ROGUESTATE, page 8
Ron leaned forward. “We want to strike out at things a lot more important than abortion clinics.”
“Like what?” Damon asked pointedly.
“We want to go after the leadership,” whispered Irv.
Damon stared at the two and considered the Sigma inside the computer case. He could walk away into the skyway system and circle back to his own vehicle.
“You don’t have the resources to accomplishthat mission,” Damon said flatly. Presidential assassination was not on his list of promising retirement programs.
Ron shook his head. “We’re not talking aboutthat. ”
Damon sighed. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you don’t give me a straight answer, then I’m going to walk away.”
Irv nodded curtly. “We know we can’t get at the hard targets, so we’ll take what they’ll give us.” He glanced sideways at Ron.
“Families,” continued Ron dissecting the problem the same way he worked through a chart of accounts. “There are five hundred thirty-five members of Congress. Once you get past the Speaker and the Senate Majority leader, there is minimal security. Kids, wives, mistresses, and domestic partners are fair game. We take the war to them.” His eyes sparkled at the simplicity.
Damon thought about killing women and children, and he did not find it repugnant. The cold spot he used for a heart had no room for a conscience or a soul. He considered the technical details and disregarded the moral implications. He concluded Irv and Ron had developed the beginnings of a workable plan. “How bloody do you want this to be?” he asked.
A sloppy grin walked across Irv’s tobacco-stained teeth. “I want fear! I want them to fear us!”
“These people are not used to fear,” continued Ron. “The beauty of the plan is that they can’t cover everyone at the same time. If they try…”
“They’ll protect nothing,” continued Damon, finishing the thought.
“Exactly!” smiled Irv—it was a smelly, brownish leer.
“These people play for keeps,” warned Damon.
“So do we,” boasted Ron.
Damon appraised the hate-mongering accountant. “This ain’t an underpaid IRS clerk you’re going after. You are taking on the big leagues and that means the Secret Service, the Bureau, and probably half a dozen other gun-toting law enforcement agencies. They won’t be taking prisoners after the first kid gets splattered all over the evening news.”
“How much?” asked Irv. The deadliest point in the entire meeting had arrived. Both sides had a great deal to lose from a lack of agreement.
Damon thought about the contract. He needed to vanish forever after this escapade. Dolan Springs was in the wrong country. He would need to move to Latin America or the Far East. Damon pulled a Happy Meal napkin from the tray and wrote down an account number. “Ten million deposited in advance to this account.”
Ron and Irv exchanged glances. It took them about five seconds to make their decision. Ron fished out a two-hundred-fifty-megabyte zip disk and slid it across the table. He folded the napkin and slipped it into his shirt pocket.
Damon stared at the disk for a long minute. The Bureau’s cyber crimes unit had developed a system called CARNIVORE designed to track down terrorist activities on the Internet. CARNIVORE is a black box designed to plug directly into the networks of any Internet Service Provider like Juno or AOL, and it’s part of a more ominous system called the DRAGON WARE SUITE. According to the Bureau’s published reports, the system had only been employed fourteen times. Privacy was dead on the Internet and under the banner of national security—Constitutional protections meant nothing to the Bureau. Damon had learned to believe the musings emanating from the Bureau as much as his next visit from the tooth fairy.
“What’s on the disk?”
“Single use encryption keys and email addresses,” answered Ron.
Damon looked from the disk to the accountant and probed, “Like a one time pad?”
“Yeah, just the electronic kind,” confirmed Ron
“What did you use?” asked Damon.
“The latest version of PGP,” answered Irv.
Damon was impressed. PGP stood for Pretty Good Protection and it was a public/private key encryption system that caused the NSA’s supercomputers to work overtime. The current rumors suggested it took the NSA upwards of three weeks to crack a PGP-encrypted message. A one-time key might be impenetrable. Damon laid his hand over the disk and slid it into the computer case. He also knew once the killing started, the Bureau would be relentless. It would take all his experience and tradecraft to keep ahead of the FBI.
