ROGUESTATE, page 28
BRIDGER: You’ve got to stop this concession speech.
FRENCHY: I can’t do that. He’s already called Austin and told them he was going to concede.
BRIDGER: Then have him call Austin and tell them he wants to wait.
FRENCHY: Everyone has called Florida for Bush tonight. Gee, I don’t know what went wrong. We were supposed to win by thirty in the Electoral College.
BRIDGER: Look, in about five minutes there are going to be over ninety thousand Gore votes hitting Florida.
FRENCHY: Not possible. There’s only two percent of the vote left.
BRIDGER: You guys paid me to deliver an election. That’s what I’m doing. Now, get him to call Bush and tell him “Sorry but no deal.” We should have this election won in a few minutes.
FRENCHY: He doesn’t know about the fix. I mean, no one ever told him about the money.
BRIDGER: Good. Keep it that way. We don’t need an ice tea defense over something like this. Just get to him and make him shut up.
FRENCHY: You watching the TV?
BRIDGER: Yeah.
FRENCHY: Okay, but what should I tell him?
BRIDGER: Tell him nothing and tell him to sit tight.
“Any idea who Frenchy is?” asked Louis.
Brian stared straight ahead and said, “We think Frenchy is a code name. It was one of landlines to the Tennessee office. Any number of people could have had access.”
Louis perused the intercept for a few more minutes and asked, “When did you find out they were hacking the Voter News Service’s statewide profiles?”
“Over the weekend,” answered Jonas.
“It looks like something didn’t go according to plan. You didn’t help the VNS screw up even more did you?”
The three of them stared mutely back at Louis. Finally, Schaeffer said, “Bridger has a pair of hackers on the thirty-ninth floor of his office. We know they hacked the profiles on a number of key states in the east and Midwest.”
Louis nodded like a father confessor.
Brian answered quietly, “We didn’t make up any votes like they did—if that’s what you’re asking.”
Louis nodded. “But our hands aren’t exactly clean.”
Schaeffer giggled., “Clean hands—is that what you’re worried about? You’ve got a clear 12333 executive order violation. You used national technical means to spy on a US citizen. None of this is admissible in court. We could all go the jail for what we did to Bridger, and on top of that, we brought a psychopath into the country and he’s trying to kill Bridger!”
“It would certainly solve a few problems,” murmured Louis. Bridger’s death might bury a great many untidy details—stealing the presidency did not even make it into the top ten.
“What about the airline tickets?” demanded Stillwell.
Louis tugged his gray-blond mustache. Stillwell used his connections into the Pentagon, the CIA, and the Defense Intelligence Agency to query the major airline reservation systems. He had a sample of lawyers who arrived on the scene on the direct request from Adrian Bridger. “The tickets are a disturbing aspect,” admitted Louis.
“Disturbing?” snapped Mark. “We found four lawyers directly connected to Bridger, and they all had airline tickets for Detroit, Philadelphia, and Tallahassee.”
“The reservations were made over a week ago. It’s hardly what you would call a spontaneous response to the Vice President’s appeal for lawyers,” added Jonas sarcastically.
Louis sighed. “Bridger did his homework and anticipated the worst case.” Of course, Bridger had always done his homework, and his meticulous planning had become a trademark. He almost confessed the truth to Jonas, Brian, and Mark, but self-preservation overrode the truth. Sometimes there were secrets that were best left in the trashcan rather than recorded for history. He glanced at the next intercept. It was equally disturbing.
BRIDGER: I need a poll completed by late tomorrow afternoon.
UNKNOWN: What do you want it to say?
BRIDGER: I want you to find people who will say their voting rights were violated by cops or confusing ballots or something.
UNKNOWN: How many?
BRIDGER: Thirty-five hundred. Look, we need it to appear there was overwhelming fraud in Florida.
UNKNOWN: Uh-huh, but you want it look like the other side did it—right? I mean we’re not talking about what we did are we?
BRIDGER: Yeah, yeah—we can blame it on the Florida Secretary of State’s office. I mean they made up these bad ballots—yeah, that’s what we’ll do. Call me when you’ve got it done.
UNKNOWN: I’ll call you by one.
Louis folded the pages back into the folder and said quietly, “Burn it.”
Schaeffer ran his hand down the front of his face and said, “Golly. You want to throw this away?” A few minutes ago, he was protesting Constitutional violations. Mark fought an internal tug-of-war, as he desperately wanted to torpedo a Gore Presidency. Yet there were rules, and the rules needed to be followed.
Louis nodded sphinx-like.
“But they’ve committed a crime!” protested Mark.
Louis shrugged. “Doesn’t matter—we need to protect the Company. If this leaks out and Gore becomes President, then our enemies inside the current and future administration will say we were spying on the Vice President. They’ll destroy us. Conversely, if Bush becomes President and this hits the newspapers, our enemies on the Hill will have a field day. We lose either way, and right now, we have to deal with the future. The future isn’t very bright. There’s China, Russia, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Libya, and North Korea. They’re all rogue states and they’d like nothing more than to see America stumble. We have to survive, because we serve the country and the country is going to need us in the coming years.”
