Page 61 of Dirty Love

What is interesting, though, is how large and enthusiastic a crowd a white supremacist can draw in downtown D.C.

Interesting in a haven’t-we-learned-anything, no-of-course-not kind of way.

I use our visual recognition software to document those in attendance, then flip the display order around so the biggest screen shot is of the room we expect them to use, and the second biggest space on the screen is for the back alley, where I think they’ll arrive.

And sure enough, a black town car pulls up. Out steps a man in his fifties with a round face and a nothing smile. He looks smooth and carefree, like the ultra-wealthy often do, and I peg him immediately as one of our secret guests.

“Who is that?” Jason leans in.

I zoom and capture a good shot. When we’re lucky, the system finds a match right away. This time, nothing comes up. The search is still spooling as I reset the camera and we watch him mount the stairs. “Nothing in the domestic databases. Searching foreign resources next.”

“Diplomat, maybe?”

“Probably, if they’ve been scrubbed from the American lists. I’ll get the bots on it, but we probably won’t know before the end of the meeting.”

“We’ll call him Mr. X for now.”

The next car has three people in it. Amelia, another anonymous middle-aged man, and an obvious bodyguard. His, I think, as again it’s a face that’s not immediately traceable.

PRISM was slick, no doubt about it. And they didn’t give a fuck about operating in plain sight.

The next hour passes agonizingly slowly. They get settled in the room upstairs and talk about what sounds like nothing. A waiter brings them drinks, and we all wait for the meeting downstairs to break up.

~

Rook stops in the men’s room on his way upstairs. Presumably to check his hipster hair cut and fix his ugly fucking tie.

When he’s ushered into the room upstairs, he’s got a cocky, easy grin on his face. He knows who Amelia is, clearly. He holds out his hand and directs his first comments to her. “Spencer Rook. A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

“The pleasure is all ours. Please, have a seat. I understand you had a little salon downstairs just now. How did that go?”

“As it always does.” He grins and leans back in his chair, smug bastard. “It’s a joy to help people get fired up about protecting the white race.”

“You’ve gotten some press with your Institute lately. How do you feel that’s helping your cause?”

“No such thing as bad press.”

“Even if it invites the scrutiny of the FBI?”

“Law enforcement is overwhelmingly white male. They feel the truth of what I’m saying right here.” He taps himself on his chest.

“Who else does your message resonate with?”

“Working men and women. People left behind by trade agreements and technological advances that have replaced their jobs with robots.”

“Manufacturing,” Mr. X says.

“Definitely. But small business owners, food industry. It’s hard to make money in small town America today. We’ve forgotten our dream because big business, wall street elites, and special snowflakes are in charge.” That he could say that straight-faced to three people with a combined wealth greater than a small nation was remarkable.

That they didn’t even blink was even more so.

They don’t mind his rhetoric.

Hell, maybe it’s even what they’re looking for.

What else does that rhetoric provide cover for?

It doesn’t take long for Amelia to show her hand. “One last question. Who are you supporting for President next year?”

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