“But you gave me the impression Oklahoma City was significant.”
“Personally,” Ruckhauser said, shifting uneasily in his chair, “Timothy McVeigh scared the crap out of me. Not because of what he was, but because of who he was.”
“I don’t follow.”
“He didn’t exactly fit your typical far-right race-hating workingman. He came from a middle-class upbringing; he was articulate and polite. This guy was different from, say, Nelson Flint. That’s what made him so scary. He didn’t fit the profile of the people we watch — not unless you dug deep and looked at him after the fact. He slipped under our radar. He had loose affiliations with a few militia groups, but did most of his work alone — a brilliant strategy, actually. Small, independent cells are harder to track.”
“Sounds like a tactic out of the Middle East book of terrorism.”
Ruckhauser’s eyebrows rose. “Interesting observation. On September tenth, 2001, your typical militia considered all people of color — Arabs included — to be the devil. Suddenly, on September twelfth, the average Neo-Nazi and militia member thought of the al Qaida terrorists as heroes. Anyone willing to fly a plane into a building to kill Jews had to be admired.
“Since then, I think we’ve seen a convergence between the radical right and some elements of the radical left — conspiratorial anti-globalists and hard-core anarchists in particular; and, most recently, support for foreign anti-American terrorists. It’s a disturbing trend. Even mainstream, nonviolent movements— At the fringes of the Occupy Wall Street movement, people were spouting stereotypical rhetoric about the Jews being the bankers who took their homes away.”
Uzi took the wood stirrer and sloshed his coffee. Steam rose like a ferocious snake suddenly awakened from its sleep. “Anti-Semitism’s been around for centuries. It’s not going away anytime soon.”
“Do you know the basics of ARM’s history?” Uzi nodded. “Okay then. Stop me if I start wasting your time. ARM had been stuck in a financial rut. They’d made a lot of their money by robbing banks— Took in a little over three million until four of them were caught and thrown in jail.”
“Around ’99 or 2000, right?”
Ruckhauser nodded. “The money was seized, and the heat was on, but their comrades refused to roll on them. So they were cash-strapped until about six years ago when they merged with SRM, Southern Ranks Militia. SRM’s leader, ‘General’ Lewiston Grant, was a progressive thinker who realized they needed to expand their reach.
“After the merger, they had big membership numbers, but money was still an issue because their plans grew more grandiose. But Grant wanted to raise the funds legally, if possible, because it wouldn’t do the group much good if any of them got thrown in jail. He saw an opportunity and took them into business. Instead of selling copies of their racist manifesto, they bought low-end servers and embraced the Internet. They started an entity called Southern Ranks Internet, doing business as SRI—”
“The web-hosting service?”
“That’s the one.”
“Holy shit,” Uzi said. “I had no idea who was behind that.”
Ruckhauser’s lips spread into a sardonic smile. “That’s why they call it SRI. You won’t find Southern Ranks Internet spelled out anywhere. We only knew because we were plugged into what they were doing. Their outlay was minimal but the payoff was great. Grant was a self-taught computer whiz, and he set it all up on his own. Within months, they had a steady inflow of money from their members and other white power/neo-Nazi/militia groups. They got everyone to be their marketing force, talking up SRI as a low-cost web-hosting service. Their members who were businessmen switched their websites over to SRI and they had a steady stream of cash coming in every month to cover their maintenance and startup expenses.”
“That can be a cash cow business.”
“Exactly— Especially when they started getting businesses from beyond their own circle. They started buying cheap server space in India and reselling it. Pure profit. That’s when the money really started to flow. That’s also around the time when we got some intel that they were purchasing less traceable foreign weapons.”
Uzi had taken a drink of coffee, but suddenly pulled the cup from his lips. “Foreign weapons? From where?”
“I don’t know.”
Uzi nodded slowly, realizing he might have finally found the connection he needed to start building a case against ARM. “If you had to make an educated guess?”
“The field is relatively narrow. Russia, China, and North Korea top the list.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“SRI’s obviously privately held, so they don’t have to file financials with the SEC. But my people feel it’s enough to give them serious spending money — and with that, comes influence.”
“Influence. With who?”
Ruckhauser smiled. “You like mystery novels, Uzi?”
“Thrillers mostly. My life can get a little boring at times. Fiction adds some spice.” Uzi hesitated, realizing the depth of the truth behind that statement.
“Then here’s something that’ll raise your eyebrows.” Ruckhauser leaned forward in his chair and the spring squeaked. “How about ARM and the NFA in bed together?”
Uzi leaned forward as well, resting his forearms on the desk. “Really.”
“I don’t know if you heard about it, but there was a guy killed yesterday who was looking into it. You should check it out. Name was Tad Bishop.”
“You knew Bishop?”
“Judging by your reaction, I take it you did, too.”
“Not well. Met him a couple of times. Was the guy legit?”
“Oh, he lived in his own world. Used to be a private investigator. He left because he couldn’t pay his bills, but I think deep down he loved the hunt.”
“Credibility-wise—”
“A bit quirky, but he was a straight-shooter. From what I could tell, he was well grounded.”
Uzi nodded. “So he was looking into the ARM-NFA connection?”
“Suspected connection,” Ruckhauser said. “We had lunch a few weeks ago. He mentioned the players he was looking into. I put two and two together. He wasn’t a good friend or anything, just someone I could get together with and shoot the breeze about common stuff.”
“Did you know what Bishop was working on — what he’d found out?”
“No.” Ruckhauser hesitated. “But based on what he was telling me, I started poking around myself.”
“And?”
“And I think there’s probably some money laundering going on, a way of passing the cash from the NFA to ARM. I’d guess they’re doing it through one of their companies or subsidiaries. Or a well-to-do member who owns a lucrative business.”
“Any proof? I can’t do anything with theories.”
“I gave everything I had to one of your guys at the Bureau. I talk to him a few times a week. Everything I know, everything I’ve got, he gets. Name’s Pablo Garza. Good man.”
Uzi thought of his encounter with Garza an hour ago. “Good man” were not the words Uzi would use to describe him. “When did you give him this info?”
“Couple of days ago. Delivered it myself.”
Uzi sat there, getting as hot under the collar as his coffee. He rose from his chair. “Then I guess I should go talk with Agent Garza.”
“You need anything, give me a holler. Or stop by. When I’m not out sleuthing, I’m right here.”
“Yeah, well, be careful. The people who took out Tad Bishop don’t want anyone sniffing around their business. You gave us the ball, let us run with it now.”