IT WAS nearly ten when she got back to Croton-on-Hudson and found her mother dozing in front of the Food Network. Rachel poured herself a glass of rosé, changed the channel to catch the tail end of Schumer Says, and settled in with Sam’s particular brand of American populist venom. Schumer wiped at his curly mustache and told his audience that things were about to become a lot more dangerous in America, because Martin Bishop had gone AWOL. Schumer’s “inside sources” had informed him about the missile launcher and the sudden disappearing act. “Public enemy number one has just gone off the grid. And he’s armed to the teeth.”
Two years ago, before Sam Schumer moved his show from YouTube to Fox and dialed up the apocalyptic talk, he had been the kind of independent journalist Rachel Proulx could talk to and know that what she wanted to share with the public would make it out relatively unscathed. It was a relationship that served them both: She gained access to an audience that avoided the so-called mainstream media, and Sam Schumer could claim to have a bona fide source within the Bureau. This tit-for-tat had been approved by the then-assistant director in large part because Rachel had argued her case so eloquently, and the upper echelons grew to appreciate the gung ho patriot who always spun the story in their favor. Then Schumer moved to television, and the sudden national exposure did something to him. He still defended the Bureau, but he discovered that the loudest of his competitors, the ones who kicked up the dirt of their audiences’ fears, always beat his numbers.
The shift became apparent nine months ago, when the breaking story on Schumer Says was called “Invasion from the South”—an exposé on the future of illegal immigration. “By 2028, the southern half of the United States will for all practical purposes be Mexico’s northern states. Expect secession. Expect war.”
Schumer Says became Sunday night’s most-watched news program.
Given her role in bringing him on, the irony was lost on no one when, three months ago, Rachel asked to terminate the relationship with Schumer. The new assistant director, Mark Paulson, threw her old arguments right back at her as he turned her down. Now that Schumer’s audience reached a half million each Sunday night in the treasured 25–54 demographic, no one in the Bureau wanted to throw away a megaphone of that size, even if Sam Schumer occasionally went off script.
Rachel wasn’t going to make it easy, though, which was why, when Schumer’s second text message—On air soon. What’s the scoop?—came minutes after she left Bill and Gina’s house, she’d ignored it. Schumer wanted the scoop on Martin Bishop’s disappearing act, but as yet there was no scoop. But Schumer had found another source—probably the Montclair cop she’d told about the missile launcher.
He brought on a retired CIA officer who said that if they wanted to predict the Massive Brigade’s next move, it would be best to look at the Berlin terrorist group Bishop had been inspired by, the Kommando Rosa Luxemburg. “They were mad bombers, and the Germans were lucky they blew themselves up. But there’s no reason to think Bishop is going to be that stupid. We’ll need to ramp up security at all major transit hubs.”
“Americans need to stay vigilant,” Schumer suggested.
His guest nodded seriously. “Everybody needs to stay vigilant.”
Rachel poured herself a second glass and watched as Schumer and his guests investigated security weaknesses in America’s infrastructure and spun through all the potential terrorist acts the Massive Brigade could be planning. They cherry-picked quotes from The Propaganda Ministry and considered which lines to fear most. By the time he signed off, Schumer was in a somber mood, telling his audience to stay strong and not hide at home—“Go out, do some shopping. Otherwise the terrorists win.”
“Doing your part for the economy,” Rachel said, toasting Schumer as her mother stirred. Rachel got up to help her. “Let’s get you to bed. I’m going to have to leave early.”
“Did you get him?”
“Who?”
“The president?”
As Rachel guided her mother through her nighttime routine, she gave her a rundown of the situation. “But you’ll find them?”
“Of course I will,” she said, because in that moment she believed it. It was more than the faith that all FBI agents share in the methodologies of the Bureau; it was a personal conviction. Back in 2009, she’d first watched Martin Bishop speak in San Francisco while on an extended research project, looking into the depth and breadth of the radical left and its security implications. Standing before a sparse Berkeley crowd, he hadn’t been the orator he would become, but in his conviction and clear, simple logic Rachel had been able to read the promise of his future: crowds. She’d duly put him into her report as someone to watch, an assessment that many in the Bureau now considered prophetic. She’d predicted his rise; therefore, she would be the one to hasten his fall.
She was on the road by four Monday morning, and by the time she crossed into Maryland the sun had risen to bleach derelict warehouses off the highway. She parked near her Arlington apartment, showered, then hurried to the office and conferred with her colleagues. It soon became apparent that, whether or not Bishop and Mittag had been warned about the police coming to pick them up, they had been prepared to disappear, for there was no ripple in the bureaucratic waters. One moment they were there, and then, after leaving Bill and Gina’s party, the two men simply vanished.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Reports were trickling in from field offices all over the country of dozens of young people also vanishing. Though they’d only had time to scratch the surface of these disappearances, the common thread became obvious as soon as they checked the young people’s online activity: They were all members of the Massive Brigade.