American Fascist Read online

  “What did you think of my answers today, by the helicopter, when that reporter from NBC shouted out that question about Russia?” he asked.

  “I thought you handled it very well, sir.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Why?”

  There was a long pause. “For one, you didn’t hesitate. You never have to think about what you’re going to say. Unlike your predecessor, I mean. You know exactly what you’re going to say, and it’s always with conviction, very confident, with no trace of doubt. It’s very strong, sir.”

  “You think I sounded strong?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  Another long pause.

  “Tell me, are you dating anyone, Natalie?” he asked. That’s when Eli knew for sure it was her on the recording.

  “Oh come on, a knockout like you? You have to be dating someone, right?” he added.

  “Well, not exactly at the moment, sir.”

  “Let me guess, no one is good enough for a well-bred Jewish girl like you, am I right?” he said.

  Another pause.

  “It’s not that, Mr. President. I just haven’t met the right guy. Honestly, the hours we keep, I’m really giving everything I have to this job.”

  “Yes you are. I can see that. And I’ve been thinking about you. How hard you work for me. I want to reward you. You deserve to be promoted. The communications shop could use senior leadership changes. ”

  Another pause. Shuffling in the room.

  “I want you to know that everything you do for me, the tweets, everything, it’s just between us. Everything. You trust me, right?” he said.

  “I trust you, sir.”

  “Good. You know, you’re a very pretty girl, Natalie, and I’ve dated a lot of pretty girls. Supermodels. I’ve even married a few, but you know that.”

  “I do sir. The first lady is amazing.”

  “She is. But wow, you are something really special. Very very special. You remind me of my daughter. Of course, she’s taller.”

  There was more shuffling in the room, the sound of a chair moving.

  “I should go, Mr. President. We need to get ahead of the next cycle.”

  “Come on, you know you don’t want to. I see how you dress for me, the way I like it. You make me hard every time you walk in here, and you know it. I bet you get off on it. I’m the president, and I’m going to promote you, but first, you do something for me.”

  There was more rustling in the room, and then Ron hit the keyboard and stopped the playback.

  “Delete it,” Ron said. Eli wasn’t breathing. He looked at Ron, and Ron didn’t blink. Eli looked up and saw Ken Miller staring at them, the circles of exhaustion beneath his eyes that, despite their darkness, could never match the blackness in his pupils coming from the pit of his empty soul.

  Eli hit delete, and the file was gone.

  ***

  Eli walked home in the fall evening. He slung his tie and jacket over his arm with his laptop bag. The air smelled of exhaust and brine from the Potomac, wafting on a gentle breeze.

  He needed to walk because he felt sick. Not flu sick — it was the same as when he first saw the girl. A sense the walls were closing in. The street was the same, as straight as the day before, but his insides were warped. His temples pounded.

  And ever since the “pot incident,” he assumed he was being followed. He decided it was better to act normal and use a cell phone, because the chances of that being monitored were much less than raising flags by going out of his way to do abnormal things, like using a pay phone in a bus station.

  But as he crossed the street and looked behind him, he saw he was alone. He decided to call his father. After two rings, Ben answered.

  “I can’t do this any more.”

  “I’ve heard that before, I think,” Ben said.

  “This man — you don’t understand.”

  “I see the damage he’s doing every day.”

  “It’s more than that. You know I can’t get into it.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to do something.”

  “Then do something. Do what you can.”

  Eli crossed the street, jogging to avoid a delivery truck rumbling toward him. He reached the curb and it zoomed by, and he stood for a moment, catching his breath.

  “ I don’t know if it’ll make any difference.”

  “Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. There’s one way to find out.”

  Eli picked up his pace again. “I know.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, too,” Ben said.

  Eli hung up. As he passed his usual take-out joints, he kept walking. He had no appetite. He sensed he was walking across a bridge, and once he reached the other side, there would be no way back.

  16

  Triangulation

  Inside the sanctuary of his two room apartment, Eli dumped off his jacket and tie and laptop, opened a beer, and collapsed on his futon. He re-downloaded the MyMask application on his phone. This was part of his new process. He kept it offloaded until he needed it, since he knew the apps on his phone would be the first thing they would check.

  He logged into his account and checked his one contact, and to his surprise, found Tate was online. He started a new chat.

  “We need to talk…” Eli began. He waited.

  “It’s been a long time. What have you got?” Tate replied within seconds.

  “Taping system in the Oval Office. I set it up.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “Today they asked me to delete all files re: firing Lonnegan. And I did.”

  There was a long beat.

  “You get copies?”

  “No. Impossible.”

  “Then I still can’t help. I told you to contact me with something actionable.”

  “There has to be something I can do.”

  Eli waited, taking several breaths, until finally:

  “Take it to the press. Triangulate the story.”

  “Triangulate?”

  “Anonymous sources. They won’t print with one, they need at least two. So first you, then me. They confirm I’m a real source by asking questions only someone inside the investigation could know. What I hint at, but refuse to divulge, will give me credibility. I won’t leak, only confirm story that FBI is looking into a taping system, and destruction of evidence. What the first source said. You. If we find the right reporter, they might take the risk and print it.”

