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(Washington, D.C., Thursday, September 25, 2013)
FBI Agent Stan Warren opened the door to the conference room warily. Odd how his gut reacted to closed doors within the FBI building almost the same way it would when he was going out on a bust. Gun at ready might be too much here, but it would probably make him feel better, he thought.
Stan Warren looked like the FBI agent he was proud to be. Tall and fit, he wore a dark suit and white shirt that stood out against his black skin. At 47, he was a respected agent. And last year’s role in taking down a corrupt NSA nominee hadn’t hurt, he thought. So why did he still feel the enemy lurked in conference rooms?
“Agent Warren, come in, sit down,” said the man at the head of the table.
Stan Warren took the empty chair at the table. Four men and two women were seated around it already. They had been there a while, from the evidence of piles of messy papers and half-empty coffee cups. A computer hummed and an overhead screen showed an empty display.
“I appreciate your willingness to join us,” the man said. “We hope that you have some information that will help us.”
“If I can, sir,” Warren said cautiously.
The man nodded. He didn’t introduce the others. Not a good sign. What shit had he gotten into this time?
“What do you know about the Army of God?”
Warren shrugged. “Militant right-wing Christian fundamentalists. Militia, but not quite. Attack abortion clinics, doctors, that kind of thing. A judge? Sorry. Home-grown terrorists aren’t my area.”
“It is our area, however,” said one woman leaning forward to look at him. “The Army of God has taken credit for a number of bombings and assassinations at abortion clinics. We have not been able to get a handle on them. It isn’t as if they carry ID cards. And a lot of people who espouse views similar to theirs aren’t making bombs in their garages.”
Stan Warren nodded. Common knowledge.
The AIC—agent in charge—resumed. “They are a particularly suspicious, isolationist bunch. We have never been able to plant an agent among them. I don’t know of any police agency that has. Hell, the Klan was easy to infiltrate by comparison.”
He shuffled some papers. “We do know some things. Not much. The members of the Army of God have a pipeline, an underground railroad, so to speak. They can move people, money and weapons without ever being noticed. They do not use credit cards at motels. They stay with Christian fundamentalists, Christian communes, people they call fellow travelers.”
Warren nodded, still baffled as to why he was being told all this.
“Just this week, we may have gotten a break. A very risky break. You know a Detective Rodriguez from Seattle, I understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Warren said with surprise. “Worked with him on the cop shooting in the Parker case last winter.”
The man nodded. “He filed a report of some vandalism related to an abortion story that ran in the newspaper out there.”
“How did he get involved in something like that?” Warren asked puzzled. “He works homicide.”
“Apparently doing a favor for a newspaper editor he knows.” The AIC looked at Warren expectantly but continued when Warren said nothing. “He didn’t have much, but one phrase he used set off the alarms here. Jehovah’s Valley. Ever heard of it?”
Warren shook his head.
“Not many people have. A small religious community in the middle of nowhere. But we’ve heard that it is a major waystation for the Army of God. We can’t get anyone close to it. They are as suspicious of strangers as they come, and that area— eastern Oregon—doesn’t have many strangers anyway. Everyone knows everyone. The last agent to get within two miles of the place never came back.”
“Sir, this is all interesting, but I don’t know what it has to do with me,” Warren protested. “As I said, terrorism isn’t my area.”
The woman spoke again. “Over the years, we’ve looked for someone who has left Jehovah’s Valley. No one ever has. No one. In 30 years. We need information.”
Warren nodded. He could understand that. But he’d never even been in eastern Oregon, much less Jehovah’s Valley.
“What’s your opinion of Rodriguez?” another man asked. Warren knew him slightly, Caldwell Parker, one of those northeasterners with two last names and a superior attitude.
“Good man, good cop,” Warren said.
“Smart?”
Warren shrugged. “Seems to be savvy enough.”
The room was silent for a moment. “What do you know about Janet Andrews?” Caldwell Parker said. “What kind of person is she?”
