Page 1 of False Flag

Chapter One

Washington, DC

December

Who controls the past controls the future.

Who controls the present controls the past.

- George Orwell, 1984

It came as no surprise that the podcaster was using the Orwell quote to decorate the printed menu for the fundraiser. Staci figured she was the only person in the room who fully understood the irony of what he was doing by using that particular quote to raise money for what was essentially a grift.

Well, except for the man himself. She had zero doubt that Gerard Campbell knew his theories about ancient civilizations were baseless. Truth was impractical for a man whose empire was built on lies.

She set down her menu and looked toward the long table situated on a low dais. There in the center sat the reigning monarch of disinformation. The #1 human history podcaster among white English speakers. His history sermons—presented in twice-weekly podcasts—were nothing but fake pseudoarchaeology nonsense. That he was taken seriously by millions of people wasn’t just galling to professional historians and archaeologists, it was also dangerous.

Very dangerous. As she’d experienced firsthand.

Now the podcaster was leveling up—adding to his misbegotten wealth by asking fans to donate money for a research expedition to prove his theories. Research couldn’t find evidence that didn’t exist, but his legions of followers were too high on charisma—and for some, white supremacy—to worry about science.

Staci had spent the last year studying Gerard Campbell along with several other pseudoarchaeologists, but with this event, her personal and academic interests intersected with the consulting work she did for Friday Morning Valkyries, a small group of archaeologists and intelligence agents who worked covertly to protect archaeological sites and stop artifact looting and trafficking.

Campbell’s disinformation campaign had spread to political circles, leading to demands that governments across the globe reconsider the rights of Indigenous groups. Campbell’s funding plea was likely being answered by white supremacists who intended to help him find his “proof.” Or, more likely, fabricate it, so they could use manufactured history to rewrite US law.

Staci intended to join Campbell’s team so she could document all the ways he cheated and falsified data. While exposing him was a goal and even the main benefit, she was also doing it for science. A study of how and why pseudoscientists spread disinformation was the focus of her dissertation.

This fundraiser was the first step in landing a spot on the expedition. FMV had paid for her dinner ticket because it aligned with their interests as well, and in prepping for tonight’s fundraiser, Freya Lange—FMV’s senior intelligence officer—had suggested Staci use all her assets to get Campbell’s attention.

Staci figured Freya wanted her on the team as much as, or even more than, Staci wanted it.

She studied her personalized menu that listed the meal she’d ordered when she’d purchased her ticket. She’d hated giving Campbell money—even if it wasn’t hers—but it was the only way to get in this room, and she couldn’t infiltrate his curated inner circle without getting dirty.

She’d bought the cheapest seat on the fringe, which only cost two hundred dollars. Those who sat at the tables closer to the front had paid more than twice as much, while the seats on the dais were a whopping twenty-five hundred a pop.

They were Campbell’s biggest fans, hoping to buy their way onto the team. They paid because they lacked Staci’s assets, which just might snag the straight, single podcaster’s attention.

She studied the men—they were all men, of course—who’d paid a ridiculous amount to snuggle up to a con man. A dozen, naturally. Did they call themselves apostles?

Probably. Although the pseudoarchaeology Campbell preached wasn’t biblical.

A man seated a mere three places away from the big man caught her gaze. Staci fought the urge to look away. She relaxed her features. She needed to present herself as a fan. Excited to be here. Giddy about it, even.

Like any good spy, she had to blend in. Embody the sycophant persona of a true believer.

The man smiled, and it was a damn shame he was a superfan, because his smile made his already handsome face something to behold.

She’d always been a sucker for dimples.

The smile was her undoing, forcing her to look away. This was not the time and certainly wasn’t the place. He might be pretty, but he was still a disciple of the devil.

She knew all too well the harm Campbell’s fans could do, but she also had to remind herself not to blame the average follower for being sucked in.

At first glance, it was pure entertainment. An exciting, even mysterious story, a discovery to be made. Second glance was even more enticing. A secret! A hidden past. By the time they were fully engaged, they were in it for the conspiracy. A chance to be in on the truth.

Even knowing this, it was hard to be forgiving toward the people here. Anyone who was willing to spend between two- and twenty-five-hundred dollars for a chicken dinner with the big man was not the average follower. She had zero doubt that some—possibly even one or more of the men sitting at her table—had threatened and harassed real archaeologists.

Were the apostles the generals in Campbell’s harassment army? Whoever or whatever they were, they were in deep to spend so much just to sit near him.