ROGUESTATE, page 19
* * * *
They had spent yesterday in Brian Stillwell’s Crystal City office, attempting to figure out where Conner Fadden had disappeared.
Stillwell seemed perplexed as they met in his office.
“Harvey, when you were with the Bureau, did you ever hear of a system called CYCLOPS?” asked Brian.
Harvey patted his ample gut and said with a half smile, “I wasn’t exactly privy to many inside secrets.”
Mark Schaeffer sipped his Diet Coke and tapped his leg on the floor. “What’s CYCLOPS?”
Brian smirked and spun in his chair to check the sonic vibrators on the corners of his office windows. He often wondered if the million-dollar security package electronically shrouding his office protected him from America’s enemies or America’s intelligence community.
“CYCLOPS is a system that slaves public and private security cameras to a central image database,” Brian explained.
Harvey raised an eyebrow.
Mark shook his head. “Doesn’t anybody ever consider civil rights violations?”
Harvey chuckled. “Civil rights are for lawyers. Most of the time we were fighting the Justice Department and the ACLU.”
Brian ignored Mark and said, “I was thinking we could track Conner down using CYCLOPS.”
“Track down?”
Brian nodded. “Yeah, the Bureau has already has most of the security cameras inside the District feeding the computers housing the main database.”
“And where might that be?” asked Mark.
“Quantico,” guessed Harvey.
Brian nodded.
“That’s where Bureau keeps all of itssensitive databases,” replied Harvey to Mark’s quizzical expression.
“Anybody ever worry about unreasonable search?” demanded Mark. He was getting angry now. His Libertarian keep-your-nose-out-of-my-business hackles rose menacingly. He did not expect to find angels running the criminal justice system, but the brazen disregard for the Bill of Rights pissed Mark off.
“CYCLOPS data would never be used by the Bureau for criminal prosecution,” continued Brian.
“The Bureau is somewhat selective in its application of the Bill of Rights,” added Harvey flippantly. “But don’t take my word for it; I resigned from the Bureau before they could get around to firing me.”
Mark nodded absently.
“I logged into CYCLOPS…” continued Stillwell.
Mark shook his head, saying, “You said it was a Bureau system. How come you have access?”
“We have a hack to get through their security,” Brian said matter-of-factly.
“Do you have any idea the number of laws…?”
Brian held up a hand and answered sharply, “The Bureau regularly runs surveillance on my offices. My home is routinely swept for listening devices. Do you know what my security teams find?”
Harvey spun his Stetson around on his finger and said, “A whole lot of wire taps, mail intercepts, government designed bugs, laser traces, and probably things I never heard of.”
Brian nodded. “The Bureau represents a security threat just as serious as the Chinese, the Russians, or the Israelis. We’re at war, Mr. Schaeffer, and sometimes the enemy is us.”
Mark closed his eyes and asked himself again,What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?
“You were saying?” prompted Harvey.
“Oh yeah,” continued Brian, “I thought we could use CYCLOPS to find Conner. When I logged in, I found out someone else had already thought of the idea.”
Harvey perked up and a cold spot formed in his gut.
Mark snickered. “So who beat you to the punch?”
Harvey leaned forward in his chair ignoring Mark. “Someone else?”
Brian nodded. “Whoever they are, they set up a trap in the system two months ago. They are using his service ID photograph.”
“Two months…” said Harvey slowly. He did the math in his head and snapped back to Brian, “That would be a couple of days afterSpanish Poppy ended.”
“This went into place on August 20.”
“Isn’t that about when…” stammered Mark.
Brian nodded. “They hit pay dirt when Conner decided to run. He ran right into their net around the District. I did a couple of other checks. There is an NCIC trace tag attached to his passport and driver license. The INS has an alert in place looking for Conner. They probably thought he was dead.”
“But now they know different,” whispered Harvey.
“Golly,” murmured Mark as he wiped his hand down the front of his face. “So who set up the search?”