Ah, Warren thought silently. “Good editor. Strong woman. She backed her reporter all the way last winter when he went after the Parker story.”
“I understand you know her personally, as well,” Caldwell Parker said.
“I don’t understand what my personal friendships have to do with this issue,” Warren said stiffly.
The AIC intervened. “Janet Andrews has drawn the attention of pro-life protesters who may be linked to the Army of God,” he said. “More than that, it turns out that she grew up in Jehovah’s Valley. We have our person. But we have to proceed cautiously. She is already in danger; we don’t want to jeopardize her further. We’ve been doing a discreet background check on her. But we need to know more. What is she really like? Is she likely to cooperate with us? Things you might be able to tell us.”
“Janet Andrews? Army of God?” Warren said.
“She would have left the valley at 18 or so,” the woman said. “She’s never gone back. Has she ever talked about where she grew up, her family, that kind of thing?”
“No,” Warren said. “We talk about work and her life now. She doesn’t talk about the past at all.”
The woman sat back, looked satisfied. “Probably why they’ve let her live.”
“I’m surprised she took the risk and wrote that story,” Caldwell Parker said to her. “She had to have known that would focus their attention on her.”
“What story?” Warren asked. He was losing the train of the conversation.
The woman ignored him. “My guess is she’s acted more instinctively or had personal reasons for leaving the past behind her. It may not have been deliberate.”
“Possibly.”
“What story?!”
The woman took pity on Warren and filled him in on the events in Seattle as they knew them. Which wasn’t much, she said.
Warren sat back in his chair. You never knew people as well as you thought you did. Janet Andrews and fundamentalists didn’t go together. Army of God? Jesus H. Christ.
“Do you think she will cooperate with us?” the AIC asked.
Warren thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “She’s private. She’s never said anything to me about any of this. Of course, we talk on the phone, maybe twice a month. We’re not that close.” But we do talk, he thought. He’d told her about his marriage, the divorce, his kids. About his mom. Growing up poor in West Virginia. Was he such a poor listener that he’d never asked about her background? He felt a bit ashamed.
“She’s a reporter,” Warren said. “You got to understand that about her. She won’t reveal her sources or jeopardize a story. She’s one of the most strong-willed, stubborn editors I’ve ever met. If she helps you, she’ll expect information in return. An exclusive on the story. And she probably wouldn’t agree to keep it off the record.”
There was a groan from someone at the table. “God help us,” said an older man who had been silent until now. “We get our break, and it’s a goddamn liberal reporter.”
Warren smiled. He’d said something similar last year when he’d learned that for some reason Mac Davis made Howard Parker sweat.
“Start at the beginning,” the AIC ordered. “Your friendship with Andrews came out of your investigation of Cabinet nominations last year, didn’t it? Good job on that by the way. Start at the beginning.”
Warren settled in for a long meeting. He knew how this would go. They would grill every bit of information, examine it minutely, go over it again and again. That he had little to offer only meant that every bit would be examined as if it were gold itself.
“How much danger in Janet in?” he asked before he started his story.
“There’s reason to believe that beyond the vandalism to her house, she is being stalked. Detective Rodriguez is concerned that it seems to be escalating and personal,” the woman said. “I’m Rebecca Nesbit, by the way.”
Warren nodded; the others introduced themselves as well.
Rebecca Nesbit continued. “If the Army of God is watching her, we cannot approach her through any normal channels. They’ll kill her—as they say, God will know his own—without hesitation. For her sake, we have to proceed cautiously.”
“You know she worked here in D.C. for a number of years?” Warren asked. “There may be people who know her better than I do.”
The AIC nodded. “True, but we can trust you to keep your mouth shut. If gossip gets started—and the FBI asking questions about a newspaper reporter will start gossip in a hot minute—it could all be over.”
Warren nodded and started describing Janet Andrews to the best of his ability.