It is not a sign of arrogance for the
king to rule. That is what he is there for.
William F. Buckley (1925-2008), American commentator
Around the FBI conference table sat Conrad Anderson from the Department of Homeland Security and Pete Prescott of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, commonly abbreviated as ATF. In the center of the table sat their sumptuous lunch from The Rattlesnake Club, now decanted from pedestrian foam carry-out boxes onto adequate ceramic plates and bowls accompanied by decent cutlery and linen napkins.
The men made small talk while Frannie Demopolis silently filled their plates with food and served each guest plate on either side of the long conference table, with Benoit at the end. His colleagues would face the glass windows that looked out upon the Detroit skyline, but Benoit knew the incoming sun glancing off the windows of a nearby office tower would nearly blind them at their seats this time of day, a subtle but effective subliminal reinforcement of his superiority.
The whole conversation would be uncomfortable for his guests and untroubled for only him. The men took their places. Anderson, squinting against the sun, pushed a thick manila file across the polished table to his host.
“This is the entire DHS portfolio on Mohammed al-Taja, Foster. We provided it to CIA too, by request. But here is the Reader’s Digest version.”
Anderson reached forward and took a big swallow of a Heineken beer that Benoit provided for the lunch.
“He joined DHS right out of NSA, which he joined right out of the Navy. We had him for six years and change, almost all of it undercover here and there looking for terrorist douchebags. He’s ethnic Arab, and speaks Urdu, Farsi, French, German, and some North African dialects like a native. NSA wouldn’t say directly, but he was there less than ten years, looks like; and he was seventeen years in the Navy. He’s from Dearborn, born and raised, second generation Jordanian; mother was from Cyprus, father from Raifoon but grew up in Beirut. Parents killed in a traffic accident in 1998 ...” Anderson flipped a few pages. “... in DC. Fuckin’ Beltway.
“He graduated from Edsel Ford High School, went to University of Michigan on the Dearborn campus for two years and then finished at Ann Arbor. Was Navy ROTC.”
Anderson stopped for a bite of his steak. He liked it “black and blue” style—so rare it looked as if it had only been waved over the fire a few times. Anderson thought that marked him as a tough guy, but the tens of pounds of fat around his middle made that a lie.
“He had an undergrad and Master’s degrees in Middle Eastern and North African Studies and did his postgrad in regional security studies at the Navy Postgraduate School in Monterey. No wonder NSA wanted him. Same reasons we did, plus his NSA time.” Anderson dove back into the juicy steak.
“Why only seventeen Navy years?” Benoit asked. “That close, you’re really on the glideslope to full retirement. He must have been, what? A commander by then?”
Anderson raised a blue-tabbed a page and nodded. “Yep, O-5. On the short list for full-bird Navy Captain. He was a fast mover. Probably had a star or three in his future. Navy Intel is a growth business.”
“So why does a hard charger like that dump everything and leave the Navy only a handful of years away from his full and copious active-duty pension, free medical care for life, and the love and appreciation of a grateful nation? Still with plenty of time left to do whatever it was he left the Navy early to do? What pulled him away from all that, after all the time he’d devoted to achieving it?”
Why indeed? Anderson thought. Something in this al-Taja thing didn’t pass the smell test, and it might get smellier before long. If Anderson’s career path was going to benefit from Benoit’s trajectory, he needed a flexible buffer between himself and the potential ramifications of this odd investigation. If it went well, Benoit still was the senior man on the case and would reap the lion’s share of the glory and acclaim, as he always did, and that would cascade down to Anderson.
Anderson said, “Foster, maybe you might consider leaving the case agent on this a while longer?” Benoit turned toward Anderson. “The street agent can do more excavation, get more solid evidence, and then you can supervise the resolution to its successful conclusion.”
Anderson put the “toad” in toady.
But if the case went to shit, Benoit needed someone to insulate him—and thus Anderson—from the stench of failure. Some fall guy to take the blame.
And it didn’t have to be a guy.
