Light This Firecracker

152.

We spend the next three and half hours in debate. I moderate attempting to remain as neutrally objective as perhaps a father might be when discussing the merits of his firstborn son. The three contributors have each shared a significant role in the germination of this brainchild, but it is still my baby. It will mature and grow, develop and learn, live and die, in direct relationship to the positive energy that I provide. 

At 1130 it is done, the changes minor, but important, and the overall concept, the soup to nuts strategy and subsequent tactical blueprint is in place. I have the edits and changes to make before sending off the final rendering for the good-to-go approval. 

And then it is off to present the document to TOM. 

A thousand questions circle my consciousness like buzzards over deserted desert roadkill. 

* Am I placing too much responsibility on the shoulders of a teen-ager, the newest member of our group who is currently ‘employed’ by the terrorist organization we are about to launch a deadly offensive against? 

* Are we asking too much of TOM by needing him to overtly authorize and knowingly break several laws and professional protocols as his part in the operation?

*Are the odds of us springing Big from a Super Max site the equivalent of a snowball’s chance in hell?

*Will Her Majesty be able to successfully hack into a world-class security system and create the chaos and diversion necessary for the breakout to work?

* Assuming that EVERYTHING goes according to plan up to the point where we sit Big, The Senator, his Vegas bankroller, Bartowski and Friedman together in the same room, will she be able to provide the proof of concept necessary for them to bite? 

* Will Davis, Saunders and Drysdale be up to the task of creating an authentic looking major-league distraction as we go about our work?

* Is Hartaugh going to smell a rat?

Upon completion of the creative, I have about twenty minutes before it’s time to head to the office and meet with TOM. I take another shower, thank goodness I had the foresight to ask room service for a few extra towels, and dress for the momentous occasion. I will be the lead in the presentation and even though the three others in attendance are friends, teammates and colleagues in a professional fellowship, I want to look every bit like their captain. This effort, from this point onwards and upwards, must be a focused and united exercise, with no hesitation and unbending dedication to its success. 

For security reasons no hardcopy of the document is necessary. Having sent the final revision to TOM via our secure server, I clean my hard drive and erase all tangential files. I pack my minimalist belongings and check out of the hotel and drive the short distance to the office.

I meet Harlan in the lobby and he looks a lot better than he probably feels. We got a lot of work done in a very short period of time. We are discussing our respective feelings on the plan when Julie walks in looking as if this was just another day in the life, her perfume the subtle scent of confidence. 

The three of us take the elevator up and enter the office. TOM is sitting in his office behind his huge desk, having just ended a phone call. 

He invites us to sit and we take our familiar positions in the uncomfortable chairs and do our best to settle in. 

It is quiet. No one knows quite how to begin. Finally Tom clears his throat, always an indication of a speech to follow. He does not disappoint.

“A wise man once told me to plan with audacity and execute with passion. You have each done an outstanding job in the creation of this manifesto and I am honored to have such a noble part to play in it,” he says — and I get the feeling that he knows how close he came to having no part at all. “So I won’t bore you with minutiae” he continues, “I do, however, have a somewhat pithy motivational suggestion before the official stamp of approval goes down.”

Like a skilled toastmaster he pauses to allow us to consider the largess implications before finally delivering his out of character decree. 

“Let’s light this firecracker with a fucking blowtorch.” 

Five Minutes Tardy

151.

Fresh from a deep sleep I start a pot of coffee and head to the shower. Once the odor of herbal shampoo wears down the suite is overtaken by the magical aroma of freshly brewed Italian roast. My job this early morning is to detail the final edit of the document and have it ready for presentation by 0800. 

First cup of Joe just to the right of my laptop, I launch the program, navigate through the encryption and steady myself for the task. I like the play. Sure, there are areas in question, risky segments and the need for everything to go perfectly according to Rube Goldberg rules, BUT, I like the odds. 

I am, however, undecided over the TMC protocol. This quandary needs resolution fast as its implication will determine a number of events that sooner or later must be resolved. The success of the mission rests solely on this singular decision and its subsequent execution. The issue is further clouded by the dynamic that all three of my co-authors have varying opinions on this specific matter, one saying yes, one advising no and one cautioning a maybe. It is my call and the time for that decision is now. 

