American Subversive (43 page)

“It's . . . wait . . .
no
. . . it's
not
her.” Paige turned around and slumped to the floor. “Sorry, I thought . . .” She rubbed her eyes.

“You were being careful,” Simon said.

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean the every pale, stringy girl in New York is Lindsay. I think I'm just tired.”

“We're all tired,” Simon told her. “Here, why don't I take a shift at
the window and you can get some rest. I've been talking too much anyway.”

“No, I'm fine. I promise. Keep going. I want to hear the rest.”

Simon sat back down on the bed. Paige poured some water into cups and passed them out. The room was cramped, but almost pulsing with intensity.

“Okay then,” Simon said. “Let's see. I rented what's now Aidan's mother's house in Shady—she was still in the city then—and went about blending in. It was a good base of operations, and I used my cover as an artist to begin organizing, planning, recruiting. I spent weeks at a time on the road. After one trip out West—when I met Keith for the first time—I came home to find Susan in my kitchen. Scared the hell out of me, though I'm sure I scared her more. We never really left each other after that, even as I tried to protect her from my more . . .
private
activities. It was because of her that I decided to work strictly behind the scenes. I was too old to be sneaking around anyway. It took months, and then years, but we eventually structured the same kind of loose organization that Weather—and later, the ELF—had successfully used, a series of cells each operating independently but with the same agenda: to bring American ineptness and injustice to light using any means necessary but one—we wouldn't hurt anyone. Not physically, at least. The Weather Underground never killed anyone—outside the group, I mean—and neither would we.

“Our first cell was in New York. The Bike Messengers, we called them, because that was their preferred mode of delivery. And then—”

“The bomb in Times Square a few years ago,” Paige said, her eyes going wide. “Was that them?”

Simon smiled. “What do
you
think?”

“That guy rode into the world's biggest intersection and blew the door off that shitty recruiting station. He must have been caught on a hundred cameras, and still . . .”

“I remember,” I said. “It was all over the news. They found the bike a few blocks south, but then the trail went cold.”

“Indeed,” Simon said, his tone carrying the pride of ownership. He extended an arm toward Paige, as if introducing her at a talent show. “And then we had the Carolina cell, which spawned Ms. Roderick here. Less extreme, perhaps, but no less effective.”

“You were involved with us from the beginning?” Paige asked.

“Nominally, yes. We paid rents, sent supplies, and signed off on the Actions.”

Back at the window, Paige peeked outside, then lit a cigarette.

“But Keith was always the focal point, the star, even early on. It took a lot of convincing to make him commit to anything outside the ELF, but when we said he could handpick his people, he agreed to work with us. Lindsay was a given—she'd been involved in ELF Actions for years and Keith trusted her. As for a third, well, we'd had you in mind since the paper factory.”

“You were watching me that whole time?”

“From the moment you met up with Carter Gattling. You had everything—the brains, the fearlessness, and the . . . the
motivation
.” Simon straightened up. “I'm very sorry about your brother, Paige. And while I'm at it, I'm sorry this has all ended so badly. Keith wasn't the man we thought he was.”

“When did you realize it . . . that things weren't right?”

“When it was too late,” Simon said. “I just . . . I should have seen the signs. Keith and I met every week after the three of you arrived in Vermont, at a Wal-Mart parking lot in Rutland. I gave him money; he gave me progress updates. Mostly though, we discussed the pros and cons of each potential Action. I was shocked when he brought up Indian Point. It was clearly too much of a risk, both in terms of the Action itself and the aftermath, but he was so in love with the idea. That should have been the first clue. I mean, breaking into a nuclear facility with a backpack full of explosives—”

“He was talking about a remote-control truck,” Paige said.

“Even worse. I'm all for making a statement your first time out, but that wasn't it. Eventually, he backed away from that particular cliff—or maybe you dragged him away—and I let it go. He'd carried everything else off so brilliantly, like getting the dynamite: that was a stroke of genius. As was your Indigo idea. They were exactly the kind of target I'd envisioned going after, and the three of you almost pulled it off perfectly. It would have been a hell of a lot better than anything Weather ever did. Getting in and out of that building, with all that surveillance . . . I located the plans and did some recon of my own before you and Keith got down here. Those notes on the blueprints
were mine. And I stayed around to make sure you didn't get in trouble. Keith didn't want me in the area—we were arguing on the phone when you walked in on him the night before, and continued in person the following morning—but it was your first major Action and I thought you needed support, even if you didn't know it. I followed you through the store, discreetly photographing security cameras and personnel, then snuck out just before you did. The Madison Avenue photo was the last one I took.”

“I can't believe I didn't see you.”

“It's nice to know I've still got a few moves left. That said, I'd have never imagined what happened next, the bomb exploding on the wrong floor. I watched the news in a stupor, shocked that Keith could have fucked up like that. But when we met in Rutland the following week, he was so pleased with himself. There'd been no casualties, after all, and surely the press would zero in on Indigo—which is eventually what happened. I told him he'd been damned lucky. Sloppy and careless and lucky—nothing more. And you know what he did, instead of apologizing? He claimed the elevator numbering hadn't been his responsibility. He blamed you and Lindsay, and it just . . . it
broke my heart,
because I'd seen it all before, the way people respond to sudden power: some with humility, others with a kind of righteousness. Lines blur at their extremes, and sometimes people crack. Keith cracked and I recognized it too late. When he mentioned his idea for N3, I begged him to forget it.
The media,
for Christ's sake. But he gave me a look I'll never forget. And when he got out of the car and slammed the door, I knew I'd have no choice but to try to stop him.”

