she said, raising her glass.
We both drank, I think,
to absent friends. Then our waiter descended upon us, presenting us with a
large salad of greens and red onions, dressed with oil and vinegar and a
sprinkling of coarse sea salt. Karen and I helped ourselves to generous
portions.
“So why the interest in
Epstein?” she said.
“It's this missing
persons case I'm working on.”
While we finished our
salads, I brought her up to date on everything, and my theory about Ken Boyd's
possible involvement with eco-terrorism. By the time I'd finished, the waiters
were clearing the salad plates and using a small metal blade to rake up the
bread crumbs I'd managed to scatter everywhere.
“Seems pretty thin,” she
said, when I was done.
“Anorexic, but it's all
I've got. Besides, you could have told me it was thin over the phone.”
She nodded, and took a
drink. Again, a waiter magically appeared and refilled it from the pitcher,
which was close to empty now.
“Better get another,”
she told him.
As he moved off, more
servers appeared bearing two metal tureens of Mariscada, a platter of seasoned
yellow rice, and a plate of homemade potato chips. I gallantly waited for Karen
to spoon some rice onto her plate. Then it was my turn. I took two large
spoonfuls and ladled a helping of the seafood stew over them. For the next few
minutes, nothing was said as we dug into our meal.
Finally, Karen paused to
refill her glass from the new pitcher. “Let's say, just two friends talking
here, nothing official, but those reporters were on the right track, although
it might be better to describe Epstein as a dispatcher or, I don't know, air
traffic controller, rather than a mastermind.”
“How so?”
“He makes connections,
passing on one group or individual to another, and always through additional
cut outs. The two never meet; never even have to know who the other person is.
Hell, I'm not even sure Epstein knows many of the people he works with. He
earned his stripes in the anti-war movement back in the 60's and 70's, working
with the SDS and Panthers. He saw the mistakes those groups made and corrected
them.” She took a drink. “The KGB could learn from the way this network is
organized, if you can even call it that. They aren't structured in the way
we’re used to with spy networks or terrorist groups. Sometimes it’s almost dumb
luck that one of these 'direct action' plots gets off the ground.”
“How does it work when
it does work?”
“Epstein identifies a
target, or has it identified for him by some interested party. He writes
articles, ginning up the faithful. We suspect there may be actual instructions
in some of the online articles. In the old days it was probably a basic code,
but now we suspect he’s gotten more sophisticated, hiding information in JPEG
pixels, for example, but we haven't been able to prove it. Anyway, somehow a
loose collection of die hards comes together, generates a plan and, poof, an
SUV dealership goes up in flames or lab animals get set loose.”
“They’ve got to be based
somewhere. You don’t just drive up to a target in the Scooby van.”
“There’s often a local,
someone living in the target area, not involved in the act, but sympathetic,
who provides reconnaissance, photos, videos, sometimes a safe house. We assume
Epstein mines his list of subscribers and someone watches them for a while,
then approaches with an offer to contribute to the cause.”
“The enabler.” I put my fork
down. “Someone like this Roger character. What do you know about him?”
“That name hasn't come
up, but your description fits someone we've heard about.” She smiled. “He uses
different names each time. We call him the Lone Ranger, because he just seems to
pop up out of nowhere, organize a raid or protest, and then disappear. When
things fall apart, and we manage to catch some people, he's never one of them.”
“Why do you think it's
him?”
“Your description.
Blonde, good-looking
We both drank, I think,
to absent friends. Then our waiter descended upon us, presenting us with a
large salad of greens and red onions, dressed with oil and vinegar and a
sprinkling of coarse sea salt. Karen and I helped ourselves to generous
portions.
“So why the interest in
Epstein?” she said.
“It's this missing
persons case I'm working on.”
While we finished our
salads, I brought her up to date on everything, and my theory about Ken Boyd's
possible involvement with eco-terrorism. By the time I'd finished, the waiters
were clearing the salad plates and using a small metal blade to rake up the
bread crumbs I'd managed to scatter everywhere.
“Seems pretty thin,” she
said, when I was done.
“Anorexic, but it's all
I've got. Besides, you could have told me it was thin over the phone.”
She nodded, and took a
drink. Again, a waiter magically appeared and refilled it from the pitcher,
which was close to empty now.
“Better get another,”
she told him.
As he moved off, more
servers appeared bearing two metal tureens of Mariscada, a platter of seasoned
yellow rice, and a plate of homemade potato chips. I gallantly waited for Karen
to spoon some rice onto her plate. Then it was my turn. I took two large
spoonfuls and ladled a helping of the seafood stew over them. For the next few
minutes, nothing was said as we dug into our meal.
Finally, Karen paused to
refill her glass from the new pitcher. “Let's say, just two friends talking
here, nothing official, but those reporters were on the right track, although
it might be better to describe Epstein as a dispatcher or, I don't know, air
traffic controller, rather than a mastermind.”
“How so?”
“He makes connections,
passing on one group or individual to another, and always through additional
cut outs. The two never meet; never even have to know who the other person is.
Hell, I'm not even sure Epstein knows many of the people he works with. He
earned his stripes in the anti-war movement back in the 60's and 70's, working
with the SDS and Panthers. He saw the mistakes those groups made and corrected
them.” She took a drink. “The KGB could learn from the way this network is
organized, if you can even call it that. They aren't structured in the way
we’re used to with spy networks or terrorist groups. Sometimes it’s almost dumb
luck that one of these 'direct action' plots gets off the ground.”
“How does it work when
it does work?”
“Epstein identifies a
target, or has it identified for him by some interested party. He writes
articles, ginning up the faithful. We suspect there may be actual instructions
in some of the online articles. In the old days it was probably a basic code,
but now we suspect he’s gotten more sophisticated, hiding information in JPEG
pixels, for example, but we haven't been able to prove it. Anyway, somehow a
loose collection of die hards comes together, generates a plan and, poof, an
SUV dealership goes up in flames or lab animals get set loose.”
“They’ve got to be based
somewhere. You don’t just drive up to a target in the Scooby van.”
“There’s often a local,
someone living in the target area, not involved in the act, but sympathetic,
who provides reconnaissance, photos, videos, sometimes a safe house. We assume
Epstein mines his list of subscribers and someone watches them for a while,
then approaches with an offer to contribute to the cause.”
“The enabler.” I put my fork
down. “Someone like this Roger character. What do you know about him?”
“That name hasn't come
up, but your description fits someone we've heard about.” She smiled. “He uses
different names each time. We call him the Lone Ranger, because he just seems to
pop up out of nowhere, organize a raid or protest, and then disappear. When
things fall apart, and we manage to catch some people, he's never one of them.”
“Why do you think it's
him?”
“Your description.
Blonde, good-looking
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