The Liberty Covenant Page 4

  “He owns this place?” Luckett asked after Dalton had left to tend to his other customers.

  “Does now,” Brown replied. “Ricky’s father built this place over forty years ago. It’s the local redneck hangout. Ricky took over when his dad died. Still refuses to serve anybody in a coat and tie.”

  “Sounds like a real institution.”

  “Yeah, except it ends here,” Brown said softly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ricky’s never been successful in love. He’s the last of the Daltons.” Brown grabbed his mug and downed half of the heavy liquid for emphasis.

  “Don’t you think you should take it easy, George?”

  “Hell, no, Taylor. I’m just getting started. How come you didn’t tell Ricky you were down here checking out the militia?”

  “Somehow it didn’t seem polite,” Luckett replied.

  “Well, shit. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, Macon Holly. He’s had a shitload of trouble lately. First, his daughter got herself pregnant. She’d been a terror for years. Staying out all night, runnin’ away from home. I heard they even locked her in her room for a week once, but it didn’t help. Anyway, she got knocked up by some stupid sonuvabitch, not much more than one of the migrant laborers, and Macon made the jerk marry her. Big mistake if you ask me. He had to give the louse a job and now he’s got another mouth to feed.”

  “Doesn’t Holly own the feed store? He can’t be doing that badly.”

  “Not all that well these days,” Brown said shaking his head. “When the subsidies got cut, a lot of the cash dried up. I don’t know how much credit he’s sitting on, but all the farmers are having a hard time paying their bills. The banks are buying a lot of land out here.”

  Dalton passed by and dropped another mug in front of Brown.

  “The militia must not be having any trouble recruiting then,” Luckett commented.

  “Nope. Folks ‘round here read about the boom in the Sun Belt, the growth in Atlanta, but all they see here is tough times. You can’t blame ‘em for listening to that bullshit.”

  Luckett started to reach for his sandwich, then stopped and went for a sip of beer instead. “What about this property you told me about last month?”

  “Holly’s farm? Don’t know much. Just been hearing about this big place west of here where Holly and his buddies, the Citizens for Liberty, they call themselves, hang out.”

  “How did Holly ever buy it? You said he was broke.”

  “I didn’t say he bought it. Just that he uses it. I checked out the records at the courthouse and the only name I could find was some Atlanta law firm. Don’t know who owns it, but Macon and his crew seem to be running it now.”

  ”Then he’s got one helluva benefactor,” Luckett replied. He tapped the soggy sandwich with his fork and it slid slowly across his plate. “So what does he do out there? He can’t be farming it.”

  “Hell, no. Just planning his revolution.” The reporter grinned and finished off the new mug. “Typical militia shit. Target practice, runnin’ through the woods playing soldier. What do any of these stinkin’ groups do? You’re the expert. Mostly I think they just swill beer and blame their problems on the Trilateral Commission. Or was that what they did in the nineties?”

  “Come on, George. You really ought to take these folks seriously. Look at Waco, the Montana Freemen, and McVeigh in Oklahoma. Aren’t you worried about what they might do?”

  “Macon and his crowd? Hell, no. They don’t have the balls to do anything serious. You want another?” Brown asked lifting his glass.

  “Nope. I have to be at Hartsfield by six and I still want to look at those files of yours. Let’s head out.”

  “Okay. Whatever you want. Hey, Ricky,” Brown waved to the proprietor. “Just put this on my bill.”

  Chapter 6

  National Counterterrorism Center, McLean, Virginia

  Monday, 12:15 p.m.

  “Mary Ellen, do you have any updates on your militia monitoring activities?” Carlson asked as the formal agenda seemed to be coming to an end.

  So far, Slattery was feeling pretty good about the meeting. He was glad Markovsky had brought him along. Real information was being shared and the participants around the table had kept their egos mostly in check. He wondered how long that could last.

