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"He knows that if he talks or welches, he's next. Leave him alone," Ricky commanded.
"Okay. But if he betrays us, I fillet him like sturgeon.
And his family also."
O'Meara burbled that he understood.
"Bags, Herman. Load this stuff fast. Take Eddie home.
Give him a couple stiff drinks first, so his wife'll think he's like this because he's plastered." Ricky locked his eyes onto Dimitrov's. "Okay, Jack the Ripper. Let's leave the talking to Uncle Al and Yakov." Ricky spat, then about-faced and sprinted out.
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CHAPTER SIX
Bernard J. Scher was put in charge of the government-wide effort to investigate Mortimer's death. He headed an Interagency Working Group, or IWG for short, comprising State, NSC, FBI, CIA, Defense, Homeland Security and the Secret Service. The IWG met twice a week to compare notes and seek ways to advance the investigation.
The national chairman of the President's party personally phoned daily for updates. Mortimer was a key supporter of the party and President. The party would miss the hundreds of thousands Mortimer raised through the PACs.
Secretary of State Dennison, seen by most Americans issuing sound-bites from breezy links at warm resorts, also wanted to know every detail, any clues that might lead somewhere. Mortimer had made Dennison, as chairman of the Committee to Re-elect the President, look good. In the coming race, he wouldn't have it so easy without Mortimer's golden geyser.
The press was merciless in commentaries on the government's mishandling of the investigation. The Washington Post questioned Scher's abilities as an investigator, noting that his hum-drum performance as a PERMANENT INTERESTS
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corporate attorney at his old law firm ill-equipped him as the government's chief diplomatic lawyer. The Post, the New York Times and the Sunday morning talking heads questioned the administration's assumption that terrorists did Mortimer in.
While this was distinctly an inside-the-beltway hullaballoo which held virtually zero interest for the average American, at election time, political opponents of the administration on the Hill and critics in the media would be slavering to turn it into ammunition to undercut the electoral chances of the President and his party.
Innes tried mentally and emotionally to remove himself from the whole affair. He had learned long ago to keep as much distance as possible from fools and their shenanigans inside the government. Sycophantic office directors and Deputy Assistant Secretaries pursued with unquestioning vigor the line laid down by Scher and his ass-kissing staff.
All manner of hyper-ambitious bureaucrats came out of the woodwork to weasel their way onto the investigation team.
The word around the corridor water fountains was that this could be "career enhancing" -- governmentese for fast promotions. His obligatory attendance at Scher's brainless IWG meetings, however, made Innes a captive. There to sit against a wall and take notes and report back to his bosses in the Department's Secretariat, Innes was in on most things. What he didn't learn at the meetings he usually could easily obtain through a secure phone call or an office visit. At the last meeting, he found himself unconsciously shaking his head in disgust. He caught himself before anyone could notice.
"What do you mean the CIA has nothing recent on the Patriotic Front for the Liberation of All Children of Islam?"
Scher thundered at the CIA's Deputy Director for Operations.
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"We don't even know if the PFLCI still exists. At most it had a dozen members, all hotheads at the University of Cairo. But they've all graduated. One is working in New York with Prudential Securities. The others we're still trying to track down. The Cairo Station believes one was tortured to death by the Egyptian police--"
"I want the low-down on the Prudential guy by tomorrow afternoon," Scher shot back. "Now, what's this latest report about the Kurdish Workers Patriotic Brigade threatening to blow up the embassies of imperialist governments who give aid to Turkey…?"
Innes couldn't believe his ears. He looked at his watch impatiently every six or seven minutes.
"We're demarching the Egyptians," intoned the gray-suited Deputy Assistant Secretary for Near East Affairs.
During a coffee break, Innes cornered Claire Norton, Scher's deputy on the interagency group.
"Claire, can you tell me what's going on?"
"'Going
on',
Bob?"
"I can't believe it's just me who sees we're barking up the wrong trees."
"Whatever do you mean?" Claire replied in astonishment.
"Why are we committing the formidable resources of the U.S. government in chasing after phantom terrorist suspects? We all know Mortimer's reputation. Though no one has the gumption to raise it."
"Ambassador Mortimer's personal life may have not been saintly, but it's irrelevant to this investigation," Claire answered officiously. "Besides, why sidetrack a serious investigation by getting the media into a feeding frenzy on marginal issues like Mortimer's personal foibles?"
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"When I told Scher about what I found out before I left Rome, it was like I was giving him my mother's recipe for blueberry muffins. He turned off completely."