  “And?”

  “If the story has multiple sources, WH forced to respond. Story takes on a life of its own. Anything else we find along the way becomes new avenue to pursue.”

  “Why can’t you do that on my tip?”

  “Anonymous tips doesn’t start an FBI investigation. A story in a major paper, with multiple sources, which the WH responds to, with a possible Federal leaker… SC steps in and adds to current investigation.”

  “Triangulation.”

  “Can you find someone who will do it?”

  “I think so.”

  “As far as giving them my handle, doesn’t matter. You’re not even sure I am who you think I am.” That gave Eli pause. But if this was a setup, he was already in over his head.

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “So you’re doing this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make it stick.”

  ***

  Sherry was surprised to hear from Eli after so many months. She told him to meet her in the piano bar on the second level of a downtown, five-story red brick hotel, the Old Cosmopolitan. It was the kind of place D.C. lifers went when they wanted a quality drink out of the spotlight.

  He took an Uber to the mall, then shut off his phone, zig-zagged through various stores, found the restrooms in an electronics boutique, and then disappeared out the employee entrance into the alley, walked a quarte
r mile and grabbed a cab, and paid cash when it dropped him two blocks from the hotel, where he circled the block twice, looking over his shoulder, before finally going inside.

  The lamps were low on a few tables in the corners, and she was alone at the bar. A slender black man in a tuxedo sat behind a baby grand in the corner under a dim spotlight, playing Duke Ellington flawlessly.

  She was working on a martini when he walked up. They hadn’t talked since the night they met. He’d spotted her on TV in a wide-shot of reporters during a press conference, and kept an eye out for her articles in the Times. She had some shared by-lines on the Russia probe, but nothing revelatory. She’d been on CNN a few times, not because of scoops, but because she was non-partisan, eloquent, knew her facts, and the camera loved her. She had on tight jeans and a leather jacket, her hair hanging loose and half-covering her face, but those hazy green eyes encased in heavy eyeliner peering out.

  She thought Eli looked a bit heavier, maybe tired. He seemed on edge, and rather desperate to talk when he called, and now his appearance fit her read. Something was going on. He ordered what she was having, and looked over his shoulder twice. Two men in suits were drinking in a corner, talking low, periodically looking their way. Most likely they recognized her from TV. Happened all the time.

  He made small talk, and two drinks later, as the piano got softer and his nerves relaxed, he finally hinted that he had something, but this wasn’t the best place.

  “Are you being followed?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. But maybe.”

  “We should take separate cars.”

  She whispered her address, then appeared to reject his advances, killed her drink, and stuck him with the tab.

  He waited ten minutes, finished his drink, and paid the bill. He left the hotel and walked a few blocks, and when he was sure he was alone, flagged a passing taxi.

  ***

  Her apartment was a mid-century modern furniture catalog; the de rigueur wood paneling, the brown leather couch, white shag rug, the floor-to-ceiling glass facing the waterfront.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “This isn’t newspaper money, I can tell you that.”

  “That’s what you said.”

  “I did?” she asked, not remembering, as she poured scotch, and brought him a glass. They clinked and sipped. Eli was not a fan of scotch, but tried to act like one as it lit fire to his throat.

  She stepped closer. Her lips parted slightly. She had that look. And within seconds, she had him pinned against the paneling, blouse coming open, and they were devouring each other. He’d been holding back for so long, and now everything was unleashed — she wanted him, and he let himself go. Soon they were on the couch, ripping at each other’s pants, and her bra came off, and he was pressing against her bare chest as their tongues entwined — she grabbed him from behind, nails digging into his shoulders as he thrust against her, and she moaned “it’s okay, don’t stop, just fuck me,” and he entered her without waiting, thrusting and thrusting, until they both exploded.

  When it was over, she pulled on her underwear, fixed her disheveled hair, and walked topless to her bedroom, then came back wearing a short robe, tying it around her waist. She walked to the patio, slid the glass open, and invited him outside as she lit a cigarette, then reclined in a chair, her legs resting on the railing.

  The combination of the cool air, the smoke, and the moonlight on her skin was hypnotic . He had a cigarette, the first one in years.

  “What have you got?” she exhaled, looking him dead in the eyes. She had that jagged-around-the-edges, post-sex glow. He didn’t know if he would regret what he was about to say, but it was now or never.

  “The president is being blackmailed by the Russians. He’s a puppet, or an asset, whatever you want to call it. I can’t figure out whether he’s doing what they tell him, or doing what he would do anyway, but it doesn’t matter. He’s compromised, and we’re in serious trouble. He’s dismantling the country, step by step.” He took a long drag off his cigarette, let it burn, and then let it go. He was waiting to see how she reacted.

  “That’s an opinion piece for a liberal blog.”

  “No, it’s much more than that. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things.”

  “Can you prove any of it?”

  He scanned the horizon, the city lights twinkling. He thought about what he’d seen, but he wasn’t ready to go that far.

  “Not all of it. Not yet.”

  She took another drag.

  “Then why are we here?” she asked. He looked at her, slightly surprised, then stiffened his spine.

