Once the cops were convinced that Gina had been nothing more than a Good Samaritan, she let me borrow her Subaru to join the search. Before I got into the car, she grabbed my arm. “Find him,” she said. “Don’t kill him.”
I told her I’d do my best.
Two and a half hours later, I’m driving through a residential neighborhood just outside of Georgetown. The street is lined with pole lights that look like nineteenth-century gas lamps. The houses are sturdy brick Colonials with huge yards, separated from one another by thick hedges. The cars in the driveways are Mercedes, Audis, and BMWs. It’s the kind of enclave where well-paid government workers raise their kids and enjoy their cocktails. A bedroom community, sleepy and secure.
I’d gotten the address from Mahoney. He’d asked if I wanted help. I told him I’d call if I needed it. For now, I told him, I was just looking for a conversation.
What I really want is some answers. If Polermo is the real bomber, then somebody framed Phillips—and did a good job of it.
Sure fooled me.
I lean out the window and scan for the house number.There!I pull up in front of an elegant residence with a red door and white shutters. I wasn’t expecting a senior CIA officer to have his name plastered on his mailbox, but there it is, plain as day:R. PERKINS.
It’s time for a one-on-one with my supposed partner at Langley.
If Phillips is right, the CIA is wrong.
About everything.
CHAPTER 101
Melissa
“AMERICA HAS ALLOWED ITSELF to become contaminated and degraded! Our national identity is being corroded from within! Before long, we won’t even know who we are as a people! And here in the South, our cultural integrity is under threat again.”
Michaelson Woods has been speaking for nearly an hour. He’s a handsome young man, tall and preppy with wavy blond hair. What’s more, he has an electrifying presence, and he’s a galvanizing speaker, even with a mostly hostile audience in front of him. In fact, he seems energized by the catcalls and chants that follow almost every pronouncement he makes.
“Nazi, go home!”
“Fascist!”
“I hear you!” Woods shouts back. “But I’m right. And America knows it!”
Behind him on the outdoor podium, white men in blackuniforms and domino masks stand at attention. A long line of them. Below, in front of the stage, a cordon of Chapel Hill police stand facing the audience.
Woods is lit from below by a bright spotlight that casts a huge shadow across a long row of American flags. Here and there in the audience, red, white, and blue glow lights flicker in the dark.
Melissa Lange and Nia Williams are watching from the left side of the huge gathering, angry and disgusted. Woods’s voice blasts from PA speakers at deafening levels. Melissa leans toward Nia’s ear and shouts over the ranting,“Do you believe this shit?”
Cold fury shows in Nia’s eyes. She shakes her head.“No, I don’t!”she yells back.“I thought the country was past this!”
The two of them are packed in with other anti-Woods protesters, barricaded in a makeshift corral, most holding handmade signs and banners. Melissa carries a placard that saysFREE SPEECH,NOT HATE SPEECH! At the end of every one of Woods’s inflammatory catchphrases, she thrusts the sign up and waves it over her head. In response, counterprotesters on the opposite side of the park hoist signs of their own.
AMERICA FOR AMERICANS!
DILUTION IS POLLUTION!
ONE COLOR,ONE COUNTRY!
After a last high-pitched harangue, Woods starts wrapping up. Melissa has watched him do this same finale dozens of times. Always the same closing. “To all true citizens, remember—legacy Americans are the heart and soul of this nation! We will not be removed, we will not be replaced, we will not be forgotten! This is still our country! But only if we fight to keep it as it was meant to be. Pure! Strong! And righteous!”
Nia cups her hands around her mouth and shouts toward thestage, “You meanwhite!” But her voice is lost in the mixture of boos and cheers that accompany Woods’s final fist pump.
As he exits the stage, the PA system starts blasting “This Land Is Your Land.” Not the Woody Guthrie folk-anthem version. This one was recorded by a student choir at a Christian university. Combined with the visual of Woods’s uniformed acolytes, the lyrics take on a whole different meaning.
“They’re co-optingthissong?” Nia shouts in disgust.“Really?”
She and Melissa are jostled from side to side as the crowd disperses.
