Wasilla Police Sergeant Alex Tolberg got the call from Militia headquarters thirty minutes before the end of his shift. A work gang of Militiamen was needed to help Randolph Kennedy with a project at his place up north. Kennedy had worked on every other project requested by the Militia; and by rights and common decency, he could not turn the man down. Besides, Alex liked and respected Randolph; they were becoming friends, as much as two loners could become friends.
“Yeah, Devlin, I’ll be there. I had plans, and it’ll take a bit to get out of them. I’ll drive up as soon as I can.”
“Good boy, Alex. I knew we could count on you. Say, did you get that step-up in grade yet?”
“Not yet. I passed the test, but it’s a slow process—affirmative action, you know.”
“I’ll put in a good word with Commissioner Walker. The man and me go way back. He owes me a favor or two or three. Maybe I can pull in a mark on your behalf.”
“Not too heavy-handed there, Devlin. You know the department’s officially against the Militia. They call it the Movement, echoes of Washington D.C. I wouldn’t last out the day if they knew I was a card carrying member.”
“Not to worry, lad. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I’ll move slow and around the point. Walker’ll never know where this idea of his to promote you came from.”
“Thanks, Devlin,” Alex laughed.
The old red fox was famous for his ability to get things done for the Militiamen and the secessionists, who were just about one and the same. He knew from past experience that O’Herligy’s intervention could only help. Alex felt rather good about going out to the Kennedy place to help even though it screwed up his weekend.
Randolph was supervising a gang of men working on two bulldozers and a grader. There were building a road from just over the top of the hill on the opposite side of where the house stood. That road did not connect to the road from the main county access to Randolph’s main drive but simply stopped in a dead end. Alex Tolberg pitched in. It was a curious road, he thought. It seemed to go the long way and the hardest way—a sort of path of most resistance. It was set into the hill and ran through the trees and bushes in such a way that jt was almost invisible when looked at from the top or from the bottom of the hill. It had so many arbitrary curves that it was impossible to tell what lay beyond the next turn.
“Security,” Randolph told him when he asked about the peculiarities.
The newly graveled road was of exceptional quality for a route that was unlikely to be used with any frequency. It ended beyond the bottom of the hill about fifty yards through the brush from the main road. With effort, one could drive a four-wheel drive truck from the end of Kennedy’s seemingly pointless road and onto the main county road in a matter of minutes if you were not overly sensitive to dents and scratches on your vehicle. Even knowing that the road’s end was in the vicinity, it was impossible to detect any part of it from the county artery.
“Security,” Randolph reiterated.
The sun was still up, and the hill was bright with afternoon light at ten o’clock at night when Randolph called a halt.
“Thanks, men. C’mon up to the house. I have a good meal ready. I appreciate your work. I wanted you guys to do this part because I knew I could count on your discretion. You can’t ever be sure about hired construction workers.”
The men nodded their understanding. The house was altogether livable now. It lacked anything of a softening woman’s touch, but Randolph had found a few pictures of bears and caribou, and had scrounged up bed spreads and throw rugs. It was comfortable in a masculine sort of way, full of modern conveniences and appliances, very utilitarian—something more than a man cave, but less than even an Alaskan woman would tolerate without a few changes here and there. Although he likely had another year of work to finish the interior, the fundamental structural work was done. The security system in the door yard and in the perimeter of the property was in and functional; it rivaled the McDonalds’ in sophistication. Randolph had guns and ammunition located in strategic places and booby traps inside the house. He felt uneasy about installing lethal traps or mines anywhere outside. He had elected to depend on an array of completely hidden early warning sensors and monitors and to rely on his indoor arsenal as the final line of defense.
“C’mon in. We’ve got moose roast and pickled Dolly Varden. Help yourselves to the salad.”
