The Detachment (26 page)

“At a time like this, it is impossible for us as Americans not to recall that terrible day when fanatics flew airplanes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and, thwarted by brave passengers, into a field in Pennsylvania. Impossible not to recall the horror of those atrocities. But let us recall, too, the courage, and resolve, and unity of purpose of that day, and of the days that followed. Even as we bury our dead and mourn with their families, let us commit ourselves to acting, and being, no less firm today.

“Make no mistake: our homeland is under attack. And make no mistake: we will defend ourselves. Thank you, and God bless America.”

A reporter shouted, “Mister President, do we have intelligence on further attacks?”

The president said, “I can’t comment on that at this time.”

“‘At this time,’” Dox said. “Sure sign that a politician is pissing down your back and telling you it’s raining. Same for ‘make no mistake,’ now that I mention it.”

Another reporter shouted, “Mister President, can you tell us anything about the new measures you’ve been discussing with Congressional leaders? And why, if we’re under attack, you still haven’t implemented them?”

The president said, “Our laws must be not only necessary, but also appropriate. It’s critical that in the course of combating the terrorist threat, we take care not to subvert our own values.”

“You slick bastard,” Dox said.

Another reporter shouted, “Mister President, can you comment on rumors that the deaths of Tim Shorrock and Jack Finch were related to these attacks? That they were intended to weaken your ability to respond?”

The president said, “Tim and Jack were American heroes who dedicated their lives to serving their country. I have no comment on rumors, other than to say that the work of the staffs they so ably led has continued unhampered, and that I will announce their replacements shortly.”

The president left to a cacophony of shouted questions, and the announcer started repeating what we had already just heard. Larison reached in and shut off the radio.

“Well,” he said. “Sounds like it’s all going more or less according to plan.”

“Other than the fact that we’re not supposed to still be alive,” Dox said. “We’re the goddamned fly in their ointment, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then I saw it. What I’d been missing before.

“If it gets out that Finch was assassinated,” I said, “isn’t Horton worried people will wonder about the man who inherited Finch’s position?”

The others looked at me.

“Horton’s game is already high risk, but as this thing goes on, there’s bound to be talk about whether it was an inside job. And who’s the talk going to focus on? On the people who most obviously benefited. I mean, how big a leap is it from asking whether Finch was assassinated to wondering about the guy who replaced him?”

Larison said, “That’s probably why Hort wanted it to look like natural causes.”

“I thought the same thing,” I said. “But then Horton put out the story about the cyanide. Sure, it’s a great way of getting the whole U.S. national security state to try to hunt us down and permanently disappear us, but it also tends to implicate him, if only by highlighting the fact that he didn’t benefit from an accident, but from a political assassination, instead.”

Larison said, “I see your point. What do you think it means?”

It was frustrating. It felt like I was asking the right question, but I didn’t know how to answer it.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Other than…whatever Horton is really up to, I don’t think we understand it yet.”

A few miles down the road, we found a Starbucks, where I checked the secure site again. Another message from Kanezaki:

Intel and chatter permeating the community are all about Islamist sleeper cells and more attacks on the way. I don’t know how it’s getting introduced because it’s all bullshit, but it seems to be coming from multiple sources and a consensus is taking hold that it’s accurate. Plus, nobody wants to be the one to err on the side of underestimating what’s on the way in case the shit really does hit the fan. They’re all talking about that August 6, 2001 President’s Daily Brief about how al Qaeda was determined to strike the United States. How it made Bush look bad.

I have a friend with the National Security Council. He says the president’s key advisors are steering him to announce what will be called a state of emergency, whatever the hell that really means. They’re recommending a choice from among three possible courses of action: 1) Ride it out and let the FBI and local law enforcement handle it; 2) Declare martial law and a suspension of the Constitution; and 3) Declare a “state of emergency” and deploy the National Guard to protect key governmental and civilian targets. Obviously, compared to the political softness of the first and the demonstrable insanity of the second, the third looks like the sensible choice. Plus it gives the president flexibility to ramp things up or dial them down, depending on the course of events.

There’s also chatter about attacks on schools. I think administration insiders will leak this. Reporters will then ask the president if it’s true, he’ll say no comment, and the establishment media will all support the Guard deployment and state of emergency, because if schools get attacked, parents will keep their kids home, they won’t be able to go to work, the economy will crater.

By the time they’re done, suspending the Constitution is going to seem like the only sane, centrist, responsible thing to do. This is fucked. We have to stop it.

Horton is the key. But I don’t know where he is or how to get to him. Call me as soon as you can.

I overheard some of the locals talking. One guy was typical, saying, “If we find out for sure the people behind these attacks are Muslims, I say we turn their goddamned countries into glass parking lots. That’s it, no more mister nice guy, no more talk, no more trying to understand each other. This is how you want it, this is what you get. But first, I say we ship every goddamned traitorous fifth columnist American Muslim back to their country of origin so they can be there, right at the center of the mushroom cloud, yes sir. And I’ll press the goddamned button myself, too. I guarantee you I won’t even be the first in line, either, there’ll be a whole lot of other Americans lined up to do the same.”

