Michael Savage - Abuse of Power

Swain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“Which means I have to be able to trust you, Mr. Hatfield. I need assurances that you’ll keep it to yourself.”

Jack considered his options and how little information he actually had. This Swain could be lying, of course. But if he wasn’t “All right,” Jack told him. “You have my promise.”

“Nothing gets written, aired, or anonymously blogged. Your word.”

“Cross my heart,” Jack said.

Swain studied him for what must have been at least thirty seconds, as if weighing whether he should continue or simply turn around and leave.

Jack waited patiently. More than anything, the man’s hesitation gave this the veneer of truth. But only the veneer. This kind of hesitation was Intelligence 101, the act of pretending to let someone in on a big secret. That was half the battle in convincing them the information was accurate.

Swain finally said, “Abdal al-Fida is an MI6 asset. For the last two years he’s been working for us as a deep cover mole, infiltrating one of the most ruthless Islamic extremist organizations in the world.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not at liberty to say more than that. But that carjacking was an unfortunate incident that essentially put him-and us-out of business for the time being.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Jack said. “Why was he driving a car full of C4?”

“He had just taken delivery of it and was headed for a rendezvous with members of his cell. If we hadn’t rushed him out of the country when we did, they would have executed him for his-let’s call it initiative.”

“You mean launching an attack on his own.”

“Just so. That particular cover story was hatched to prevent the cell from knowing that we were on to them.”

“But the whole thing about the hicks up north, the Constitutional Defense Brigade. Wouldn’t that whole thing signal the enemy that something was being covered up? They know who was driving that Land Rover… I know who was driving that Land Rover… they’d have to figure the FBI knew it, too.”

Swain smiled again. “The CDB arrests merely confirm their faith in the investigative incompetence of American law enforcement. They have, after all, been operating here with impunity for nearly two years.”

Jack considered that, and on the surface the story seemed at least semiplausible. And if he were a trained seal like so many of his colleagues, he might have taken Swain’s word for it and called it a day.

But Jack wasn’t in this for the fish. And Swain’s version of events left too many questions unanswered-not the least of which was, if the driver of the Land Rover was merely making a supply run, why had those explosives been fully wired for detonation?

Abdal al-Fida wasn’t headed to a rendezvous, and that fact alone was enough to put Swain’s story in the “doubtful” category.

How stupid did this guy think he was? It was time to play his second trump card.

Tightening his grip on the Remington, Jack said, “So tell me something.”

“Haven’t I already told you enough?”

“Yeah, well, I’m hoping for something that resembles the truth, this time.” He paused. “What does any of this have to do with Operation Roadshow?”

There was a shift in Swain’s gaze, a nearly imperceptible widening of the eyes that told Jack he’d struck a nerve, just as he expected he would. And Jack couldn’t help but enjoy the surge of satisfaction he got from catching the man off guard. Not just because he had surprised Mr. “Swain,” but because it validated the impression that this guy was not truly a big boy.

The smugness that had permeated the entire conversation abruptly disappeared. Swain’s expression went flat, and his next words were clipped and passionless, as if he were prepping for a kill.

“Tread carefully, Mr. Hatfield. This line of inquiry will get you nothing except, perhaps, an early grave.”

Start throwing stones and see who throws one back.

Jack’s palms were sweating. He shifted the Remington in his hands to reassert his grip. “Is that what you told Bob Copeland?”

“I should warn you,” Swain said, “that at this very moment there’s a sniper crouched in the back of our truck pointing an extremely accurate weapon at your head.” He gestured to Jack’s shotgun. “All it takes is my signal and before you can squeeze off a single shot your brains will be splattered all over the boot of your car.”

Jack’s throat tightened. Was this a bluff? A shooter would have to aim a little high to account for the downward deflection of the bullet caused by the Escalade’s windshield, but a basic armor-piercing round would certainly do the trick.

Bye-bye Jack Hatfield.

“So why am I still standing?” he said.

“Two reasons,” Swain told him. “First, we have no real desire to clean up another mess in a less than optimal location. Not here, not now. And second, as sad as this may be, you don’t really pose all that much of a threat to us.”

“Meaning what?”

“Despite what my own prime minister might think, you have no credibility, Mr. Hatfield. I think that was proven by the derision at that press conference. No one took you seriously then, and there’s no reason they would now.”

“Yet here we stand,” Jack said.

“Because I want you to understand the gravity of the situation in which you’ve found yourself. Trust me, if you continue to pursue this line of inquiry we will consider you a genuine problem and react accordingly. Is that understood?”

Jack stared at the Escalade’s windshield and considered calling Swain’s bluff. But he decided not to push his luck. The man was right about one thing: not here, not now.

“Understood,” Jack said tersely.

Swain smiled again, but there was no humor in it. “Excellent. I’m glad we could come to this agreement.”

Then he turned, went back to the Escalade and climbed in. A moment later, the SUV shot backward, quickly turned around in an empty space, and disappeared up the street.

It was only then that Jack realized he was trembling.

Returning the Remington to its case, he closed the trunk, then climbed back behind the wheel.

Contrary to what he’d told Swain, he had no intention whatsoever of adhering to their so-called agreement. And he knew Swain wouldn’t, either. When the time and environment were right, those men would strike again and Jack could only assume that he’d be the victim of a sudden heart attack or a tragic accident.

Worst of all, he still knew nothing about Operation Roadshow. And with Bob Copeland dead, there was little chance of him learning anything more.

He halfway considered calling the one man who had stuck by him during the Truth Tellers debacle-Senator Harold Wickham-but if Wickham were to start digging like Copeland had, who was to say he wouldn’t wind up suffering the same fate? Jack couldn’t have that on his conscience.

As he started the engine, he pulled his cell phone out and hit speed dial. A moment later, Tony Antiniori answered.

“I was getting worried,” his friend said. “Where the hell are you?”

It was amazing how reassuring it was just to hear Tony’s voice. Part of it was the fact that it was Tony himself, but part of it was having a friend on deck with him during a blow. Someone watching his back.

“I got sidetracked,” Jack told him. “I think it’s time for me to get a little more proactive with this story.”

“What does that mean?”

There was only one way Jack knew to make any leeway here and hopefully get the information he needed.

“I’m going to London,” he announced.

To which Tony replied, “I don’t think so, Jack.”