As quickly as I sat, determined focus to finish the opus, I stand to stretch hoping in some mystical, magical or miraculous way to wring an answer from stretched muscle groups. After all, I consider, the dynamic tension and release of yoga was originally used as preparation for deep meditation and meditation sometimes leads to enlightenment. I need to accelerate this process and get to the mountaintop of enlightenment in less than an hour. 

With a firm commitment and a motivated sense of urgency, experienced climbers are said to find the ability, known technically as dynamic flow-state, to scale peaks once considered impossible. The apex of that hill is my target. 

Step one is always step one. Get started and then keep moving. I return to my desk and follow the lead of the cosmic sherpa. 

Believing in the tangential powers of a pure heart and honesty being the best non-political policy, I decide to bare our souls to TOM and pray for his understanding and support. Without either we are up the legal creek without a good paddle or a cheap lawyer. 

I finish the final edit, make the corrections and send the document to the waiting threesome. I give then one hour to scan and absorb before our 0800 conference call. I use that time to go for a run, fifteen hard minutes out and a recovery pace back. 

At exactly 0800 I initiate the call. Julie in, Harlan in and the Queen not answering. Nonplussed I begin with a few ground rules mostly concerning variations to the existing structure and any major suggestions on format deviation. The decision on TMC protocol is final. Debates will be ended after five minutes and may the force be with us. I am completing my opening remarks when the Queen logs on with an apology for being late. She is advised of our rules and hopefully reads between the lines from my tone of voice that it is both executive and judicial. 

It is 0805.

We begin the most important conversation of our professional lives five minutes tardy. 

Push Coming to Shove

150.

With frequency bias, or more specifically the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon in full play, I read her proposal with special interest, as a surgeon might read a technical paper on revolutionary ER techniques. I amazed at the similarity between her concise vision of the plan, and my own. They may not be great minds but they are thinking alike, and there is often great power in that alone. 

The major obstacle will obviously be in springing Big. Housed along with a who’s who of International criminals and terrorists at the ADX Super Max site in Florence, Colorado, the facility smugly boasting of having a perfect ‘non-escape’ record, any scheme to break that streak would take skill, cunning, bravado a little luck and a damn good reason. 

It serendipitously strikes me as something so impossibly ludicrous, so unthinkable, borderline insane that it might be feasible simply because it has never been successfully done. Until now? We have the skill, the cunning is current, bravado is in our DNA, we believe that luck is the residue of design and our reason is pure poetic justice. 

The encoded document sent by Her Majesty is brilliant. Flawless and concise, it is a timeline of an opportunistic covert counter-terror operation, equal in parts of espionage, intelligence, tactical acumen and modern technological expertise. As I re-read and make notations with my red extra-fine Sharpie, I am amazed at how similar her finished product is to my rough outline. There are a few minor issues that need subtle editing for a more ‘mature’ application, but for the most part, it is ninety-percent ready to roll. 

But I am standing in the middle of the road over her plan to create a tactical diversion as I continue to feel that our best chance of success comes from a united effort and not, as she suggests, from an internal game of intelligence keep-away. It has long been my experience that if a company, team, business or branch of government is to be successful the slightest hint of an executive level hidden agenda will disrupt, decay and destroy any long-term benefit. History has a funny way of reminding us the validity of this reality — but — in our line of work there is compensation made to the end justifying the means, or as The Phoenix was fond of saying, “I don’t care how you do it, just do it, and don’t implicate me in the process.” Any politician that says he is not a crook, a racist, a homophobe or a misyoginist, usually is. 

All begging the question, do we include TOM in the blatant illegality of the operation’s finer points? 

After a hot shower, a frozen peach protein smoothie and a ten minute sit on the zafu, the answer arrives in the solidly affirmative. Still I have built in a few options that will only be initiated under a preselected set of circumstances. I call this the TMC protocol and see it as a ready for use fail safe. The titular initials lifted from an eerily similar plot-twist in the famous spy novel The Manchurian Candidate. 

Almost satisfied with the shaping of the five-page document, I decide to re-read from the top and then take a nap to rest and recover. That will leave me with about eight hours before the meeting. I check in with Harlan and Julie for their comments. As expected Julie wants TOM involved in everything, and Harlan wants him to have nothing to do with it, tossing the plausible deniability card on the table. 

I remind them that I am the tie-breaker, thank them for their tireless efforts and advise the same course of action as I am immediately initiating, asking also for a 0800 burners-only conference call with ourselves and the QoH. 

They agree and sign off, leaving us with three precious hours of restorative down time. 

