April Smith: Judas Horse

“What’s on your mind?” Galloway asked, seeing my frown.

“Opening-night jitters.” I shrugged.

Never let it show.

“Afraid you won’t know your lines?”

“I’ll figure it out. I’ve read every transcript of every intercept.”

“Anarchists don’t care about the issues,” Galloway reminded us. “Don’t feel you have to spout the rhetoric. The cause is never the cause.”

On the laptop, Angelo had pulled up surveillance photos taken at demonstrations throughout the Northwest. They were mainstream protesters — do-gooders and tree-huggers — mostly middle-aged, plus the requisite young and hairy types. “Free the mustangs.” “Milk is torture.” “McDeath to McDonald’s.” “All meat is murder.” “Dairy is rape.”

What does an anarchist look like?

“Not so easy to connect the dots,” observed Galloway. “FAN has no central leadership. It’s structured like an international terrorist group engaged in net war.”

Net — or network — war is the war of the future, an agile system of “committees” or “cells” that seem to act invisibly, strung together by the braided cables of money and belief. Armies based on infantries are about to become obsolete.

“Where do I start?”

Angelo hit the laptop. “Herbert Laumann.”

Galloway: “Who is Herbert Laumann?”

“Some penny-ante bureaucrat at the Bureau of Land Management,” I replied. I’d seen the files. “The idiots are really after this dude. They call him ‘the face of evil.’”

A photo of Herbert Laumann filled the screen. The “face of evil” looked like the manager of an electronics store — the Joe in the tan shirt and brown tie who scurries out of the back when the wide-screen TV you ordered two months ago has disappeared off the delivery list — pouchy cheeks, line mustache, thinning hair.

“Our latest intel indicates the movement is going to target wild mustang horses,” Angelo said.

The Wild Horse and Burro Program is mandated by federal law to protect the last remaining herds of free-roaming mustangs in the United States. These are the pure and graceful descendants of horses that were brought over by the Spanish explorers and then mated with hardy U.S. cavalry mounts. Along with a lot of other folks, Congress felt the mustangs are part of our unique western heritage and should be scientifically preserved in their natural habitat. The weaker ones may be put up for adoption by the public, but wild mustangs can never be sold or slaughtered.

“The herds are protected by federal law,” Angelo went on, “but the goofballs don’t like the way the government is doing it. Laumann is in charge of the Wild Horse and Burro Program in Oregon. He’s already been harassed. We think FAN infiltrated the group.”

Donnato: “Ana hits the ground. She finds a wild-horse protest. She works her way into a FAN cell.”

Galloway held up a finger. “Patience,” he advised. “The hardest part is waiting to see whether your uc identity is taking effect or not. It’s the loneliest time.”

While I was absorbed in this, Angelo had come up behind. Now he cuffed me hard across the head.

“Darcy! What are you doing up in Portland?”

Instantly, I am Darcy and he is FAN. We have these fire drills often. They make your adrenaline rock. There is no transition, isn’t meant to be.

In undercover work, it is always midnight in the universe, and you are always alone.

“I got fed up with the anti-life corporate agenda,” I said. “I quit my job in L.A.”

“That’s bullshit. We checked, and you never worked in a biotech company in L.A.”

Galloway was watching this improvisation with folded arms.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I protested.

“Why do you keep going down to L.A. when you don’t work there?”

“Why don’t you come with me one time and I’ll show you? Jesus Christ.” I smiled with feigned exasperation. “What’s wrong with you guys? I’m starting to get paranoid.”

“Darcy would not say Jesus, ” Donnato murmured.

I muttered, “Yes, she would.”

Angelo circled my chair. Leaning close, his distorted upper face was beginning to look like a malevolent Picasso mask. He yanked me to my feet by my hair. The chair tipped over.

“What’s the problem, bro?”

Donnato: “She wouldn’t say bro. ”

Angelo, moving like a snake, had my arms pinned and a nasty little knife, which he had been secreting just for that moment, flat against my throat.

“We’re all a little paranoid at FAN,” he whispered into my burning ear. “Spies like you know the reason why.”

Panic. I needed to pee. I wanted to yell “Time out!” What would Darcy say? I didn’t know. I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t think.

Never hesitate. Get back in their face.

“I came here to save animals,” I shouted. “I’m on your side.”

He tightened his forearm across my neck, half-lifting me off the ground.

“If you are who you say you are, show us your driver’s license.”

“No problem.” I groped on the table and came up with the waxed muffin wrapper. “Here it is!”

“Really?” Angelo snapped the paper, testing it, and growled, “Bull shit! ”

Then, in a normal voice, he said, “You’re dead,” and let me go.

I was breathless, flummoxed. “Why?”

“Never give them anything physical. Anything they can check.”

“Okay, it’s a muffin thing, but in real life I’ll be backstopped with an untraceable ID—”

“I said anything physical. ” He crumpled the paper for emphasis.

In undercover school, I had learned never to argue with an instructor.

“Okay.”

I was sweating. They could cut me now, halfway through, anytime, just like my roommate at Quantico. I looked toward Donnato for help.

“I liked the fed-up-with-corporate-America concept,” he offered.

Angelo was wired. “The false documents we give you will be as good as it gets, but backstopping is only a screen door we put between you and the truth. If you stand back, it looks solid. If you walk up close, you’re going to see through the holes. Don’t let them touch the screen, or they’ll know it’s a story. A story that isn’t true. And then you’ll be toast.”

It was searing and unpleasant to stand there with head bowed while Angelo berated me with stuff I already knew.

I swallowed the humiliation.

I believe in this work.

The plane banks, revealing the snow-covered Olympian bulk of Mount Hood. I try to relax and let the power of the engines carry me, but I can feel that searing mortification even now. A vapor of jet fuel leaking up through the floor is smelling a lot like the smell of burning brake lining that swamped my senses during the shooting incident. I pop a mint as the landing gear unfolds.

Take all your greens from the crayon box and color in a patchwork of moss and olive and sage, and that is Portland. What a tidy city, I think as the airplane passes over neat rows of houseboats on a sparkling river, then curves, delivering a spectacular view of three or four intricately wrought iron bridges.

Despite everyone’s gloomy talk of rain, it is seventy-three degrees and sunny when we land. On the ground, girls are wearing halter tops, and grandmas flowered pants, and there are hugs and chocolate bunnies for Easter Sunday.

I am not met at the airport. There can be no risk of Ana Grey/ Darcy DeGuzman being seen in the company of law enforcement. Rehearsal’s over. I’m walking alone onstage, backpack over my shoulder. The glass doors swing wide. Outside, the air smells sweet as cotton candy.