“I don’t know,” replied Brian. “The records that link back to an authorized user that doesn’t exist. It’s not our hack.”
“Someone else,” suggested Harvey thoughtfully.
“We might be able to do something about it,” continued Brian. “They’re using a display pager to communicate sightings.”
A thin, nasty grin broke across Harvey’s features. “I see, and were we able to figure out who owns the pager?”
“It’s registered in the name of a dead person,” explained Brian. “But we do have the pager’s phone number.”
“So we set a trap and use their cozy hack against them,” whispered Harvey.
“Yeah,” nodded Brian.
Mark wondered if the people hunting Conner were as twisted as Harvey and Brian.
* * * *
Instead of searching for Conner, Mark and Harvey began hunting for the people hunting Conner. Brian modified the contact record to use a display pager owned by his company. Harvey had that pager clipped to his belt. This way if areal sighting occurred they would have the information.
Brian punched the pager number he found in CYCLOPS into a speed dial slot on his phone. He intended to play a game of tag and see who showed up. Harper and Hayes maintained a physical presence inside the Metro station, while Harvey and Mark watched outside from the parking lot.
Thirty minutes ago, they had issued an electronic page indicating Conner had been sighted. Of course Harvey had no idea where Conner might be, but whoever was on the other end of the pager registered in a dead man’s name did not know that.
Mark stared out the window and asked, “How will we know who we’re looking for?”
Harvey said quietly, “We don’t.”
“Then how do we catch him or them?”
“In two hours we move and send off another page. Eventually, we’re going to see someone we recognize.”
* * * *
Inside the Silver Spring Metro Station, Darby Hayes waited on the platform for the next train. He wore a dark blue wool jacket. It was bulky enough to hide the shape of his Beretta, and snaked along the collar was the clear earpiece wire connected to his Motorola radio.
Harper stood outside the main turnstiles near the ticket vending machines. He wore a leather jacket and tucked the Glock inside a shoulder rig. He clipped his Motorola radio on the other side of his chest and warily watched commuters. Both wore level three body armor and trauma plates next to their skin. Even though the weather was relatively cool, his skin was clammy and lunch threatened to roar back up his throat. The skin along his right shoulder had split again and blood dripped down his back.
The entire affair was a rogue operation. Once Harvey explained that Conner had started running, and Brian discovered evidence of a third party tampering with the Bureau’s CYCLOPS system, Harper decided to cut Jonas out of the information loop. Harper and Hayes had operated previously in environments without official sanction, but chasing Damon Layne meant they would become a threat—sooner or later—to the people who authorizedSpanish Poppy in the first place.
Harper owed Conner his life. It was a debt that weighed heavily on his mind as he reviewed the evidence of Conner’s crimes, and he sensed Conner intended to make things right. Conner and Harper lived the convoluted reasoning of men who have been to war, Harper believed he knew what Conner intended, and he suspected Conner was embarked on a one-way mission.
Arizona turned out to be a three-day waste of time. Either Layne never returned to Dolan Springs, or another party was looking for him as well. Harper longed for the clarity of battle where an identified enemy sought to kill or be killed. He understood the thunder and roar combat provided, and he accepted his old companion, death. This business was different. They were hunting for an adversary who might pop up at anytime amidst a civilian population he was pledged to protect.
When it finally happened, it would be messy.
* * * *
Not far from Harvey’s stakeout, Conner Fadden closed the maintenance closet on the basement level of the Crestar Building. Inside, he left the regular janitor gagged and bound. He pushed the cleaning cart festooned with feather dusters, rubber gloves, solvents, and a fifty-gallon garbage can. Under his gray coveralls, he carried his .45 Glock.
He took the freight elevator to the fifth floor and wheeled the cleaning cart through the sliding doors. The ID badge he wore was clipped close to his chin and the shirt collar covered the real janitor’s face. The tenants expected a janitor to start making the rounds close to four o’clock.