Frequency bias tells me that a push is coming to a high-speed confrontation with shove. 

We Should Continue

149.

“A pair of fresh burners, on a secure line with two additional layers of encryption outta keep it between our ears only,” She solemnly states. 

“A least for now,” I add, “but let's code the players none-the-less. What are you up to?

“No mucho. Since Big is vacationing all activity has pretty much come to a grinding halt. We are still running intelligence and testing programs, but any plans, targets or activities of our usual subversive variety are asleep at the wheel. Big is the guy there and when he went down, everything else followed. With one exception.”

“Go on.”

“I understand through the grapevine that you had a, shall we say, ‘incident’ with two DC low-lifes? 

“Bad news travels fast. How the heck did you…never mind…what about ‘em?"

“Somebody well connected assigned them to make a power play on us while we’re compromised. They have been trying, and I mean that literally, to hack into our systems to get what I imagine is something dirty to blackmail us with. The jerk-off acting as bag-man between us and the money guys also, get this, works for your pal the Senator from Carolina.” 

“Yes, we know all that, I managed to record some audio and incriminating video of them at a coffee shop, the bread crumbs lead, albeit circuitously back to him. But here is the current situation; tonight Julie, myself and our legal expert are drafting a plan of action to present to TOM at 1300 tomorrow. There are two goals, crisp and clean. It is my job to craft the language and detail the master plan in order to get TOM to buy into it and run political interference while we orchestrate the strategy.” 

“Let me guess.”

“Go.”

“You want to bury MBI for good and take down the Senator in one covert sting of SEAL-like efficiency.” 

“That would do nicely, yes, good guess. Got any thoughts?”

“I do.”

“Care to share?”

“Well, I have witnessed first-hand your taste for jail breaks, so I am curious as to what your pain threshold on bending a few rules to spring the bait might be?” 

“The bait?”

“Big.”

“Big? He is in maximum security with no bail awaiting trial on two counts of murder one and domestic terrorism. He is the biggest fish we have. But since I know your patterns of creative thought, I’ll bite, what or who would he be bait for?" I protest.

“We set up a billion dollar scam, stock-market, insider trading, power and money all on one buy, and set the wheels in motion to combine the three majors and their underling boot-lickers in a con. Big is the guy. There are strings attached. The Vegas money-man and the former plantation owner each have their own weakness. We put them together for a once-in-a-lifetime score, and then you ride in and bust them all to kingdom come. We need Big to play this part, nobody else can so it. I have some codes, all we need is backup in the line of fire. I also have a detailed outline that I will send you as soon as I hear you say, we should continue.” 

The silence that ensues deafens four continents and several third-world countries. I picture her on the other end sitting patiently filing her nails.

I have never been a fan of asking ‘what have we got to lose?’ but in this case, it fits. 

“We should continue.” 

She Has An Idea

148.

Two central questions darken the detail of my plan like a fast moving summer storm. I decide to invest a few moments of tangential exploration of their possibilities and challenges before getting back to the primary task. The pair of unknowns;

1) How much leeway is TOM willing to give us? Will we need to be ever cautious of the need for plausible deniability or might he, at the helm for perhaps the final voyage of the spectacular journey of his tenure, allow the captain and crew to assume navigational responsibilities? By his own admission, this, the cyber warfare game, is not his cup of tea, leading the threesome currently burning gallons of midnight oil, to assume that provided a flawless outline sold with gumption and audacity, he might play a more ‘supporting’ role. 

2) How much can I leverage the safety of my team? I have no issues whatsoever in putting myself in the danger zone, but when it comes to asking others, no matter their relentless willingness to perform the heroic, history of meritorious service and unquestioned bravery, into the same line of fire, I reconsider. I cannot rationally, patriotically or professionally ask Julie, TOM, Harlan, Drysdale, Davis, Saunders or any other members of our squad, including our assets and especially the Queen herself, to take that risk and make that sacrifice. 

It is at this juncture of the document creation, pondering these issues that I stop cold. 

I am over thinking it. Placing the cart filled morals and ethics ahead of the horse wanting only to serve his master and feel the deep satisfaction from a selfless act. These people whose lives I am trying to protect are the superheroes of our society, heroes on a stage where more often than not, evil, treachery, sedition, mayhem and murder win out. People like this look for challenge, they seek-out opportunities to test themselves. They appreciate the preparation, the moment of truth and the resulting bonds created through intense, and sometimes deadly, confrontations. They are, they have and they continue to embody the warrior spirit. They are the protectors of truth, beauty and justice.

