At the seven o’clock Monday morning meeting in the FBI office high in the federal building, Paul refused the pastries everyone else ate. The open boxes circled the conference table twice while people sheepishly took seconds. Paul watched them stretch their mouths open to cram in dripping purple Bismarcks. People ate in silence.
They waited for Paul’s boss, Bill Conway, to start the meeting. Paul hoped he would recognize the danger the murder of the young boy presented and take action.
“Hey, Jimmy,” one of the agents called from across the table. “Don’t forget that wellness seminar this afternoon for weight control. If you go through it, you get a reduction in your health plan co-pays.”
“And a free doughnut,” someone yelled from the back and laughed.
After allowing for a round of tea-colored, tepid government coffee, Conway cleared his throat. He had held the office of senior agent in charge of the Twin Cities for six years. “Folks, listen up,” he started. “We’ve got a lot to cover.” He brushed crumbs off his yellow necktie and tried to smooth it over the protruding belly below. Several people pushed back from the table and crossed their legs.
“I got off the phone with the director in Washington this morning.” Conway paused for effect. “He called at five o’clock this time. That’s damn early. Now, I don’t like to get these calls ’cause they usually mean the director’s unhappy.” His gaze bounced from one face to another. In spite of the sugar surge, most of them looked half awake.
“The director’s been getting calls from lots of big-shot politicians, including our own esteemed senators. They’re worried. And you all know how things work in government—when the shit rolls downhill, in the end, we get it dumped on us.”
Mavis Drews, the oldest female agent in the Minneapolis office, sat up. “I thought we got convictions out of three of these recruiters, Bill. What more do they want?”
Conway moved back to his edge of the table. He looked at his administrative assistant, who scrambled through a pile of files. She pushed one toward him.
“Yeah, we got convictions on all three.” He raised the files in the air as if to demonstrate the truth of what he said. “What these terrorists are saying confirms our theory. These guys were recruiting for the freedom fighters with links to al-Qaeda.” Conway had thick hair combed over his head, green-gray eyes, and a jowly face. It gave a level of seriousness to his words.
“But they didn’t plead to that, did they?” Joe Fancher asked.
“We got one for lying to us during the investigation. But the other two pled to providing material support for terrorists. They admitted going to Yemen, then back to Somalia. They’re called ‘born-agains’ ’cause they’re true believers. Judge gave the last prick twenty-five years. Too bad the taxpayers have to pay for that.” When he threw the files on the table, doughnut crumbs scattered.
Drews said, “So what does the director want now? We broke the case, arrested the suspects, and got convictions.” She looked around the long table and pumped her fist into the air tentatively. “What the hell else do those idiot politicians want?”
“Oh, they’re happy about all that. Congratulated us. No, the calls are coming about what happens now.”
Drews pressed on. “What happens now?” she snorted. “What happens is that we busted ’em.”
“I know, Mavis, but let’s go down the road a little ways. If these slugs were recruiting for terrorist fighters in Somalia, how much does it take for them to turn these kids loose in the US?” Conway had a hoarse smoker’s voice. “And what about the al-Qaeda ties? Is it a way for them to attack us?”
No one spoke for a while. Finally, Mavis said, “Guess you’re right. It’s the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. We didn’t expect another kid to return and get killed here. We obviously didn’t stop everything.”
Conway was used to spending more time behind a desk and reading histories of the Second World War than running the streets and chasing bad guys. He looked forward to the opportunity to retire at full pension in two years.
Paul had mixed feelings toward the agent in charge. Although Conway had reluctantly taken Paul into the Minneapolis office after the mess Paul had made in Milwaukee, Conway had come to like Paul. The phone call from the teacher had worked as well as Paul hoped it would. It had opened the case of the Somalia recruiters and given Paul a chance to be assigned to the investigation, which he’d helped to solve.
But Paul knew Conway, near the end of his career, lacked the energy to fight anymore. He seemed out of touch, telling stories of his past that weren’t exactly true. He spoke “fight,” but he really meant “don’t rock the boat.” Paul suspected they had only uncovered the tip of an iceberg. From the public’s viewpoint, the FBI looked in control of everything. From the inside, Paul knew they scrambled, dependent on the Somali informants—unreliable as they were—to help them, as well as simple telephone intercepts.