The first suite he entered was a real estate office specializing in single-family homes and new homes featured on placards in their windows. He roamed past the receptionist, pausing to dump her trashcan, before working his way down two cubical aisles. He maneuvered through the cubicles and out the door to the next office.
The master key opened the locked door, revealing a vacant suite of offices. He shoved the cleaning cart to one side and produced the Glock from his holster. He barely breathed as he listened to the building’s rhythms and found nothing beyond the air system and heating ducts.
He stepped through the gloom, not daring to touch a light switch. He had been the perfect candidate. Linguistically he spoke French like a Canadian and Spanish like someone born to any number of Central American countries. There were no proud parents or dangling siblings. His family had died in a house fire when he was only eight. He had been raised in an orphanage and educated by nuns. He knew right from wrong—and he had donevery, very wrong .
He floated past the receptionist desk and into the back offices. The offices were different from most in the Crestar Building. These had been soundproofed and a cipher lock glistened in the half-light. His eyes fastened on the lock. He was not supposed to know the three-number combination, but he had watched Damon Layne’s fingers dance over the numbers many times.
He reached forth and tapped in the numeric code and then turned the knob. The latch slid free under his hand and he was inside the briefing chamber. It was a windowless room. He closed the door behind him and the only light he had for company were the three Tritium dots from the Glock’s night sights.
He flipped the light switch on. He had spent three or four weeks rehearsing his story. The target had been a Columbian bandit named Commander Zeto. They went over every conceivable scenario Zeto might raise. At least, he did not have to deal with Zeto anymore. Someone else had killed Zeto in Panama. Zeto’s passing was not a great loss.
From the raised platform behind the glass walls, they hammered him with criticism and peppered him with questions. Constantly they forced him to speak Spanish. Conner paused in the middle of the floor and stared at the raised platform. There were others besides Layne. He had forgotten about the others! The lighting ensured their faces remained occluded, and the sound system modified their voices. Only Layne stood on his side of the partition, playing the part of Commander Zeto. Conner walked towards the partition. The Glock’s muzzled played back and forth.
He willed himself to remember.
Damon Layne waved his hands disgustedly. “No! No! No!”
Over the speakers came a raspy voice: “Mister Fadden, these men are psychopaths. You can not deal with them on a rational basis.”
Conner stared at the man behind the glass and nodded dumbly. He was tired. His back ached and his head hurt. He started again with his map of the Panama Canal. It went better this time, but the voice behind the glass goaded him, “You have to be tougher. These people have been living inside the Darién Gap! They kill or kidnap missionaries. They fight within a hostile jungle. Life, death is nothing.”
Damon Layne looked from the glass to Conner and said, “Listen toThe Fixer . He knows what he’s talking about!”
Conner nodded again. He was a good soldier and this was an important mission. He had no need to know the overall scope, but if they were successful then they would put a serious dent in the cocaine trade.
It had all been a large, elaborate lie.
Conner stepped behind the glassed-in partition and said quietly,“The Fixer.” He had a name. He looked at the scattered notepaper carelessly left behind on the desk. He scanned the pad and found one useful tidbit—a phone number. It was time to make things right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Atlanta, Georgia,CNN,October 29, 2000 –Call them neo-confederates, white Christians or Southern culturists, the message is the same. The battle lines between a mostly white, Bible-believing and anti-gay movement are being drawn in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi.
One hundred thirty years after the Civil War, it appears the party of Lincoln has finally won the hearts and souls of the confederacy. Confronted by the alliance of African American and Gay rights activists over such issues as abortion, school prayer, the Confederate battle flag and diversity, this quiet and increasingly large constituency will vote Republican for the first time ever, and turn their backs on their fellow southerner—Vice President Al Gore.
Washington D.C.