I would be doing them a quantum disservice by NOT asking them for the complete, the irrational and the impossible. THAT is their diet, appetite and craving. 

Inspired by my own conclusion, the outline starts to take a shape rather than a few hastily sketched circles, arrows and thought bubbles. 

We need to somehow entice, lure, the major players into an unholy alliance. An alliance preying on their greed, corruption, socio-pathology and common desire for controlling interest in the power game of politics and money. Everything else is small potatoes, ego and image is everything. 

Harlan calls, he is concerned about entrapment issues.

Julie texts, she is worried about Hartaugh going off the rails. 

TOM offers his fellowship.

The opening riff of Purple Haze on my SOS burner signals that the QoH is on the line. 

Without the formality of a hello Violet Hayes says she has an idea. 

A Couple of Motivated Marines

147.

We skip our usual post-game barley pops, this time opting for protein smoothies at the juice bar. Neither one of us is wanting to compromise the focus necessary to complete the assignment. Harlan going as far as to comment that this one is like his masters effort, a thousand words on saving the free-world from fascism. I completely agree, with the caveat that his is the legal side and mine the tactical. Before our drinks are halfway done we reach the conclusion that both elements will play important parts in the strategy. 

We part company heading to our respective think-tank isolation chambers. We have agreed to provide hourly updates on each others progress as the master plan incubates, the collective brain-child of a constitutional law expert and a field savvy tactical mastermind. 

In the elegant office space of my hotel suite I open the MacBook Pro and go to work, deciding to outline the plan using reverse chronology. I find that it sometimes helps to state the mission’s primary objectives first and then work backwards from there. As they say if you don’t know your desired port, no wind or wave is ideal. 

DISABLE MBI AND TAKE THE SENATOR DOWN 

I type and read. A thousand scenarios play out in my mind. The easy one, a forceful coup, is out. The days of us storming an embassy and installing a puppet government to do our bidding are gone, replaced by the modern version of cyber warfare and the court of public opinion as presided over by social media. In this particular scenario, bth idioms are in play as the Senator is decidedly old school and MBI, with The Queen of Hearts, a world-class hackstress at the con, is state of the art. To be successful we will need to leverage both. 

It becomes quickly apparent that we will need to involve our MBI asset from the get-go. 

I am prodding along in my grossly inefficient two-finger hunt and peck style when the cell buzzes.

“Guy’s name is Patterson Friedman, a long time Hartaugh associate, one-time aide and now personal fixer for the Senator, he works off-book mostly cleaning up after Hartaugh pukes somewhere, and has a long history of working with your boy Bartowsky, a barely legal team of street-smart henchmen. I met him once at a fund-raiser dinner in Columbia and it took me a week to wash off the stench. But he is smart and connected managing to leverage his political clout with lobbyists, mostly NRA, big tobacco and Pharma and several military contractors. You remember the Pentagon fraud, waste and abuse scandal a few years back about the missing billion dollars? Guess who ran that scam? New York City U, wife, two kids, Redskins fan. Classic republican eunuch, a real piece of work. Hartaugh loves him.” 

“How old are his kids?” I ask.

Julie is silent for a beat pondering the implications of my question but soon gets the message and says, “Angie is six and Trey is five. How are you doing?”

“Just getting started, Harlan and I are comparing notes to stay on task. How was the fallout?

“The usual. TOM sees this is the most important assignment any of us will encounter in our lifetimes, not to mention careers, so he is understandably leaning on his best people, you and Harlan especially, to rise to the occasion.” 

“And you,” I offer, “we need all hands on deck.”

“Agreed, I will be working late, would you include me in your correspondence with Harlan?”

“Of course.”

“OK, thanks. You think we got a chance with this?”

“None.”

“None?”

“Thousand to one, about the same odds as me beating Harlan in a best of five series.”

“But it could happen?”

“Remember what Cap used to say?”

“I do; ‘Nothing is impossible with enough focused effort and a couple of motivated Marines.’” 

“Hoo-ahh. Talk soon.” 

Let'd Do This Thing

146.

Harlan misses an easy five footer, a rarity for the sharp-shooting former college all-star. He knows my background as well and prepares himself for the classic confrontation of speed and agility versus strength and power. I use my body to move him off the spot and grab the rebound. For the last several years we have used Dr. Naismith’s remedy as a metaphorical stress buster. Our game is half trash talk and half stream of consciousness rap on the assignment du jour. 