Irv dropped his rough palm over Damon’s and asked, “When will you start?”
“In time for the holidays,” he replied.
CHAPTER EIGHT
New York, New York,New York Observer,October 7, 2000 –A funny thing happened on the way to the first presidential debate. Against the backdrop of the University of Massachusetts, the Texas Governor demonstrated a firm grasp of the issues and eliminated the malapropisms that have plagued him throughout the campaign.
In contrast, the Vice President managed to offend all but his most ardent supporters with his excessive sighing and frequent interruptions. The polls seem to indicate the election is turning on good manners rather than debate points.
Richmond, Virginia
Saturday, October 7, 2000
1:00 P.M. EDT
It was a delicious afternoon for a wedding. The weather had cooperated to deliver a crystal blue sky and a twinge of autumn air to offset the summer’s fading heat. Red and gold clusters popped out against a backdrop of plush greenery leading to the colonial-style church where its white steeple was punctuated with a silver and gold cross.
Twin aisles led to the flower-adorned wedding altar. Sheer white bows were tied to the ends of each pew. Each had just the right knot and the ribbon was a delicate web-work reminiscent of Victorian lace.
Black tuxedoed ushers with upturned collars handed out programs identifying the wedding party, singers, and order of service. The program had a ruffled edge to one side and a purple bow tied along the top. Organ music filled the sanctuary and people of all ages settled in for the thirty-five minute nuptial.
The catering company, the florists, the FBI surveillance van, the photographer, and a limousine driver blissfully ignored each other. The caterers ensured the hot steam heater stands were properly arranged. The sanctuary bloomed with white roses, wild flowers, and carnations. Everyone requiring a wrist corsage or boutonniere had received one.
Videotape machines and Nikon cameras captured every face and every license plate. The license plates went through the Bureau’s priority link to National Crime Information Center’s (NCIC) database. The faces were fed into a local CYCLOPS database.
The photographer hustled about the church taking the traditional pre-wedding shots, arranging first the bride’s family, then the groom’s family, and finally, a joint picture of the happy soon-to-be in-laws. The photographer only cared about camera angles and set shots. He did his best to be jovial and light hearted, but it was just another wedding shoot, and he hoped everyone would buy several sets of the happy couple.
Three friends of the groom worked on the JUST MARRIED sign, tin cans, and soap-framed hearts wishing the new couple happiness.
Inside the Bureau’s evidence van, the computer links started popping out hits to the shock-mounted color laser printer. The satellite links back to the main systems at Quantico, Virginia, fired across the secured networks to the J. Edgar Hoover Building inside the District.
The pick list on the main terminal spat out four names: Louis Edwards, Lieutenant General George Carnady, Major James Harper, and Brian Stillwell. They already had the groom’s record pinned to the ready board.
Louis Edwards, a shadowy spymaster and no friend of the Bureau, arrived in a chauffeured car. His minders—Mister Smith and Mister Jones—ensured no one interfered with their charge.
General George Carnady maintained offices inside the Pentagon’s E-Ring, and on the top floor of the National Security Agency’s office complex at Fort Meade, Maryland. He walked ramrod straight into the church, bristling with medals.
Jim Harper arrived at the church with his wife Lynn and Sergeant Darby Hayes. Lynn Harper glowed as she hung on her husband’s arm. Seven weeks ago, she had hurriedly flown from Chicago to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. She found her husband in the burn unit having suffered second degree burns over sixty percent of his body. He had been released a mere three weeks ago, and Lynn had to settle for the non-explanation of a black operation that never happened.
Sergeant Hayes kept a watchful eye on his Major. Harper spent an hour each day since leaving Walter Reed hitting pads and working out. More than once, Harper’s healing skin tore loose and bloodied his T-shirt during a workout. Each time the two of them made sure Lynn never learned of the setback. Harper was determined to regain his strength and health. Only Hayes realized how unsteady Harper was on his feet, and Darby’s current assignment was to ensure Harper’s safety.
