Nation of Enemies (4 page)

 

Chapter 6

Newton, Massachusetts, suburb of Boston

W
EARING
A
WH
ITE
bathrobe, Steven Hudson sips coffee at the kitchen table. A monitor in the wall entrances him as he watches himself on the Hudson's Funeral Homes commercial. Unconsciously, his hand goes to his graying hair, moving lightly across the waves, stiff with styling product. Despite the makeup, he can see the childhood scar on his forehead. It folds into a horizontal wrinkle when he lifts his eyebrows. He moves his lips along with the script, matching his own voice projected from the speakers.

“The world we live in has so many uncertainties these days. The War at Home means casualties in our neighborhoods, and sometimes, death on our doorstep.”

He appears somber and honest, a trustworthy partner in death. The intro segues into a montage of bombed schools, men weeping, mothers clutching babies amidst destruction. Once again he appears onscreen. “Hudson's Funeral Homes provide stability when you need it the most. I guarantee a compassionate staff, twenty-­four-­hour support, and most importantly, respect for you and your loved ones when you choose Hudson's in your time of need. Call 999-­HUDSONS for the location near you.”

Steven commands, “Monitor off.” If his parents were alive, they'd be proud to see how he's grown the business. He and his family live in the first Hudson's location, a stately mansion converted by his father fifty years ago that's now the national headquarters. When the war began to creep into the suburb of Newton, he built his very own Safe Wall around the property, encasing the house so that his family—­and the families they ser­vice—­would be protected. He must admit, he sleeps better with the bulletproof lacquer on the wall's smooth surface.

Aside from the living areas, there are two visitation rooms and his office. Each piece of furniture and every drape was handpicked by him and his wife, no expense spared. In the basement are the preparation rooms, though with the tremendous success of the business, he no longer needs to prepare bodies himself. However, on occasion he'll disappear into a prep room. The process is peaceful, and he still enjoys the work. The converted carriage house on the property contains two chapels. Hudson children were never allowed a swing set on the sprawling green lawn because it might seem inappropriately playful to mourners.

Wearing a matching robe that appears gray in comparison, Sarah walks into the kitchen. His wife doesn't acknowledge him. Mascara is smeared under her red-­rimmed eyes and roots of gray part her black hair down the middle. He watches her as she pours a cup of coffee. The other night he caught her smoking marijuana. If it was only the pot, it wouldn't bother him.

“Liberty Party headquarters was bombed this morning,” he says. “Just awful.” There's no reaction from her as she sits at the table.

“We should pull in around ten,” he continues. “Not bad for a Wednesday.”

She ignores him. It drives him crazy when she's like this. He slaps the tabletop hard. She jumps, making coffee slosh over the side of her cup.

“Hello?” He leans closer. “Anyone in there? You're like the walking dead, Sarah.”

“You wish.”

He shakes his head. “You gonna get out of that robe this month?”

“What's the point?”

“You should start painting again. You need another . . . vice.”

“Fuck off.”

“What fun banter we have these days.” He takes a deep breath. “Hey, why don't you help me out downstairs today? I bet we get slammed mid-­afternoon.”

“No thanks.” Sarah closes her eyes. “House, what time is it?”

From hidden speakers an automated female voice announces, “The time is ten thirty-­five. The temperature outside is sixty-­eight degrees. A good day for gardening.”

“Is Jonathan awake?” Sarah suddenly seems alert.

Steven shrugs. “Haven't seen him.”

She stands and glares at him. “You didn't wake him up for school?”

“He's your son. You wake him up.”

For a moment it seems she might cry, but then she bites her lip. “You've been his father for eight years. Would it kill you to take an interest?”

He drains the rest of his cup, the time helping to calm him. “That kid goes days without talking to me. He hasn't been in a good mood since 'twenty-­two. I tried to bond with him last year when I took him to the National Funeral Home Convention. You know what happened. Every time I make an effort, he runs in the other direction, which usually involves the police. I'm done. Done.”

“He's just a kid, Steven. You think it's easy for him to live around death day in and day out? No wonder he doesn't want to get out of bed.”

“Death pays for his video games. It pays for his goth wardrobe, his food, and for this beautiful house.” The kid is ungrateful, and if it wasn't for Sarah, he'd toss him out on his ass. “He needs to respect death. He needs to respect me. He's seventeen. Time to grow up.”

Sarah strides out of the kitchen, down the hall, up the stairs, to a door at the far end of the second floor. She knocks. No response; she knocks again. Finally she turns the knob.

Jonathan's room is an assault on the senses. Bloodred paint covers the walls. The antique furniture has been painted black. Metal band posters serve as wallpaper, with visuals that scream as loud as if their music was playing. It's hard to tell, but a professional decorator created this “look” based on her interview with Jonathan. Sarah had told the woman she didn't care what it looked like, she just wanted him to be happy and feel at home in his space. He rarely leaves it, after all. Kids don't seem to hang out anymore. The war put an end to afterschool activities, loitering in malls, and going to underage clubs. Poor kid has never even met his classmates in person. It's like solitary confinement. And the darkness she sees in him is troubling.