The men were starving, having used up about 3000 calories on the job. They ate as if they had been on a desert island for the past month. Randolph knew their favorite foods; they were a meat and potatoes bunch with not a scintilla of finickiness about red meat. They did not eat quiche. Randolph had acclimated to Alaska’s customs and had left his gourmand’s tastes behind. The parched workers downed a case of beer—no lite beer offered—while Randolph stuck to Diet Coke. He had not been able to acquire a taste for the bitter amber liquid.
Devlin O’Herligy showed up in time for the apple cobbler and ice cream dessert.
“Nice timing,” the Militiamen chided him good naturedly.
“My mama didn’t raise no fools,” Devlin said. “That work stuff’s for the ranks, not for us officers.”
They all laughed. In the North Star State Militia there was one commander and several section chiefs for every hundred men. The officers were elected by the rank and file for indeterminate terms of office and could quit or be unelected at any time. There was no saluting, no rank insignia, and no perks of rank. Officers did the same work as any man in the outfit. Officers stood to take a good deal of ribbing and were in for frequent criticism. It went with the territory. However, every man in the Militia was committed to obey to his last breath the officer he had helped elect. Most of the men had been in the U.S. military—one branch of service or the other—and a majority had served under men or women for whom they had had no respect. They had obeyed orders while in the service out of legal obligation. They were all willing to obey orders from Devlin O’Herligy out of esteem for him and for the democratic process which they cherished. These men were true believers and unswerving zealots.
Devlin popped open a Moosehead beer and chugged down half of it before taking a seat.
“I’ll take a dish of that cobbler if you’ve got any left,” he requested of Randolph.
Randolph scooped up a huge dollop of the sweet concoction and put it in a fresh bowl. Devlin waved away Randolph’s offer of ice cream. The men chatted for another fifteen minutes.
“Hold on for another minute,” Devlin said as some of the men made ready to leave. “I want to run ad idea past you guys. You see I got all of the section chiefs up here. It wasn’t no accident.”
The men registered the fact and looked at Devlin for the reason. His coming out that late and going out of his way suggested that the reason was probably important.
“You know I have gotten a whole lot on my plate. I have ended up holding the bag for the secession movement when the McDonalds went on their mission. You guys elected me Militia commander, and I have a business to run; somebody’s got to keep up with the bribes and protection money,” he sighed.
They laughed.
“What I had in mind, if you guys were not averse, was to step back into the ranks and let another trooper be elected in my place. I think it’s time for some new blood.”
It was something of a shock. Many of the men had known only one commander during their time in the Militia. They pondered Devlin’s announcement.
Alex Tolberg’s mind moved one question faster than the others.
“Have anybody particular in mind, Devlin? We have a democracy as far as it goes, but a long time ago we decided that the mountain men and hayseeds weren’t quite up to the task of picking out a good slate of candidates.”
“Well, I didn’t come all the way out here for nothing. I’ll get right to it. I’d like to run the name past you and your men. I was thinking of Randolph—Randolph Kennedy.”
Devlin did not look at Randolph when he dropped his name. He had never broached the subject with Randolph and had wanted the idea to come as much of a surprise to him as to the rest of the principle men. Randolph had been sleepy and peripheral to the conversation until then. His ears perked up fully when he heard his own name, and he had a sudden rush of adrenaline.
“Me!? was all Randolph could manage.
There was quiet in the room for a moment. Then there was a series of short animated conversations that went round-robin through the group of tired but now fully engaged men.
“How long’s he been up here?”
“What’s he know ‘bout the brothers down below?”
“What do we really know about him?”
Devlin let the men talk themselves out. It took only about five minutes. Randolph kept himself aloof from the conversation. It was odd to have people discuss you as if you were not there. He had not decided whether or not the change would be a good idea for the Militia or for himself. It was sudden, and he needed time to adjust. It did not look as if there was going to be any such time for making up his mind, if he knew how Devlin functioned. He knew that he was less of a redneck than the rest—less bigoted—more of a cityslicker. He was not much of a “tractor and a trailer” as they jokingly referred to themselves. He wondered if he could change to be high profile; he knew himself to be a back ground dweller.