Sunday, October 29, 2000
4:00 P.M. EST
Alicia Montgomery was a black woman who had worked as a personal maid for one member of Congress or another over the last thirty years. She lived south of the District in Virginia where her family had lived for almost one hundred and fifty years. Her father had been a White House Steward for almost forty years. He had started during the early war years serving Franklin Roosevelt.
As young child she had chased Easter eggs on the south lawn. Her earliest memories of a president were Dwight David Eisenhower striding through the carpeted halls of the West Wing. He moved with a soldier’s bearing and understood the terrible price of war.
Her father had voted for Democrats his entire life, yet his favorite president had been the last first family he served—George and Barbara Bush. George Bush was not distant like Reagan or innocuous like Carter. Bush was an easygoing man who wore the Presidency well and thought more about the people than himself.
Her father had served a series of flawed leaders in the persons of Ford, Nixon, Johnson, and Kennedy. Each of them attempted to fill the shoes of their predecessors. Men grow into the Presidency or else the office eats them whole. There seemed to be no middle ground.
Alicia did not consider herself a servant; rather she continued a family tradition of taking care of the powerful. These days she worked for a Representative Russell Bronski, who was completing his twelfth Congressional term and anticipated his thirteenth. Bronski came to Washington on the Watergate wave. An angry electorate elected Jimmy Carter and proceeded to punish the Republican Party over Richard Nixon’s excesses.
Congressman Russell Bronski planned a fine dinner with a group of fellow democrats to discuss plans for committee assignments. Based on the Vice President’s internal tracking polls, they expected to retake the House in a week. They needed to divvy up the spoils and prepare to govern. It was payback time for impeachment, the Contract with America, and six cold, insufferable years as the minority party.
Alicia realized she had forgotten to purchase a few bell peppers for the meal she was preparing. A decent market was a couple of blocks down the road. She checked her kitchen preparations and figured she could be back in fifteen minutes. She grabbed the keys to the Bronski’s car and scrambled out to the carport. She wasdead wrong.
Bronski lived well. His election to Congress had been the most lucrative event in his life. While he marched in Chicago’s Labor Day Parades, attended potluck rallies, and remained mindful to his district’s needs, Bronski lived like a king. He drove a Lexus LS430 decked out with a twelve-thousand-dollar ultra-luxury interior and a thirty-five hundred–dollar Mark Levinson Audio System. The blue onyx-pearl car glistened beneath the carport. While Bronski marveled at his foreign-made toy, he made sure the car parked in his Illinois home was made in America.
Alicia Montgomery was fifty-four years old and the mother of two when Damon Layne’s second bomb shattered the quiet neighborhood and tore the seventy-five–thousand–dollar sedan apart. Mercifully, Alicia never felt a thing.
* * * *
Murdering a fifty-four–year–old woman was hardly news. Death and mayhem were long-time District residents. The day’s police blotter would record two murders, several muggings, countless drug deals and more burglaries than the over-stressed District Police Department could respond to. Reducing a senior member of Congress’ car to shrapnel, however, managed to garner more than a passing interest.
Emergency Service vehicles, an ambulance, three police cruisers, and a black FBI evidence van blocked off the street. Blue, red, and amber beacons pierced the twilight, and the retreating sirens echoed beneath the autumn leaves. Local television vans converged on the Bronski’s residence. Reporters for theWashington Post and theWashington Times were kept at bay by hastily-erected police barricades. Grudgingly the photographers and video camera operators made room for Dwayne Morton’s car. The cacophony of questions greeted his ears as he made his way through the police line.
Dwayne shrugged off the questions and plowed through a sea of technicians. The shattered car wreck still smoldered amongst the carport’s charred skeleton. Chunks of wood and metal were scattered across the pavement. Water and black ash pooled in the street and slopped against the curb. Windows of cars parked along the street had been blown out, and the yellow fire hoses snaked from a hydrant on the corner. It was a violent and brutal scene.
Dwayne walked down the short drive and set his hands on his hips. He tapped one of the forensic technicians on the shoulder and asked, “Who’s in charge around here?”