“If you could lawyer-up like you reverse layup, we might will a game or two,” I say challenging both his profession and passion. 

“And if you could follow the rule book a little closer, ya know, be a team player, we might all stay out of the slammer long enough to close a case.” He returns hitting a sweet left handed jumper from the charity stripe. 

Our one-on-one slugfest is in overtime, tied at twenty-one. We normally play to ten, but today, with a two point margin necessary for victory, neither side is giving an inch. Harlan’s shot puts the game in his advantage. I am bringing the ball in from the imaginary boundary needing a score to stay alive. 

“The current plan calls for intentional infiltration of the Senator’s black-ops with our plant at MBI, what do you call her, the Queen? That is some ballsy espionage shit right there Mr Can’t Jump for Jack.” He is hand checking me with an aggression designed to keep me off balance and challenge my very core with a cheap second-guess pot-shot. 

I decide to take it right at him and use a rocker-step spin move designed to create enough space to move right, which is my tendency and he knows it, and then pull up as fast as possible for a medium range jump shot. 

“Yeah that is the understanding hot-dog but it has some special intricacies that need a lot of things to go perfectly to plan in order to work, personally I think it is too risky, but…” I use the verbal pause to pivot to my left, pull up and take the shot. The time and body position compromised by my ball transfer from left to right hand costs me the goal. 

I miss, using too much emphasis and too little finesse on the trajectory. I try to muscle for the rebound but Harlan effortlessly soars above me and grabs the rock. 

He clears it at the top of the key and stands dribbling while looking directly into my soul through the portal of my eyes. 

“TOM, rightfully, asked for our best work. This is the championship game my friend, match freaking point. If we are going to win this one it will take everything we’ve got, we all need to up our games, fast, like… right… now.” 

With a first step of undetectable quickness he fakes right, spins left, pulls up and nails the game winner hitting nothing but net. There is no defending this graceful athletic hoop choreography. I am in awe with shattered ankles and destroyed ego. 

I stand sweating, holding the ball against my hip, contest over. 

“Nice game.” I offer along with my part in a high five. 

“Big one is coming up brother, let’s do this thing.” 

Refried Beans at Gitmo

145.

TOM is first to respond, saying it appears to be an off-book aide of the Senator. He gives a quick biographical summary of his nefarious malfeasance and looks to Julie for anything additional she my have in her random access memory. She is scrunching her browns furiously scanning a thousand lines of data at Google speed as we all watch and wait for the search results. 

“I know him,” she says, “from somewhere, Dallas, RNC of ’16, one of Hartaugh’s infamous BBQ’s in Savannah, can’t place it right now.” 

I step in to allow her to relax knowing that the time immediately after intense memory recall is usually the time that the dots connect. As the room hits zero decibels, I risk additional playback of the tape, surprised that no one, especially Harlan, has raised an injury regarding the method of capture or its legality.  

Bartowsky and his ‘now connected to Hartaugh’ associate sit face to face in a sudden-death stare-down. I finally hear the muffled audio track and recoil from the blatant incriminations. 

Bartowsky: How the fuck was I to know that the cops were on my tail? There was no reason to believe that after my fifteen mile detour, as requested, a fucking Prius was in my shadow the entire time? 

Unnamed Coconspirator: You are supposed to be the professional here (he uses the words supposed and professional with maximum sarcasm) and not make stupid mistakes that risk everything we have accomplished so far, or worse, get us arrested and sentenced to spend the rest of our lives eating refried beans from a can at Gitmo. Fucking shit Anton. 

Bartowsky: Look, no damage is done, the Fed, I think he works for the Bureau, told me to just walk and keep it zipped, which I will do because he has my snubbie, and he said to forget about the incident, and then he called me by name, he said Mr. Bartowsky, so they have the goods on me…but not you…or Hart…

Unnamed Coconspirator: (Holding up his hand in the classic STOP gesture) No names, especially THAT one. 

Bartowsky: This joint is clean, nothing to worry about here. 

He says this as they both take another one hundred eighty degree scan of the clientele, including a brief stop on the cleverly and it appears convincingly so, videographer in disguise. 

TOM interrupts the viewing session commenting that we have all seen enough to validate our initial assumptions. Julie somewhat surprisingly seconds the opinion and in a show of executive power stands indicating that the meeting has reached its conclusion. TOM follows her lead and stands as well, he however, retains the right to the final word.