Randolph worried if he could use the position Devlin was requesting for him to soften some of the harshness of the white supremacy rhetoric that he sometimes heard, but he was enough of a realist to know that it was unlikely that anyone could. The Militia had good men and was based on a solid premise of thinking so far as Randolph was concerned, and the racism and opposition to any other religion than Christian evangelical Protestantism was a secondary concern. Like any other organization, the Militia was no better than the people in it for all of its fine aims and activities. Randolph made up his mind that he might well be able to make a difference—even a small one—if the Militiamen were to accept Devlin’s request and elect him.
“We’ll think on it, Devlin…Randolph. It’s pretty sudden,” Alex said.
He had become the de facto spokesman for the rest of the men in the room by some unspoken agreement.
“Nobody’s opposed; we’ll say that right now. But Randolph’s pretty new. We’ll have to think on it and run it by the rest of the guys. Give us maybe a week, okay?? We think you ought to stay out of it until them—both of you—but especially you, Devlin.”
Alex grinned, and Devlin laughed.
“So, I’m an incurable buttinsky,” Devlin said. “But I’ll control myself. Give me a call long about Saturday, okay, Alex?”
“No problem. Now, we have to get on home or face a severe beating from their wives.”
The men all left in short order, including Devlin.
The Militia had an efficient communication system, even though it was not obvious to outsiders. In a week the men and women of the North Star State Militia had voiced their democratic opinion. They did as they always did and elected the man proposed by the outgoing leader. They elected Randolph unanimously. The votes were repeated until they were unanimous in accordance with the Militia rule. In fact, the vote was more an affirmation of support than a true election. Afterwards, most of the men who stepped up to congratulate the new commander cited his secession speech as the deciding factor. Randolph had had time to think about taking the position during that election week—and when it was offered formally—he accepted with the appropriately modest proviso that someone who knew what was going on had to help. The word of that bit of humility quickly made it back to the rank and file, and it sat well with them. In another week FBI and ATF agents were in possession of the secret of the reorganization, and that news was in the hands of Henry Drake, Oliver Quatraine, and Margaret Thaler in Washington.
During O’Herligy’s term of office, the Militia’s equipment—including the weapons stored around the state—had been largely ignored and allowed to deteriorate. Randolph had noticed rust pits, grease, and dirt on several of the machine pistols and assault rifles hat had passed under his eye during times when he visited the former commander. He had not felt that he was in any position at that time to criticize; so, he kept his peace. Now that it was his responsibility, he ordered a general inventory and cleaning of every weapon in the entire state Militia arsenal.
There was a great deal of affable grumbling through the state because the order entailed considerable work. Many of the weapons were hidden in underground caches. Most of the weapons would have to be transported and taken care of in small numbers requiring multiple trips—almost always at night—and with all the effort that secretiveness required. However, no one in the Militia disagreed with the wisdom of the order; and, in fact, issuing it enhanced Randolph’s esteem in the minds of his subordinates.
Randolph exercised every security precaution he could when moving or working on the weapons. He did most of his share of the work in his bunker basement and did it quickly and with only a few weapons at a time. On any given night, he was likely to have a row of combat shotguns—Chinese SKS assault rifles that had been altered to prevent automatic firing—and one or two old sniper rifles. Although he was sure that his predecessor in the office of Militia commander had handled illegal weaponry, Randolph was rigid in his refusal to have anything to do with them personally; his memory of the attack on his house by ATF agents who had only thought that he had illegal guns and ammunition was too vivid and horrifying. If they could wreak such destruction by mistake, he shivered inwardly to think of their capabilities if he actually had illegal guns in his possession. Every time the subject came to mind, Randolph saw images of his wife and child being killed by paramilitarists. He was far from over his great loss.
Lance Pederson from Anchorage called Saturday morning.
“Hey, Randolph,” he blurted in his booming voice as soon as Randolph picked up the phone, “how’s it hangin’, bud?”
“Okay, Lance, what’s up?”
“Have a shipment, man. I need to get it out of town. Too many feds.”