They had spent yesterday in Brian Stillwell’s Crystal City office, attempting to figure out where Conner Fadden had disappeared.
Stillwell seemed perplexed as they met in his office.
“Harvey, when you were with the Bureau, did you ever hear of a system called CYCLOPS?” asked Brian.
Harvey patted his ample gut and said with a half smile, “I wasn’t exactly privy to many inside secrets.”
Mark Schaeffer sipped his Diet Coke and tapped his leg on the floor. “What’s CYCLOPS?”
Brian smirked and spun in his chair to check the sonic vibrators on the corners of his office windows. He often wondered if the million-dollar security package electronically shrouding his office protected him from America’s enemies or America’s intelligence community.
“CYCLOPS is a system that slaves public and private security cameras to a central image database,” Brian explained.
Harvey raised an eyebrow.
Mark shook his head. “Doesn’t anybody ever consider civil rights violations?”
Harvey chuckled. “Civil rights are for lawyers. Most of the time we were fighting the Justice Department and the ACLU.”
Brian ignored Mark and said, “I was thinking we could track Conner down using CYCLOPS.”
“Track down?”
Brian nodded. “Yeah, the Bureau has already has most of the security cameras inside the District feeding the computers housing the main database.”
“And where might that be?” asked Mark.
“Quantico,” guessed Harvey.
Brian nodded.
“That’s where Bureau keeps all of itssensitive databases,” replied Harvey to Mark’s quizzical expression.
“Anybody ever worry about unreasonable search?” demanded Mark. He was getting angry now. His Libertarian keep-your-nose-out-of-my-business hackles rose menacingly. He did not expect to find angels running the criminal justice system, but the brazen disregard for the Bill of Rights pissed Mark off.
“CYCLOPS data would never be used by the Bureau for criminal prosecution,” continued Brian.
“The Bureau is somewhat selective in its application of the Bill of Rights,” added Harvey flippantly. “But don’t take my word for it; I resigned from the Bureau before they could get around to firing me.”
Mark nodded absently.
“I logged into CYCLOPS…” continued Stillwell.
Mark shook his head, saying, “You said it was a Bureau system. How come you have access?”
“We have a hack to get through their security,” Brian said matter-of-factly.
“Do you have any idea the number of laws…?”
Brian held up a hand and answered sharply, “The Bureau regularly runs surveillance on my offices. My home is routinely swept for listening devices. Do you know what my security teams find?”
Harvey spun his Stetson around on his finger and said, “A whole lot of wire taps, mail intercepts, government designed bugs, laser traces, and probably things I never heard of.”
Brian nodded. “The Bureau represents a security threat just as serious as the Chinese, the Russians, or the Israelis. We’re at war, Mr. Schaeffer, and sometimes the enemy is us.”
Mark closed his eyes and asked himself again,What kind of mess have I gotten myself into?
“You were saying?” prompted Harvey.
“Oh yeah,” continued Brian, “I thought we could use CYCLOPS to find Conner. When I logged in, I found out someone else had already thought of the idea.”
Harvey perked up and a cold spot formed in his gut.
Mark snickered. “So who beat you to the punch?”
Harvey leaned forward in his chair ignoring Mark. “Someone else?”
Brian nodded. “Whoever they are, they set up a trap in the system two months ago. They are using his service ID photograph.”
“Two months…” said Harvey slowly. He did the math in his head and snapped back to Brian, “That would be a couple of days afterSpanish Poppy ended.”
“This went into place on August 20.”
“Isn’t that about when…” stammered Mark.
Brian nodded. “They hit pay dirt when Conner decided to run. He ran right into their net around the District. I did a couple of other checks. There is an NCIC trace tag attached to his passport and driver license. The INS has an alert in place looking for Conner. They probably thought he was dead.”
“But now they know different,” whispered Harvey.
“Golly,” murmured Mark as he wiped his hand down the front of his face. “So who set up the search?”