Claire Norton was the same rank as Innes. She, like most of her female thirty-something peers in the Foreign Service, was immaculately burnished and behaved, and unmarried. Every hair always in place; her outfits were replications of the Brooks Brothers and Nordstrom suits of her male counterparts. She reminded Innes of female Coldwell-Banker agents who sold homes only in certain elite neighborhoods in the northwest quadrant of the capital. Claire punched all the right tickets. She was on the threshold of promotion to the senior ranks. Her positioning herself to be selected as Scher's deputy on a major task force was a strategic move.
"Do you really think Mortimer was zapped by some raghead zealot?" Innes asked almost in desperation.
With a plastic smile and a practiced upbeat delivery, Norton responded in measured tones, "We believe that there are enough indications to lead us to suspect strongly that terrorist elements are behind the assassination of Ambassador Mortimer." She sounded like a junior press spokeswoman reciting the party line, Innes thought.
Scher reconvened the meeting.
"The Strike Force for Bosnian Salvation," Scher began in a dramatic, paced presentation that would have the participants think that this Balkan splinter group had just gotten hold of the bomb. "DIA tells me that they have threatened to carry their message, quote, 'to wherever necessary and by whatever means,' endquote. I can't understand why they haven't been entered on Interpol's watch list."
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"We're demarching the Swiss," chimed a Deputy Assistant Secretary for European Affairs with no explanation.
"Islamic crazies are crawling all over Italy," Scher continued. "The Italians are so gummed up in Government of the Month antics, they can't be trusted to investigate a parking ticket." A wan smile unfolded across Scher's pale face.
As if on cue, all attendees in the conference room broke into a collective chuckle. Also as if on cue, they stopped.
Innes excused himself.
Back at his work station in the Ops Center, he slumped into his chair, plunked his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples in deliberate, circular motions. "Frigid career bitches," he murmured.
"What'd you say, Bob?" Robin Croft asked cheerfully.
"Uh, nothing, nothing really. Just losing my marbles again, that's all. What's up?"
"Well, were you mumbling something about your wife?
Anyway, she called. There's not much really going on.
France's trade minister is calling us names again. Some Argentine military guys making noises about the Falklands again. Here's a Reuters piece that just came over the ticker."
Datelined Ankara, it was titled, "Russian Diplomat Slain." It wen
t on, "A Russian diplomat was found murdered today just outside the Turkish capital. The slain envoy's mutilated body lead police to suspect an attack by Chechnyans as an act of vengeance against Moscow."
Innes was momentarily lost in deep thought. His chin rested in a palm. Croft carefully watched for a reaction.
An extended "Hmmmm" rumbled from inside her supervisor.
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Fidgeting, Innes riffled through the other press tickers stapled to the Reuters article. Just beneath the Ankara dispatch was a New York Times News Service story out of New York headlined, "Three Teamsters Officials Murdered." The sub-heading read, "Killings Have Hallmarks of Gangland Hit; Teamsters Deny Mob Ties."
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CHAPTER SEVEN
The headquarters of the FBI sits like a proud young dowager, its face exhibiting strong clean lines and a full blush complexion. Self-confidence, direction and rectitude radiate from a form anchored in stolidity, if not grace.
Most of all, it exudes power. Situated two blocks from the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue, the premier law enforcement agency tasked with protecting Americans from all manner of evildoers, is still named, in huge brass letters, after J. Edgar Hoover. It is an irony lost on no one.
Over seven thousand bureaucrats report there each day.
They track criminals and spies, they categorize finger prints and analyze evidence, they track the bank accounts and travels of secret agents, terrorists and mobsters. They type and they file and do forensics research and test weapons.
Those who rise the fastest move along with the sexy issues.
Since 9/11, tracking down terrorists was fetching promotions and citations left and right. Drugs and associated money laundering never hurt any special agent's career. And doing anything to make the mafia's life harder would win recognition and occasionally awards.
Counterintelligence, however, was keeping the best and brightest away in droves. With the end of cold war and PERMANENT INTERESTS
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blooming of democracy in former communist states, there were fewer spies, fewer embassies to have to watch closely, fewer schemes by foreign governments to parse out. The Counterintelligence Division had atrophied as agents trained in Russian or Hungarian or Polish were transferred to Miami, New Orleans, L.A. and smaller cities to pursue Islamists, inter-state car theft rings, white collar banking fraud, small mobsters and crazies issuing threats against anything, everything and anybody.
The irony is that letting the guard down allowed Robert Hansen to engage in a 15-year secrets-selling spree to the Russians in what was described as the "worst intelligence disaster in U.S. history." Thus burnt, the Bureau made the wise decision to offer some incentives to attract and keep good agents in counterintelligence.
