Operation Mockingbird (5 page)

He gestured to the couch and suggested they make themselves comfortable. A few moments later, Matt returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water. Harrison was sitting on the edge of the chair situated to the right of the sofa. The other man, Jack Rabin, was leaning against the low entertainment center positioned directly across from the couch. Both men still had their jackets on, but they were now unbuttoned, revealing the guns in their holsters. They faced the sofa and Matt took a seat there, shifting uncomfortably.

Rabin began the interview with small talk. Matt listened politely and responded in kind as he mentally evaluated the two men. Harrison removed a pen and notepad from his shirt pocket. He flipped the pad open and, with the pen poised, alternated between looking at his partner and Matt. Harrison was in his early thirties, tall and very well built. He had blond hair, blue eyes and a chin that
seemed to be cut from the mold of a Terminator action figure.

Despite Matt’s fifteen-minute deadline, Harrison’s partner didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get the interview started. Rabin was settled on to the edge of the entertainment center, his arms loosely crossed and his extended legs hooked at the ankles. The older of the two, he was also well built but leaner and taller. Even leaning back against the entertainment center, he seemed to tower over the two men in the small living room. He had a scar above his right eye and another one on his chin. He talked about his recent relocation to South Florida, his first hurricane season in South Florida and the Miami Dolphins season Matt had missed while he was gone. Matt found himself falling into the familiar rhythm of exchanging anecdotes with a new acquaintance even as his experience told him he was being lulled into a false sense of security.

Matt glanced over at Harrison. The man’s eyes bore into his partner, as if willing him to make eye contact. His pen now tapped what seemed like an urgent Morse code message against the pad. The intensity made Matt anxious to get to the point as well.

When Rabin paused for a moment, Matt took that as his opportunity.

“So I thought the Department of Homeland Security was out there confiscating water bottles, women’s beauty products and other dangerous stuff that could potentially take down a Boeing 757. What are you doing here interviewing me?”

“Well, certainly, Matt, securing our borders and ensuring our planes are safe for travel are part of the job. As we speak, there are teams out there doing just that. But Agent Harrison and I are responsible for gathering information that will enable us to stop terrorist activity before it gets here to American soil.”

“Good to know. I feel safer already.”

Neither man laughed.

“So, should I be asking to see some type of warrant? Should I have an attorney present?”

“We don’t have a warrant, Matt,” Rabin responded with a small shrug. “This meeting is completely voluntary. As to whether or not you should have an attorney, well, I guess that depends on whether you think you’ve done something wrong or have something to hide. Assuming you don’t, we’d just like to ask you a few questions. Then we’ll be on our way.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide,” Matt replied after a moment. “So why don’t you guys just go ahead and ask your questions.”

“Okay, then,” Rabin said before nodding to Harrison.

The interview started out pretty mildly with Harrison inquiring about the dates Matt was in Iraq and Afghanistan, where he stayed and traveled and the names of other journalists with whom he’d come into contact while he was there. Rabin asked several general questions about the stories Matt had written and the research he had conducted. They seemed to be already familiar with the articles he had written, and Matt wasn’t sure whether he
should be flattered or alarmed that they had obviously spent some time researching him.

“So, other than the journalists and U.S. military personnel, who did you interview over there?” Harrison asked.

“I spoke with lots of the locals.”

“Any tribal leaders? Or leaders within the rebel forces?”

Matt’s body tensed and he didn’t immediately respond. “Yes,” he finally replied. “I spoke with leaders in the community and some military personnel.”

“Taliban or al-Qaeda?”

Matt could feel Rabin watching him intently as he replied to Harrison’s questions. “Both, but nobody high up.”

“We’ll need a list of all the people you spoke with.”

“Not a chance,” Matt snapped back without a pause.

There was silence from both men.

“Really,” Harrison finally said, the word dragging out slowly. “And why is that?”

Matt waited a moment before answering. He had to control the anger rising within him.

“Journalism 101, gentlemen. If a journalist discloses his sources, nobody will ever talk to him again. Also, telling their names might get those folks in trouble. And they don’t have any information that would be helpful to you guys.”

