Both of those groups, Bolan knew, had robbed banks and armored cars across the United States in the 1990s to finance a scheme they liked to call Racial Holy War. Some members had been prosecuted and were serving time, but others wriggled through the nets for want of solid evidence connecting them to a specific crime. Broader sedition charges filed against both groups had been dismissed on grounds that anyone in the U.S. was free to advocate destruction of the government, as long as they made no attempt to pull it off.
“All right, we’re closer,” Bolan said.
“It’s apparent from the new group’s publications that they idolize the Phineans and ARA,” Brognola added, “but their straight-up heroes are Bob Mathews and The Order.”
In the early 1980s The Order—also called the Silent Brotherhood—had blazed a path of mayhem across the Pacific Northwest. Its membership was never more than twenty-five or thirty diehards, but the group had declared war on “Red America” and financed its campaign with a series of daring armed robberies that netted several million dollars from banks and Brinks trucks.
“You’re looking for a blueprint,” Bolan said.
“Already found it,” Brognola replied. “It’s right there in The Turner Diaries.”
Bolan nodded, frowning. While he hadn’t read the novel, self-published in 1978 by a former physics professor turned Nazi guru for a pack of dim-witted disciples, Bolan knew the basic plot: America, enslaved by “ZOG,” is rescued from the brink of race-mixing and social chaos by a band of vigilantes called The Order, who rob banks, hang “race traitors” and finally demolish Congress with a huge truck bomb. The Diaries had inspired a host of homegrown terrorists over the past quarter century, from Mathews and the real-life Order to various Klansmen, militias and the Oklahoma City bomber.
Playing the devil’s advocate, Bolan noted the obvious. “They’re not the only bunch of redneck psychopaths who have the Diaries memorized. I’m guessing you could point to six or seven other groups right now, within the same half-dozen states.”
“You’re right again. I could. But only one of them has been in touch with this guy. Aaron?”
On the screen, a grinning face replaced the map. The man was bearded, sunburned, appearing to be an Arab. He looked vaguely familiar to Bolan.
“Wadi Amal bin Sadr,” Brognola declared. “He’s an Iraqi Shiite cleric, presently in exile. We’ve had sightings from Tehran to Paris, but the only one confirmed so far was here.”
The picture changed again. This time, the man stood with two Caucasian males. Flat desert and a small adobe building could be seen in the background. All of them were smiling for the camera, apparently delighted to be there.
“Wadi again,” Brognola said, aiming his pointer at the second face in line. “This one is Curt Walgren, self-styled supreme commander of the ARM, and on his left is Barry James, his second in command.”
They didn’t look like much to Bolan, though they could’ve been a pair of Gulf War veterans in their desert camouflage fatigues. Bush hats concealed what might have been evidence of skinhead sympathies, or simply military-style buzz cuts. They had no visible tattoos, and sunglasses concealed their eyes. About all he could judge from the group photo was their strong, white teeth.
“When did they meet?” Bolan asked.
“This was taken in October,” Brognola replied, “outside of Ciudad Juarez. That’s just across the Tex-Mex border from El Paso.”
“Been there,” Bolan said.
“Oh, right.”
“Stop me if I’m mistaken, now,” Bolan began. “Our theory is that Sadr passed the supergun along to these yahoos, so they could—what? Rob armored cars? Raise hell at random in the States?”
“We can’t ask Sadr,” Brognola answered. “Rumor is the Israelis vaporized him with a rocket attack in Jordan, last week, but I doubt that we’ll ever confirm it. Motive-wise, there’s not much difference between his sect and what passes for Christianity inside the ARM. They both hate Israel and believe that Jews are children of the devil. Both regard the U.S. government as a Satanic instrument. Walgren would spit on Sadr for the color of his skin, but if the Arab helps him hit the Jews, he’d play along. You know the old saying—‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’”
Bolan nodded. “It’s logical enough,” he said. “You think they’ve got the weapon stashed at their compound inArkansas?”
“When we connect the dots, that’s where they lead.”
“No inside information, though?”
The man from Justice shook his head. “So far, the ARM has been impervious to infiltration. Strict security, including polygraphs for all prospective members and alleged initiation ceremonies that would compromise a law-enforcement officer.”
“Participation in some criminal activity,” Brognola said. “The rumors range from strong-arm robbery to murder.”
“No defectors? Rejects who tried out but didn’t make the cut?”
“None we’re aware of,” Price replied. “It makes us…curious.”
“Okay,” Bolan said, nodding toward the fat manila folder resting on the table. “I’d better read that file.”
BROGNOLA HAD FLOWN back to Washington after the briefing, leaving Barbara Price and her team at Stony Man to answer any questions Bolan had after he’d read the dossier on Walgren and the ARM.
Bolan had one question that he wouldn’t have asked Brognola, in any case. “What do you really think about this mission, Barb?”
She frowned and told him, “Everybody from the Pentagon to Pennsylvania Avenue has been looking for this supergun. It wasn’t high priority while they were looking in Baghdad, but now someone has brought the war home to the States. Right now, the ARM is what we’ve got, in terms of leads. It’s something, and we need to run it down.”
“I see the group’s suspected in a string of cases, going back to its foundation, in Missouri.”
“Right.” She nodded. “Stickups in the early days. Some bombings—an abortion clinic, gay bars, a Missouri synagogue. Some deaths and disappearances. No charges ever stuck.”
In fact, as Bolan knew, few charges had been filed. Two members of the ARM had been indicted for the synagogue attack, but jurors had acquitted them after a witness changed her testimony. Several deaths and disappearances had been connected to the group—including the peculiar “suicide” of Walgren’s predecessor, hanged with hands duct-taped behind his back—but no indictments had been filed.
“Could be a hornet’s nest,” he said, “or a wild-goose chase.”
“You don’t like to waste the time.”
“It’s not a waste if it pays off. But I’d feel better if we had a pair of eyes inside.”
“The Bureau tried, back in the day,” she said.
He’d seen that in the file. One of the missing persons theoretically connected to the ARM had been an FBI informant who dropped out of sight soon after he applied for membership. Headquarters still suspected Walgren’s people had disposed of him, but they had never found the body, and their spy had also irritated heavy hitters from at least two other far-right paramilitary groups along the way. His death could be attributed to any of those enemies.
No evidence, no case.
“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” the warrior said at last.
“When are you heading out?” she asked.
“First thing tomorrow. Have a look around the place