“I don’t know,” replied Brian. “The records that link back to an authorized user that doesn’t exist. It’s not our hack.”
“Someone else,” suggested Harvey thoughtfully.
“We might be able to do something about it,” continued Brian. “They’re using a display pager to communicate sightings.”
A thin, nasty grin broke across Harvey’s features. “I see, and were we able to figure out who owns the pager?”
“It’s registered in the name of a dead person,” explained Brian. “But we do have the pager’s phone number.”
“So we set a trap and use their cozy hack against them,” whispered Harvey.
“Yeah,” nodded Brian.
Mark wondered if the people hunting Conner were as twisted as Harvey and Brian.
* * * *
Instead of searching for Conner, Mark and Harvey began hunting for the people hunting Conner. Brian modified the contact record to use a display pager owned by his company. Harvey had that pager clipped to his belt. This way if areal sighting occurred they would have the information.
Brian punched the pager number he found in CYCLOPS into a speed dial slot on his phone. He intended to play a game of tag and see who showed up. Harper and Hayes maintained a physical presence inside the Metro station, while Harvey and Mark watched outside from the parking lot.
Thirty minutes ago, they had issued an electronic page indicating Conner had been sighted. Of course Harvey had no idea where Conner might be, but whoever was on the other end of the pager registered in a dead man’s name did not know that.
Mark stared out the window and asked, “How will we know who we’re looking for?”
Harvey said quietly, “We don’t.”
“Then how do we catch him or them?”
“In two hours we move and send off another page. Eventually, we’re going to see someone we recognize.”
* * * *
Inside the Silver Spring Metro Station, Darby Hayes waited on the platform for the next train. He wore a dark blue wool jacket. It was bulky enough to hide the shape of his Beretta, and snaked along the collar was the clear earpiece wire connected to his Motorola radio.
Harper stood outside the main turnstiles near the ticket vending machines. He wore a leather jacket and tucked the Glock inside a shoulder rig. He clipped his Motorola radio on the other side of his chest and warily watched commuters. Both wore level three body armor and trauma plates next to their skin. Even though the weather was relatively cool, his skin was clammy and lunch threatened to roar back up his throat. The skin along his right shoulder had split again and blood dripped down his back.
The entire affair was a rogue operation. Once Harvey explained that Conner had started running, and Brian discovered evidence of a third party tampering with the Bureau’s CYCLOPS system, Harper decided to cut Jonas out of the information loop. Harper and Hayes had operated previously in environments without official sanction, but chasing Damon Layne meant they would become a threat—sooner or later—to the people who authorizedSpanish Poppy in the first place.
Harper owed Conner his life. It was a debt that weighed heavily on his mind as he reviewed the evidence of Conner’s crimes, and he sensed Conner intended to make things right. Conner and Harper lived the convoluted reasoning of men who have been to war, Harper believed he knew what Conner intended, and he suspected Conner was embarked on a one-way mission.
Arizona turned out to be a three-day waste of time. Either Layne never returned to Dolan Springs, or another party was looking for him as well. Harper longed for the clarity of battle where an identified enemy sought to kill or be killed. He understood the thunder and roar combat provided, and he accepted his old companion, death. This business was different. They were hunting for an adversary who might pop up at anytime amidst a civilian population he was pledged to protect.
When it finally happened, it would be messy.
* * * *
Not far from Harvey’s stakeout, Conner Fadden closed the maintenance closet on the basement level of the Crestar Building. Inside, he left the regular janitor gagged and bound. He pushed the cleaning cart festooned with feather dusters, rubber gloves, solvents, and a fifty-gallon garbage can. Under his gray coveralls, he carried his .45 Glock.
He took the freight elevator to the fifth floor and wheeled the cleaning cart through the sliding doors. The ID badge he wore was clipped close to his chin and the shirt collar covered the real janitor’s face. The tenants expected a janitor to start making the rounds close to four o’clock.
