After their quarry gave them the slip yet again, Porter sighed and said, “Roone's gonna have our hides.”

Nevio Roone had indeed blown a gasket when Donahue reported the miscue by phone and nearly screamed at them to find a way into the AU.

Donahue refused to match Roone's tone.

“Look,” he told Roone calmly, “we now know this van ahead of us is a decoy, but we also know that they have some connection with the AU. They must have, because that bait-and-switch back there didn't resemble an FBI operation. We should follow them and see where they take us.”

“Make sure you succeed this time!” Roone shouted before disconnecting.

They followed the van to a small brownstone in Greenwich Village. Its driver pulled into an open spot, while Donahue hung back a block and pulled into a spot of his own. The van's driver emerged and scanned the vicinity. After a moment of this, he satisfied his curiosity and walked into the brownstone.

Once again, the two men relaxed into a waiting mode. They had no clue how long they would have to wait this time. Porter told him about a time in 'Nam when he and his buddy got separated from their unit. They holed up in a particularly dense piece of jungle, determined to find their way out the next day. He got to the part where some Viet Cong showed up, when all of a sudden Donahue shushed him.

“Look what we got.”

Porter looked up the street and saw the van's driver reemerge from the building, this time with a female companion. The two of them quickly climbed into the van, and within seconds they started off again. Donahue started the car and moved back onto the street, keeping a one block length between the van and themselves.

“Do you recognize either of them?”

Porter shook his head no. “Not really. Wouldn't mind knowing her, though.”

Donahue knew what he meant. Blond and curvy, wearing some kind of uniform, she easily attracted attention.

“Don't lose them,” Porter admonished. Donahue snorted in reply.

The van took them on a lazy loop around the West Side of Manhattan. At one point, it doubled back on its own prior route. Donahue started getting excited but held well back. Clearly, the driver hoped to avoid pursuers. Donahue continued to hang back even further, ordering Porter to keep a close eye on where the van went.

At one point, they thought they lost it, but then Porter saw it heading down a side street. Donahue stopped and carefully made the turn, scrupulously avoiding anything that might sound like squealing tires or a revving engine.

Finally, after about a half hour of driving around, the van came to a stop in front of an empty storefront, clearly under construction. The two men hung back, with Porter watching their quarry through the spyglasses. The van turned into a driveway, headed downward, and disappeared below street level.

The two men glanced at each other. Donahue turned off the motor, and they got out of the car. They worked their way carefully over to where the van disappeared. The street remained surprisingly quiet, and the storefront appeared deserted. They quietly checked doors around the store's entrance to see if someone had left any open, but none let them in. Donahue put his hands over his eyes to shield them from the sun, which make it easier to look inside the deserted store window. Seeing nothing of interest, he strode over to the studio apartment next door and peered into that window. Then he peered in another window, and another.

He turned to Porter and said, “These are all false fronts. You can't see anything inside but a wall right next to the window with a little scene painted on it inside to look like there are furniture and fixtures inside.”

He grinned a predatory grin. “I think we just found the Agorist Underground.”

Porter looked at the building skeptically. “Maybe, but how do we get in?”

Donahue looked at the van again. He saw a small sticker on the bumper that said, “Gabe's Pawn Shop” and listed a nearby address.

“If you wanted to find underground help, who would you talk to? Your friendly neighborhood pawn broker perhaps?”

Porter nodded his head. It made sense. They got back in their car and drove off.

Upon reaching the pawn shop, Donahue pulled the door open, walked inside and looked around as Porter followed him. Less organized that most pawn shops, this one had stuff piled all over the place with no discernible plan or intention. The clutter suggested seediness. So did the dust.

Donahue slowly approached the counter where an overweight man sat reading a paperback.

The proprietor looked up as they approached. “What do you need?”

Donahue looked around before answering, “You guys got any gold or silver?”

The proprietor shrugged. “Some. Anything in particular?”

“I'm looking for a place that handles bullion.”

The proprietor gazed at him skeptically. “You buying or selling?”

“Buying. I prefer gold.”

“What size?”

“Ten ounces if you have them.”

“We don't get nothing like that around here.” The proprietor smirked as he turned back to his novel.

“Know anyone who might?”

“You might try Manhattan Gold & Silver over on W. 47^th Street,” the proprietor suggested without looking up from his book.

“Well, I'm looking for something a little less visible. Those legit dealers ask too many questions, if you know what I mean.”

The proprietor glanced up, shrugged again. “Sorry.” He returned to his paperback.

Donahue pulled out his wallet and put a $100 bill on the counter. “I would think someone in your line of work might know some, well, shall we say unusual people.”

The proprietor barely looked up, shrugged. “You could say that,” but he didn't get up or touch the bill. Donahue noticed that his attention didn't waver from it though.

“Perhaps you know people who work a little more, shall we say, quietly?” Donahue continued.

The proprietor displayed a nervous habit of playing with his ring. He kept twirling it back and forth.

Finally, after a moment of silence, he said, “No, I don't think so.”

Donahue considered him for a moment. Then he pulled out a business card and put it on the counter next to the hundred dollar bill.

“If you think of anyone who could help me, give me a call. My cell number is on the card.”

Then he turned and left the shop, with Porter following him. They went back to their car and climbed in.

“Now what?” Porter asked.

“Now, we wait patiently. Want another donut?”

