Guardians of the Secret
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved
7.
The cabin was in a part of Idaho that was once remote. The neighbors said it was built in the thirties completely out of stone by someone inspired by Robinson Jeffers. The isolation suited him as well as the privation of the depression. Twenty years later prosperity ended that dream as the development of the fifties drove him away to nobody knows where.
Steve Langford had rented it for the summer. The locals liked him. He had funny stories about the life in the East Coast he was escaping, wasn't too handsome, too bright or too anything and he listened.
The bedroom was romantically lit by moonlight as he and Patty Briggs were in bed. Patty was nineteen. She had told a girlfriend he was a breath of fresh air and they laughed considering this was supposed to be fresh air country. Steve was twenty six.
"You're sure something," he complimented her.
"That's what I expect to hear from the guys up here. I thought you were different." She was irritated that he had to rush her off in an hour to go to another meeting. He didn't even seem the type.
"Sorry."
They began making love. Suddenly she froze as she saw a thin beam of laser light trace its way along her body. "Who's there?" "A jealous patriot," a voice responded from the darkness.
Shocked, the two anxiously looked up and saw Martin Arens seated in a chair, partially concealed in shadow. Arens was in his early forties, sandy haired and had an almost languid grace. His appearance seemed as if life and death had parceled him out. His body, despite years of physical training, was soft and sensual. His features were hard, chiseled to the point that the artist might have been doing a death's head, except for his vibrant blue eyes that seemed to laugh at the death surrounding them.
He aimed his gun's laser sight at Patty's forehead. Patty was terrified, Steve looked for an escape route.
"You're not in the militia, what do you want?! There's money in my purse."
"I'm not in the militia, but neither is lover boy. He's with the FBI."
"What's he talking about?"
"Shut up," Steve cut her off, focusing on his jacket hanging on a chair nearby.
"Please don't hurt me," Patty pleaded.
"It's a shame you have to die in a drama beyond your understanding, but then don't we all."
In a single motion, Steve threw a pillow at Arens and lunged toward his jacket and a gun. Arens deflected the pillow. He watched Steve's movement as if captured in a series of stills. He waited for the still in which Steve had his gun in hand before killing him with one shot. He was chiding himself about his slightly faulty aim as he shot Patty.
Having killed the pair, Arens entered the kitchen and surveyed it. He returned to the bedroom and dipped his fingers with the blood from Patty's head wound. Going back in the kitchen, he began painting with his bloodied fingers on the refrigerator door.
He stepped back to judge his handiwork. It was a militia symbol, a rattlesnake and the words, "Don't Tread on Me". He smiled appreciatively at what he saw. "I don't know much about art, but I know what I like."
As Arens walked away from the cabin he began singing a ditty to the tune of "Over There".
"Heidegger, Heidegger,
For the angst is coming, the angst is coming,
And they'll soon be fear and trembling over there.
So beware, no exit there,
For the angst is coming, the angst is coming,
And they'll soon be fear and trembling over there."* * *
A photograph of Arens was on the wall of a loft in downtown Philadelphia. He was one face among thousands as part of a giant collage of photos of organized crime, the intelligence community, militia and fringe groups. The loft was filled with filing cabinets, electronic surveillance equipment, computers and cameras. Jazz music was coming from a set of speakers.
Michael was on an exercise machine, strengthening his bullet scarred right leg. "Four more, don't quit on me," he said as he urged himself on. He was in a pair of shorts and shirtless and right now he was in pain. The phone rang and a voice came from the answering machine.
"Flaherty, this is Mr. Donaldson. That fancy alarm is so sensitive it goes off whenever the damn dog barks. I don't know whether to shoot you or the dog."
Michael ignored the message. He got off the exercise machine and talked to his leg. "What's it going to be, good day or bad?" Michael tested his leg and winced. He began to massage it when the computer started printing. When it finished he walked over to it and was disappointed at what he read. He dressed quickly. He was late and not much in the mood to go do a show, but Sara had asked him to come in. Leaving the loft, he stopped to get his mail. A letter addressed to his son had come back "return to sender". He knew it would like the others he'd sent. The pain he felt over his repeated attempts was a form of penance. What he'd do if he actually had to communicate, he had no idea.
He started his beat up but vintage 65 Mustang convertible. He was about to leave when he stopped. He sat in the car making himself more late.