The first suite he entered was a real estate office specializing in single-family homes and new homes featured on placards in their windows. He roamed past the receptionist, pausing to dump her trashcan, before working his way down two cubical aisles. He maneuvered through the cubicles and out the door to the next office.
The master key opened the locked door, revealing a vacant suite of offices. He shoved the cleaning cart to one side and produced the Glock from his holster. He barely breathed as he listened to the building’s rhythms and found nothing beyond the air system and heating ducts.
He stepped through the gloom, not daring to touch a light switch. He had been the perfect candidate. Linguistically he spoke French like a Canadian and Spanish like someone born to any number of Central American countries. There were no proud parents or dangling siblings. His family had died in a house fire when he was only eight. He had been raised in an orphanage and educated by nuns. He knew right from wrong—and he had donevery, very wrong .
He floated past the receptionist desk and into the back offices. The offices were different from most in the Crestar Building. These had been soundproofed and a cipher lock glistened in the half-light. His eyes fastened on the lock. He was not supposed to know the three-number combination, but he had watched Damon Layne’s fingers dance over the numbers many times.
He reached forth and tapped in the numeric code and then turned the knob. The latch slid free under his hand and he was inside the briefing chamber. It was a windowless room. He closed the door behind him and the only light he had for company were the three Tritium dots from the Glock’s night sights.
He flipped the light switch on. He had spent three or four weeks rehearsing his story. The target had been a Columbian bandit named Commander Zeto. They went over every conceivable scenario Zeto might raise. At least, he did not have to deal with Zeto anymore. Someone else had killed Zeto in Panama. Zeto’s passing was not a great loss.
From the raised platform behind the glass walls, they hammered him with criticism and peppered him with questions. Constantly they forced him to speak Spanish. Conner paused in the middle of the floor and stared at the raised platform. There were others besides Layne. He had forgotten about the others! The lighting ensured their faces remained occluded, and the sound system modified their voices. Only Layne stood on his side of the partition, playing the part of Commander Zeto. Conner walked towards the partition. The Glock’s muzzled played back and forth.
He willed himself to remember.
Damon Layne waved his hands disgustedly. “No! No! No!”
Over the speakers came a raspy voice: “Mister Fadden, these men are psychopaths. You can not deal with them on a rational basis.”
Conner stared at the man behind the glass and nodded dumbly. He was tired. His back ached and his head hurt. He started again with his map of the Panama Canal. It went better this time, but the voice behind the glass goaded him, “You have to be tougher. These people have been living inside the Darién Gap! They kill or kidnap missionaries. They fight within a hostile jungle. Life, death is nothing.”
Damon Layne looked from the glass to Conner and said, “Listen toThe Fixer . He knows what he’s talking about!”
Conner nodded again. He was a good soldier and this was an important mission. He had no need to know the overall scope, but if they were successful then they would put a serious dent in the cocaine trade.
It had all been a large, elaborate lie.
Conner stepped behind the glassed-in partition and said quietly,“The Fixer.” He had a name. He looked at the scattered notepaper carelessly left behind on the desk. He scanned the pad and found one useful tidbit—a phone number. It was time to make things right.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Atlanta, Georgia,CNN,October 29, 2000 –Call them neo-confederates, white Christians or Southern culturists, the message is the same. The battle lines between a mostly white, Bible-believing and anti-gay movement are being drawn in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi.
One hundred thirty years after the Civil War, it appears the party of Lincoln has finally won the hearts and souls of the confederacy. Confronted by the alliance of African American and Gay rights activists over such issues as abortion, school prayer, the Confederate battle flag and diversity, this quiet and increasingly large constituency will vote Republican for the first time ever, and turn their backs on their fellow southerner—Vice President Al Gore.
Washington D.C.