Porter looked in the box. His stomach felt a bit queasy.

“No, thanks. Maybe we should try another pawn shop?”

“No, I expect to hear from that guy pretty soon, unless I completely miss my guess.”

“So Roone hired you after you got out of the CIA?”

Donahue nodded.

“He must have given you a helluva sales pitch, after what you'd been doing,” Porter added, trying to egg him into telling more.

“Actually, yes, he did. That's when I learned about Operation Gadfly.”

“Sorry?”

“You know it was an inside job, right?”

“What job? What are you talking about?”

“9/11.”

Porter stared at him in open-mouthed, stunned shock. “You're shittin' me!”

Donahue scowled. “They called it Operation Gadfly. Come off it, Porter, admit it. You knew. You must have known. Everyone in the community knew.”

Porter sputtered, deep anger in his voice, “But they targeted America! They killed thousands of us! How...what...how could you possibly...”

“Don't be a fool. We didn't do it.”

“But you just said it was an inside job!” Porter spat back, enraged, his face beet red with anger.

“Oh, come off it, Porter! I just told you we knew about it in advance. Just because Langley didn't take the threat seriously doesn't mean no one else did.”

“What do you mean?”

Donahue sighed and shook his head.

“Look, do you honestly believe that Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda were independently wealthy enough and resourceful enough to pull 9/11 off by themselves?”

“Well, of course they did. Everyone knows that!”

Donahue rolled his eyes. He wondered why he had to put up with such incompetence so often in his line of work. It must be a hazard of the profession.

“You really are a git, you know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Porter, did you really buy all that rubbish the 9/11 Commission handed out? Do you really believe the terrorists caught the CIA and the FBI with their pants down that day? Haven't I just told you that we knew about it in advance, and that only Langley buried its collective head in the sand? Do you really think we're all that stupid? They designed all that guff they handed out to the media to keep the masses dumb and happy. They didn't dare tell the truth. I thought you were smart enough to know that.”

“But that's just a conspiracy theory!”

“Porter!” Donahue snorted in dismay. He shook his head some more. “Okay, look, remember on 9/11 when the President caught all that flack for reading a story in a school classroom while the attacks went on? Some people said he should have taken action, but he claimed that they didn't have enough information, and they needed to project a sense of calm to the country. Most Americans accepted that explanation, although many didn't like it.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Did it ever occur to you to ask yourself why the Secret Service didn't act that day?”

“What do you mean? They guarded him throughout the day. That's what they're supposed to do, isn't it?”

“Look, if the President is in the West Wing of the White House, one of the most secure fortresses in this country, and some coup takes place in Peru or something, and intelligence chatter suggests that something else might happen somewhere else in the U.S., what does the Secret Service do?”

“Well, I suppose they lock down the White House and restrict entry until they get better intel.”

“That's right. They call it a 'crash.' They crash the White House until they know that the President's life is not in danger. And what happens if the President resists what the Secret Service wants him to do?”

“Doesn't matter. Until the danger is controlled, they do what they have to do, even if they have to drag the President to the bunker kicking and screaming.”

“Exactly!” Donahue shouted triumphantly.

“So what's your point?”

Donahue rolled his eyes again. “So why did the Secret Service let the President continue to read to school children in the middle of an unprecedented attack? Forget about what the administration said afterward. That's just politics. The Secret Service has one, primary job: protect the President at all costs, no matter what. Why didn't the President get dragged off to safety while the country remained under attack?”

Porter gaped at the suggestion.

“You mean the Secret Service fell down on the job? They screwed up?”

“No, I don't mean that at all,” Donahue sighed, holding his forehead in his hand as if to ward off Porter's denseness. “I mean that the Secret Service did their job very well that day, just as they always do. So the facts can only add up to one possibility. Think, Porter, use your brain cells for a change! What does it all add up to?”

Porter's face screwed up in concentration. Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open as a new thought entered his head.

“You mean, the Secret Service already knew the attacks would happen before they happened?”

“It took you long enough to get there,” Donahue sighed as he shook his head once more. The two men sat silently for awhile.

“How much longer, do you think?” Porter asked to change the subject.

“Not long,” Donahue guessed with a glance at his cell phone. As if to prove him right, it chose that moment to ring. He answered it.

“Donahue,” he said. He paused while the voice spoke to him. “We'll be there,” he said before disconnecting.

“Who was it?”

“Our pawn shop buddy, of course. He said to meet someone over in Central Park by the statue of Christopher Columbus.”

“Pay dirt.”

Donahue started the car, and they headed off to the park. About 20 minutes later, they found a spot to park near the statue in question. They approached it slowly, looking around. A number of people walked by. Some sat on benches. Others lounged on the inviting grass. The two men continued until they stopped at the statue, still scanning the immediate vicinity. No likely candidates appeared. The two men stood uneasily, waiting for...they didn't know what.

Finally, a young man with long hair and a backpack approached them.

He looked them over carefully before he walked up. “You guys buying metal?”

Donahue returned his stare. “That's right. You selling?”

The young man snorted. “Do I look like I'm made of money? Get real.”

He handed Donahue a card. It had an address and a time on it.

“Be there at 3:00 p.m., and they'll take you to the trading floor.” Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Donahue grinned at Porter and winked.

“We're in. I think I'll phone for some more troops.” He pulled out his cell phone and began making calls.

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