Brian Stillwell wore his trademark denim slacks, cowboy boots, and corduroy jacket. He kept his ponytail tastefully bobbed. He brought his son along.
Once inside the church, Harper whispered to Hayes, “Do you have your combat dagger handy?”
Hayes nodded slightly, asking, “Major, I don’t think you’re quite up to anything.”
Harper patted the former Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant on the shoulder. “Just keep Lynn safe.”
He palmed the combat dagger and slid it into the side pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
Lynn gave Darby an appraising look asking, “Where’s Jim off to?”
“I believe the Major needed to check in with the groom,” replied Darby uncertainly. Harper was the best man.
“Uh-huh,” whispered Lynn, not believing Sergeant Hayes, “And you’re supposed to make sure nothing happens to me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Harper found himself back in the parking lot advancing on the black FBI evidence van. He steeled his steps ignoring the pain lancing across his shoulder blades and hiding a limp. Waves of harsh nausea threatened to overwhelm his will as he felt the pillbox in his front pocket. The doctors were quite concerned about infections and other maladies. The black-bladed combat dagger felt cold in his hand. With each step towards the Bureau’s van, Harper’s anger grew. By the time he rounded the front bumper and pulled himself into the cab, Harper fervently anticipated confrontation.
The Bureau continued to park agents outside Harper’s home, intercept his mail, phone, and email. The harassment had been sporadic since last year and constant since May. Rolling an evidence van into Jonas’ wedding was little more than knuckle-dragging intimidation.
The hot diesel engine percolated, providing power to the computers, satellite uplinks, and video cameras. He pulled the hood release and swung back down to the ground. Harper set the tip of the dagger against the alternator belt. The heavy rubber belt ripped apart. Just to make sure, Harper grabbed the spark plug wires and yanked enough of them loose. The heavy plastic distributor cap broke apart, as he made sure the van would remain parked at the church. He let the hood slam shut as the engine coughed to a halt.
Harper tossed the twisted the cables under the nearest car and strolled back towards the church. He heard the thump of the van’s back doors as the techno-nerds emerged from their digital cocoon. Harper stopped and turned to watch the technicians wander along the far side of the van. Harper willed them to look in his direction. He wanted them to know—to fear.
The first yelled, “Hey!”
Harper almost stepped back towards the two technicians—they were little more than prey, and he was a supreme hunter.
The second laid a warning hand on his companion and shook his head. They retreated back to the safety of the van. They had been briefed on Major Jim Harper—the man was a psycho protected by a special national security tag.
Harper sighed and turned back to the church, confident his latest anti-social act would find its way to Lou Feldman’s desk. He hurried back to Jonas and Maggie’s wedding; after all, he was best man.
* * * *
Arlington, Virginia
Mark Schaeffer stood five-foot-five and he might tip the scales at one-thirty dripping wet. The Arlington, Virginia, condominium was littered with political mementos collected over the last twenty-five years. He framed his 1976 Republican National Convention credentials and a convention photograph to remind him of Ronald Reagan’s nearly successful challenge to Gerald Ford. The California Governor almost wrested the nomination from the sitting president. Next to the convention photograph was an autographed football from Jack Kemp. Other memories depicted Mark in various poses with George Bush, Bob Dole, and Rush Limbaugh. None of the pictures hung exactly straight on the wall.
He dropped down to his knees and peeked under his bed. Besides fifteen years of dust bunnies and discarded cinnamon Gummy Bear wrappers, he found the battered suitcase that had served him well for twenty years. Orange airline tickets were still wound around the suitcase handle.
Mark spent his early professional years organizing caucuses and working conventions across Iowa, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. Copies ofHuman Events andThe American Spectator were scattered across his home, and the back seat of his Chrysler was a rolling conservative bookstore. He spent most of 1979 and 1980 organizing the Midwest caucus states for Reagan. He tirelessly raised money, attended church socials, stuffed envelopes, and worked phone banks. He became a nameless legend upsetting the Republican old guard and confounding the left-veering Democrats.