The radio station where he was cohost was in downtown Philadelphia. Michael came up hurriedly favoring his right leg, while balancing coffee and a well worn shoulder briefcase. He arrived at the station. As Michael passed, staff members signaled he was late as he heard the intro to the show.
"From the city of brotherly love, welcome to Inside America, where you the listener help uncover the truth."
Sara Ellison was seated in front of a microphone with headphones on. To her right a computer screen revealed caller information. "I'm Sara Ellison, with Michael Flaherty, former DEA agent and now a private security consultant. We're talking about the brutal killing of an FBI undercover agent, allegedly by the militia."
Michael entered and signaled an apology to Sara who was displeased. As he put on headphones, Sara handed him papers to read. He was impressed with what he saw. He pointed to the microphone, and shook his head, indicating the material was not for broadcast. Sara continued the show.
"Let's go to the phones, Lansing Michigan, you're on the air."
"Sara, who do you think you are, the liberal Rush Limbaugh? Allegedly?! The militia aren't patriots, they're criminals. Hell with the FBI, we should send in the army. And if this President won't do it, we'll get one who will!"
"Right. Imagine how much we'll save on court costs and haggling over that silly bill of rights. Kathy from Corvallis, Oregon."
"Michael, long time listener, even before you became a regular. The government betrayed you. Wasn't it you who called your superiors traitors? You should be a friend of the militia."
"I did say that. Those are harsh words, but I'll stand by them. But the government didn't betray me, certain people in the government did. That's an important distinction. We have a country based on law not men, and to use the actions of particular men..."
"I know where you're going, but it's more than that. There's a pattern."
"It still comes down to the actions of men. The idea of government is not the problem."
"What about the idea that the government governs best that governs least?"
"That's a mighty fine idea Jefferson had and we should keep it always in mind. But when it came down to it when he was president, he governed pretty hot and heavy. Bought the Louisiana purchase."
Sara barely could wait to respond. "I know it's not exactly fashionable, but we need government, lots of it. I know a lot of you feel you never get a real choice, but where else are we going to get democracy. We've got corporations, political interest groups, fundamentalists, extremists. They all have their goals. They may be right or wrong. But one thing's certain. They're sure not going to put it to a vote. Our problem is not the amount of government. Our problem is the lack of democracy."
Sara went back to the phones. "A call from right here in Philadelphia." There was the sound of a hang up as the call got disconnected.
"Whoops, we lost him. On line three, Randy, a militia member from Larkinsville, Alabama."
"We didn't kill anybody, and the government's going to come after us just the same. They tax us what they want, they teach our kids what they want, they attack us when they want." Randy's baby cried in the background. "I prayed for God to show me a way for my family, and he has."
Michael was conciliatory. "I've documented government abuse. I've also reported some pretty reckless militia activity. I know there's been a lot of talk, people quoting Jefferson and the tree of liberty, blood of patriots thing. But I think after all these years what impresses us is not the bloodletting of those patriots, but their wisdom and foresight."
"Our local call is back, go ahead line four."
"Sara, good work on exposing the militia. Keep it up. You'll be as dead as that FBI agent!"
Enraged, Michael jumped in. "Don't threaten her, you son of a bitch! Come after me. I'll go one better..." The sound of the caller hanging up cut Michael off. Michael was furious while Sara masked her fear. "We're off to a lively start. There must be a full moon tonight. Sioux City, Iowa on a car phone."
"You guys make wild claims about the militia, why don't you just name names?"
Sara was caught a little off guard. "We've got a commercial, want to hang on?"
"You're not out of time, you're out of liberal bullshit."
Sara's poise abandoned her. "You want names?" As Michael silently mouthed the word "No", Sara read from her paperwork. "Okay, Russell Everett, Dean Peterson, Dennis Blackwell. Next week we'll document the right wing organizations they work for, and the money trail to the militia. So much for liberal b.s." Michael took off his headset in disgust.
* * *
The Runway Cafe in a small municipal airport in southeastern Pennsylvania had been aggressively overdecorated with a vintage aircraft motif down to the glassware and napkins. There was a partial view of the runway through the windows. Arens entered the restaurant, passing by the bar where the bartender was wiping down the counter. The TV over the bar featured a news segment which captured Arens' attention. A female newscaster was standing in front of a farmhouse, while FBI agents were busy collecting evidence. "The early morning raid left two militia seriously wounded. The FBI seized automatic weapons, explosives and bomb making materials." Arens joked to the bartender. "Must have been planning one hell of a hunting trip."