“Are we talking legal or illegal things in that shipment, Lance? You know my stand on the law and weapons. As long as the Militia wants me in command, we all have to keep squeaky clean.”
“No prob. I have clay pigeons, targets, a few old 12 gauge Ithaca 37s we can use for skeet guns, and some mint condition M-60s.”
“Speaking of illegal,” Randolph said tartly.
“No, chief. These pigs are gutted. No firing mechanism at all and the barrels have been plugged. We want ‘em for the parade in Anchorage on the fourth. They look nifty; only we know they’re impotent.”
“Somebody’s been teaching you big words, Lance,” Randolph said, laughing as he calmed down from the fear that his section chief in the capital city had been trying to foist trouble on him.
“I know about words like ‘impotent’, Randolph, gimme a break.”
Randolph paused meaningfully.
“Not personally,” stammered Lance, “I mean, don’t get no rumors goin’.”
Randolph laughed.
“I’ll borrow Devlin’s truck and come into town first of next week and pick up the goods. That soon enough?”
“I guess so. They’ll be in Henson’s warehouse on fifth.”
“I’ll need a little help”
“They’ll all be crated in good marked boxes. Make it noon on Monday, and I’ll swing by and help you load ‘em.”
“Done,” said Randolph. “See you Monday noon.”
“Roger,” Lance hung up.
Allen Heaps signaled to his electronics tech to set that tape aside. The taps on Militia members’ phones was starting to pay off. His crew had had to listen to a lot of drivel from Lance Pedersen to his girl friends up to this point. They deserved this break. This was the first solid lead linking Kennedy to weapons smuggling and would add to the pile of evidence the man and his Alaskan terrorist group. He dialed Drake at ATF headquarters in Washington.
“Yeah,” said Drake. “This is not a secure line.”
“Heaps,” Allen said.
“Important?”
“Yeah.”
“Hang up. I’ll call you on a good line.”
Heaps laid the receiver back in its cradle.
In a few seconds the phone rang as promised.
“Drake?”
“Um hmm. What’ve you got?”
“Your favorite perp is picking up a load of crates next Monday.”
“Illegal stuff?” Drake asked.
He was unable to keep the urgency out of his voice.
“Very strong maybe on that. I’ll keep you posted.”
“If it is, we’ll have to move fast; so, we get him with it in his house.”
“That’s always a problem, Mr. Drake. Kennedy moves the stuff in and out of his house overnight. You can never count on what might or might not be on the premises.”
“We’ll have to be super cagey on this one, Heaps. There has to be evidence no matter what. Can’t have this guy make us look like chimpanzees again.”
“You got that right. Ever consider bringing a little insurance along on a raid, like the famous cops’ drop gun sorta thing?”
“Funny thing you should ask, Heaps, my man. I would never think such a thing. But—on an unrelated subject—do you still have access to the evidence from the Ketchikan raid?”
“I could easily. There’s a ton of it. Enough to spread around and aid the cause, seems to me.”
“Let’s have a good look at it when I come up there to the frozen north. I have a hunch it won’t be all that long.”
“Me neither.”
“I don’t need to say anything about keeping this just between us girls, right?”
“You don’t. I’m a true believer. See you, boss.”
“Yeah.”
Oliver Quatraine made an early review of the evidence to be presented to the monthly meeting of President Vantassa’s Task Force. Several hours of tapes of Randolph Kennedy’s telephone conversations and videos of his comings and goings were in the prelim box along with the interagency investigative team tapes.
Quatraine ragged on the people in the technology section.
“I need a good condensation tape of the juicy stuff by Friday. I would rather have it the day before yesterday.”
It seemed futile to give his review to the Task Force because none of the materials had yet been edited to remove the vast quantities of irrelevant conversation and background. Quatraine’s new position gave him that bit of magic that gets things done in Washington—“The president has ordered…” The agents and copy editors grumbled and griped; but they set aside dozens of other pressing assignments and went over the evidence tapes, condensed them, and produced a single tape of relevant material and potential evidence by Friday quitting time.