No one disagreed with him. I realized the hysteria was something we could hide in, at least among the populace, because we didn’t fit the profile of what had been ginned up in the public imagination.

We kept on, up and across the Oklahoma Panhandle, steering well clear of Oklahoma City and even of Amarillo, the grief and rage in Lubbock feeling uncomfortably close. Then the dusty, flat roads of New Mexico, through the Sitgreaves and Tonto national forests of Arizona, bypassing Phoenix by way of Prescott, and finally across the Colorado River and into California. We stayed on Interstate 10 the rest of the way in, skirting Joshua Tree National Park rather than using the quieter roads farther north, which would have taken us uncomfortably close to the Marine base at Twentynine Palms. Finally, with the sun coming up behind us, we reached the Pacific in Santa Monica. The whole thing had taken us three nights, on back roads and going not one mile above the applicable speed limit, most of it in a forced march blur, some of it in the cabin of the truck, other times in the stifling heat and dark of the cargo area, all of it while government forces hunted for us wherever they could. But we’d made it. We were here.

Now we just had to get to Mimi Kei. And through her, to Horton.

You can’t tell anymore the difference between what’s propaganda and what’s news.

—FCC Commissioner Jonathan Adelstein

But what if elites believe reform is impossible because the problems are too big, the sacrifices too great, the public too distractible? What if cognitive dissonance has been insufficiently accounted for in our theories of how great journalism works…and often fails to work?

—Jay Rosen, NYU School of Journalism

We Americans are the ultimate innocents. We are forever desperate to believe that this time the government is telling us the truth.

—Sydney Schanberg

W
e found a suitable-looking place called the Rest Haven Motel. It was a little ways off the Pier on a mixed commercial and residential street, a small, one-story building bleached by the Santa Monica sun, with a private parking lot in back and a second, detached unit of rooms with its own entrance. Quiet, but also close enough to the traffic and bustle of the intersection of Pico Boulevard and Lincoln Boulevard for us not to have to worry about standing out. Dox backed the truck in so Larison and Treven could slip out of the cargo area unnoticed, and paid cash for a room in the separate unit. Then we drifted in one-by-one. We all looked like hell—unshowered, unshaven, unkempt. Like people in trouble. Like men on the run.

We pulled the two twin mattresses onto the floor, then spent a few luxurious hours alternating in the tiny bathroom showering and shaving, and cat-napping on the mattresses and the box springs. Next, we examined the room for anything Kei might later use to identify where she’d been held. We policed up some matches and a motel pen; various placards advertising motel services and area attractions; and pulled a plastic insert with an address and phone number off the room phone. We would discard it all later, far from the motel. Finally, we got down to business.

The first thing we needed was commo. I’d examined the mobile phones Horton had given us and had found no tracking devices, but something had enabled him to fix us at the Capital Hilton, and we’d dumped his phones all the way back in Culpeper just to be sure. We needed new ones, and I tasked Dox, who had a forged ID he claimed was ice-cold, with procuring us four prepaids from multiple vendors. Larison and Treven’s job was to fix Mimi Kei. We didn’t know where she lived, so the starting point would be the UCLA Film School website and the school itself. I gave myself the glory job of finding a coin-operated laundry and washing our clothes. We were all wearing our last clean ones.

Before we set out, Larison used the motel’s free Wi-Fi and the iPad to access Mimi Kei’s Facebook page. She was beautiful—a half-black, half-Asian mix, early twenties, dark hair in ringlets down to her shoulders. Full lips and a vivacious smile. Larison had been right about the photos with Horton: the hard, professional countenance was completely absent, replaced by that of a beaming father.

“Interesting that she doesn’t identify him in the captions,” I said. “Just ‘my dad.’”

Larison nodded. “I’m sure he’s explained to her that she needs to be discreet about who her father is. It’s not like he’s the president, but he has some capable enemies. I’m guessing that’s why her page is so privacy protected, too. Unusual for a grad student doing her best to network in the movie world.”

Treven said, “We shouldn’t assume she’s just a clueless civilian. If Hort taught her some things about watching her back, he would have taught her others. It’s not impossible he’s even told her to be extra careful right now.”

I looked at him. “That’s a good point. And now you’ve got me wondering…”

I thought for a minute, then said, “We know Horton’s concerned about Kei’s safety. So what does he have in place to protect her?”

“No one knows about her,” Larison said.

“I don’t know about ‘no one,’” I said, “but yes. Horton’s protecting her, essentially, by making her an unknown. There’s a name for that, isn’t there?”

Treven nodded. “Security through obscurity.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Security through obscurity. Which can be a useful supplement to other forms of security, but would a man like Horton rely on it entirely? Rely on it to protect his daughter?”

“I see what you’re saying,” Dox said. “Maybe he’d rely on it in ordinary times, but now isn’t ordinary. He’s involved in false flag attacks and a planned coup, which is crazy enough, but on top of it all, he showed his hand when he made a run at us in D.C. He’s got to be worried about his daughter now.”