  “Actually, General, I do have an update the group may find interesting.” She opened a leather folio, straightened in her chair, and leaned forward over the table. Slattery recognized a ritual she used when she thought she had something important to say. “As you remember, at the last meeting we discussed the Bureau’s activities in regards to domestic militia. We have an active program of observation, and, where deemed appropriate, intervention. One cell in particular has recently caught our attention.”

  “Where is the cell?” asked Garcia from Homeland Security. This had been his first comment at the meeting. Rotund, with short curly hair, Garcia looked suspiciously like his late musician namesake.

  “The cell is in Georgia,” Flynn replied sharply. “There is a summary in your briefing folder.”

  Garcia flipped through some papers and then nodded reluctantly.

  “We now have some new information from the cell,” Flynn continued. “Our agent has identified the major players and we are running backgrounds, but most are coming up empty. They appear to be simple locals caught up in the militia movement. We have not identified any overt action or organized demonstrations.”

  “Why bring this to the group, Mary Ellen?” It was the representative from the Joint Chiefs, Georges Delacroix. “It sounds pretty routine.”

  “A couple of reasons, Admiral,” Flynn responded. “First, there are a few contacts from outside the community. We’re trying to get a handle on their identities. It’s quite unusual for strangers to be brought into one of these cells.”

  “Mary Ellen?” interrupted Scott from State. “Excuse me, but your file says the cell’s camp is fairly large, over four hundred acres. Who is the owner?” Unlike his Homeland counterpart, the State Department representative had an insatiable appetite for detail.

  “That’s point number two, David. We have been unable to identify ownership. But it doesn’t appear to be any of the militiamen we have identified so far.”

  “Isn’t that rather unusual?” Scott continued.

  “Yes.” Flynn referred back to her notes. “In addition, there have been recent enhancements to the property: new buildings, a renovated farmhouse, heavy construction equipment.”

  “So who’s paying for it?” asked Delacroix.

  “We don’t know, Admiral. It is possible the cell has access to some hidden assets.”

  “But that doesn’t fit with your description of a bunch of simple Southern honkies,” said Garcia.

  Heads dropped at the colorful description. Even Slattery had a hard time holding back a smile.

  “These inconsistencies are the immediate objectives for our agent, Jerry. I’m sure we’ll have an answer by next week’s meeting.” Flynn closed her folder and sat back in her seat. “That’s all I have for now, General.”

  “Thank you, Mary Ellen,” replied Carlson. “We appreciate your update and will place a follow-up on the agenda. Peter, you said the CIA had some new information for us before we adjourn?”

  Slattery’s head popped up. What new information?

  “Yes, General.” Markovsky opened a folder, adjusted his spectacles, and began addressing the group. “Interestingly, we have recently received information from an asset that concerns our last topic. The asset believes there is an effort to coordinate the activities of a number of independent militia cells. We do not have any further details at this time, other than that the coordination appears to be focused in the south.”

  Flynn glared at Markovsky, a red flush rising like a thermometer on her face, then turned the scowl onto an assistant sitting behind her right shoulder.

  Finally the FBI Special Assistant turned back to the DDI. “What may I ask,” she spit
back, “is the CIA doing running domestic agents? Last time I looked that was illegal, Peter.”

  “Of course you are correct, Mary Ellen,” Markovsky replied calmly. “Our information came from an informant outside the U.S.”

  “Who is this informant?” asked Scott.

  “That’s not important at this time, David,” answered Markovsky.

  “I think it is,” challenged Flynn. “Is there some reason you are unwilling to name the source? You do have a source don’t you?”

  Markovsky hesitated and looked around the room, seemingly to find some support for his position. Then he reached up, removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. Slattery, at the least, recognized it as the spook’s affectation when he needed time to think. And that was an interpretation that left him very concerned. His chair became more uncomfortable.

  “If you insist, Mary Ellen,” Markovsky finally replied with a nod, “the asset’s code name is, . . . IMAGER.”

  “Then where is he, Peter?” Delacroix pushed.