Quatraine picked up a couple of the more recent raw tapes and planned to listen to enough to get a feel for what was coming in. Years ago, he had been assigned to analyze taped material and could still remember how the assignment had nearly driven him crazy. He was strictly a field man at heart. Even his present administrative slot was vexing to this man of action, tolerable only because of the extra money and the step up in grade it entailed.
He inserted a tape and thought about how much he had had to compromise to get his spot on the Task Force. A year before, he and two other African-American agents had started to organize a minority officers’ cross-service coalition to combat the entrenched subtle bigotry that still permeated the federal law enforcement agencies—all sub rosa—but all effective in shutting out men like Quatraine. He had been looked upon as something of a Benedict Arnold to the other blacks and Hispanics when he backed out of the coalition after getting the appointment to the Task Force. No one had dared to whisper “Uncle Tom” to him—Oliver Quatraine was not a man to be trifled with by the men who called him brother—but he could read their minds.
Oliver listened to snatches of the recent tape. There were calls by Kennedy to his car dealer, from the county recorder’s office to Kennedy about some glitch in his deed, from Kennedy to Devlin O’Herligy regarding the secession nonsense, and from Kennedy to a friend in Anchorage, a man called Lance. Quatraine heard mention of guns and began to listen more fully. The tape had nothing on it, just some arrangements to move a few dummy machine guns for one of their so-called Militia’s meaningless parades. He listened to the entire conversation and judged it to be boring and put the tape back in the basket. Its case bore a note to see the intraagency tape marked with the same date. Quatraine checked his watch. He had time to listen a few minutes more before heading to the appropriations request committee’s meeting.
The tape started with the unmistakable whir of a scrambling device. Quatraine presumed that he was going to waste his time hearing the buzzes and clicks of an electronically scrambled message. At least he was wrong there. The message had already been descrambled.
Oliver instantly recognized the two voices—Drake and his boy, Heaps.
It was Heaps’ voice first: “Drake?”
“Um hmm, what’ve you got?” Drake’s voice was so clear that Quatraine started a little.
“Your favorite perp is picking up a load of crates next Monday.”
Quatraine knew that that could only be referring to Randolph Kennedy. Everyone in the bureau knew about Drake’s fixation on the man who had killed his team and had gotten away with it.
“Illegal stuff?” Drake’s voice again, more insistent now.
Now Heaps. “Very strong maybe. I’ll keep you posted.”
Quatraine listened further.
Drake again: “We’ll have to be super cagey on this one. There has to be evidence, not matter what. Can’t have this guy make us look like chimpanzees again.”
There was a steely resolve in Drake’s voice. Quatraine was familiar enough with Drake to know that he could be a good agent and a great friend to the members of his team so long as he wasn’t required to include blacks or women. But he was an implacable bulldog of an enemy.
Heaps spoke again briefly.
Then Quatraine heard Drake say, “Funny you should ask, Heaps, my man. I would never think of such a thing. But—on an unrelated subject—do you still have access to the evidence from the Ketchikan raid?”
Heaps indicated that he did.
Drake then said cryptically, “Let’s have a good look at it when I come up there to the frozen north. I have a hunch it won’t be all that long.
Quatraine was particularly interested in a sort of oath of secrecy the two men agreed upon. They signed off, and the tape ended.
Oliver scratched his head, not completely sure what he had just heard. He played the tape again, then he replayed the conversation between Kennedy and Lance. By the time notations, the two tapes were obviously related. Quatraine wondered what Drake planned to do with this information, including the exculpatory statements by Kennedy. He decided that some changes might take place to the tapes’ contents, or they might be discarded as immaterial so far as their use as evidence was concerned. He made up his mind. Oliver hurriedly picked up the two tapes and took them to the lab to be copied. He knew there would be a notation in the lab’s daily log made of his dealings with the tapes. He also knew that it would be buried in the thousands of other notations in that log. He was not worried. He pocketed the copies and replaced the two original tapes where he had found them and went on to the allocations meeting.