As they continued to talk, Everett was sitting at a booth at the back of the restaurant. He was sipping a drink while he pondered the chances of his current operation. He thought about it in military terms, momentum and leverage. How much leverage could a well financed handful of people exert? Even extremely well financed.
He thought of success stories from Joshua to Guatemala to the Bolsheviks. But these were isolated instances in a sea of contrary ones. Most of the time history has a damn stubborn linearity where it takes a damn lot of shovels to move a mountain. But those other times of instability where a butterfly's wings can cause a storm. They keep you coming back.
Easy to say after the fact that the time had come for this idea or that movement, but how to know this from the inside as it happens. That would be a dream. A perfect tactician, in touch with the grain of history and read its fault lines like a diamond cutter. He was speculating that it required some impossible combination of sensitivity and aggression as Arens approached his table.
Arens noticed Everett deep in thought and his orange juice and vodka drink. He smiled as a joke occurred to him
"Philosophizing with a screwdriver?"
"No, I leave that to you. I'm a practical sort." Everett was straight-faced, apparently missing Arens' wit.
"Just a joke about my favorite philosopher," Arens started to explain before he realized that Everett was putting him on.
"You had me for a moment. Practical sort."
Everett pulled out two envelopes and slid them across the table. Arens examined one. It was filled with new $100 bills. Inside the other was a promotional photo of Michael and Sara. Arens viewed it with an intensity that ensured they were two faces he would never forget.
"Rumor is you know this guy."
"It was nothing personal. Neither is this."
"Sure, just a couple of knights in shining armor. You know you're an artifact."
"Undoubtedly."
"No, seriously. That's why I like you. It's a new day. Everything is up for grabs, loyalty is out the window. Aldrich Ames was just a man slightly ahead of his time, a prototype. You and this guy Flaherty are relics. Nations are obsolete which leaves you a patriot without a country. The difference between you and this guy is you know it, and still you choose to sign on. In Japan they'd consider you a National Treasure."
"Remind me to have myself registered."
Arens pointed to the photos. "What do these two know?"
"If they're not guessing it could mean a problem."
"You want a solution?"
"I want to know how they know."
Everett lit up a cigarette with a restaurant matchbook.
"If everything's up for grabs what about you?"
"I refuse to bow to the limitations of my time. History is not on your side old buddy. But I'm a romantic, I still like the odds. I just want to see you and I keep traveling down the narrow road to the deep whatever."
Everett couldn't resist a smile.
* * *
Michael and Sara made it a habit to meet once a week at an upscale bar near the studio to casually talk over how the show was going. Their meeting now was not casual. Michael was drinking as he and Sara were in an argument.
"Two years, and in thirty seconds you blew it. If it turns out to be Everett, I don't want it to look like I'm just getting even."
"Nothing's blown. You're just sore because I was the one that got the information."
"Ridiculous. It's true I'm frustrated that I've run dry, you could have gotten what I've turned up in the last six months in an encyclopedia. But this is a whole hell of a lot more than that. I know its your source and I know I haven't been much help lately, but you know what I've got invested in this."
"You're not giving me any credit for some sense. I wouldn't have gone with it if it didn't look good. You saw it."
"Okay it looked good. Maybe it's too good, maybe it's a plant. You haven't even told me where you got it."
"It was anonymous. I got two mailings a week apart."
Michael was incensed.
"Great, I can't wait till this goes sour and along with it what's left of my credibility. All for a snappy comeback line."
"I cross-checked it."
"You mean what you could."
"You don't trust me, do you?"
"I know about trust. I believed people when they said "till death due us part" and "we're going to win the war on drugs". But trust loses to secret agendas. The government, people against the government, the DEA."
"So what's my secret agenda?"
"To show up your ex husband, piss off your rich relatives, prove you've got balls, be famous, I don't know. But that guy tonight ..."
"That guy tonight is an impotent little man who gets off calling radio stations to feel less impotent."
"And if you're wrong? I could stay at the house?"
"I think we've got enough to handle with our relationship backed off to where it is. I'm okay with this."
Michael took another drink.
"You put my side of the story on the air, and I owe you. But you're treating rumors like truth and there's too much at stake."
"If you're unhappy with my standards, maybe you should quit."
"You want me to quit, you'll have to fire me."
Michael started to leave. "Thanks for the tapes. I'll see you around."
copyright © 1998 by Cary Shulman
All Rights Reserved