He found a laundry basket filled with black socks on a chair. Mark detested matching his socks, so he only purchased black socks and eliminated the problem. He fished out six pairs, rolled them up, and tossed then into the suitcase. He had a similar aversion to pressing shirts. The bottom three drawers in his bureau were filled with blue button-down shirts still in their department-store wrappers.
Professionally, Mark was a lawyer—and by most accounts, a good one. When the Republicans won the House after forty years in the cold, the caucus leadership made sure they took care of the Mark Schaeffers. For the first time, Mark did not find himself scraping together the mortgage money by writing wills or fixing traffic tickets. Congressional legal work and the rates the government willingly paid satisfied all of Mark’s financial obligations.
He plucked three ties from the rack. According to his system, these ties were supposed to be food-spot free. He had a bad habit of dumping tuna fish on his expensive silk ties. Mark tossed a toilet kit into the suitcase and came to the three cell phones poised like champion racehorses on the top of his bureau.
Mark was packing for a trip to the Turks and Caicos in the Caribbean.
* * * *
Two days ago, Mark had found a Mister Smith waiting for him at his kitchen table.
Smith was dressed in a gray business suit. He could have been a CPA had it not been for the semi-automatic pistol in the shoulder rig under his left arm. Mark thought briefly about running until he found Smith’s partner—Mister Jones—barring his escape.
“What’d you want?” snapped Mark.
Jones guided Mark into his own condominium, and stood silently at his door.
Smith greeted Mark with a reptilian grin. “We wish to hire your services.”
Smith and Jones might have been bookends, and Mark quickly concluded that if they intended to harm him, there was nothing he could do to prevent the violence.
“My name is Smith,” continued Mister Smith, “and his name is Jones.”
Mark grunted. “Sure it is.” He sat down across from Smith.
Smith fished out a business envelope and flopped it down on the table between them. “There is fifty thousand dollars in that envelope,” explained Smith.
“Tax free,” added Jones.
Mark looked from Smith to the splayed stack of one-hundred-dollar bills poking out from beneath the envelope’s flap. “A retainer,” continued Smith.
Mark nodded slowly. “For what?”
“We have need of a lawyer,” replied Smith.
“You come highly recommended,” announced Jones from his perch next to the door. “People say you actually believe in the Constitution.”
Mark stole a glance over his shoulder. By the time he returned his attention to Smith, a plane ticket had joined the money. He reached forward and fingered the ticket around so he could read the destination.
“Is that where I’m going?” asked Mark.
Smith nodded.
“What’s the deal after that?” demanded Mark.
“Someone will meet you are the airport,” schmoozed Smith. “We want you to listen to a story and give us a legal opinion.”
“That’s it. That’s the deal?” exclaimed Mark.
“For starters.”
“What if I say no?” Mark asked.
“I pick up the money and we leave,” answered Smith
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” confirmed Smith.
“You’re not going to kneecap me or something…” queried Mark.
Smith got to his feet and graced Mark with a wintry smile. “No one asked us to do that.”
CHAPTER NINE
Chechnya,London Telegraph,Nigel Turner, May 7, 2000 –Persistent rumors regarding the treatment of prisoners at Khankala military base outside Grozny continue. Forcible rape, beatings, and summary execution seem to be daily occurrences. Prisoners have been forced to stand against a wall with their arms raised. The most egregious acts in a largely Muslim population are acts of sodomy against young men.
More than one prisoner has been released hours before death. Usually, these victims are dumped on the side of the road or left outside the main gate dressed in rags and highly vulnerable to the weather.
Terminal 5, O’Hare International, Chicago, Illinois
Monday, October 9
10:00 A.M. CDT
Parvez Hyder walked down the wide corridor towards the United States Customs Gate. Slung over his back was a knapsack and clutched in his right hand was his dog-eared American passport. Parvez wondered if there would be any problems. Stuffed in his wallet were new VISA cards drawn on the Bank of Scotland, and he wore a money belt around his middle.
