says the missile fragments from the New York site were large and in surprisingly readable shape.”
“What about the others—Boise, San Jose?”
“I got a preliminary report on the Idaho missile just before the meeting. Same batch.”
“Batch?”
“There’s a batch number on them. These guys weren’t too bright. If you’re going to use a gun, file the serial number off before you do. They didn’t bother eradicating the batch numbers.”
“Soviet-made,” Cammanati said to himself, standing and going to the far end of the room. He faced the wall for what seemed to Harris to be minutes, turned in a few seconds, slowly shook his head, and asked flatly, “Who else knows this?”
“Just those who need to. The CIA. They’ll have to be brought into it. The Soviet involvement. Same with State. We’re out of the picture when it involves a foreign power.”
Cammanati cocked his head. His expression said he knew better. The Federal Bureau of Investigation might be limited under its charter to investigating domestic crime, but that seldom stopped it from poking into international cases, to the chagrin of the CIA.
Harris didn’t comment further.
“I’m meeting with the president and some of his cabinet when I leave here,” Cammanati said. “I’ll take your notes with me. The other piece of paper—I didn’t read it.” He went to Harris and picked up the second sheet. On it was a list of names:
Aryan Nation
Christian Identity
CSA
The Freedom Alliance
Americans for Justice
Silent Brotherhood
The Jasper Project
Nazi National Alliance
Rally for America
The Ku Klux Klan
“Suspects?” Cammanati asked, shoving the two sheets into his briefcase.
“Right.”
“All domestic right-wing groups.”
“Mainly. Hate groups, homegrown.”
“You have information that points to one of them?”
“Information? No. But we do have an ongoing investigation that might result in useful info.”
“How soon?”
A shrug from Harris. “Probably not soon enough to please you and the president—or the FAA and the airlines.”
Cammanati displayed a rare smile. “Commerce marches on, Joe,” he said ruefully. “Tell me about this ongoing investigation.”
“No can do, at least not yet. Too much at risk.”
“Christ, how much more could be at risk than what we’ve got now? Talk to me, Joe. I’m here because the president of the United States wants answers.”
“And maybe a dead undercover agent, too?”
“You have someone undercover with some of these groups?”
Harris nodded.
“Which ones?”
“Compromise our agents, Tony, and you compromise what might be the answer to this. If the president wants a briefing, I’m sure Justice will oblige.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“That’s necessary.”
“I assume Justice approved these undercover operations.”
“Assuming anything in this town is a tricky exercise, but you know that as well as anyone. Things okay with you, Tony?”
“They were until yesterday. I’ll get back to you.”
Joe Harris went outside to Pennsylvania Avenue before returning to his office in the Hoover Building. He was a smoker other smokers envied, able to limit himself to five or six cigarettes a day, none on some days. He lit up and walked to the corner of E Street, where hundreds of tourists were lined up for the FBI tour, one of the most popular in Washington. Not long ago, the tour had been suspended after the Bureau received what it considered to be credible threats against the facility. But it resumed when security, already tight, was further beefed up, and thousands of visitors filed through every day, learning that G-man stands for Government Man, and that the FBI stands for Federal Bureau of Investigation but also that the
F
stands for Fidelity, the
B
for Bravery, and the
I
for Integrity. The tour always ended with a dazzling firearms demonstration by a Bureau sharpshooter. Always a bull’s-eye. A shame things didn’t work that smoothly in real life.
Harris
“What about the others—Boise, San Jose?”
“I got a preliminary report on the Idaho missile just before the meeting. Same batch.”
“Batch?”
“There’s a batch number on them. These guys weren’t too bright. If you’re going to use a gun, file the serial number off before you do. They didn’t bother eradicating the batch numbers.”
“Soviet-made,” Cammanati said to himself, standing and going to the far end of the room. He faced the wall for what seemed to Harris to be minutes, turned in a few seconds, slowly shook his head, and asked flatly, “Who else knows this?”
“Just those who need to. The CIA. They’ll have to be brought into it. The Soviet involvement. Same with State. We’re out of the picture when it involves a foreign power.”
Cammanati cocked his head. His expression said he knew better. The Federal Bureau of Investigation might be limited under its charter to investigating domestic crime, but that seldom stopped it from poking into international cases, to the chagrin of the CIA.
Harris didn’t comment further.
“I’m meeting with the president and some of his cabinet when I leave here,” Cammanati said. “I’ll take your notes with me. The other piece of paper—I didn’t read it.” He went to Harris and picked up the second sheet. On it was a list of names:
Aryan Nation
Christian Identity
CSA
The Freedom Alliance
Americans for Justice
Silent Brotherhood
The Jasper Project
Nazi National Alliance
Rally for America
The Ku Klux Klan
“Suspects?” Cammanati asked, shoving the two sheets into his briefcase.
“Right.”
“All domestic right-wing groups.”
“Mainly. Hate groups, homegrown.”
“You have information that points to one of them?”
“Information? No. But we do have an ongoing investigation that might result in useful info.”
“How soon?”
A shrug from Harris. “Probably not soon enough to please you and the president—or the FAA and the airlines.”
Cammanati displayed a rare smile. “Commerce marches on, Joe,” he said ruefully. “Tell me about this ongoing investigation.”
“No can do, at least not yet. Too much at risk.”
“Christ, how much more could be at risk than what we’ve got now? Talk to me, Joe. I’m here because the president of the United States wants answers.”
“And maybe a dead undercover agent, too?”
“You have someone undercover with some of these groups?”
Harris nodded.
“Which ones?”
“Compromise our agents, Tony, and you compromise what might be the answer to this. If the president wants a briefing, I’m sure Justice will oblige.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“That’s necessary.”
“I assume Justice approved these undercover operations.”
“Assuming anything in this town is a tricky exercise, but you know that as well as anyone. Things okay with you, Tony?”
“They were until yesterday. I’ll get back to you.”
Joe Harris went outside to Pennsylvania Avenue before returning to his office in the Hoover Building. He was a smoker other smokers envied, able to limit himself to five or six cigarettes a day, none on some days. He lit up and walked to the corner of E Street, where hundreds of tourists were lined up for the FBI tour, one of the most popular in Washington. Not long ago, the tour had been suspended after the Bureau received what it considered to be credible threats against the facility. But it resumed when security, already tight, was further beefed up, and thousands of visitors filed through every day, learning that G-man stands for Government Man, and that the FBI stands for Federal Bureau of Investigation but also that the
F
stands for Fidelity, the
B
for Bravery, and the
I
for Integrity. The tour always ended with a dazzling firearms demonstration by a Bureau sharpshooter. Always a bull’s-eye. A shame things didn’t work that smoothly in real life.
Harris
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