Dahlgren typed a few more lines. Then, with one last stab at the keyboard, he finished savaging the computer and swiveled around in his chair to face her. He made a minute adjustment in the location of the piece of paper in the middle of his desk, as though to square it perfectly with the rest of the furniture. “I trust you are aware of our computer system, VORTEX?”

Nancy was. VORTEX was a computer system designed to cull and correlate vast quantities of data to isolate potential terrorist threats. Phone records, pharmacy purchases, credit card data, flight records, computer searches—the list of databases went on and on.

“I’m a simple man,” Dahlgren said. “I don’t pretend to understand how VORTEX works. It’s been explained to me a dozen times. But when I start hearing about third-order correlations and stochastic variates, my eyes glaze over. What I do understand is that when the computer generates a report that so-and-so is connected to such-and-such, I pay attention.

Nancy nodded. She had been tangentially involved in the development of VORTEX and found that it had been a fairly disappointing tool, given the hundred or so million dollars invested in it. But on occasion something useful popped out.

“My understanding of VORTEX, though, is that it operates by drawing connections. Vectors, I believe they’re called? And then those vectors are assigned a numeric value based on the potential connection between one scumbag and another scumbag. The higher the number, the more profound the connection. Hm? That about right?”

Again Nancy nodded. Her heart was beating a little harder. Dahlgren was not one who usually beat around the bush. In the rare instance when he didn’t come right to the point, it was because he wanted to beat you up and humiliate you.

“The reason I bring this up,” Dahlgren said, “is I tracked your friend Gideon Davis because usssssv heiI didn’t trust he’d leave well enough alone. And now I find here a report linking one Gideon Davis to one Jim Verhoven. I’ll spare you the technical mumbo jumbo about threat nodes and assessment vectors. But look here. I drill down into the details a little and, guess what I find? Your pal Mr. Davis bought gas two and a half hours ago in Anderson, West Virginia. Last I heard, Ervin Mixon was occasionally bunking at the camp owned by Jim Verhoven in Anderson, West Virginia.”

Nancy didn’t speak. Nothing she could say at this point would do her any good.

“You might have noticed I was typing when you came into my office,” Dahlgren continued. “I was starting an OPR file on you.” Dahlgren hesitated, relishing the moment, before he continued: “For requisitioning equipment without authorization, disobeying direct orders, various irregularities in your expense reports . . . I’m still coming up with examples of your insubordination.”

OPR was the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility—analogous to the Internal Affairs found in police departments. OPR investigated everything from corruption to sexual misconduct to treason. An OPR file, at best, was a career killer. At worst, it could result in firing, criminal charges, and even prison.

Dahlgren continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “Our office has two missions, Nancy, with respect to potential domestic terrorist organizations. One is to pursue those who violate the law. That’s a simple matter. But the other is more delicate. Our other mission is to monitor, anticipate, and control those who might break the law but have not yet done so. The vast majority of militia groups, neo-Nazis, racists, and Aryan nut jobs, are just saber-rattling cretins who do not and will not ever threaten the good order of the United States of America. But there are some—and Verhoven’s group is one of these—which are on the fence. They could fall either way.” He took off his reading glasses and set them on the desk. “Nancy, it is critical that the FBI never, ever, be the one to push them off the fence. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is not going to create another Waco. Not on my watch.”

“Sir—”

“Shut up, Nancy.” Dahlgren did not raise his voice. “I’m a reasonable man. You are a valuable agent in your way. I’ve opened the OPR file, checked the little boxes, filled in all the forms, typed in the relevant paragraphs. But I haven’t sent it yet. Whether I send it or not will depend on whether or not Gideon Davis has pushed Verhoven off the fence.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“Did you send Gideon Davis up there to snoop around and ask questions about Mixon?”

“Send?” Nancy said. “I didn’t send him.”

Dahlgren shook his head sadly. “Jesus Christ, are you entirely incapable of giving me a straight answer to a simple question?”

Nancy was silent.

Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Did you, in fact, requisition FBI property from...

“Yes,” she admitted.

“And did you not, further, transfer possession of said equipment without departmental authorization to Gideon Davis, a civilian with no formal relationship to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?”

She thought she’d covered her tracks well. Apparently, not well enough. There was only one thing left to do.

“No,” she lied. “I requisitioned that material for a training op.”

Dahlgren sighed loudly. “I don’t believe you. And when I find out you’re lying to me, I will most certainly hit the send button on your OPR file.”

“But—”

“I can see this is going to require my personal intervention. That makes me extremely unhappy. I have not yet decided precisely what I will need to do to stop your friend Gideon from provoking some kind of public relations disaster. But it will most certainly involve me going down there to speak directly to Mr. Verhoven and appealing to his better nature, so that if he should happen across Mr. Davis blundering around on his property, he will not shoot him.”

“But sir, what if—”

Dahlgren’s glare silenced her.

Nancy Clement returned to her office, closed the door, sat down, and put her head in her hands. What was she going to do? She had to reach Gideon and warn him. Dahlgren would be there by tomorrow and would certainly find him and shut him down. Then it would be her job, and Gideon’s neck. And what if he and his brother had found something? She made her decision, got up, and left the office.

15

ANDERSON, WEST VIRGINIA

It did not escape Tillman’s notice that Jim Verhoven’s compound shared many of the same characteristics commonly found in fortresses. Situated on the top of a tall hill, it was accessible only by a serpentine dirt road hemmed in so closely by pine trees that only one car at a time could pass along it. And then the house itself lay in the middle of a sizable pasture, which would have to be crossed before reaching the house. A well-armed defender in the house could make a lot of trouble for anybody who wanted to cross that pasture. Behind the house were a number of functional-looking metal buildings. In the distance, were two U-shaped berms that had obviously been ploughed up to function as shooting ranges.

When Tillman’s pickup rattled up to the house, Verhoven was in the yard, marching up and down on a parade ground with about twenty young men wearing camouflage uniforms. As Tillman parked, Verhoven barked, “Dismissed!” and the young men drifted off toward a collection of rattletrap cars over near a barnlike structure behind the house.

They shook hands, and Verhoven said, “On paper my unit is company strength, but those fine young men are the core of my militia.”

This was Verhoven’s way of saying that—despite its grandiose name—the Seventh West Virginia (True) Militia Regiment amounted to roughly one understrength infantry squad. Tillman, however, simply nodded a heeeee

“The purpose of the regiment is to protect the constitutional and God-given freedoms of the people in this region,” Verhoven continued. “As I’m sure you’d agree, our freedoms are under unprecedented attack. If the international capitalists and Jews have their way, pretty soon we’ll all just be a pathetic mob of slaves, reduced to penury and servitude while the fat cats in New York City and Washington, DC, drive around in limousines drinking champagne.”