“It’s better if we judge what could be helpful and what’s not,” Rabin interrupted smoothly before Harrison could respond.

“Well, you’re going to have to trust me on this because I’m not disclosing any names.”

“You should worry more about protecting your own people, Matt,” Harrison spat out. “The animals you’re trying to protect aren’t U.S. citizens. They’re cold-blooded killers.”

Matt shook his head. “No, Agent Harrison, they’re not. They’re people just trying to survive in a country that’s being torn apart.”

“Maybe you should explain that to the families of the soldiers that died over there,” Harrison angrily continued. “They probably wouldn’t see it quite that way.”

Matt paused and considered his response carefully.

“I don’t have any names that could be helpful to you guys,” Matt finally replied. “And if word got out that I was providing those details, it would ruin my ability to get people to confide in me. I can’t do my job if people don’t trust me.”

“How well would you be able to do your job if we made sure that every law enforcement officer in the State of Florida knew you weren’t cooperating with us?” Harrison snapped. “Think people would trust you then?”

Matt felt his temper begin to rise up again, and again he attempted to quell it. With a few well-placed telephone calls, these guys could make sure no government official ever spoke to him again. They could make travel difficult for him. They could tie him up in red tape for years. In terms of his professional career, Matt was already on his seventh or eighth life. Making enemies with powerful men -- with these men -- could be a career-ending move.

“Listen, I appreciate what you guys do,” Matt finally responded. “I really do. Believe me, if I had information that was important, I would tell you. But I simply don’t know anything, or anyone, that would be helpful.”

Harrison leaned toward Matt. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could Rabin stopped him with a quick glance.

“Well, if you don’t mind, Matt, we’ll keep in touch,” Rabin said. “You may think of something later. Something that might be important.”

Rabin stood and nodded to Harrison. The younger man took his cue and stood up. At the door, Rabin handed over his card and asked Matt to contact him if he thought of something that might be helpful. Harrison didn’t offer his hand or a card. He simply glowered at Matt from the front porch.

Just as Matt started to shut the door, Rabin turned back toward him. “Hey, Matt, one other thing. Whatever happened to that journalist that worked with you at
The Chronicle
years ago? I think he was also over in the Middle East at the same time you were.”

When Matt didn’t immediately respond, Rabin continued, “I can’t remember his name, now, but you must know who I’m talking about. He went on to go write for some big paper in New York City.”

“Stephen Cross?” Matt asked.

Rabin snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s him. I sure liked his stuff. Where is he now?”

“As far as I know, he’s back in New York,” Matt replied.

“I’ll have to check out the papers up there. I always enjoyed his articles.”

Rabin turned and headed down the sidewalk toward his car, with Harrison following behind.

CHAPTER FIVE

“I’VE READ YOUR STUFF, Matt,” Stuart Bellows began after introducing himself over the phone. “You’re a very talented writer.”

“Thanks, Stuart. I appreciate that,” Matt said as he walked around the room with his phone pressed against his ear.

Matt recalled the gnome-like image of Bellows from
The Chronicle
, a guy in his mid-forties with a receding hairline and an extra fifty pounds that made him appear years older. The remaining hair he had was fair, his complexion ruddy and his stature portly.

“But you know, Matt. We get most of our material on the situation in the Middle East through our national office now. The embeds that were stationed in the Middle East at the beginning developed excellent relationships both with the troops on the ground running the military operations and now with the folks managing the security and rebuilding efforts. To the extent we still report on the activities going on over there, we use those guys. They’ve got the best information.”

Matt’s shoulders sagged and his pace around the room slowed.

Most people were surprised when Stuart Bellows was hired to turn around the advertising department of
The Chronicle.
He had never attained a four-year degree, despite attending several colleges over a period of time that would have made envious many callow fraternity guys not eager to enter the world of work and responsibility. After finally leaving college, he bounced around for several years, never holding a position for very long. He ultimately found success as a consultant, advising companies on how they could increase revenues through better marketing.