Sunday, October 29, 2000
4:00 P.M. EST
Alicia Montgomery was a black woman who had worked as a personal maid for one member of Congress or another over the last thirty years. She lived south of the District in Virginia where her family had lived for almost one hundred and fifty years. Her father had been a White House Steward for almost forty years. He had started during the early war years serving Franklin Roosevelt.
As young child she had chased Easter eggs on the south lawn. Her earliest memories of a president were Dwight David Eisenhower striding through the carpeted halls of the West Wing. He moved with a soldier’s bearing and understood the terrible price of war.
Her father had voted for Democrats his entire life, yet his favorite president had been the last first family he served—George and Barbara Bush. George Bush was not distant like Reagan or innocuous like Carter. Bush was an easygoing man who wore the Presidency well and thought more about the people than himself.
Her father had served a series of flawed leaders in the persons of Ford, Nixon, Johnson, and Kennedy. Each of them attempted to fill the shoes of their predecessors. Men grow into the Presidency or else the office eats them whole. There seemed to be no middle ground.
Alicia did not consider herself a servant; rather she continued a family tradition of taking care of the powerful. These days she worked for a Representative Russell Bronski, who was completing his twelfth Congressional term and anticipated his thirteenth. Bronski came to Washington on the Watergate wave. An angry electorate elected Jimmy Carter and proceeded to punish the Republican Party over Richard Nixon’s excesses.
Congressman Russell Bronski planned a fine dinner with a group of fellow democrats to discuss plans for committee assignments. Based on the Vice President’s internal tracking polls, they expected to retake the House in a week. They needed to divvy up the spoils and prepare to govern. It was payback time for impeachment, the Contract with America, and six cold, insufferable years as the minority party.
Alicia realized she had forgotten to purchase a few bell peppers for the meal she was preparing. A decent market was a couple of blocks down the road. She checked her kitchen preparations and figured she could be back in fifteen minutes. She grabbed the keys to the Bronski’s car and scrambled out to the carport. She wasdead wrong.
Bronski lived well. His election to Congress had been the most lucrative event in his life. While he marched in Chicago’s Labor Day Parades, attended potluck rallies, and remained mindful to his district’s needs, Bronski lived like a king. He drove a Lexus LS430 decked out with a twelve-thousand-dollar ultra-luxury interior and a thirty-five hundred–dollar Mark Levinson Audio System. The blue onyx-pearl car glistened beneath the carport. While Bronski marveled at his foreign-made toy, he made sure the car parked in his Illinois home was made in America.
Alicia Montgomery was fifty-four years old and the mother of two when Damon Layne’s second bomb shattered the quiet neighborhood and tore the seventy-five–thousand–dollar sedan apart. Mercifully, Alicia never felt a thing.
* * * *
Murdering a fifty-four–year–old woman was hardly news. Death and mayhem were long-time District residents. The day’s police blotter would record two murders, several muggings, countless drug deals and more burglaries than the over-stressed District Police Department could respond to. Reducing a senior member of Congress’ car to shrapnel, however, managed to garner more than a passing interest.
Emergency Service vehicles, an ambulance, three police cruisers, and a black FBI evidence van blocked off the street. Blue, red, and amber beacons pierced the twilight, and the retreating sirens echoed beneath the autumn leaves. Local television vans converged on the Bronski’s residence. Reporters for theWashington Post and theWashington Times were kept at bay by hastily-erected police barricades. Grudgingly the photographers and video camera operators made room for Dwayne Morton’s car. The cacophony of questions greeted his ears as he made his way through the police line.
Dwayne shrugged off the questions and plowed through a sea of technicians. The shattered car wreck still smoldered amongst the carport’s charred skeleton. Chunks of wood and metal were scattered across the pavement. Water and black ash pooled in the street and slopped against the curb. Windows of cars parked along the street had been blown out, and the yellow fire hoses snaked from a hydrant on the corner. It was a violent and brutal scene.
Dwayne walked down the short drive and set his hands on his hips. He tapped one of the forensic technicians on the shoulder and asked, “Who’s in charge around here?”