  “That is not relevant,” Markovsky replied. “IMAGER received the information indirectly. So far as IMAGER is aware, the plan to bring the cells together is completely domestic.”

  “I’m glad he is satisfied, Peter,” Flynn said with continued hostility, “but I’m not. If someone is going to organize the efforts of these radicals, we’d better the hell know who it is. These assholes have been enough trouble acting alone. If they started to coordinate their efforts, it could be real trouble.”

  “I agree, Mary Ellen,” Carlson interjected, apparently trying to blunt the edge of the conversation. “Peter, what additional information can we get from your asset?”

  “That is not clear at this time, General. Since the original disclosure was accidental, I don’t know what continuing intelligence we will be able to deliver.”

  “In other words you don’t know jack-shit,” added Garcia. All heads turned to the Homeland representative.

  “Please,” said a surprised Carlson.

  “I assume, however, you will contact this IMAGER and request that he investigate?” continued Flynn. “And share the resulting intelligence with us?”

  “Of course, Mary Ellen,” the DDI replied calmly. “We have already sent the instructions by courier. But again, I cannot guarantee that further information will be available. I only bring this unsubstantiated information to the group because of its potential importance.”

  “Yes, thank you, Peter.” Carlson replied, a little too quickly in Slattery’s opinion. “All of us appreciate your contribution. I will expect an update at coming meetings.” Markovsky nodded politely.

  “Then if there’s nothing else, we’re adjourned.” Carlson threw a final glare at the DDI, then marched out of the room.

  The room slowly emptied amid a background of murmurs and whispers. Stroller and Markovsky hung back as the others left.

  “Glen’s waiting for you with the car,” Markovsky said to Slattery. “You go ahead.”

  “You’re staying?”

  “For a while. I have some things to discuss with Claude. Glen can take you back and then come back for me.”

  “Ah, yes sir. I would like to talk later.”

  “Of course, Roger. Of course.” Markovsky flashed one of his well-practiced Capitol Hill smiles and turned back to the NSA Assistant Director.

  What the hell was his boss doing? Slattery had never heard of an asset named IMAGER. Sure, he didn’t know everything that went on at the CIA, but something in Markovsky’s demeanor was off. Plus he had pissed off everyone in the room.

  This assignment was going downhill very fast.

  * * *

  George Brown strode gingerly down the dusty macadam Main Street of Tyler, Georgia. He placed each step carefully; the dim lights from second floor apartments in the old brick and clapboard buildings provided little useful illumination. It wouldn’t do for the town’s leading publisher to stumble and collapse in the road.

  It had been a tough afternoon. After reviewing his files with Luckett, he had driven him to Hartsfield, only to be caught in one of Atlanta’s famous traffic jams for two hours. That had made him late for his dinner date. Much too late according to his on-again, off-again girlfriend Crystal. She had tacked a crude sketch on her door and apparently left for the evening. At least there had been no answer when he had knocked.

  He had stopped at Ricky’s for a nightcap then convinced himself he had to get back to the office to write up the story. He hated to work at night but he had an edition to get out the next day and couldn’t afford to put off finishing his lead. His brain felt like a cobweb-filled attic, so he had parked in one of the open areas at the end of town, hoping the walk down Main Street to his office would clear his head enough that he could compose a coherent story.

  Main Street? Not quite the name he conjured up as he looked around. What the hell was he doing here? Tyler was a rural Confederate crossroads barely hanging onto life in the twenty-first century. A walk down this road was all it took to feel the failing heartbeat of the town. Stu and Mary Upton still ran the corner drugstore on his left, although they had closed the soda fountain a few years before in the face of the McDonald’s and Taco Bell up in Jefferson City. The prescription business was hurting; hardly anyone had enough money to go to the doctor, so the Uptons made most of their money selling patent medicines to the senior citizens, hunting magazines to the adults, and contraceptives to the ever-decreasing number of teenagers.

