Sam ran a hand over his beard, making no bones about his growing impatience.
She was right there with him. She hated question marks that ran into conundrums that led to dead ends.
“Okay. Let’s circle back ’round.” His dark eyes skewered her in place and she got the distinct impression there was a keen mind underneath all that facial hair. “What happened with the troll farm? You said it was a bigger threat than you and your partner coulda imagined.”
It occurred to Grace it was Sam asking all the questions while Hunter sat quietly beside her like the marble statue of a Grecian god—all square jaw and heavy brow and perfectly straight nose.
It’d been clear from the beginning Hunter wasn’t much of a talker. He seemed content to listen. To monitor and observe. And even though she’d only known him for four short days, she’d feel comfortable telling anyone who asked that he was the type to speak only when spoken to or only when what he had to say would add to the conversation. Which was a pleasant change after she’d spent two months with Stewart, a man who’d loved the sound of his own voice.
It’s not nice to think ill of the dead,the little voice that lived in her head reminded her, and she sent up a silent entreaty that if there was such a thing as an afterlife, then Stewart was in the good place.
He’d been an asshole. But he hadn’t been a big enough asshole to warrant eternal torture.
“A little digging revealed every employee working at the troll farm knew they were spreading Russian propaganda,” she told them wearily. Struggling to wrap her head around the idea that so many Americans, seemingly good and sensible folks, were not just willing butwantingto spread to their fellow citizens the lies of a foreign power.
What is happening to our country?
But she knew. From the time of slavery through the Jim Crow era and moving forward to present day, the United States had always had a political polarization problem. Instead of a nation of people coming together to tackle economic or social issues for the greater good, Americans preferred to split themselves into categories.Usversusthem.
And never the two shall meet.
Unfortunately, with the rise of social media and the abolishment of the FCC fairness doctrine, which had forced news outlets to present “just the facts, ma’am” and steer clear of prejudice and slant, the divide between factions continued to grow as partisan politics was fueled by radical opinion journalism hiding behind the banner of “news.”
Instead of listening to and evaluating all sides of an issue, most folks preferred to live and breathe in echo chambers. They surrounded themselves with people who looked like them, talked like them, believed like them, and consumed the same media as them. And then they vilified anyone they consideredother.
Grace had been hoping that by exposing the troll farm to the world, it might open the nation’s eyes to the danger this sort of polarization and propaganda posed to democracy.
But people don’t want to see.
That thought was so depressing, she couldn’t allow her mind to focus on it for long or she might be tempted to walk out into the street and wait for Orpheus to find her.
“These people received the memes, posts, videos, and Facebook Group information straight from the Kremlin,” she continued. “And then they manipulated the individual postings, putting in new words or phrases or images, so it all looked more authentically American. The repetitious buzzword-filled lines the Russians have been using for years had become the telltale sign of a Moscow troll, and people were starting to catch on. Even heavily indoctrinated folks were beginning to recognize and look askance at some of this monotonous messaging. This troll farm in Indiana helps the Kremlin’s posts appear less rote and robotic.”
“So like I said”—Sam’s face was full of derision—“everyone working at the farm are traitors. All of them.”
“Yes,” Grace agreed. “All two hundred of them.”
“Fuck a duck,” Hunter wheezed and Grace felt her tight lips soften. She remembered him using that phrase a few times in Michigan. Now, just as back then, it struck her as funny coming out of the mouth of such a serious man. “That’s a lot of Americans who’ve become Russian agents.”
“Yes.” She widened her eyes. “Arresting and exposing them was going to be the biggest news story we’ve seen since 9/11. But then we started following the money and things gotreallyinteresting.”
“More interesting than two hundred US citizens actively working with Russia and against America interests?” Eliza’s expression was incredulous.
“Yes.” Grace nodded. “The money funding these people’s pay went through various shell companies and offshore banks, but it eventually landed in the account of a lone American before it was disbursed.”
“Who was the American?” Sam lifted a dark eyebrow.
“That’s the thing.” Grace swallowed. “We could never find a name. Every subpoena for access to the account was denied. Every string we pulled frayed in our hands before we could follow it to its origins. It was almost like…”
She hated to even say the next part out loud. It was too outlandish. Too terrifying to consider.
“It was almost like whoever this person was, they were one step ahead of us and knowledgeable enough to stay the hands of federal judges.”
“You think you’ve stumbled on a double agent in a position of power?” Hunter’s voice was always deep and resounding, but never more so than when he’d gone all grim and glowering.
Not for the first time she imagined the terror his enemies must have felt when they met him across a battlefield. And she wasconvincedthere’d been battlefields in his past. He’d never said as much, but she’d bet her bottom dollar he’d been a military man before he’d become an independent defense contractor.
There was no mistaking the way he sometimes lapsed into a fifty-yard stare. No ignoring the fact that he used phrases likecopy thatandjocked up. No denying the way he moved, with an economy of motion that only came from years of humping eighty pounds of flak jacket, Kevlar helmet, water, rations, weapons, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition over rough terrain.