“I want your detailed comments, suggestions and opinions on the existing game plan by tomorrow at 1300. Once completed, please be sure to delete all associated files on your computers as a precaution. We will meet here at that time to formally agree on our course of action. Gentlemen, this is a critical inflection point in the history of our democracy, please give it your best efforts. Thank you and Good Afternoon.” 

Julie stands at relaxed attention indicating she will remain behind. Harlan and I move out of the office and down the hall towards the stairs, He, as I, prefer to get in a little light cardio whenever possible. We jog down the four flights quickly reaching street level. We hit the lobby, cross, and roll through the massive gold revolving doors. We stand on the sidewalk still in a mild state of shock, after all we have just been given the assignment of authoring a thesis on the salvation of our country’s soul. I look at him. 

“Ya wanna shoot some hoop?

Anybody Know This Guy?

144.

As convincingly as he opened the patriotic can of worms, he caps it shut and returns to his stately chair. He calmly gives Julie the floor. 

With impressive flow and impeccable timing she rises to distribute handouts to each of us as she echoes TOM’s opening cry of urgency. 

“Here is what we know about the Senatorial coup currently in operation. The protection of sources of this sensitive intel is paramount, as we find ourselves between the rock of our charter’s mission statement and the hard place of patriotic duty. We believe that the right thing in this delicate paradox is to follow the rules of engagement outlined by law, and not by party loyalty or lobby enrichments. We have a code and we will uphold its minutiae and nuance to the letter.” She pauses to catch her breath and permit the scope of her monologue to linger a second longer. 

It is during this pause that I have time to inhale deeply and add a private and personal amendment to her cautionary rhetoric. By the exhale I have included the parenthetical rider that includes ‘doing whatever it takes’. 

Unsurprisingly she shoots me the ‘I know what you’re thinking look’, and continues.

“That is battle number one on the forefront. Battle number two, on our flank, is the interesting connection between the Senator and MBI. The fact-sheet explains in detail the history behind this unholy alliance and provides a diagram of their hierarchy. You will notice that in each case, the political and the criminal, we have vetted eyes and ears in their war rooms. We believe,” she formally nods to TOM as validation of the consensus plurality, “that with a concentrated intelligence effort we can orchestrate our own coup d’ état, hopefully without the traditionally associated violence and bloodshed.”

My mind is a Formula One race car barely holding traction at speed. ‘Traditional violence and bloodshed? The only thing separating us from rogue mercenaries for hire is our dedication to a code of honor and the backing of the cumbersome machinery of the government, the same entity we are now planning on taking down, through what? Non-violent negotiation?’ My car slams into a retaining wall and bursts into flames. 

She red-dots my eye with a ‘please allow me to finish and then you can update us’ laser. Long ago I quit wondering if she could truly read my mind but this officially removes all remaining doubt. 

“The outline of the mission is included on the third page, please take five minutes to memorize it and return the brief copies to me. The computer files have been deleted and hard drive wiped clean, after our B&E we have significantly increased internal security. In five minutes we will have a Q&A and then dismiss.” 

I stand to stretch and complete the assignment, avoiding any overt physical reactions to the juicy memorandum. I return to the first page and re-scan the entire document just as time expires in regulation. 

Julie collects the paperwork and ceremoniously shreds the copies. TOM oversees the formality then asks for individual updates as promised. 

“Harlan?” He begins. 

Harlan is sharp. A Princeton grad we stole from the State Department several years ago. He is a constitutional lawyer savvy in the distinction between the letter of the law and its pragmatic political reality. He is also a talented pianist, an outstanding hoops point-guard and a beacon of light in the black fashion community. I have often wondered how he keeps his considerable talent and passions independent and segregated. Above all, he is an integral part of our team, personable and professional. 

He provides us with a verbal update on his research into MBI and the financial associations with the Senator. Most interestingly from my perspective are the layers of business, some shady others completely above-board, attributed to each. Like any good crime syndicate, all roads lead to nowhere, the dreaded up-stream dead-end. It is a robust indictment.

TOM looks to me and nods. 

“I am very confident that the thug who recorded our meeting, trashed our office and stole the packets works for Hartaugh.” I disclose. 

Simultaneously surprised and nonplussed, Julie and TOM ask the obvious next question in tandem, “How do you know this?”