Our tenement building belonged to some other time and place. Shoeless footsteps pitter-pattered above us. Muted voices drifted through the thin walls as if underwater. And the smells, exotic foods and fish and waste, soon blended into a single tangy stink. When the heat finally became overwhelming, we opened the window a crack. Simon again offered to stand watch, but Paige would have none of it.

It was late morning when he snuck outside to check on his van (he'd parked legally on the street, but still . . .) and buy the papers. Paige and I didn't speak for a while after he left. She watched the street
nervously; I lay on the bed thinking about Simon Krauss and the secrets we all lived with, or didn't. Was everyone somebody else? And what did it take to find that person, the one inside? For me, it took a picture. An ideal personified. I needed to tell her this, tell Paige what she meant to me. And I was just about to, I swear, but she was suddenly peering intently through the blinds, a frown clouding her face. Then she backed away, as if the glass were toxic.

“Something's wrong,” she said.

AIDAN
 

I HURRIED OVER TO THE WINDOW.

“Look,” Paige said. “On the corner.” The glass was streaky, but I could make out Simon coming toward us. He was hurrying, almost running, and looking around like a traffic cop.

“He's all agitated,” I said.

“Like he's just seen something awful.”

We moved together to the center of the room, facing the door, like fretful family members awaiting news from an emergency-room doctor. Simon's footsteps echoed up the stairwell and sounded down the hall, then he burst through the door, his face tight and ashen.

“What is it?” Paige said.

“The Drudge Report,” he replied, producing his cell phone. He held it out to us. “I had Google alerts set for both your names, and when my pocket started vibrating like crazy, I knew . . .”

He didn't finish the thought. Paige took the phone and we sat down beside each other on the closest bed. She pressed the Internet icon. Drudge came up immediately.

“Oh, no,” Paige said, and put her hand on my knee.

Our photographs loaded side by side on the top of the page. Above them loomed the headline:

THE BLOGGER AND THE BOMBSHELL:
NEW SUSPECTS IN INDIGO BOMBING.

Paige scrolled down the screen with a shaking finger.

BONNIE & CLYDE DUO: GOSSIP WRITER AND GLAMOROUS RADICAL
INTENSIVE POLICE AND FBI MANHUNT UNDERWAY
“FLUSHING FOUR” TO BE RELEASED, CHARGES DROPPED

Thu Sept. 16 10:14:53 a.m. ET
**World Exclusive**
**Must Credit DRUDGE REPORT**

The New York Times
is set to publish a shocking article naming two unlikely new suspects in last month's bombing in Manhattan, the
DRUDGE REPORT
has learned. A massive police manhunt is underway across the tristate area for Aidan Cole, 33, and Paige Roderick, 29, who were last seen yesterday, checking out of the Liberty Inn, a notorious low-rent hotel in New York's West Village.

Cole was until yesterday the editor of the popular media and culture blog Roorback.com. Roderick had worked at the Earth Initiative in New York and the liberal Carver Institute in Washington, D.C., before being let go in January. Her recent whereabouts have been unknown.

According to an “acquaintance” of Cole's, the blogger became obsessed with Roderick after receiving an e-mail (with the above photograph attached) accusing her of the crime. Instead of informing Roorback's publisher, Derrick Franklin, or contacting authorities, Cole set off to track Roderick down himself. He found her in Waitsfield, Vermont, where she confessed to being involved (it is not known if she acted alone). Cole still failed to reach out to police.

In a fateful twist, Cole was dating
Times
reporter Cressida Kent at the time, and it was Kent who first alerted
Times
editors to Cole's possible involvement with Roderick (the paper has allowed Kent to help investigate the story, but because of potential conflicts, has
assigned the actual writing to other reporters). Kent then reached out to Cole's “acquaintance,” and convinced him or her to speak on record in exchange for anonymity. The “acquaintance” is also expected to receive immunity from any prosecution.

Cole contacted his “acquaintance” by phone on Tuesday, and left a message. Using GPS tracking, authorities were able to trace his cell phone to the Liberty Inn. By the time authorities arrived, however, Cole and Roderick, who had checked in under an assumed name, had checked out.

The
Times
agreed to delay publication of the story until a press briefing today at noon, so police could keep the manhunt a secret. The decision angered several newsroom insiders, who claimed the article was ready in time for the Thursday-morning print edition.

More . . .

The four Queens men arrested earlier this week in connection with the bombing were quietly released this morning and have been cleared of all charges. The men, all Muslims, were members of the Abubakr mosque in Flushing.

Late last night, according to WPTZ-TV News, the FBI raided a house near the Sugarbush ski resort in Waitsfield, Vermont. The property had recently been abandoned, and investigators were still combing the surrounding valley this morning.

Roorback publisher Derrick Franklin has provided the
Times
with all online correspondence relating to the bombing, which includes the above photograph of Paige Roderick. Franklin told authorities he had no knowledge of the e-mails before the
Times
alerted him to their existence, as they had been sent to Cole's personal Roorback account.

Developing . . .

Paige finished reading, waited for me, then scrolled back up to our pictures—hers, the iconic Madison Avenue glamour shot; mine, a drunken photo from a recent party that must have been provided by Cressida. In fact, I realized, looking closer, I'd had my arm around her
in the original version, but she'd been cropped out (or had cropped herself out), so there I was grinning like a fool, with most of my arm missing.

“Are you okay?” Paige asked me.

“I think so. But it feels like they're talking about other people.”