A long, skinny lump is buried under the covers of the bed. On the pillow, a tuft of brown hair peeks out. She reaches down, her fingers running through the soft strands. It's the only time he allows her to touch him anymore.

“Jonathan?” Her voice is soft. “Jonathan. Wake up. You're late.” She pulls the duvet down. Underneath the mop of hair and through the piercings in his ears, eyebrows, and lip, is an attractive boy. Thick black eyelashes twitch as he struggles to open his eyes. She gets in one last stroke before he bats her hand away.

“Cut it out.” He pulls the blanket back over his head.

“You've already missed your first two classes. Get up.” Playfully, she smacks a lump that must be his butt. “I thought you liked chemistry. Isn't that your next period?”

“Yeah. They're teaching us how to make a homemade bomb.”

“That's not funny, you know.”

“It's a little funny.”

“Trust me,” she says. “School was a lot more fun before kids learned how to make bombs. Now you're stuck here.”

With an exasperated sigh, he sits up and swings his legs out of bed.

“You want a quick breakfast?”

“Is he down there?”

She nods. “I'll bring something up.” She leaves, closing the door behind her.

Jonathan grabs a crumpled black T-­shirt from the floor and pulls it over his head as he sits at his desk. School. Waste of time. At his command, the computer comes to life. Playtime. His fingers fly over the keyboard, bringing up his official school site. In minutes he gains access to the server, hacks the system, and disables the site. It's like giving his classmates an old-­fashioned snow day. Much easier than crashing the U.S. Department of Education's site. He did that when he was twelve. Should've been more careful, though—­the Feds tracked him in less than twenty-­four hours. But being in sixth grade had worked to his advantage and he'd gotten off easy. He's on a watch list now. Whatever. He likes the challenge. Leaning back in his chair, he yawns. Laughs. It's a beautiful day to play some video games. Maybe go boarding. Fuck school.

 

Chapter 7

Boston

FBI S
PECIAL
A
GENT
Sebastian Diaz runs through details from the attack as he prepares for the brief. In a glass-­walled conference room of the Bureau's Boston office, twelve men and women wearing various shades of gray and navy sit at an oblong table. To his left is his partner, Chris Renner, to his right an empty chair at the head of the table, intended for the Special Agent in Charge of the Counterterrorism Unit, Ron Satterwhite. The fifty-­year-­old's solid, compact frame reaches only five-­six, and he rarely sits, lest he be looked down upon. At the front wall, he brushes a hand repeatedly over the electronic display of devastating images of today's bombing.

Satterwhite's eyes are slits. “It's our job to be ahead of these situations. The deputy director is demanding to know what happened.” No one speaks or moves. He shouts, “What happened? Is anyone taking credit?”

“They're not taking credit, but the driver was a BASIA militant.” Sebastian swipes a finger across the table in front of him. Instantly, a new window appears on the main wall. Covertly taken photos show ­people entering Reverend Charles Mitchell's Patriot's Church.

“Scott Durgin disappeared from the church a few weeks ago,” Renner says. “He was off our radar. We profiled him several months ago and determined he was a follower, not high-­risk for making a strike. I spoke to my informant, who says Mitchell was surprised by the attack.”

“Your informant is worthless, Renner. As is your profiling.” Satterwhite slams his hand on the table. “If you think for one second that bastard is ever surprised, then maybe you should sign up for his congregation, since it seems you're buying his bullshit now.”

Renner's cheeks flush. Though Sebastian doesn't know his informant, he knows Renner's grown to trust the person over the years. He gets personally offended if and when someone questions his informant's validity.

It's Sebastian's turn. “NSA and Homeland Security are mining data on communication between Mitchell and his followers. But as we all know, the Reverend hasn't owned a cell phone in twenty years and doesn't appear to use computers.”

“Mitchell's security team, then,” Satterwhite presses. “The men and women closest to him. You telling me none of them use electronic devices?”

“They've been trained well, sir,” Sebastian says. For years, anyone could be tracked via their MAC address—­a unique identifier emitted by every electronic device. But once word of the NSA's surveillance capabilities leaked out, many citizens went off the grid. There's even a new trend of writing letters. “Mitchell's ­people dump disposables after a few uses. They switch email addresses and computers constantly. When they do communicate electronically, the emails and texts are encrypted and self-­destruct before we can hone in.”

“Unacceptable.” Satterwhite gestures to the wall of information. His lips press into a thin line as he paces. “There are over ten thousand radical militias and antigovernment groups spread across this country. Add to that lone wolves and kids with chemistry sets. That's tens of thousands of enemies of the state stacked against our fifty-­six field offices. Do the math. Our manpower and resources are at capacity, and that's not changing anytime soon. I realize you're stretched. I also realize there are casualties in war. But we have to work harder.
You
have to work harder. Give more. 'Cause what you're giving isn't enough.”

It's an old speech. After every attack, Satterwhite berates them and reiterates their mission. But despite the growing list of terrorists, Mitchell and his Brothers and Sisters in Arms remain enemy number one with their nationwide following. The Bureau had never even heard of BASIA until a quote from one of the Fallen Planes' black boxes was determined to be an integral part of Mitchell's sermons, a revised portion of the Declaration of Independence. That heretic is after One Nation Under God
,
a theological state. But with only circumstantial evidence, there's no proof, no clear connection, between Mitchell and the Fallen Planes. Or any other attack, for that matter.