“You sure you don’t want to keep a little bit around…?” began Jonas.
“Burn it all. It never happened. We don’t know about Adrian Bridger, Frenchy, or this bogus poll they published yesterday. People still think we killed Kennedy. Besides once we venture into the public with this kind of information—everything we have built will be lost,” explained Louis.
“What about Conner?” asked Stillwell.
“We’d better find and neutralize him before Bridger finds us,” replied Louis.
Stillwell shook his head. “Harvey’s looking for him.”
“How does he intend to find Mister Fadden?” asked Louis.
“He’s watching Bridger. He expects Conner to try again,” said Stillwell.
No one thought to mention that Kurt Martin was stalking Conner and Harper was hunting Martin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Amendment 16, US Constitution– The Congress shall have power to lay and collect taxes on incomes, from whatever source derived, without apportionment among the several States, and without regard to any census or enumeration.
Amendment 17, US Constitution–The Senate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from each State, elected by the people thereof, for six years, and each Senator shall have one vote. The electors in each State shall have the qualifications requisite for electors of the most numerous branch of the State legislatures.
When vacancies happen in the representation of any State in the Senate, the executive authority of such State shall issue writs of election to fill such vacancies: Provided, that the legislature of any State may empower the executive thereof to make temporary appointments until the people fill the vacancies by election as the legislature may direct.
This amendment shall not be so construed as to affect the election or term of any Senator chosen before it becomes valid as part of the Constitution.
JEH Building, Washington D.C.
Friday, November 10, 2000
10:00 A.M. EST
Dwayne Morton reread the email text. It was the kind of thing he might have dismissed except for the details. The note had been sent to the Senate Majority leader, although there was doubt as to whether it would be the Senator from South Dakota or Mississippi who continued in that office. The Mississippi Republican had received the death threat.
We demand the following:
The repeal of the 17thAmendment.
The repeal of the 16thAmendment.
Otherwise, the killing will continue and the people we target will become increasingly more important.
As to our bona fides, Alicia Montgomery was not the target of the first bomb. We do not regret killing a black slave. Russell Bronski says he is for the people, but he behaves like a king. Haley Dickinson deserved death for her actions contrary to the Constitution.
We will continue our bombing campaign until we see positive action. Eventually we will kill you.
Dwayne had spent most of the morning on the Hoover Building’s top floor locked in an office with the Director, Feldman, the Secret Service, an aide to the Senate Majority Leader, and a few people he did not recognize. The meeting had proceeded down the predictable lines, except no one treated the note like another crackpot letter. The news media had not connected the bombings together—until today.
The note had been carbon-copied to specific news desk editors at FOX, CBS, NBC, ABC, and CNN. The White House had its own political drama to direct, and it was not very helpful in quelling the clamoring fourth estate. The Secret Service remained customarily taciturn in its response, issuing a statement that neither confirmed nor denied the existence of the note. Of course, it was hard to deny the note since everyone’s email address was clearly printed on the header.
The media’s pack mentality turned to the Bureau. Direct lines up and down the forensic food chain started ringing around six in the morning in search of a bruised ego or an over-committed bank account. Checkbook journalism extended beyond the tabloids and no one wanted to be reminded; the contents of the email had already been posted on the Drudge Report complete with a flashing beacon and huge black headlines.
On an ordinary day, the story would have blasted across America and a media gridlock would have descended up and down Pennsylvania Avenue
. However, the Friday after the election was hardly ordinary as the recounts progressed in Florida and Bush’s lead began to slip away. Grandstanding Congressmen and bogus polls carried the cable news shows into extra innings.
The country’s media corps descended on south Florida and hotel space vanished. Rental car agencies could not keep up as lawyers, reporters, politicians, and the mildly curious flooded the sunshine state. Katherine Harris—Florida’s Secretary of State—eclipsed Bill Clinton in the media spotlight, and everyone was tittering over the explosive mixture regarding the Bush brothers and trouble in Florida.
It was the only bright spot in Dwayne’s day.
He left the top floor with a mandate to find this bomber and stop him, fifty agents, and Feldman’s complete support. Dwayne’s gut told him Irv Fredricks was involved in the bombings. Dwayne did not need a Constitution to figure out what the 17thamendment dealt with. It was a salient point in everything Irv had ever published in dozens of pamphlets and articles.
Dwayne kept his thoughts to himself and promptly assigned fifteen agents to roust Irv and everyone surrounding him. He asked for technical resources to investigate the email and its routing, although he suspected the growing sophistication on the other side of the digital divide probably left a dozen false trails. He sent the rest of his people to go over the Skinner, Montgomery, and Dickinson bombings.
Feldman arrived with Rita Mason close behind. The Assistant Director settled in the chair across from Dwayne and said, “We have a problem—a real problem on our hands.”
Dwayne nodded thoughtfully.
Rita Mason flipped open her note pad.
“I want you to bring Cecil in on this, Dwayne. He’s been around a long time.”
Dwayne stared across his desk and said, “Cecil?”
“He knows just about everything there is to know about the skinheads and the environmental terrorists. He should be a big help,” continued Feldman.