Later in the week, Quatraine approved an entry on the Task Force agenda for its Friday meeting. He was curious to see how Drake would handle the information in his possession. At the meeting, the subject was relegated to the item number twelve position.
“Mr. Quatraine, I see that ATF has been doggedly tracking Randolph again,” said Margaret Thaler by way of introducing item number twelve.
Quatraine ignored the implicit irony in her comment.
“Yes, ma’am. Agent Drake—whom you all may remember—has some new information. He has been invited to present it briefly.”
Quatraine gestured to the guard, who left briefly and returned with Henry Drake.
“Proceed, Mr. Drake. What’s new in the Kennedy affair?”
“Thank you, ma’am. We have taped telephone conversations, eyewitness accounts by our agent in the field, and videotape footage of Kennedy receiving illegal weapons. There’s too much on the telephone tapes to present now; so, I have a summary tape. The film footage is only about fifteen minutes worth,” he said smoothly.
“How adroit,” thought Quatraine.
He wondered how Drake would react to hearing the whole tape played in this room.
The Task Force briefly heard the condensed auditory tape with Lance Pedersen saying, “Hey, Randolph, how’s it hangin’, bud?”
Kennedy said, “Okay, Lance, what’s up?”
Pedersen: “Have a shipment, man. Need to get it out of town. Too many feds.”
Task Force eyebrows raised and the members shared knowing looks.
Kennedy: “Are we talking legal or illegal things in that shipment, Lance?”
There was a very faint and brief hum; Quatraine presumed that he was the only one who caught it.
Pedersen: “I have…” slight static on the tape, “12 gauge Ithaca 37s…” more static, “and some mint condition M-60s.”
The last phrase was crystal clear.
Almost immediately, Kennedy’s voice came back on, “Speaking of illegal…”
His voice sounded hard and edgy, criminal. There was a slight hum of static again.
“I’ll borrow Devlin’s pick-up and come into town first of next week and pick up the goods. That soon enough?”
Pedersen: “I guess so. They’ll be in Henson’s warehouse on Fifth.”
Pedersen’s voice had an urgent note. To Quatraine it sounded like a man trying to get rid of something hot.
Kennedy: I’ll need a little help.”
Pedersen: “They’ll all be in good…brief static…boxes. Make it noon on Monday, and I’ll swing by and help you load ‘em.”
Kennedy: “Done. See you Monday noon.”
Pedersen: “Roger.”
The tape ended.
Drake motioned to Jack Bailey, who had accompanied him to the Task Force meeting and was sitting quietly in the back. Bailey turned off the room lights and started a video on the monitor sitting in front of the Task Force members. It was of professional television movie production quality. Image and sound were nearly perfect. The day was sunny and cloudless. A GMC pick-up, painted in camouflage colors—part of Devlin O’Herligy’s small fleet—came down an industrial street and swung into the driveway of a warehouse. The driver was Randolph Kennedy. A second man came out from the corner of the warehouse building and opened the gate. Kennedy pulled the truck into the warehouse compound, and at the second man’s direction, backed up to the hydraulic doors of a warehouse compartment. The doors lifted. Kennedy backed the truck partway into the opened enclosure. The two men talked, laughing and joking.
Their patter was inane—Kennedy had a joke about lawyers that the younger man could not understand, and the second man began telling Kennedy about the militia retreat in Kotzebue that past weekend. He chided Kennedy for missing it. The banter was good-natured, and the two men went about transferring fourteen slat board crates onto the bed of the pickup truck. The video zoomed in on the printing on one of the crates: “U.S. Army — M-60 SMGs — No. 15.” The two men worked without further talk. They strained with the weight of the boxes. They shook hands.
“Have a good one, Lance,” Kennedy said as he got into the truck cab. “Thanks for the help.”
“It was nothin’,” said the second man. “You comin’ over to Hank Trepple’s house raisin’ this Saturday?”
“Can’t wait,” Kennedy replied.