I pull the tiny spy cam from my jacket pocket and place it on TOM's desk as if it was an improvised explosive device. Cognizant that this could all end in flames I ask for the use of one of TOM's Macs and USB the file into the image capture utility. 

In amazingly vivid resolution we see Bartowsky and an unidentified suit sitting at Philz Coffee Shop. 

“Anybody know this guy?” 

On Our Watch

143.

I am hustling through the streets of DC to make the 1000 meeting. The ambient vehicular drone an annoying audio artifact as I Bluetooth a quick preview of the tape. Grading the audio quality on a one to ten scale, one being inaudible and ten being pristine, I judge my capture quality at a solid five. The video will have to wait for a rush screening until after our emergency huddle-up. I feel confident that the content of the recordings will prove to be more important than the quality, and begin the quick change back to normal attire as I navigate the rental car one-handed towards The Hill. I have always found it exhilarating to drive with my knees while transitioning from one character to another, in this case from a rock star to a government agent. Inadvertently during this dangerous process I power up the car stereo, rings can be pesky, as Mick and Merry Clayton merge in apocalyptical mayhem:

Ohh see the fire is sweeping

Our very street today

Burns like a red-coal carpet

Mad bull lost its way. 

I park the car and take the stairs to the office, freshly remodeled after the break-in. As always it will take a minute or two to completely remove the ‘it’s just a kiss away’ caterwaul from my focus. 

In the small lobby Harlan is sitting with his briefcase on his lap scribbling notes onto a legal pad. He looks up and smiles, adjusts his earpiece and returns to his work. I glance at my watch and see the digital display roll to 1000 as Julie opens the main office door and invites us in. Harlan instantly ends his exchange, dumps the tools of his trade into the leather case and snaps the dual hinged locks shut with rehearsed choreography. I gesture for him to lead the way and follow into TOMs office. Passing the somewhat stoic Julie I offer as cheerful a “Good Morning” as I can combine in two part harmony with a cheesy smile.

TOM sits behind his desk, a somewhat understated, but very utilitarian, polished maple relic from another era. It could easily have been used by Churchill, Hoover or Jack Kennedy, the only visible upgrade being the pair of Apple computers on each side of the otherwise spartan desktop. To either side of the monitors rest a pair of phones each with a series of speed dial identifiers. An oil portrait of the Founding Fathers seated around their ‘almost’ completed Magnus opus adds to the staid atmosphere of the room. I cringe at the thought of Thomas Jefferson being the Keith Richards of his day. 

TOM stands, greets and asks us to sit with a sweeping gesture of his right hand. The chairs are designed for short term use only, formal to look upon but fatal for anything requiring a sit of more than thirty minutes in perfect posture. I immediately try to find a casual middle ground and end up feeling as if seated at attention. Pulling a notepad from my backpack helps.

“We are in a pinch, a situation in which I am sure you all recognize and appreciate the importance, nuance and danger of,” he dramatically begins. 

“The packets, which I understand were temporarily in the possession of parties other than the addressees,” he visually locks eyes with Julie, sitting immediately to his right, and myself, “hopefully have highlighted both the strategy and tactics necessary to successfully complete this delicate operation.”

I sit poker faced trying to read between the lines of his oratorial preface, aware that my packet contained only three words to that effect. 

“Furthermore, it is now the hottest topic on the Hill as the Senator has all but declared war on us. In the true style of their cherished political traditions, a smear campaign against the very group formulated to preserve their integrity and ability to effectively govern, please read the word ‘power’ into this, is effectively underway. This knife in the back propaganda against the understaffed and overworked team tasked with keeping the American people safe from the ill will of terror, foreign and domestic, is threatening our charter and the funding that guarantees it.” 

He pauses for a sip of water and I hear the clink of ice cubes augmenting the chilling topic. It's just a shot away. 

“In addition, I see this as a personal insult to each of us. Should we lose trust in each other, complete and unequivocal faith in our teammates and allegiance to our mission statement, the battle is lost and the mission has failed.”

He pauses for a beat and then stands moving slightly to his right allowing us to unobstructedly view the magnificent painting and says in a baritone of operatic intensity:

“For two hundred and forty-four years we have faithfully followed the wisdom, courage and ambition that these gentlemen crafted and authored as a blueprint of successful governance. Two hundred and forty-four,” he repeats for emphasis, “the termination of the ideals of democratic freedom represented in that document,” he points to the rolled parchment, “SHALL… NOT… END… ON OUR WATCH.”