On the wall, Satterwhite displays a photograph of Mitchell at the top. Branching off from him are lines that lead to known terrorists who have successfully carried out attacks.

“This is our guy.” Satterwhite jabs his finger at Mitchell. “Thousands of families email me weekly for a status report on the Planes investigation. Some of you were in braces, maybe don't remember it well. So if you need a refresher on the mass murder that man caused, you're all welcome to review the case file. He's the leader of the nation's largest antigovernment church. We have loose threads tying him to twelve of the fifty suicide pilots. To be clear. Mitchell's never surprised. Mitchell's pleased as fucking punch.”

The last zinger hits Renner, whose hand creeps to a patch of the tightly curled dark hair at the back of his scalp, pulling and twisting a piece.

“Depending how we look at it, there's a new opportunity—­or a new complication—­at Patriot's Church.” Sebastian pulls up an image and adds it to the Mitchell graph. “The Mind's Eye surveillance flagged Taylor Hensley at a church ser­vice this morning.”

Satterwhite sniffs. “Mind's Eye was scooped by the local news.”

“Right. Well, the senator's daughter tends to bring the news vans wherever she goes.”

“That's one hell of a complication. Mitchell must think he's hit the goddamned lottery. There's no room for a misstep here. You have a plan, Diaz? Renner?”

Renner displays images of Taylor Hensley's famous graffiti. Much of it is antigovernment with a decided prejudice against the MedID. He says, “Based on her very public artwork, we could detain and question her. Possibly get a warrant to monitor her calls. But with her father as a vice presidential candidate and her newfound affiliation with Patriot's Church, we'll be stirring the pot. You don't get more high profile than this.”

“Taylor's a single mother,” Sebastian adds. “That could make her vulnerable. If Mitchell gets close enough to her, it poses an obvious risk to her father.”

“Clear out.” With an angry wave of his hand, Satterwhite dismisses everyone except Sebastian and Renner. The last person files out and shuts the door. Finally, Satterwhite takes his seat at the head of the table. “Go on.”

“The Mobile Surveillance Team assigned to Mitchell has gotten nowhere,” Sebastian says. “They tail him to and from his home, the church, and the BASIA compound. He never goes into businesses or makes home visits unless it's to a sick member of his church. The MST placed a ­couple operatives in the congregation, but we already know his rhetoric and that's all he's giving up in a public forum. It's not against the law to slam the government.”

“Maybe it should be,” Satterwhite mumbles.

“Anyway it's not enough,” Renner says. “We need a new strategy.”

“All right,” Satterwhite says. “We'll divert those funds elsewhere.”

“We have to get in. The closest we've gotten is Renner's informant,” Sebastian says.

“Will your informant take more risk?” Satterwhite asks.

Renner shakes his head. “Depends, sir.”

A tense moment passes before their SAC continues. “Recruitment skyrockets after an attack, so the timing is right to send someone in. The informant is a potential cooperating witness that can smooth the way. Renner, you'll need to do some handholding to ensure he or she feels safe. Make promises. Say whatever you need to say to make it happen.”

Once again Renner twists the same piece of hair as he nods. They wait. Suddenly Satterwhite looks pointedly at Sebastian. “Are you ready, Diaz?”

Shit. Under the table his hands clench tightly together. “Sir?”

“Renner needs to secure our one and only direct access to Charles Mitchell. He's built that relationship going on a decade now. We can't compromise that. He's positioned perfectly to be your handler.”

“Right,” says Sebastian.

“So that's a yes?”

A flash of Kate trips his tongue. He straightens. “Yes. Of course.”

Satterwhite leans in. “Excellent. This operation stays between the three of us. You'll receive a legend, Diaz. Our techs have a line of aliases that are alive and kicking with steady credit histories and social media interaction. We just need to find you a match.”

“How long will it take?” Sebastian asks.

“A month maybe. There's no room for error. This is our one shot. Work on wrapping up your life. Renner will help. You'll relocate locally. Your fiancée needs to know you'll be out of touch. That ring on her finger should make her feel secure.”

He nods. This was not in his plan. He's supposed to get married next year. What's he going to tell Kate? Though she knows what she's signing up for as an agent's wife, there's no way to prepare for this.

“You're in the unique position to protect the future vice president and his daughter. If any harm comes to them because of Taylor's affiliation with Mitchell, the blame will fall on this office. I can't protect you if this blows up, Diaz. But we're on this early. Let's get to work.”

They leave the conference room, and Sebastian ducks into the men's room. He grips the counter and stares at himself in the mirror. Undercover. He's been trained for it. Used to keep up with reports to glean tactics and to learn from others' mistakes in the field. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity. If this had come three years ago he would've jumped at it. But he has Kate now. An actual shot at a future. Renner tells him he's gone soft. He's joking, but maybe it's true.

Sebastian thinks of his partner. Renner's younger, has no family. Just a dog and an informant who's more like a sibling. It should be him.