it to deflect suspicion.”

  “We hear the wake-up call, Mr. Bukharin,” Randolph said.

  “Do you? Many of these groups, new and old, contribute to the Republican Party. Do you think the Republicans in charge of Congress will hold hearings on how connected they are to hate groups?”

  Randolph shook his head. “I’m sorry, that’s too dark a view for me to accept.”

  “Mr. President, you’re a student of history. These groups warp history to justify the crimes they commit,” Mai said. “History has shown us when a political movement aligns itself with armed groups, which it then uses to push its political agenda, the danger is immense. Germany between the wars. Somalia. The Balkans.”

  Alexei followed on her lead. “In this country, militias with their weapons and their belief in their right to have them are merging with mainstream anti-environmentalist and anti-tax groups. Now, that’s merely a potential danger. Unless you get on top of them, they’ll be an imminent danger. These groups may have denounced Carroll’s action publicly, but in private, they revel in what he’s done. They look to him as an example to emulate.”

  Mai seamlessly continued the thread. “Politicians have a responsibility to distance themselves from and denounce hate groups. Silence is the greatest danger. If no one speaks out, hate becomes the norm.”

  “Speaking out is crucial but not enough,” Alexei said. “You must be willing to take down these groups when they break the law, no matter whom you find affiliated with them.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Brasseau said.

  “You infiltrated the Order in the eighties, but, indeed, the number of groups has grown so exponentially, you’d have to get inside every one. This Congress won’t give you the funding for that.”

  “We’ll have to be vigilant,” Brasseau said.

  Alexei looked at his partner, and Mai gave him a shrug. Both doubted they’d gotten anything across.

  Randolph checked his watch. “I’ll leave the rest of you to it. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

  68

  Monsters

  I have some questions,” Mai said after Randolph left.

  Brasseau and Stark looked at Vejar, the highest ranking official remaining.

  “Certainly, Ms. Fisher,” Vejar said.

  “This is a capital case?” Mai said.

  Brasseau leaned back in his chair and studied her.

  Vejar replied, “I indicated we would seek the death penalty.”

  “Why?”

  “If not this crime, what crime?” Brasseau asked.

  “Dozens of studies will tell you it doesn’t deter crime,” Mai said.

  “Two hundred dead is a good reason,” Brasseau said.

  “No, two hundred voting families in Missouri. Do you honestly think killing John Carroll will stop a future domestic terrorist?”

  “He’s a monster,” Brasseau said.

  “It’s easy to call him a monster. If he is, we made him one. We made him a killer.”

  “What are you saying?” Brasseau asked.

  Noel Stark sighed and said, “He was a soldier.”

  “So?” said Brasseau.

  “It means he was taught to kill, programmed to do it. We took his safety off, and what we didn’t do was put it back on,” Mai said.

  “Programmed? I don’t see—”

  “Emmet,” said Stark, “you weren’t in the military, were you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Law enforcement training isn’t the same,” Stark said. He looked at Mai. “I was in Vietnam, one tour toward the end. By then, the Army had started training recruits differently. In boot camp, we trained in real combat gear, the targets fell when we hit them, we got three-day passes for good scores, praise from the sarge and the officers.”

  “Skinnerian conditioning,” Mai said.

  “Whatever it’s called,” Stark said. “That’s what you mean, right?”

  “Yes,” said Mai, “and that made it easy for a slick-tongued preacher to tell Carroll he had a destiny and a purpose. Elijah the Prophet played on Carroll’s memories of the Army, a time when he was the happiest of his life.”

  Unbidden, the memory of the farmhouse in Ireland where she’d lived undercover came to mind.

  “Given all that happened to him, real or imagined, it was easy to drive that truck to the Becker Building.”

  She remembered her hands as they set the fuses and the timer on the bricks of Semtex, how the sweat had stung her eyes.

  “To him, the people inside were faceless enemies, like we’d trained him to kill. He did what an authority figure told him was the right thing to do. His friends bolstered him, and his family did nothing to stop him or have him stopped. I was almost one of them.”

  Queen Elizabeth II herself had pinned a Victoria Cross on Mai for killing nine people.

  “Carroll might have known people would die, but in his mind, they were unknowing pawns. That building was a symbol of a government that had ceased to make sense to him when it demanded he repay a salary overpayment, when it sent the same type of armored vehicle against its own citizens he’d been rewarded for using against the enemy we told him to kill. When the bomb went off, Carroll’s evil king was destroyed, but the people inside were collateral damage, casualties of war. Make no mistake, to those like John
Carroll, this is war.”

  “I will be glad when he no longer walks this earth,” said Brasseau.

  “I’ll be sad to see him die,” Mai said, “because he’s a likable person who did a hateful thing. You want to punish him, not understand him. Don’t you want to know why he did this? Don’t you want to stop the next John Carroll?”

  “Do you know?” Stark asked.

  “He’s the black box Alexei told you about. You have to look inside John Carroll and see what created the bomber. If you kill him, that won’t happen, and he wants you to kill him.”

  “To be a martyr,” Brasseau said.

  “No, the ultimate suicide by cop.”

  Brasseau tossed his pen on the table, and it rolled halfway across. “I don’t believe this. This man killed almost two hundred people, wounded five hundred more. One of them was your husband. One of them could have been you.”

  “He wouldn’t have hurt me,” Mai said. “No government has the right to decide who lives and who dies.”

  “You sob sister,” Brasseau said. “All this for a monster wearing human skin.”

  “That’s the only way you can see him. Dehumanizing him is the only way you can kill him. Who’ll cry for a dead monster?”

  “What he did dehumanized him,” Brasseau said.

  “If he’s a monster, he’s yours. Your American monster.”

  And if he’s a monster, she thought, what am I?

  Noel Stark caught her eye, gave her a curt nod of understanding, and resumed shuffling his papers into his briefcase.

  She looked at Alexei. This time his raised eyebrow meant, “I told you so.”

  Together, they rose. This was over, at last.

  “Gentlemen, Madame Attorney General,” Alexei said, “thank you for your time. Good afternoon.”

  Alexei’s hand rested at the small of Mai’s back, urging her toward the door.

  She’d failed John Carroll yet again.

  69

  The Next Mission

  To avoid rush hour, Mai and Alexei took a cab to Georgetown’s waterfront, managing to snag an outdoor table at a trendy restaurant. They ordered dinner, and Alexei debated how to tell her they’d be leaving on their next mission. Soon. Alexei knew he wasn’t ready, but he also knew Mai would be.