  “We have to start somewhere, just a little bit smaller.”

  ***

  Over the next hour, more scotch, putting on clothes, and another cigarette, he explained the taping system, what he’d done, and how he could connect her with a source in law enforcement that could confirm they were looking into it. Any story would have to be from that angle: there was a taping system in the Oval, and the FBI knew about it.

  It would be a very significant story, yet not a total shock, just based on what the president himself had tweeted about “tapes” to intimidate Lonnegan. And there could be no mention of destruction of evidence at this point. The list of people who knew about that was even smaller than the list of people who knew about the system. The second source, a “former White House official with firsthand knowledge of the matter” would corroborate the FBI source.

  “And that’s you?” she asked.

  “Technically, I am a White House official. Chief data scientist.”

  “But not former,” she clarified.

  “Not yet.”

  “I can’t do that, misrepresenting a fact.”

  “It’s one word. Jesus, they do it all the time.”

  “And we don’t, not intentionally anyway. I may not have much, but I have my integrity, and I plan on keeping it,” she said as she put out her second cigarette in a small ashtray.

  Eli had been counting on the fact that ever since Mack Martins and Rick Reemus had been fired, there’d been a civil war in public view between Martins, the keeper of Franks’ populist flame, and Reemus and the president’s more-centrist advisors, including his children. Since Martins and Reemus were both out, and knew about the system, there was a plausible scenario where a leak could have come from either of them, out of vindication, or to wound the other, or in an effort to undermine the new chief of staff. The constant knife fights, and intrigues of who was “in” and who was “out” around Franks, created a fog of war that made it nearly impossible to identify leakers, because there were so many. But if she didn’t use the key word “former” it might lead straight back to him.

  She said she would think it over and find a way around it if she could, but she was fired up at the possibilities. She agreed on the angle, how she would prioritize the sources. The story would reveal to the world that there was a taping system. And while technically not illegal, the FBI was aware of it, and that lead to further implications for the Russia investigation, including a possible court showdown if the special counsel tried to subpoena recordings.

  The plan was to lure the White House into extinguishing the fire with gasoline, as they always did, and let the story build from there. Eli showed her how to set up MyMask, and gave her Tate’s handle, and she secured it all on her phone.

  She had a headache, and excused herself for a moment. He watched her reflection in the mirrored doorway as she went into her bathroom, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and took some pills from the medicine cabinet, swallowed them with a sip of water, and returned for another cigarette.

  She asked if he wanted to stay. He said he would go. He thanked her for everything, which was awkward, but she understood. He was still young. He called a car, and left when it arrived downstairs.

  ***

  Once Eli made it home, he reached out to Tate again and let him know that Sherry Andrews from the New Y
ork Times had agreed to run the story if the second source checked out, and she would be contacting him soon.

  “She already did. We’re doing a call tomorrow. I’ll use a blocked phone.”

  “Perfect,” Eli typed back.

  “Good timing, the S.C. is about to file additional charges, even bigger fish. That plus this story will rattle some fucking cages. Stay tuned.”

  And with that, Tate logged off.

  Eli went to bed feeling a glimmer of hope. Between that, and getting laid, he slept the whole night through, never waking once.

  17

  Witch Hunt

  Eli awoke the next morning and scanned the news. He saw nothing new on the Russia investigation. It had been mostly quiet since Lt. Gen. Dearborn had plead guilty and agreed to cooperate with Special Counsel Simpson. In this period of relative silence from the special counsel’s office, the news was focused more on the rapidly rising chorus of voices which began to attack the Russia investigation on every possible front.

  It was a multi-faceted, coordinated campaign between the White House, congressional Republicans, and the right-wing media to discredit, dismiss, and downright denigrate the investigation, and those doing the difficult work to uncover the truth. The Franks White House, both through Franks’ tweets and his spokesperson and lawyers, were employing a dual-track strategy: they insisted they were cooperating with the investigation, and that Franks would not fire the special counsel, and that he was sure that he would be “treated fairly.” And yet they were calling the entire investigation a “witch hunt” and accusing the FBI of failing to pursue Franks’ political enemies.

  Members of Congress and the right-wing media that supported Franks, including the cigar-chomping loudmouth with ten million nightly viewers, Barry McMichaels, had begun a full-on assault against the special counsel, the upper levels of the FBI and the Justice Department, proclaiming the entire investigation illegitimate, and referring to unnamed parts of the Justice Department as the “Deep State.”

  Some even went so far as to call for a “purge of the FBI.” These were the kinds of words that had last been used in Congress during the McCarthy era. Only now, instead of a purge of Communists, the Republican Party was calling for a purge of the FBI for investigating possible Russian corruption of the American political system. It was double-think. Even the most stalwart Republican defenders of law enforcement were claiming the world’s premier law enforcement agency, which other governments called in times of international crisis, could not be trusted to do its job, in what might be the single most important investigation in its history. They all conveniently avoided the fact that Lonnegan had been a Republican, the new head of the FBI was a Republican, the attorney general was a Republican, the deputy attorney general was a Republican, and of course Special Counsel Simpson was a Republican. The virus was now attacking itself.