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Authors: Hank Phillippi Ryan
Tags: Fiction, Contemporary Women
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“As we discussed, this will be off the record.”
“Off the—?” I say.
“Off the—?” Franklin repeats the dreaded words at the same time. We both know if we agree to “off the record” it means what’s coming is something we’d love to know and that probably no one else knows. A news tidbit made frustratingly unusable because we’re not allowed to put it in our story. We’re dying to hear it because it’s undoubtedly major-league info. Not being able to use it, however, is a major-league pain. Sometimes, there’s a compromise.
“What if we go for modified off-the-record,” I offer. “We could say: ‘we have learned.’ Or: ‘sources close to the FBI say.’ Something along those lines. Not reveal where we got the information, but still be able to use it.” It’s juggling bubbles to haggle over information we don’t have. Make the wrong move and it all disappears.
“Sorry, Charlie,” Keresey says.
Franklin hides a smile with what I know is a fake cough. He knows I hate the tuna-fish line from the old TV commercial.
“But—” I say. I still have more compromises in mind.
“Take it or leave it,” Lattimer points to his watch. “I’ve got another meeting.”
What is this, ultimatum week?
“Okay.” I wave a hand. Defeated. I quickly confirm with Franklin. “Okay?”
He shrugs, and gives me the floor.
“Okay,” I repeat. “Deal. We won’t use it unless we can find out about it on our own.” I mentally cross my fingers. At least that will be easier now because we’ll know what to look for.
“What we can tell you, and this is all we can tell you,” Keresey begins, “is our focus is on the distribution system. The middle men. How the bags get to the parties and to the street dealers. And that’s what we haven’t cracked.”
“Yet.” Lattimer interrupts.
“Yet.” Keresey agrees. “As of this date, there have been two E-As. Both based on CIs. Not in Massachusetts.”
I nod. Enforcement actions. Confidential informants.
“They were both no-go’s,” Keresey continues. “Empty warehouses. Both times. Old barns. Nothing inside. The informant’s info was bogus.” She swallows, then her face goes uncharacteristically somber. She looks at Lattimer.
“We lost two of our agents,” Lattimer says.
“One was killed. One was—”
“Classified.” Lattimer brusquely interrupts her.
“Do you think you received counterfeit information?” I say. “You think someone was trying to lure your agents into a trap?”
“Your question is duly noted,” the SAC replies. “But, I repeat, classified. But now you know Operation Knockoff is no walk in the park. It’s deadly. We’re following big money. International smuggling. Child labor. Legitimate companies ripped off for millions. These bags may be beautiful on the outside, but that’s the ugly reality.”
He picks up what looks like a Burberry shoulder bag with the trademark red-and-camel plaid. Holds it out with two fingers, as if the touch of it is poison. “Greed rules the world,” he says. “It’s a dirty business.”
Franklin and I exchange silent glances as Lattimer turns back to his secret safe. I raise an eyebrow, and know Franklin understands. A dirty business is just what good journalists are looking for. We’re the ones who can help clean it up.
Bring it on.
Chapter Six
I
spear a piece of lettuce, consider it, then reject it. I’m just not hungry. And I can’t remember the last time that happened. Franklin and I are discussing our FBI info in the lunchtime bustle of the Kinsale Restaurant, a faux Irish burger and salad joint favored by clerks, lawyers and blue-uniformed officers from the New Chardon Street Courthouse around the corner. Walking here from FBI headquarters, the Josh-fight memory slithered unpleasantly back into my brain. Now I’ve got my sunglasses back on.
“We’re in a window seat,” I explained unnecessarily to Colleen, our server. As if she cared. “There’s
“Off the—?” I say.
“Off the—?” Franklin repeats the dreaded words at the same time. We both know if we agree to “off the record” it means what’s coming is something we’d love to know and that probably no one else knows. A news tidbit made frustratingly unusable because we’re not allowed to put it in our story. We’re dying to hear it because it’s undoubtedly major-league info. Not being able to use it, however, is a major-league pain. Sometimes, there’s a compromise.
“What if we go for modified off-the-record,” I offer. “We could say: ‘we have learned.’ Or: ‘sources close to the FBI say.’ Something along those lines. Not reveal where we got the information, but still be able to use it.” It’s juggling bubbles to haggle over information we don’t have. Make the wrong move and it all disappears.
“Sorry, Charlie,” Keresey says.
Franklin hides a smile with what I know is a fake cough. He knows I hate the tuna-fish line from the old TV commercial.
“But—” I say. I still have more compromises in mind.
“Take it or leave it,” Lattimer points to his watch. “I’ve got another meeting.”
What is this, ultimatum week?
“Okay.” I wave a hand. Defeated. I quickly confirm with Franklin. “Okay?”
He shrugs, and gives me the floor.
“Okay,” I repeat. “Deal. We won’t use it unless we can find out about it on our own.” I mentally cross my fingers. At least that will be easier now because we’ll know what to look for.
“What we can tell you, and this is all we can tell you,” Keresey begins, “is our focus is on the distribution system. The middle men. How the bags get to the parties and to the street dealers. And that’s what we haven’t cracked.”
“Yet.” Lattimer interrupts.
“Yet.” Keresey agrees. “As of this date, there have been two E-As. Both based on CIs. Not in Massachusetts.”
I nod. Enforcement actions. Confidential informants.
“They were both no-go’s,” Keresey continues. “Empty warehouses. Both times. Old barns. Nothing inside. The informant’s info was bogus.” She swallows, then her face goes uncharacteristically somber. She looks at Lattimer.
“We lost two of our agents,” Lattimer says.
“One was killed. One was—”
“Classified.” Lattimer brusquely interrupts her.
“Do you think you received counterfeit information?” I say. “You think someone was trying to lure your agents into a trap?”
“Your question is duly noted,” the SAC replies. “But, I repeat, classified. But now you know Operation Knockoff is no walk in the park. It’s deadly. We’re following big money. International smuggling. Child labor. Legitimate companies ripped off for millions. These bags may be beautiful on the outside, but that’s the ugly reality.”
He picks up what looks like a Burberry shoulder bag with the trademark red-and-camel plaid. Holds it out with two fingers, as if the touch of it is poison. “Greed rules the world,” he says. “It’s a dirty business.”
Franklin and I exchange silent glances as Lattimer turns back to his secret safe. I raise an eyebrow, and know Franklin understands. A dirty business is just what good journalists are looking for. We’re the ones who can help clean it up.
Bring it on.
Chapter Six
I
spear a piece of lettuce, consider it, then reject it. I’m just not hungry. And I can’t remember the last time that happened. Franklin and I are discussing our FBI info in the lunchtime bustle of the Kinsale Restaurant, a faux Irish burger and salad joint favored by clerks, lawyers and blue-uniformed officers from the New Chardon Street Courthouse around the corner. Walking here from FBI headquarters, the Josh-fight memory slithered unpleasantly back into my brain. Now I’ve got my sunglasses back on.
“We’re in a window seat,” I explained unnecessarily to Colleen, our server. As if she cared. “There’s
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