CHAPTER 5
The look on Mac's face was priceless! "How did you . . . ?" he stammered.
I shrugged. "I work for Homeland Security, remember?"
Mac nodded slowly as understanding dawned, and he sank slowly onto the sofa, saying, "So you can pretty much find out anything about anybody . . ."
"Pretty much, yeah."
"But why? Why did you want to check up on me?"
He sounded a bit peeved. I couldn't blame him. If the shoe were on the other foot, I'd be kind of upset, too. Nonetheless, I cringed. "'Check up on' has such an invasive sound to it."
"Isn't that what you do, though: check up on people?—pry into their private lives to make sure they're not . . . terrorists or traitors, or whatever?"
"For the most part, yeah," I confirmed, nodding again. "But in your case I was just curious. I wondered what you'd been up to since we last saw each other. . . I mean, if we were going to be working together to find Dad, I wanted to know more about the man alongside whom I might possibly be risking life and limb. Dad told me you were into 'causes,' and you said something a few minutes ago about 'hanging out with environmentalists' . . ." I shook my head, shrugged, then continued, "I always knew you were environmentally conscious and that you believed in saving the world one rainforest or endangered species at a time; but you're not independently wealthy, and a person can't exactly make a living out of espousing causes. So, I did some checking."
"And you found out that I've been lately working for the NSA," Mac inferred.
I nodded. "And before that, you were undercover with the LAPD bunko squad, attempting to discredit any and all of the organizations that were ostensibly raising funds to protect one ecological asset or another, but which were, in reality, nothing but a bunch of con artists who took the money and ran."
Mac nodded. "Yeah. It's disgusting to see how many people there are who're willing to make a buck off someone else's generosity and good will; and it's disturbing to see how many others will donate to an organization without checking its credentials first. . ..
"I was sent, undercover, to check out any outfit that we got complaints about from people who suspected they'd been bamboozled. Some of them were already long gone, but I was able to track down a few of the front people and bring them in. Some of them had started new groups with a different 'cause' in a new location. There were a few that the IRS put us onto: organizations people claimed on their tax returns that they'd made donations to, but that hadn't filed for exemption status. Others had been smart enough to file for exemption, but the amount of money they claimed to have received didn't jibe with what the donors claimed on their returns—not even close. I mean, there're bound to be discrepancies—due to faulty bookkeeping, or maybe a handful of people who don't claim those particular donations on their tax returns. But the differences in these cases were usually in the thousands."
"So, you worked undercover to separate the chaff from the wheat, as it were?"
"Something like that, yeah. We closed down the rip-off artists and made sure the legitimate ones filed for exemption status, so they wouldn't be unnecessarily hounded by the IRS.
"It usually took a while to get enough evidence to take a group down. There were a lot of good, honest people in those groups who'd given of their time and energy—as well as money—to what they believed was a good cause. When they found out it was all a rip-off, they were shocked. A lot of 'em swore off 'causes' forever. I did my best to dissuade them from that, telling them that there are a lot of worthy, legitimate organizations that could really use their help, but that they needed to be more careful and check with the IRS to find out which ones are and which ones aren't legitimate. Some just picked up the pieces and moved on to another organization in the same field as their previous one. This time, though, they were careful to check credentials."
"Okay, so that's what you've done in the past. Worthy enough work. But, how did you end up with the NSA?"
"When the terrorist scare hit after 9/11 and the intelligence community was trying to find out how their operations were funded, they suspected some of it might be coming through phony charitable organizations—or even through semi-legitimate ones that practice double bookkeeping or that launder money. They're harder to pin down than the ones I was uncovering as a cop. But, I had a good success rate and was well known by the various groups and their supporters. . . Moving from cause to cause and organization to organization the way I did, I was considered something of a flake by most people who join just one cause and one organization. A lot of them figured I was either really dedicated to saving everything I possibly could, or else I hadn't found the right cause yet—one that would really hold my interest. But no one ever turned me away; in fact, most of them were determined to make me see that their cause was the most important one of all—the one I should stick with and make my life's calling. So, it wasn't hard for me to infiltrate any of them. That's what the NSA was counting on." He paused and said, "I need a drink. I haven't talked this much at one time since I was the keynote speaker at the national gathering of the Save the Rain Forests Foundation in Topeka." He got up and headed for the kitchen. "Would you like a cold one?"
I shook my head. "Nah, I wanna be sober when I go to dinner with Darla, and I usually can't stop with just one. When did you start drinking beer? As I recall, you were pretty heavy into protein shakes, bean sprout salads, and all that . . . 'new age' vegetarian health food stuff."
"It's hot in California," Mac said with a shrug, as if that explained everything.
I smiled. "Peer pressure. It'll do it every time."
"Peer pressure had nothing to do with it," my brother protested. "But, after a hot day of protesting or holding a rally, you get thirsty, and—"
"And everybody goes out for a beer afterward. You just went along for the ride." I gave him the thumbs up, smiled and winked at him. "Gotcha," I added.
Mac rolled his eyes. "Okay, so my lifestyle has changed a bit. I never said I was a saint. . . So, what do you want to drink?"
"Just bring me a glass of cold water from the fridge tap . . . if it's not too much trouble."
"I think I can manage that."
