“No. I’ll get in touch with Old John if I can and he’ll trickle the information around, and maybe something will trickle back up. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You know, from the outside, yousoundlike this 1919 group,” Lucas said. “They don’t identify themselves, they don’t ask for anything specific, they apparently are trying to recruit people they don’t know and who don’t know them... and from the looks of the website, they’re fond of guns and we know you guys are.”
The guy rolled up his hands in a “what can I say?” gesture. “They want to shoot kids, they’re nuts. Our basic philosophy is that the country is going to hell in a handbasket. We don’t want to overthrow it, we just want to survive the coming catastrophe. We want to help create a sustainable form of social organization, where people re-learn how to take care of themselves.”
“I saw that in your papers,” Lucas said. “On the other hand, there’ve been some shootings... like in Michigan and Ohio andPennsylvania, that some alt-right people think you were involved in. If you’re willing to pull a trigger, then... where are you going to stop?”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the man said.
“If you can’t give me any information or commit to anything, then... why are we talking? And why you?”
“We’re talking because apparently the PR lady wasn’t enough for you, you wanted to go face-to-face with a member. Here I am. We also wanted to get a look at you—we’ve got some pictures now. From what we’ve read on the internet, you’ve been involved in some killings yourself.”
“As a cop.”
“Some people would say as a tool of the deep state. I don’t necessarily say that, since I’ve had some... relationships... with the deep state myself. But, some people would say that—about you. You work for people who pull the levers, but don’t come out in the open to do it.”
“And you’re here... why? You personally?”
“I was chosen to make contact because my particular friends, my group, is here in the District, and includes people with operational intelligence backgrounds with the U.S. government. They could spot somebody tracking you. I specifically was chosen to meet you because I’m very fast and can run like hell, if necessary.”
He smiled at that, as a phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered, listened for a moment, then clicked off and said, “The guy who’s following you is trying to sneak up on us. He’s about a half block down Virginia. I’d rather he not see my face.”
Lucas looked down the street and the man said, “I gotta go.”
He waved a hand and a car crossed the street and pulled up next to them, a blue LED “Uber” sign in the window. He nodded at Lucas and said, “We’ll call, one way or the other,” and climbed into the Uber. The car pulled into a stream of traffic and was gone.
It had been, Lucas thought, as he looked after the Uber, well done. He’d hoped to get some hint of where the man was from, or where he was going, or who he might work with, or, with any luck, something with a bit of DNA on it. He’d gotten only a sliver of that: the guy might be a government employee, somebody with intelligence contacts, he was a sprinter, and Lucas had a good description. Maybe the FBI could work with that, and maybe not.
A teenaged couple were walking past. Stoners, Lucas thought. The boy looked at the bronze statue, then at Lucas, and asked, “Who the fuck was General José Artigas?” He pronounced the general’s first name as “Josie.”
Lucas shook his head. “Who the fuck knows?”
—
HE WAS LOOKING FOR A CAB—he was apparently one of the few people on earth who didn’t have the Uber app—when his phone dinged with an incoming message. He checked it, and found himself looking at a photo of Lang’s assistant, Stephen Gibson, walking away from a blue RAV4. A second photo showed the RAV4’s back license plate, still with a smear of mud, but he could make out the tag numbers. Probably a rental, he thought.
It also told him more about the ANM. They could call forhelp from people who could do effective surveillance, and not be seen, even when taking photos of someone who was, or should have been, wary.
Lucas waved at a taxi. The driver waved back and sped on.
—
HE WOUND UP WALKING BACKto the Watergate and called Jane Chase on the way, to tell her about the meeting. “Damnit, Lucas...”
“I didn’t want to scare the guy away. When he was telling me the conditions for the meeting, I figured he’d spot you. Anyway, I’m good, and I know Gibson is following me, but I’m not exactly sure why. I’ll call Lang and ask him.”
“Tell me more about the guy you met. The ANM guy. If we have enough detail, we might be able to put a finger on him.”
Lucas gave her what he knew: the man had been an inch over six feet, a few pounds either side of one-eighty, blue eyes, brown hair with a touch of white, athletic, a runner, maybe ex-military or a cop, possible connections in the intelligence community, well-spoken, likely a college grad.
“That gives us a chance,” Chase said. “Why don’t you come around later in the day... two o’clock... I’ll have my assistant put together a video show.”
“All right, I’ll see you then. Did the media coverage kick out anything?”
“Not so far. The media doesn’t seem to have reporters anymore, they just have commentators. What we’re seeing is mostly hot air. Our guys who work the alt-right say there’s some talkabout the 1919 site, and apparently it was mirrored on a couple of alt-right websites before it got taken down, so the web page is still out there.”
—