  He passed the Post Office where it had stood for fifty years, right in the middle of “downtown,” but its neighbor Woolworth’s had pulled out in the mid-eighties. The boarded-up windows and cracked pavement were all that remained of that American landmark.

  Far ahead, beyond where the scattered window lights could reach, stood the only attraction left: Macon Holly’s agricultural supply store. The county wasn’t completely deserted, and there were still a few farmers left needing fertilizer, feed, and associated paraphernalia. Holly kept a pair of rocking chairs on the loading dock, and on hot summer afternoons the local old-timers would gather to reminisce on better times and bemoan the decline of Tyler’s younger generation, most of whom had fled the area for the bright lights of ‘lanta.

  Coming up was the most anachronistic establishment along Main Street: the Tyler Guardian. Left dormant after the death of its previous owner, the Guardian had been resurrected by Brown, a northern transplant who had set himself up as the voice of truth in the poor southern region. Raised on Ralph Nader and Woodward and Bernstein, he had seen himself as a crusader, bringing enlightenment to the region. What was surprising was that he actually had a readership. Brown had learned to temper his editorial outbursts with newsy features on local history and 4H doings, enough to assure a regular, but meager, circulation. He supported the local Baptist Church and every Christmas held a special party for the town’s children.

  To be fair, most of the time Brown actually did enjoy his small portion of celebrity. When he wasn’t off researching some governmental impropriety he could be found socializing along Main Street, or arguing politics at Ricky’s. He had become a town fixture over the past ten years, his involvement making up for his Yankee background and leftward leanings. Most of the town liked him, although there were those whose business he had scalded, who had other feelings.

  Brown walked up the rickety stairs to his building’s porch, unlocked the door and stepped into his office.

  Chapter 7

  Tyler, Georgia

  Monday, 11:15 p.m.

  Tommy Wicks was already at the equipment shack when Holly arrived.

  “Evenin’ Macon,” Wicks said as Holly approached the shack.

  “Tommy,” Holly replied with a nod. What had Wicks been doing before he had arrived? “Been here long?”

  “Just a few minutes. Thought we’d better be sure everything was ready. What’s the matter? Afraid I’m sabotaging the mission?”

  “Hope you didn’t work too hard,” Holly replied igno
ring the barb. “Gary’s not gonna be here, you know. Or did I forget to mention that?”

  Wicks glared at his leader then turned back to his truck.

  They went about the rest of their preparations silently, neither having anything further to say to the other. Holly always had to watch his back when Wicks was around. He knew the younger man was ambitious, he had been playing up to Gary ever since the stranger had approached them. Holly didn’t think Wicks would cause him any physical harm, but he remembered what Charlie Kearns had told him: “Ain’t nothing wrong with being paranoid. Some of them folks really are out to get you.” And Charlie had been right.

  Napes and Ricky Dalton arrived next in Napes’ decrepit pickup. It clattered and boomed all the way down the muddy access trail. Holly had been right to refuse to let Napes use the vehicle tonight. It would wake up the whole town.

  O’Grady finally drove up around 11:30 with his special packages. He and Holly passed out the Uzi’s while Dalton transferred some of the gasoline cans that Wicks had filled at his depot to O’Grady’s van.

  Holly had dictated the required clothing at their rehearsal the night before: leather combat boots, camouflage fatigues, and well-stocked ammunition vests. Standard dress for 80% of the males in Placer County. Most of the team had followed his instructions. Napes’ outfit differed only in the unlaced construction boots and a red Caterpillar cap. Holly could only shake his head.

  No one bothered with masks or face paint. There wasn’t any need to conceal their identity. Holly didn’t intend to let anyone see them and if anyone did, they’d be crazy to report it. He’d see to that personally.

  “When we goin’?” Napes asked.

  “Eleven fifty,” Holly replied. “That’s what I said isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. But what’s the big deal when we go?”

  “Gary said he wants it on time. At midnight.” A breeze blew Napes’ b.o. in Holly’s direction. It was almost enough to make a man gag. He couldn’t understand how the man’s wife stood it.