Benoit reached forward to the intercom button on the conference table speakerphone.
“Yes, sir?” Frannie answered instantly.
“Frannie, ask Special Agent Watson to join us, please.”
There were three precise taps on the conference room door, and Benoit asked Amber to come in. She walked to the head of the table where the three agency SACs were having lunch and automatically assumed an easy military parade rest position, feet apart at shoulder width and hands behind her back at the belt line, thumb crossed over thumb. Benoit grinned appreciatively at this autonomic show of courtesy.
“As you were, Watson,” he said genially. Benoit had no meaningful military background—when he was sent home during his plebe year at West Point, the Commandant told him, “Mr. Benoit, you are the most non-military person I have ever met.”—but he still enjoyed using some of its terminology. Much of it was picked up from watching war movies on the Turner Classic Movies channel.
“Please join us. We must pick your brain.” He gestured at the food still warm and steaming on the table. “Have you had luncheon yet? We have plenty.”
“Thank you, sir, but no thank you. I’ve eaten.”
“A drink, then.” It wasn’t a question.
Conceding to his persistence, Amber went to the bar cart and withdrew a small bottle of Dasani water from the oversize ice bucket, drying it on a red-striped white bar towel hanging from the cart handle. Benoit waved her over to the chair next to Prescott.
“You know Prescott and Anderson? ATF and DHS?”
“Yes sir, we’ve met. Good to see you again, sirs.” She smiled warmly at each man as they rose and shook her hand across the table. Amber pulled out the chair and took her seat.
“So, how may I help you?” she asked.
How indeed, Benoit thought. “The al-Taja homicide case.”
Benoit, a lawyer by education but who had never practiced, still adhered to the first rule of lawyering, policing, and parenting: Never ask a question for which you don’t already know the answer—and never one that can be answered with a simple yes or no.
But this wasn’t a question, really, just her boss’s inscrutable way to open the discussion while remaining above the pedestrian need to ask his subordinate for anything.
“Yes sir,” Amber said. “As you know, the JTF was on that from the crime scene. We experienced some small difficulty obtaining information about the victim from some of his employers”—she avoided looking at Anderson from DHS—”but we got it sorted out. We were really just getting the case off the ground when you acquired it for supervisory screening.”
The FBI SAC was many things, but one of his most refined was his judgment of character. He knew his street agent was trying not to sound as pissy as she was feeling about having had her big case taken away from her.
“Yes, well. I have indeed screened the file and the case documents. There are many aspects of this case that mark it as rather different from others, don’t you agree?”
No shit, Sherlock, Amber said in her head, but her boss continued.
“I think you and your DPD partner have done a commendable job with it thus far. Commendable job. I’d like you to stay on this case, in the near term, at least. Keep me in the loop as developments warrant.”
Amber sat stock still for a moment, not sure whether this was some elaborate prank Benoit was hatching in front of the SACs from DHS and ATF, more to embarrass her when the inevitable lame point was made.
“Pardon me, sir?”
“I’d like you to resume primary responsibility for the al-Taja case, Special Agent Watson,” Benoit said. He smiled, but his tone had gotten a little crispy.
The woman should be jumping for joy over her little perceived victory, he thought, and he hated having to say things more than once. It was a lesson learned from a Mormon father at the end of a leather belt with a thick steel buckle. The middle finger on his left hand still nerve-twinged occasionally, damage from using the hand one time to protect his behind from a vicious beating.
“Log in on the case in SENTINEL and check it back out. Retain me as the supervisor on it. Keep me informed. Let me know if you need anything.”
SENTINEL is the FBI’s electronic case management system. Amber had been locked out of the file after Benoit took control of the case.
Benoit looked at Watson as if she was a pet. Why wasn’t she obeying?
“Please proceed, special agent.”
Amber sat for just a moment longer, then jumped up before Benoit could change his mind.
“Yes, sir. Understood, sir,” she said evenly, heading for the door. Her fancy water was left behind, unopened, dripping beads of condensation onto the expensive wooden table.