“So I’m getting calls from everyone,” Conway repeated. “You wouldn’t believe it. I get calls from agencies I’ve never even heard about. No wonder the government’s all fucked up. Who’s in charge of all these guys?” He leaned back against the table and sighed.
“Who are you talking about?” Paul said.
Conway looked down at his assistant again. She paged through more files, giving him one with a long handwritten list on it. He shifted his bulk to the other side. “Okay. Here goes.” He glanced up over the top of his glasses, looked down, and started to read. “Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the Coast Guard Interdiction Team, Federal Protection Services, the Army Medical Research Institute, TRIPwire, Customs and Border Protection, Cyber Protection—and this frickin’ list goes on. I got a congresswoman from Mississippi asking me if we got a fence on the northern border with Canada!”
Laughter lapped around the table like waves on a lake shore.
“And you all know how the agents at Immigration Customs and Enforcement have screwed us in the past,” Conway shouted. “Early on in the case, we both had informants covering the same suspects. I argued with them to butt out, that their interference could blow the suspects. They made a premature takedown that almost destroyed the entire effort.” He looked up at the ceiling as if asking for help from above.
“Turf wars,” snorted Fancher. “They want the brass ring as much as we do.”
“ICE thinks they’ve got the resources, but they don’t,” Conway said. He glared at the group. “I’m sure as hell not gonna be the one to tell the director we’ve lost the case to some dumb-ass border guard. You know what he’ll do to me? To us? Which reminds me—no leaks about anything to anyone.” He thumped the table with the thick file.
Mavis said, “So what do you want us to do, Bill?”
He screwed up his face and sighed. “Dammit, I wish I could smoke in here. For now, the plan is to hold steady. We’re making progress, and the calls from Washington should finally slow down.”
“I think that’s right,” said Fancher. He reached for another pastry, lifted it, and at the last moment, tore it in half. Powdered sugar fluffed into a cloud over the table.
“Yeah, keep the telephone intercepts in place,” Mavis agreed. She puffed out her breath. “We’re having better luck with the suburban Somali people. They’re a little more integrated into the community. Guess I can’t blame them for what they’ve been through.”
Paul spoke. “I’m not sure staying the same course is the best strategy, Bill.”
“What else do you think we should do?”
“As you know, I’ve got myself embedded in the murder case going on now. The defense lawyer is a friend of mine. Although she can’t reveal confidential things, of course, I’ll get information from their investigation that we can probably use to our advantage.”
“To what end, Paul?” Mavis asked.
“I’m not sure where it will lead. But remember, I got the first call three years ago. This isn’t something they jumped into quickly. The planning has obviously been careful and extensive over many years.
What are they really going to do?”
“Laying the groundwork?” she said.
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Paul, you’re a great agent, but you’ve just come off probation,” Conway interrupted and embarrassed him. “In my experience, the simple explanation is usually the right one. We’ve got the explanation now. I used to tell that to Reagan when I was in the attorney general’s office. He liked it simple.” Conway looked back at the group.
“But Bill—”
“Back off.” Conway spun around to face Paul. “Let me tell you something. You didn’t get all the hell I’ve gotten about this case. We solved it and that’s the end. You want us to start all over again, and for what—because you ‘think there’s something more’?” Conway imitated Paul’s voice. “Until we know there’s something absolutely solid, I don’t want you stirring things up. Am I perfectly clear?” He poked his finger into Paul’s chest.
Conway was so close to Paul, he could smell stale cigarettes on Bill’s breath. Paul knew him well enough to understand the order and dismissal. Paul looked around the room at the agents. Good people, good agents, but like most groups, once a decision was made, it was difficult to alter the course. People became attached to their agendas and ideas.
He took a deep breath, trying to accept what his unconscious mind told him—in spite of the warning, he’d continue the investigation on his own. If Paul screwed up again, his career was over. But the chance to redeem himself from his past mistakes pushed him forward.
Chapter Eight