Both men laughed. Kennedy drove out of the warehouse compound, and the second man swung the gate closed behind him and padlocked the gate.
Drake waited for the sound of the video to die down and for the lights to be put back on.
“That was Kennedy and Lance Pedersen, one of the local Movement functionaries in Anchorage, Alaska. Same two as on the telephone. Our agent followed the truck back to Kennedy’s homestead some thirty miles northeast of Wasilla. He parked the truck outside in plain sight. Our agent got good shots of the truck with its crates and the house. The place is very distinctive, identifiable with ease. The next morning, a couple of other perps came up the hill to Kennedy’s place and helped him carry the crates into the house. That was yesterday morning. Our agent assures me that the guns are still in that house.”
Heads nodded. There were small, knowing smiles around the room.
The president spoke first, “Rather vindicating, eh, Mr. Drake?”
“I think so, Madam President. It would be hard to get anything better considering the sophistication and security consciousness of the Movement people.”
“How about seeing the actual firearms…illegal firearms?” asked Margaret Thaler, ever the detail person, the ultimate careful pragmatist.
“Afraid not, Ma’am. Just the clearly marked gun crates.”
Quatraine unconsciously fingered his pocket voice activated tape recorder. It was still running.
“Any way to get an undercover agent into the house to have a look, Drake?” Mrs. Thaler asked, her eyes more hopeful than her wary brain.
“I don’t think so, ma’am. Too little time, too much security in those Movement houses. Those people are as thick as proverbial thieves. They are the most xenophobic lot I ever encountered. We have never been able to infiltrate a bona fide agent; they spot us every time. It’s not for want of trying.”
“I am very uneasy about this evidence, Agent Drake. What you have is circumstantial at best. I suppose you are here to suggest a raid. Any other helpful evidence? I would be a whole lot more comfortable if there were.”
Quatraine leaned forward to catch Drake’s reply. This would be the make-break moment of the decision making process regarding the future of the Randolph Kennedy affair. He checked his recorder—still running.
“I will guarantee that the evidence will be there, and it will stand up in court, ma’am. My job and my pension on it.”
“Indeed,” the president said archly.
“No more fiascoes. It would be ‘off with their heads’ for both you and me if we were to foul up on Kennedy a second time. The media would have a field day, a la the Monica Lewinsky Affair.”
“I fully appreciate that, Madam President; believe me, I do. There won’t be a screw-up—pardon my French—I absolutely guarantee it.”
President Vantassa gave the man a wintry smile.
“You be certain that the evidence is there and that you go in with whatever you need to do the job. I don’t want to hear that some more of my good agents have been hurt, and I will have a stroke if the Response Team comes back without credible evidence. Take care of it; make your guarantee happen. Do you get my drift?”
“I think so.”
“Agent Drake, that’s not good enough. Do you want me to spell it out?”
There was a quiet pause. The roomful of high ranking men and women collectively held their breaths.
“Well, ma’am, I guess I do. I can’t be dangled out there alone. I act on your orders. If you want me to wait, to pass up this opportunity, okay. If you want me to salt it a little, I will.”
The president let out an exasperated breath.
“For heaven’s sake, man, drop an evidence gun if you have to. Do what is necessary.”
She gave a little laugh and arched her eyebrows as if she had made a joke. The members of the Task Force laughed politely and nervously.
FBI Director, Ted Coleman leaned over to Oliver Quatraine and said quietly, “I hope this place is leak proof. That kind of little joke is the sort of thing to derail administrations. We don’t even kid about planting evidence over at our patch.”
Coleman shivered at the thought of facing his own OPR—the FBI internal disciplinary apparatus for the more than 11,000 professional agents. The Office of Professional Responsibility was notoriously unsympathetic to hints of impropriety, and completely conditioned against any concept that ‘rank hath its privileges’. Both men knew that even hearing such suggestions and not reporting them made every person in the room an accessory before the fact.
Quatraine nodded in sympathy. The sounds in the room were reduced to the shuffling noises of the members exiting. It was only then that his recorder ran out of tape.