Page 2 of False Flag

The man seated next to the groupie with the killer smile looked in Staci’s direction, then said something to his seatmate. Placing bets on getting her number?

She was used to that game. It came with her job waiting tables at Double D, but usually, the men who played those juvenile games were college age. She placed both men in their thirties—which fit with the demographic of Campbell’s followers, who were usually late twenties to late forties. Primarily white and cisgender. Some were college educated, but most stopped at a high school diploma or GED. They tended to be working class and/or military. Same as Staci. She grew up in that world. And she knew those who got sucked in were anti-science based on lack of education, not lack of intelligence. Campbell played on their egos, made them feel clever because he offered knowledge that was superior to what was imparted by the educated elite: truths others dismissed or ignored.

His followers were privy to special knowledge not available to the closed-minded masses.

Women weren’t immune to Campbell’s grift, but they remained a minority. Tonight, Staci was the only woman at her ten-person table, but other tables had two or three. A few even more. Friends? Dates? Or avid followers in their own right?

By her estimation, women made up about twenty-five percent of the audience, and they were just as rapt as the men. Staci studied their expressions as Campbell stepped up to the microphone for his predinner speech.

She didn’t think she could fake a similar captivated expression, but she tried.

Twenty excruciating minutes later, Campbell resumed his seat, and the man seated on her right refilled her wineglass then his own with the open bottle on their side of the table. “Is this your first time seeing him speak…”—he glanced down at her nametag—“Anastacia?”

The plastic nametag was a requirement as it was the event ticket and was preprinted with her table assignment. She’d tied a knot in the long lanyard so it strategically covered her cleavage, an added bonus to wearing this designer dress that could have been lifted from a ’60s fashion magazine. It was only risqué at the bustline, and mischievously hiding her best asset worked in her favor.

She was a pro at chatter with men over dining tables; the only difference was that she usually served the beer while wearing a tight T-shirt and short shorts, instead of sitting by their side and politely sipping wine while wearing a vintage cocktail dress. Plus, in this instance, she wanted to be seen but not really heard.

She gave her seatmate her brightest tip me smile and put a hint of gush in her voice even as she spoke in a hushed tone, channeling her inner Marilyn Monroe. “Yes. I was so thrilled to get a ticket.” She looked shyly at the groups of women at other tables and then back down at her dress and let out a sigh. “I wish one of my girlfriends were here with me. I’m embarrassingly overdressed and feel…awkward.” She glanced around the table. “To make it worse, I bet you all know everyone here.”

One of the men seated across the table chimed in, assuring her the table assignments were random except for the price tiers, and while many of them had been to multiple events over the years, only those who were active in the online forums really knew each other.

“Random, sure,” another man said, “but don’t forget there’s one person from Gerard’s team at every table. Their job is to scope out candidates for the dig.”

This was the rumor she’d been aiming to confirm. She wanted to correct the speaker that it wasn’t a dig, it was a survey—if Campbell broke ground with shovels, he’d also be breaking a dozen laws in whichever country he violated—but it wouldn’t serve her purpose to show she knew anything about archaeology with these men.

“So we have a mole?” she asked, putting delight into her voice as she met each man’s gaze in turn. “Which one of you is spying for Gerard?”

“Well, if he identified himself, he wouldn’t be a very good spy, would he?” the man directly across from her said, as if she couldn’t figure that out for herself.

One of the benefits of having enormous breasts was the correlation between wearing a fitted top and (some) men underestimating her. Freya had ordered her to use all her assets, and Morgan assisted by lending her the dress. Her best friend might not be sitting at the table, but Morgan was here in spirit.

The man to her right proved shrewder than the others, the exception to the rule. “I think, in asking the question, you’re trying to deflect us from suspecting you.”

She winked at him. “You got me.”

He smiled back. His gaze was assessing but not cold. Nor did it linger on her nametag as if willing it away, as others had. He’d been the one to get the conversation rolling at the table. She’d bet good money he was the mole. If so, Gerard had chosen the right man for the job.

Their salads were served. She settled in and nibbled on the expensive meal of cheap food, letting the men around her maintain the conversation while she studied Gerard Campbell and his twelve apostles.

Every man at the head table had their eyes on the stacked brunette. Of course they did. The table faced the room, and she was a magnet. Had been from the moment she entered wearing heels and a striking blue cocktail dress that covered her shoulders but appeared to have a neckline that would show off ample cleavage if it weren’t for the damn nametag.

The tables weren’t in numerical order, so she’d had to circle the room twice before finding her seat, giving everyone an eyeful of her hourglass figure as she moved smoothly on four-inch stilettos that probably made her all of five-foot-six.

“This is the last time we use name badges as the dinner ticket,” Gerard had joked when she finally took her seat. Jake could see the man’s point, but also enjoyed the tease of it. She’d clearly tied the lanyard so it hung deliberately in that spot.

As the dinner started, he couldn’t help but think he’d have preferred to sit at one of the round tables where people were chatting and having fun, but his brother had paid big bucks for the high table, and he was here to support him. Lloyd was angling for a spot on the expedition team and had skills Gerard could use. Jake would do everything he could to help his brother.

And so he chatted up the big man, letting him know he was in the Navy but not revealing the capacity in which he served.

The event might not be his kind of thing, but overall, it was enjoyable. Campbell was even more charismatic in person than on his podcast, and his ideas were intriguing. What he said about Big Archaeology sounded off, given that Jake knew a few archaeologists. But then, the women he knew weren’t academics. They worked at the forefront to stop artifact traffickers from supporting terrorism. He knew nothing about academic archaeologists and their motives for hiding evidence of mass extinctions and ancient bioweapons.

Campbell’s point could be valid. Jake hardly had the expertise to judge, while the scholar had been studying the topic for over a decade.

The brunette had the men at her table enthralled, and he had to admire her style. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, but she didn’t command attention with hair tosses and energy. No. She used small gestures and leaned in, appearing to speak softly to the men at her table.

Her dress was sexy but sophisticated, her manner demure.

Most of Campbell’s fans were working class. The dress code for the fundraising dinner was casual, as the event was meant to be comfortable and easy, yet she wore a dress that looked like something Marilyn Monroe might have worn. She stood out as if she were the lone Technicolor character in a black-and-white film.