well-dressed bouncer at a private nightclub. His stare could easily be mistaken as vacant while, in fact, his mind analyzed and processed every move his opponent made. He used the image of all brawn, no brains to his advantage and had even been rumored to play it up every chance he got.
A.D. Kunze’s superiors called him straightforward and quick-thinking. Maggie considered him reactive and impulsive. Colleagues described him as determined, focused and passionate. Maggie saw him as unpredictable, short-tempered and vindictive. In plain English, a petty brute of a man who didn’t deserve to walk in Kyle Cunningham’s shadow let alone take over his position.
Previous to Kunze being assigned interim assistant director of the Behavioral Science Unit Maggie had never worked with the man, and yet he came to the position loaded with an unshakable perception of her, a preconceived misperception. Evidently her reputation of bending the rules was something Kunze had no patience for. His accusation that Maggie and Agent Tully had contributed to Assistant Director Cunningham’s death somehow, by their individual negligence in the case, was absurd. Why Kunze insisted on using it against them puzzled her. It almost seemed ridiculous, except that Maggie knew Kunze might actually be able to pull it off.
Inside the file folder were poor-quality copies of memorandums about several phone calls and e-mails. They seemed standard fare. The group called itself Citizens for American Pride, CAP for short. Maggie was familiar with the group and similar ones. Most of them had gained popularity through the Internet and on college campuses. Their missions weren’t all that different from the white supremacist groups of the ’80s and ’90s, which they disguised with a veil of normalcy and a level of legitimacy.
Instead of holing up in cabins or compounds, the groups—always professing America pride and ideals—held family picnics, sometimes church sponsored, though not affiliated with any one church or Christian denomination. They held rallies on college campuses. From what Maggie remembered, most of the groups preached family values and focused on putting an end to exporting jobs, stopping the floodgate of immigrants coming across the border and encouraging the purchase of American-made products. Maggie remembered recently seeing, as the holiday shopping season began, a full-page ad in USA Today , sponsored by Citizens for American Pride, calling for a boycott of electronic games. Their reasoning being that they wanted to prevent the addiction and destruction of American youths.
Picnics, boycotts, rallies, advertising campaigns—none of it sounded like a group capable of bombing a crowded shopping mall.
Maggie was about to ask what basis they had to take these particular threats seriously when a flight attendant interrupted.
“What can I get for the four of you?”
Kunze ordered coffee, black. The other two men nodded in unison for Maggie to go next. Kunze wasn’t rattled in the least, nor apologetic.
“A Diet Pepsi,” Maggie said.
Wurth asked for the same. Then Senator Foster gave instructions for a gin martini that required a three-step process.
“Do you have anything onboard to eat?” Maggie stopped the attendant before she turned to leave. “I haven’t eaten yet today.” She thought of the spread of food she had prepared and left for her friends and her stomach felt hollow.
“I’m certain I can find something.”
“Yeah, food would be a good idea,” Wurth agreed.
This time Maggie saw Kunze scowl at the deputy director. She kept a smile to herself as she went back to sifting through the file folder. Perhaps she had found an ally in Wurth.
CHAPTER
16
Mall of America
BECCA, DON’T TRUST ANYONE—DIXON
T hat was the text message that had flashed on the screen of Dixon’s iPhone. Rebecca noticed it when she started ripping out the lining of her coat and the phone fell out of her coat pocket. She
A.D. Kunze’s superiors called him straightforward and quick-thinking. Maggie considered him reactive and impulsive. Colleagues described him as determined, focused and passionate. Maggie saw him as unpredictable, short-tempered and vindictive. In plain English, a petty brute of a man who didn’t deserve to walk in Kyle Cunningham’s shadow let alone take over his position.
Previous to Kunze being assigned interim assistant director of the Behavioral Science Unit Maggie had never worked with the man, and yet he came to the position loaded with an unshakable perception of her, a preconceived misperception. Evidently her reputation of bending the rules was something Kunze had no patience for. His accusation that Maggie and Agent Tully had contributed to Assistant Director Cunningham’s death somehow, by their individual negligence in the case, was absurd. Why Kunze insisted on using it against them puzzled her. It almost seemed ridiculous, except that Maggie knew Kunze might actually be able to pull it off.
Inside the file folder were poor-quality copies of memorandums about several phone calls and e-mails. They seemed standard fare. The group called itself Citizens for American Pride, CAP for short. Maggie was familiar with the group and similar ones. Most of them had gained popularity through the Internet and on college campuses. Their missions weren’t all that different from the white supremacist groups of the ’80s and ’90s, which they disguised with a veil of normalcy and a level of legitimacy.
Instead of holing up in cabins or compounds, the groups—always professing America pride and ideals—held family picnics, sometimes church sponsored, though not affiliated with any one church or Christian denomination. They held rallies on college campuses. From what Maggie remembered, most of the groups preached family values and focused on putting an end to exporting jobs, stopping the floodgate of immigrants coming across the border and encouraging the purchase of American-made products. Maggie remembered recently seeing, as the holiday shopping season began, a full-page ad in USA Today , sponsored by Citizens for American Pride, calling for a boycott of electronic games. Their reasoning being that they wanted to prevent the addiction and destruction of American youths.
Picnics, boycotts, rallies, advertising campaigns—none of it sounded like a group capable of bombing a crowded shopping mall.
Maggie was about to ask what basis they had to take these particular threats seriously when a flight attendant interrupted.
“What can I get for the four of you?”
Kunze ordered coffee, black. The other two men nodded in unison for Maggie to go next. Kunze wasn’t rattled in the least, nor apologetic.
“A Diet Pepsi,” Maggie said.
Wurth asked for the same. Then Senator Foster gave instructions for a gin martini that required a three-step process.
“Do you have anything onboard to eat?” Maggie stopped the attendant before she turned to leave. “I haven’t eaten yet today.” She thought of the spread of food she had prepared and left for her friends and her stomach felt hollow.
“I’m certain I can find something.”
“Yeah, food would be a good idea,” Wurth agreed.
This time Maggie saw Kunze scowl at the deputy director. She kept a smile to herself as she went back to sifting through the file folder. Perhaps she had found an ally in Wurth.
CHAPTER
16
Mall of America
BECCA, DON’T TRUST ANYONE—DIXON
T hat was the text message that had flashed on the screen of Dixon’s iPhone. Rebecca noticed it when she started ripping out the lining of her coat and the phone fell out of her coat pocket. She
Similar Books
