The Last Family

63

Thackery Carlisle Robertson, looking every inch the conquering hero, stood at the podium, illuminated by a phalanx of television lights. A wall of cameras, both film and still, gathered footage for the world. T.C. was introduced by the attorney general and spoke in artfully constructed sentences that had been written by his assistants and approved, word by word, by his yes men. The operation had been called Dropkick for the press’s consumption. (“The public loves a classic military-code name,” T.C. had said.) Newspapers, magazines, and television news had played and replayed the death, destruction, and drama in New Orleans. Martin Fletcher and Kurt Steiner had been tagged narco-terrorists. Since the Oklahoma City bombing, the word “terrorist” had guaranteed attention. The biggest news had been the list of the DEA’s top-secret devices that had been used to bring him down and would be used in the future against others of his kind. There were also hints of other advances too sensitive to name.

Paul Masterson’s name was absent from the text.

T.C. began by congratulating everyone (too numerous to mention) who had been involved. But even though he named a few people, it was clear he was taking full credit.

A veteran network newsman, a tall, narrow-shouldered man with acne scars and hair like a black tortilla glued to his head, raised his hand and stood when T.C. pointed to him. “Sam?”

“Mr. Director, are we to believe that all of this, including the bombs that killed”-he looked at his paper-“let’s see… twenty-two people-civilians in New Orleans, members of the New Orleans police, DEA personnel, the United States Coast Guard, twelve dead civilians in Dallas-that all this was the work of just two men? The same two men, Mr. Martin Fletcher and Mr. Kurt Steiner, responsible for up to some thirty other homicides over the past six years? And any number of other crimes, including drug trafficking, bombings, and contract killings, and-well, the list is staggering.”

“That’s correct, Sam. We’re not sure of the exact number in all related cases, but I’d guess that estimate is low, if anything. Martin Fletcher was the most dangerous terrorist we”-he looked at the attorney general, who stood smiling uneasily with her assistants on one side of the riser, and nodded at her-“at the Justice Department have ever taken out of action. And let me say that every effort was made to take Martin Fletcher alive.”

Robertson smiled. He felt the hero-hell, he was a hero. He had managed to capture most of the credit for taking a nightmare terrorist out. Inviting the attorney general to join him was an ass-kissing exercise, since she had not been in on the loop. The operation had been expensive in lives, but the public loved the drama of it. He was certain that no one could keep him out of the director’s chair now. Maybe there would be an even bigger payoff. He had been thinking that he could actually be President, or at least attorney general, in the not too distant future.

“Mr. Robertson,” Sam went on, “I have had certain information brought to my attention that you also hired a man by the name of George Spivey, known to sources in the CIA as a cleaner, or hit man, to help in the capture of these two admittedly dangerous men. He was killed aboard the Shadowfax, a boat owned by the DEA.”

T.C. wondered how much Sam knew. He couldn’t risk stonewalling. “True. I can’t discuss this sensitive…” The boat’s ownership traced back to us?

“Isn’t it true that he was put in place in New Orleans over a year ago and you paid him with DEA funds?”

“Mr. George Spivey was a military-trained professional and a patriotic American. These men he was after were”-he smiled-“terrorists. I have done nothing illegal, Sam. Sometimes it takes tough, not altogether palatable men to catch the sort of monsters who are threats to our national security, our citizens. I hired him as soon as I had identified these men, and paid his expenses. He was the best available to us.”

T.C. noticed the attorney general was fidgeting.

For the first time since the floor was opened for questions, no other hands were up in the room. All eyes were riveted on the veteran newsman and the acting director. The pros smelled blood.

The attorney general was physically moving away from Robertson-distancing herself. She seemed to spot someone in the wings, raised her hand, and then walked off the riser, followed down the hall by her assistants.

“Sir?”

T.C. tugged at his collar and smiled nervously. “Sam, maybe we should let someone else ask-”

“One more question, sir. Can you explain why, when you knew these two men were killing the family members of former agents of the DEA, you neither alerted them, specifically Special Agent in Charge Rainey Lee or the recently reactivated Special Agent in Charge Paul Masterson, nor any members of their families, that they were targets of these two maniacs who you yourself have described as the most dangerous men on the face of the earth? Maniacs who, after you had identified them, still killed the entire family of Rainey Lee and a Cub Scout leader and mother of three. Didn’t you, in effect, sentence a large number of innocent people to death by your actions?”

“Sam…” T.C.’s face suddenly looked like bleached bone. “I… I… I resent that insinuation! You have no proof for this allegation and I resent the implications.”

His assistant, a young attorney with a glued-on smile, covered the microphone with his hand, and he and T.C. had a few words.

“Sir,” T.C. said, “on the advice of counsel, and considering the question of national security, I must respectfully refuse to answer that question.”

“On what grounds?” Sam asked incredulously.

“On the grounds that… on the… because,” he stuttered, and wiped at his brow. Then he said, “Gentle… ladies and men, this press conference is over.”

The room exploded; flashes illuminated the dais, a hundred voices were raised in an attempt to get another question answered, and print reporters went running from the room to capture a telephone as T.C. Robertson bolted.