Dwayne let his eyes fall back to the email note. The 17thamendment had nothing to do with skinheads and mountaintop separatists. These were the pedantic ramblings of the southern secessionist movement. It was movement of largely disenfranchised white people who allowed their prejudice to influence common sense. “You think we’re dealing with skinheads?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes,” declared Feldman. “They are the kind of people without regard to human life or morals. Attempting—”
Dwayne cut Feldman off in mid-sentence. “These aren’t skinheads. Did you notice they managed to parse a couple of sentences together in the email?” He held up the sheet and waved it under Feldman’s chin. “Most skinheads I’ve seen have a hard time getting past the F-word.”
Feldman had not expected Dwayne to express an opinion contrary to his wishes. He did not expect Dwayne to stop the bombings; in fact, he believed Dwayne was going to fail. Attaching Cecil to the investigation opened the doorway for Cecil’s retirement and the elimination of his needling nature.
“Dwayne, those are my orders. Cecil is a proven veteran and I expect you to coordinate the investigation with him today.” Feldman got to his feet ending the meeting. Rita followed Feldman out the door.
* * * *
Cecil rubbed his tired eyes. He had spent the previous evening and the early morning hours working through a CIA database and comparing it to the Bureau’s counterintelligence log.
He understood the unwritten rules that some of the Bureau’s greatest adversaries were the spooks, and that he should never do anything to embarrass the Bureau. Cecil was also a pragmatist, and after thirty-five years inside the beltway he understood no one had all the answers.
The CIA maintained its own counterintelligence operation and quietly slipped past the restrictions on domestic operations. It was classified as internal security and no one argued terribly hard after the Aldrich Ames affair. Over the last several years, the operation had expanded to target every suspected intelligence officer regardless of national origin. Ostensibly, they were searching for the secondmole many believed the Russians had operating inside the Company. Manpower and budget constraints limited their ability to follow everyone and forced them to make choices.
Several cups of coffee and too many Danish rolls later, Cecil found his anomaly. An order directing the Bureau to suspend surveillance operations on Gennadiy Panferkov was issued on October 13. No one appeared to have signed the order. It simply appeared in one of the surveillance logs. The watchers were reassigned to the French Embassy.
Cecil brought up Gennadiy Panferkov’s file on the screen and let out a low whistle. Panferkov was believed to be Chief of Station for the SVR and it was incredible that no one had been watching him since the middle of October. Even when they were watching Panferkov, he tended to slip away on the Metro or inside a store. He particularly appreciated the Mall, replete with the tourist traffic. More than once, they had lost him in the winding corridors of the Smithsonian Museums.
There were a great many people the Bureau might decide to quit watching, but Panferkov was not one of them. He ran a search against the CIA’s surveillance database and came up with three hits on Panferkov.
Cecil discovered the Panferkov connection around two in the morning, but it would be another five hours before he wrestled free the video file of Panferkov’s meeting on November 1 in the Smithsonian’s American History Museum.
The information Cecil wanted to examine was classified beyond his access in the CIA’s database. He was forced to recreate the search against the Bureau’s voluminous counterintelligence files on Soviet and Russian intelligence officers. Captain Eduard Gurov stood next to Panferkov in one window and the Bureau’s dossier photograph stared at him from another.
Cecil checked passport control for a record of Gurov’s entrance into the country, but he knew what he would find before the computer returned the answer—nothing. He had his Russian!
Cecil looked up to find Dwayne framed within his office door. Puzzled, Cecil motioned to a chair as he completed his order to “Observe and Report” on Eduard Gurov. He thoughtfully added “Armed and Dangerous”; there was no need for a local cop to get ensnared in a nasty espionage case. He had no idea that the SVR’sWild Bunch would read his order within twelve hours and that he had inadvertently warned his prey.
“What can I do for you, Dwayne?” Cecil asked.
Dwayne moved his rumpled suit sideways on the chair. “Lou asked me to bring you in on the bombing case.”
Cecil cocked an eyebrow and said cautiously, “Oh?”
“Yeah, I guess the Director doesn’t have a great deal of faith in me,” confessed Dwayne.
“Did he say that?”
Dwayne shrugged. “Not in so many words, but the meaning was clear. He wants you on the case as an expert.”
Cecil’s furrowed brow relaxed as Feldman’s intentions began to crystallize. He smirked and said, “Then we best not disappoint them.”
Dwayne nodded sadly. “Yeah.”
The older man’s blue eyes twinkled. “But you have someone in mind already.”
Dwayne looked up glumly. He told himself he was not a fool, and he wondered whether the grandfatherly attitude was another political trick. Why should Cecil care any more than Feldman? “Yeah, I think it is one of the crackpots who would be a Klansman if he could attract a following.”
Cecil prodded. “And…”
“I don’t have a shred of evidence to back it up,” confessed Dwayne.
“Except for your gut,” added Cecil.
Dwayne nodded.
Cecil considered the situation. Dwayne had no desire for this meeting—it was Feldman’s idea. Feldman was a slimy empire builder, and Cecil had seen his share during his years at the Bureau. Gut instinct ran counter to the Bureau’s time-honored methods of painstakingly plodding though every piece of forensic evidence. The process had overcome the product.
