Will Staeger - Public Enemy

“Report to your office on Monday,” Ebbers said. “Malcolm Rader knows one thing only-and he is the only one who knows. He knows it is not true that you fell ill and required surgery, plus a one-month recovery at a specialized facility, as the rest of the personnel in your department, as well as those in your private life, have been told. You were not permitted to take any visitors, of course,” he said, “due to your condition.”

“Fine,” Laramie said, her first word of the last few minutes sounding loud and annoying to her as she spoke it.

“And look,” Ebbers said, standing, “you’ve made a full recovery. Congratulations and here’s to your health. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

On autopilot, Laramie took his cue and stood. She shook his hand as he extended it.

“Though it may seem difficult to grasp at the moment,” he said, “your performance in this investigation has been exemplary.”

Handshake concluded, Laramie nodded her thanks, started to say something, then decided to leave it. She also decided to leave her untouched coffee and sandwich on the table, Laramie simply adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag until it hung comfortably as she steered her way out.

When Ebbers reached the street and his waiting Lincoln Town Car, the engine was already running, its rear door unlocked, per the routine. The car featured heavily tinted windows, which normally kept people from seeing Ebbers within-but today, kept Ebbers from noticing that the deeply tanned individual behind the wheel of the car was not the man who usually did his driving. As Ebbers closed his door, the locks did a four-door stereophonic chunk-prompting Ebbers to examine the man behind the wheel. Realizing he’d made a mistake, Ebbers discovered, upon attempting to exit the vehicle, that the door handle didn’t do him any good.

Cooper turned and had a look at the initially nervous but gradually calming former head of the Central Intelligence Agency. Having discovered the Lincoln to include a handy child’s lock on each of the rear doors, he’d activated the feature shortly after offering the driver a brief nap.

Ebbers spoke first.

“Appears our operative has made it out alive,” he said.

Cooper smiled with little to no cheer.

“So it does,” he said.

Ebbers looked around the interior of the car, then out its windows onto the virtually abandoned street.

“What’d you do with my driver?” he said.

“He’ll be fine,” Cooper said. “So Lou?”

Ebbers crossed his arms.

“Yes,” he said, shooting for indifferent impatience.

“I’ve been watching the media onslaught documenting every facet of this terrifying crisis for two and a half weeks now,” Cooper said.

“Have you,” Ebbers said.

“Yep. And you know, it’s interesting-there’s been nothing, anywhere, on how, where, and by whom this M-2 filo was created.”

After a digestive moment, Ebbers said, “Now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing any such coverage, either.”

Cooper nodded.

“Probably,” he said, “if a story were run a few months from now, mentioning that the biological weapons of mass destruction deployed by the sleepers had been created in a lab funded by the Pentagon-that would be, well, bad for the image of the good ol’ U.S. of A.”

Ebbers looked at him for a while.

“Probably,” he said, “but then again I’m sure the administration would discover and then point out the lack of double-sourcing by the reporter breaking the story, or expose some other questionable ways the reporter generally goes about doing his business, and the way he investigated this story in particular.” Ebbers held Cooper’s eyes. “Even so-yes, such a report would potentially do some damage.”

“Be tougher,” Cooper said, “for the government’s spin to take effect if, say, the reporter had documentation, double-eyewitness testimony, artifacts, and other hard evidence backing his piece. Come to think of it, it’d be even tougher if more than one reporter broke the same story on the same day.”

Ebbers looked at him for another little while, then said, “Yes. Tougher still.”

Cooper nodded again, appearing marginally more cheery in doing so.

“So there are two issues for us to tackle here today, Lou.”

“Two issues.”

“Right. Issue number one,” Cooper said. “Starting yesterday, if Laramie, myself, or any of the Three Stooges should step into harm’s way-for any reason, you understand, anything outside of expiration from old age, which only I am in danger of experiencing-then on the day of that harm, six prominent journalists will be provided all the documentation we just discussed. Laramie and the Stooges, by the way, are unaware we are having this conversation. In fact I am certain she, at least, would be highly ticked off to learn that I’ve added her to my little self-preservation scheme.”

Cooper shifted in his seat, wincing at the discomfort of the full slate of injuries from which he was recovering.

“But Lou, I foresee at least some scenario by which you, or the people you work for, will someday conclude the personnel you recruited to work this suicide-sleeper case know just a little too much about the wrong things. I doubt, however, that you or the people you work for would like to see the Pentagon’s funding of biological-weapons research debated ad nauseum by the likes of Hannity & Colmes. I’m sure you had nothing to do with it in the first place, but you and your gang seem to be charged, if nothing else, with the preservation of this lovely status quo you’ve got going. Wouldn’t want to disturb that, now would you?”

“Go on to number two,” Ebbers said.

“Number two is quite simple. A single request.”

Ebbers did and said nothing.

“You or the people you work for were highly instrumental in acquiring a copy of the ‘Research Group’ memo authorizing funding for ‘Project Icarus,’ or however else the Pentagon referred to the lab in Guatemala.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why, thank you,” Cooper said. “However, due to the efficiency with which you obtained the document, I would like you to deploy your ingenuity and wherewithal once more. I’ll say again: it’s a simple task. I’ll just need you to tell me who wrote it.”

Cooper shifted again in his seat.

“I want to know who worked for the ‘Research Group’ during the period in question-1979 or thereabouts, or in other words, the time when the lab was funded. Mostly, I’d like to know who made the call. I’m sure it shouldn’t be too difficult-hell, Lou, based on the efficient way most of the findings unearthed by the ‘cell’ that reported to you were kept utterly quiet, I’d guess you’re probably fast friends with some or all of the relevant parties anyway.”

Cooper tapped the steering wheel a couple times.

“Once you track down the names, you can leave the list, however long it might be, under my name at the front desk of the Jefferson Hotel. I’ll need it by eight A.M. tomorrow.”

Ebbers said, “Under your real name, or your assumed one?”

Cooper chuckled.

“Not bad, Lou,” he said. “Tell you what-take your pick. And just in case there are one or more names on the list with considerable clout-which I suspect there are-it goes without saying that once I get it, well, I didn’t get the list from you. Not, of course, unless I step into that aforementioned harm’s way.”

Cooper unlocked his door, opened it, and climbed out. He leaned in and tossed Lou Ebbers the car keys.

“Your driver’s in the trunk,” he said. “Slap him once or twice and he oughta come around.”

Cooper grinned.

“Live slow, mon,” he said.

Then he shut the door and strolled around the empty corner, Ebbers seeing the awkward fits and starts in his walk as Cooper limped his way out of view.