3rd Degree

Chapter 46

THE “PLANE” Molinari had arranged for us was a Gulf-stream G-3 with a red, white, and blue crest on the fuselage and the words GOVERNMENT OF THE UNITED STATES. The deputy director was definitely up there on the food chain.

It was my first time climbing aboard a private jet in the private section of SFI. As the doors closed behind us and the engines started up as soon as we hit our seats, I couldn't deny a thrill shooting through me. “This is definitely the way to travel,” I said to Molinari. He didn't disagree with me.

The flight up to Portland was a little over an hour. Moli-nari was on the phone for the first few minutes. When he got off, I wanted to talk.

I laid out the crime photos. “You were going to tell me what this meant. MAI?”

“The MAI was a secret trade agreement,” he explained, “negotiated a few years back by the wealthy countries of the WTO. It extended to large corporations rights that some-times superseded those of governments. Some people think it created an open hunting season on smaller economies. It was defeated in 1998 by a worldwide grassroots campaign, but I'm told the OECD, which Propp worked for, was redraft-ing it and testing the waters again. Any ideas where?”

“The G-8 meeting next week?”

“Yeah... By the way” - he opened his briefcase - “I think you might get some use out of these.” He handed me folders that turned out to be the intel jackets from Seattle I had requested. Each was stamped CONFIDENTIAL, PROPERTY OF THE FBI.

“Keep them close,” the deputy director said with a wink. “Might prove a little embarrassing to me if they got out.”

I skimmed through the records from Seattle. A few had prior records - everything from inciting a riot to resisting arrest and unlawful possession of a firearm. Others appeared to be students caught up in the cause. Robert Alan Rich had an Interpol file for inciting violence at the World Economic Forum meeting in Gstaad. Terri Ann Gates had been bagged for arson. A gaunt-faced Reed College dropout with tied-back hair named Stephen Hardaway had committed a bank robbery in Spokane.

“Remote-triggered bombs, ricin,” I said, thinking aloud. “The technology is pretty advanced. Any of these connected enough to pull off the strikes?”

Molinari shrugged. “Somebody could've teamed up with an established terror cell. The technology's for sale. Or we could be dealing with a white rabbit.”

“White rabbit? Like the Jefferson Airplane?”

“It's the name we give someone who's been hiding for a long time. Like the Weathermen from the sixties. Most of them have fit into society again. They have families, straight jobs. But there are a few still out there who haven't given up the cause.”

A cabin door opened and the copilot said that we were starting our descent. I stuffed the files in my briefcase, impressed with how quickly Molinari had followed up on my request.

“Any last questions?” he asked, tightening his seat belt. “There's usually a squadron of FBI officials who latch on to me when we land.”

“Just one.” I smiled. “How do you like to be addressed? Deputy director sounds like someone who runs a hydro-electric factory in the Ukraine.”

He laughed. “In the field, generally `sir' comes with the territory. But out of the field, what usually works for me is `Joe.'”

He tossed me a smile. “That make it any easier for you, Lieutenant?”

“We'll see, sir.”