speak first, and somewhat to Jack’s surprise, he had.
“Doesn’t it worry you,” Marks said, pointing at the dossier with one handcuffed hand, “that your government spies on its citizens.”
Jack put down the dossier and leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. He shrugged. “We only spy on the ones who collect big guns and try to hijack sodium cyanide. Call us crazy, but we worry that people who go to the trouble of stealing huge quantities of poison might be tempted to use it afterward.”
Marks nodded. He managed to look both guilty and set upon at the same time, his shoulders slumped with the burden of responsibility. “Some of my people may have gotten overzealous. It’s true. But Jack, the government you serve is illegal. They’re not allowed to do most of the things they do these days. This place we’re in, Counter Terrorist Unit, is it part of the Federal government? Is it FBI, CIA, what?” Jack didn’t answer. “See, it’s unconstitutional for the federal government to have secret organizations that spy on its own citizens. That’s what people fought and died for in 1776. People today forget that.”
“So now you’re George Washington?”
“We make a big deal out of the President of the United States,” Marks said. “Look at the guy in the White House now. There’s all this talk about the NAP Act, which side he’ll take. Maybe he’ll veto it, maybe he won’t. Meanwhile, the majority of the people are against it! The media talk like it’s government’s decision. But it’s not. It’s ours. We have the ultimate power to veto anything the Federal government says or does. That’s why the Founding Fathers designed the government the way it did. They didn’t want a repeat of the government forced on them by the British.”
Marks paused. “Take you for instance.” Marks leaned forward, resting his chin on his overlapping hands. “Forgot whatever story you told us to get into Greater Nation. You’re military, right? Or at least ex-military.”
Jack didn’t answer. Interrogators don’t answer questions unless it suits their purpose. Marks, however, didn’t seem to need an answer. “Right, I knew it. Probably ex-military. Moved right from some special unit right into a Federal agency, correct? So they take you out of a uniform to avoid the
This was what differentiated Marks from all the other domestic wackos. He wasn’t a beer-swilling red-neck in jackboots and suspenders, nor was he a wild-haired, polygamist pseudo-messiah. With his Boss suits and his easy recitation of constitutional law, Marks resembled nothing more than an evangelist whose message was freedom from the tyranny of the Federal government. When he spoke of
Marks demanded, and got, eye contact with his captor. “It was illegal for them to send you to spy on us.”
Undaunted, Jack laughed. “If you think that was illegal, wait until you hear this.” He leaned forward, bringing his face close to Marks’s. Marks reminded him of his friend Walsh, but without the mustache. Jack said in a low voice, “Your friend Frank New-house was an undercover agent for the DOJ.”
Marks’s face executed a serious of pirouettes worthy of a prima ballerina. His eyes lifted, then collapsed into confusion. He smiled in disbelief, then frowned as he considered the possibility. Finally his face settled into neutral territory. “Impossible.”
Jack felt immensely satisfied that he had cracked Marks’s shell. “Not for a government like ours,” he countered.
Marks studied Jack, his eyes roaming across the landscape of his face, the position of his hands and shoulders, the pace of his breathing. The militia leader appeared totally unselfconscious about his own staring, oblivious when Jack returned his gaze with a fierce glare. When his scan reached down to the tabletop, Marks’s gaze ascended, restudying Jack’s body until his eyes found Jack’s. Nearly a minute of silence had passed.
“You’re not lying,” Marks decided. “You believe it’s true.”
“I know it’s true,” Jack said.
Brett’s eyes widened.
Sure enough, Marks’s eyes fell to the floor, and when he looked up, he had something to say. But Jack was not prepared for it. “Then he’s already reported everything we know to you guys. Are you going to stop the terrorists?”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, the only terrorists here are you! Don’t you get it? All Ramin knew was a rumor, the same kind of crap we get off the Internet every day. There is no terrorist cell.” He shook his head. “You militia nuts need to leave investigations to the investigators.”
Marks scratched his nose and sat back. “I guess you’re right. Because you must know all about the safe house.”
“Oh, yeah, we got your safe house.”
“Not my safe. The terrorist one.”
Jack felt a curve slide by him. “Explain.”
“Safe house. Frank Newhouse must have told you if he’s one of you guys. Right?”
Jack sat forward so fast his chair slid back from the table. “Pretend I don’t know anything about this safe house. Tell me.”
Marks tried to scratch his chin, but the chain wouldn’t let him. He laughed at it. “You know, I think you’re right about the terrorist sleeper cell. It’s probably all a set up. Of course.” Marks’s eyes glazed over, and Jack could almost see the wheels spinning behind his eyes. “It’s actually easy to do. The government creates the need; the people feel the need; the government sneaks in what it wants. Of course. You might as well forget about it.”
“You can start making sense any time now,” Jack growled.
The militia leader’s eyes refocused on Jack. “You probably don’t have to worry about it, Jack. The government was probably just setting us up. You’re saying that this Iranian kid was a fake lead, so the hints we got of a terrorist hit this week are probably fake, too. Danger disguised inside a gift. The government sets up a fake terrorist cell to cause fear. Then they offer the gift of new legislation that’s meant to save everyone. But hidden inside the gift is the very thing the people fear — the loss of their freedom.”
Rising to his feet, Jack shook his head. “Why is it always a conspiracy theory with you people?”
Brett’s answer was simple. “Because the government is conspiring against us.”
“Tell me about the safe house. Tell me about the terrorist hit.”
“Ask Newhouse.”
“I’m asking you!”
The leader of the Greater Nation shrugged. “It’s nothing to me, either way. This is where we found some of our information. It’s where we got Rafizadeh’s name. It also looked to us like they were planning a big hit soon. It’s an apartment over near Exposition. You can check it out for y—”
Jack was already out the door.
8. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 10 A.M. AND 11 A.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME
Debrah Drexler spent twenty minutes on the phone in her office, canvassing her colleagues.
“I’m on the red-eye tonight,” she said to Alan Wayans, the Senator from Illinois. “I’ll be there in time for the vote. You’re still on board, right?”
Alan Wayans had cultivated his public image as a stalwart standard-bearer of the moderate left, an image he owed far more to his handlers than to himself. Those who fought beside him in the political trenches knew him as a
