CHAPTER 1
James Flynn wrestled with his computer bag as he exited the terminal. A long walk awaited him before he arrived at his transportation. Flynn stared at the awkward innards of Washington National Airport, partially out of intrigue over the cavernous structure, partially out of his insatiable desire to know where every surveillance camera pointed. He believed the architecture, conceived and constructed in a bygone era, served as a microcosm of this city built on ambition. People in D.C. lived to leave a mark on the world, from the most crooked of politicians to the taxi cab driver on a 4 a.m. shift. Some architect likely fancied that his architecture would be adored by millions who flew into the nation’s capital via Washington National. However, Flynn thought every era demanded a closer look. He viewed nostalgia as a complicit accomplice in covering up our nation’s sins, sins he was determined to expose.
Nearing the exit to the metro, Flynn felt someone tap him on the shoulder. He spun around to see one of his adoring fans. He knew it before the man even uttered a word. The scraggy brown beard, thinning mop of hair, and baggy jeans held all the telltale signs. But it was the ragged red t-shirt with the schematics of the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars that instantly alerted Flynn to the direction of this conversation.
“Dr. Flynn? I’m Harold Baylor,” the man said, offering his hand.
Flynn shook the man’s hand and forced a smile. “Nice to meet you, Harold.”
“I’m one of your biggest fans,” Harold said. “Your story about how Reagan spied on Mondale during the election was fascinating.”
“Thanks, Harold.”
Then Harold leaned in close to Flynn and put his hand up near his mouth in preparation to share a secret moment. “Now if you can just figure out who killed JFK?”
Flynn withdrew from Harold and smiled. Flynn then glanced around and then leaned in to share a secret moment of his own with Harold. “Oh, I’m sure if I try to solve that one, my life will meet an untimely demise.”
Harold’s eyes transformed from squinty and beady to large saucers. He wiped clean any hint of a smile.
“Well, be careful, Dr. Flynn. Nice meeting you.” Harold hiked up sagging jeans with one hand and turned toward the airport entrance.
Flynn gritted his teeth, politely smiled and waved while Harold trudged away. Though Flynn preferred more anonymity, his regular appearances on cable news talk shows ended those wishes.
Two years ago, Flynn achieved celebrity status when he uncovered evidence that Ronald Reagan followed in the footsteps of Richard Nixon by utilizing government resources to spy on his presidential opponent. Reagan supporters rushed to their hero’s defense, seeking to destroy Flynn’s credibility. They deemed the evidence fake. They questioned Flynn’s motives. They dug up dirt on his personal life. Typical Washington tactics. None of it bothered Flynn. He endured much worse from much more powerful people.
The fact that Flynn was now writing for The National magazine instead of still serving as an intelligence operative for the CIA proved the worst had already been done to him. Serving in the Middle East beginning in 2002, Flynn’s contribution to the war on terror was discreet. He went under the cover of an English teacher, which is what he did in various countries. But at night, he analyzed intel, translating recorded conversations within terror cells. It made Flynn feel like he was leaving a mark on the world. It might not be as visible as an architect’s airport, but it was saving lives by helping the military eliminate enemy combatants.
Then his sense of importance crumbled when he stumbled across a recording that revealed a rogue Marine strapped a bomb to a 10-year-old Iraqi boy just to prove that their presence in one sector of Iraq was necessary. Flynn still winced when forced to recall the moment he learned of this atrocity committed by a fellow countryman. He struggled with what to do with this information, weighing the cost of his decision to report it. When he finally concluded that he couldn’t be complicit in a cover-up, he reported the incident. Senior officials assured him it would be dealt with internally. But after two months, nothing happened. The soldier continued to serve on his post without any consequence.
Enraged that nothing was done, Flynn spoke with his superiors again. They justified their inaction by explaining that the Abu Graib prison incident was sufficient embarrassment for the American military and that exposing this might result in rioting by Muslim extremists. Flynn threatened to go over their heads — then he was dismissed.
Flynn sought out the help of a journalist friend who wrote a story about the incident, based on Flynn’s account, for The Washington Times. But everything Flynn said was dismissed, as government officials painted a nasty picture of Flynn: disgruntled after being passed over for promotion; poor performance reviews; faulty intel reports that resulted in the loss of innocent civilian lives. None of it was true, but they cooked up enough official documents to force The Washington Times to issue a retraction.
With nearly every bridge burned, Flynn turned his intelligence skills to the only profession he could truly be appreciated — and universally reviled: journalism. More specifically, investigative journalism. After Flynn discovered the files that proved “Reagan-gate,” his popularity soared. He proffered a few more government conspiracies and achieved rock star status among those who were leery of the government. Even www.TinFoilHatConspiracy.com recently named Flynn their conspiracy theorist of the year. Now whenever there was a conspiracy theory hatched, cable news talk shows clamored to be the first to get Flynn on their sets. It wasn’t a big mark, but it was something. His story on Reagan was toothless in the fact that it was learned long after Reagan’s death. Had Flynn been a reporter and discovered this while Reagan was still in the White House, he would’ve been immortalized. Instead, he was still in search of his Woodward and Bernstein moment. And that was exactly why Flynn found himself standing in D.C. today, braving the chilling October winds on the Metro platform.
Three days ago, Flynn received a call from a woman named Emma Taylor. She told him it was urgent and needed to meet with him pertaining a document her grandfather willed to her. Flynn had grown accustomed to such calls. The conspiracy theorists often called him about leads and requested that he pay them a visit. But those visits were on his dime, unless he could convince The National that there really was a story to be written. Most of the time, Flynn politely declined the invitation. After crisscrossing the country a few times chasing bogus leads from people with fanciful imaginations, he wised up as he watched his bank account dwindle. Yet Flynn didn’t dismiss them all. He developed a handful of subjects and names that required more questions before he would agree to a visit. This latest call happened to fulfill his criteria.
Squeezing through the Monday rush hour traffic, Flynn boarded the Branch Avenue rail line and sat in a seat at the back of the car. He felt anxious, something foreign to him since he left the agency. Anxious about what this document might mean; anxious that perhaps someone was following him. Based on his conversation with Mrs. Taylor, this document more than met his requirement for a personal visit. If this wasn’t the document, with one or two more it certainly could comprise that elusive smoking gun, the holy grail for every investigative journalist: Who was behind the JFK assassination plot?
Flynn got off at Navy Yard metro station and walked toward the address given to him by Mrs. Taylor. Flynn loved the Capitol Hill neighborhood since it served as a splendid smorgasbord of architecture. Several years ago, the city’s revitalization projection on 8th Street resulted in crafty restorations of older buildings and the introduction of more modern designs. Trendy restaurants and savvy boutique stores gulped up the available commercial sites and the bustle returned. That and well-lit streets attracted younger professionals and returned the area to its former glory. Based on what Flynn knew about the area, he expected to find a young woman in her mid- to late 20s. She likely either worked as a professional in D.C. or was attending law school like everyone else in this town.