By all accounts he had been successful, but he wasn’t without his professional detractors. His tactics were described by some former colleagues as Machiavellian at best, by others as completely unprofessional and by some as downright illegal. The staff at every organization where he had ever worked hated him. But the board of directors and shareholders loved him and the results he was able to achieve. With this in mind, the powers that be at
The Chronicle
determined that Bellows was more than qualified to run the most important division of the paper -- the advertising division.

Matt wasn’t quite sure why Bellows was now involved in the process of deciding which articles would be published, but at this point Matt didn’t care. He wanted to get published, needed to get published, and if he had to go through Stuart Bellows to do it, then he would. Given the proper motivation, Matt could charm the beast as well as the next guy.

“But you have some great material,” Stuart continued. The man seemed to enjoy the roller coaster ride he was putting Matt on. “I particularly like the piece on the Afghan people now, years after their liberation.”

That article was the result of weeks spent interviewing the members of four families in Afghanistan. They had shared with Matt their personal experiences starting with Operation Enduring Freedom after September 11
^th
, to the U.S. bombing of Afghanistan, the formation of the new government and finally ending with their thoughts on the rebuilding efforts. The adults in the families had heard about the billions of dollars that had been poured into the country but had seen little change in their own communities. Afghanistan still remained one of the poorest countries in the world. This was attributable, in part, to corruption among high-level politicians and the Taliban insurgency backed by Pakistan. The stories also described their resignation to a life of constant fighting and continued domination, either by the Taliban, the United States or the drug lords controlling the once-again robust poppy trade.

“The human interest story,” Matt replied. “Great.”

He picked a tennis ball up off the desk and began squeezing it as he settled into the chair in front of his desk.

“Yeah. I’d like to use that piece. I’ve tweaked it. You know, made it more timely, added some insight that we’ve gotten from our other sources.”

“Hmmm. I see.” Matt tossed the ball to the floor near the wall. It bounced on the floor, against the wall and then back toward him. He caught the ball easily.

“I’ll email the article back to you,” Stuart continued. “You can check out the changes and, assuming you’re okay with them, I’ll run the story on Sunday.”

Matt tossed the ball again. “I’ll have a look at your changes and let you know, but that sounds fine.”

Another toss, another catch.

“Sounds good, Matt. Let me know as soon as possible.”

“What about the one on the Predator drone strikes?” Matt asked. “Or the piece on the reconstruction efforts?”

“The drone article is good, Matt. Damn good. But we think it’s probably better that we don’t get out in front of that issue.”

“Why not?” Matt asked sitting up.

“Well, the program has been highly successful…”

“You mean highly lethal,” Matt interrupted.

The CIA had been flying unarmed drones over Afghanistan since 2000. CIA desk jockeys, working from an office in Northern Virginia, operated the joysticks that controlled the little aircraft. From their desks they were able to identify, track and conduct surveillance on terrorist suspects in the Middle East. Then, with a push of a button, they would launch a missile and watch as an explosion filled the screen and the target was eliminated. These covert operations had become an integral part of the U.S counterterrorism strategy. The authority given to those running the operation was the most sweeping since the founding of the CIA. Matt knew only too well the lethalness of these weapons as well as the potential for human error, resulting in the deaths of men, women and
children who were not the primary target. They called it “collateral damage.”

“I hear you, Matt. But the drone program is probably the most important component in the fight against terrorism today. The administration is going to be highly defensive of any negative comments we make.”

Matt sighed. “And the other article?”

The other article was on the reconstruction efforts in Afghanistan or, more accurately, the lack thereof. Everywhere one looked in Afghanistan, construction projects were mired in incompetence, chaos and corruption. Projects were frequently abandoned when they were only a fraction complete. Billions of dollars had been paid to top-level Afghan leaders, including President Karzai, with no apparent results. The Afghan government was as inept as they were corrupt, but they weren’t the only one in this game. Billions more had been paid to U.S. government contractors – many of whom had previously been suspended or debarred for misusing taxpayer funds and in some cases convicted of criminal fraud. They too had either dropped the ball on the work they were supposed to do or simply absconded with the money.