Mac returned a couple of minutes later with a bottle of beer in one hand and a frosty glass of ice water in the other. "Thanks," I said, taking the water. "So the NSA recruited you on the strength of your success rate on the bunco squad, huh?"
"Yes, but the work they have me doing is a lot tougher and more dangerous. I've already uncovered two Al Qaeda-run setups. They were both legitimate organizations whose original founders or most well-known leaders died just a few months before 9/11; and no one—not even those who'd been with the organizations for years—had any idea who had replaced them. Any and all members of the groups who had had personal contact with the upper echelons were no longer allowed access. New people that no one had ever seen or heard of before came in to run things at their public headquarters, and they were the only ones with access to the new management. Suddenly, the main bodies of the organizations found themselves cut off from their leadership, and that got a few people worried. Internet chat rooms were filled with speculation, distrust and fear. That's why the NSA got involved and sent me in to investigate."
"Were the new front people of Middle Eastern origin or anything like that?"
Mac shook his head. "Not a one. That's what made it so difficult to pin them down at first. I found out later that some were disaffected Americans with an ax to grind, who willingly helped the terrorists raise money; others were in it only for what they had been promised they'd get if they cooperated, and they were loyal to no one but themselves."
"So, how'd you get the evidence you needed?" I asked, taking a sip of water.
"Months and months of hard work—and a lot of Oscar-caliber acting." He made a face as though the very thought of what he'd had to do was distasteful.
"What'd you do?" I asked, taking another drink.
Mac took a pull on his beer and said, "I took my cue from the disaffected lot: I pretended I was blaming the WASP-infested government for all our environmental problems—that they were either causing them, or allowing them to occur through kickbacks, payoffs, or just plain negligence. I would say—in the presence of those I thought most likely to have contact with the hidden money men—that I didn't half blame the terrorists for trying to take us down—that, as a country, we'd gotten too big for our britches."
"And that, eventually, got you into the inner circle, so to speak."
"Yeah, it did. At least, it got me an intro. Both times I had to play it close to the chest for several weeks before I was actually introduced to the 'Fat Cat'. The thing that surprised me most was that I was able to pull off the second one once I'd accomplished the first one. I was expecting to find out that I was Public Enemy #1 in their playbooks. Turns out they had no idea who I was or what I'd done. Each of the organizations is autonomous—answerable only to one person, who, in turn, is answerable to another . . . etc. It's a long chain of command, intended to protect those directly involved with Al Qaeda itself. But, in spite of that, I was able to get what I needed, and two complete chains were destroyed, clear back to their sources.
"Since that time, some of the longest-standing legitimate members of those particular organizations have been voted in as new leaders. I understand they're doing quite well now and are determined not to let the same thing happen again. They've each been assigned permanent bodyguards."
I nodded. "Good job, Little Brother; Dad would be proud." Then I looked at Mac with a furrowed brow and asked, "Why didn't you ever tell him?"
"My work is undercover, Jack. Need to know. Classified. . . Savvy?"
"Of course I savvy! It's my job, too! But for crying out loud, Mac!—who's Dad gonna tell?"
"He does run a newspaper . . ."
"He owns it now, Mac; he doesn't run it anymore—Darla does. Anyway, you're his son. Do you think he'd risk your neck for the sake of a headline?"
"No, but—"
"All your life you've been trying to get out from behind my shadow—to do something the old man could be proud of. Now that you're doing it, you refuse to tell him about it . . . which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever!"
Mac sighed. "All right, Jack. If and when we find Dad, I'll tell him what I do for a living. But, I'm gonna check for electronic surveillance equipment before I do it." All of a sudden, he got a sick look on his face. "I just told you everything, and I didn't scan this place for bugs!"
I smiled. "Already done." I showed him my scanner. "I took care of it while you were putting the slacks and jacket away. I figured, with you working for the NSA and me working for Homeland Security, it was better to be safe than sorry. At the moment, we're safe."
"I just hope nobody's outside with one of those amplifier mikes aimed at the house."
I shook my head. "Nope. Already called the office and had a satellite scan done."
Mac's jaw dropped slightly. "Man, you're thorough!"
"Gotta be. It's my job. Anyway, it's getting late. We oughta be getting ready for our date. By the way, where'd you hang those clothes I loaned you?"
"My closet."
"Your closet? That was my room long before it was yours."
"Yeah, and then you got married and moved out. Mom and Dad gave me your room, and my room was made into a sewing room for Mom. You know that."
"But what is it now? Mom's been dead for fifteen years!"
Mac shrugged. "The sewing machine is still in there, and it looks as though Dad's been using it. Maybe he hems up his own trousers when they start to come undone."
"No bed of any kind in there? No futon or sofa-sleeper?"
"Nada."
"Then I guess I'm stuck with the sofa."
"Or you could use Dad's room. It's your call. But the other bedroom is mine now."
"Hold it a minute. Is this a fold-out couch?"
Mac set his empty beer bottle on a coaster on the coffee table and dropped onto the sofa. "Definitely. It doesn't bounce the way a normal sofa does."
"Guess I've found my bed for the night, then. . . So," I suggested as I took my water glass out to the kitchen, "you go use the shower in the hall bathroom and I'll use Dad's."
"Fair enough," Mac called after me. Then, as I returned to the living room . . . "Say, Jack, do you think I oughta wear a tie?"