Speedy Donner was one such agent. As a Russian specialist, he still had plenty to do. Donner's real given name was Peter. He acquired the moniker Speedy Petie in high school. He always seemed to be the fastest in everything. Ran the swiftest in track. Liked to drive suped-up hot rods. He was the first to be accepted by a university as well as the first to get a degree. He was the first among his peers to marry, the first to have a child, and the first to get divorced. His superiors liked Speedy because he saw before anyone else in the government the new dangers posed by the reconstituted Russian KGB, now broken up into several separate components, the CIA counterpart known as the Foreign Intelligence Service -- in Russian, Sluzhba Vnye Shneii Razvyedki, or SVR. As the former Soviet Union crumbled and frayed at the core as well as at the edges, it was Speedy who, in a memo to the Director, predicted that Russian officials would be increasingly looking out for their own personal aggrandizement. Diplomats and spies, he maintained, 68 JAMES
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would flock to Western intelligence services to be recruited
-- for remuneration, of course. Others, however, could be expected to become renegades, free-lance criminals, as well as sellers of state secrets. The Director of Central Intelligence, who was shown the memo, praised Speedy in a letter to his counterpart at the FBI, for demonstrating
"foresight in predicting that former servants of an ex-superpower living in an ideological vacuum with little in the way of monetary compensation would inevitably be out for themselves in their deep disillusionment." He added that Speedy was one of the first to raise alarm bells about the possibility of Russian nuclear scientists selling their expertise to the likes of Iran’s mullahs or North Korea's Kim Jong-il.
The fact of the matter was, Speedy simply loved his work. He adored Russian language and culture and was obsessed with piecing together the personal lifestyles, motivations and beliefs of ex-Soviet officials. If they shipped him off to Des Moines to chase after bank robbers, he would just shrivel up and die. He therefore resolved to be the best in CI.
Innes kept in touch with his old college roommate. The bonding went further than that. As graduates of the State University of New York at Geneseo, they were often the butt of jokes and smirks from their colleagues in the elite government services in which they worked.
They agreed to meet at Rio Lobo on upper Connecticut Avenue for their monthly pig-out lunch of Tex-Mex.
Speedy, naturally, arrived first.
"How's work?" Speedy asked.
"Shitty. I work for fools. How about you?" Salsa dripped down Innes's chin as he wrestled with a Taco Grande.
"I also work for fools. But they like me."
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"Who you going out with these days?"
"You know Heidi Klum?" Speedy was plowing through his Tres Burritos de Texas methodically, nary losing a crumb.
"You mean the model?"
"Yeah. And do you know Maria Sharapova and Charlize Theron?"
"Uh, I know who they are, sure." Innes's eyes followed a clump of chili as it escaped his lips and went splat onto his lap.
"Nobody like that," Speedy finished.
"How's your kid?" Innes asked.
"Sore subject."
"Okay, now that we got all that out of the way, I have a business-related question.
"Shoot."
"You know anything about a Russian diplomat who was murdered the other day in Ankara?"
"Never went out with him."
"Cut out the wisecracks."
"I saw the same press reports, but since it's out of FBI's bailiwick, we're not getting anything on it. And we're not asking either. If you're interested, how come you aren't asking the CIA? They're supposed to know everything."
"I thought you would ask for me. I've been getting the run-around from them. In any case, you know everybody who works the Russian beat."
"No sweat. I'll get a full report to you tomorrow."
"Great. How about a beer after work, say 6:30 at The Pub in Georgetown."
"I'll be there. By the way, how's the wife?"
"Sore subject."
Speedy neatly wiped his mouth and placed his fork and spoon on his clean plate. With his sixth paper napkin, 70 JAMES
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Innes caught a rivulet of grease before it reached his elbow.
Molten cheese anchored his dish to the table cover.
"Terrific chow, as always," Innes declared, smiling.
"You bet." Speedy looked at his roomie with amusement.
Innes was pulling the regular eight-to-five shift at the Ops Center. The watch officers rotate duty to even out the burden of night shifts and to give everyone the chance to work normal hours.
Robin Croft had just placed on his desk the morning's take of telegrams from embassies, CIA stations and military commands around the world. She gleaned that which she felt was important, messages that Innes, in turn, would bring to the attention of the Ops Center Director or various Assistant Secretaries, perhaps after seeking additional or late-breaking information via secure voice communications or classified e-mail or FAX.
Pawing through the take, Innes made a comment or a
sked a question about several of the items.
"What's this about the French trade minister calling us names again? Somebody oughta fire that guy. Shred!"
Innes held the confidential cable from Paris at arm's length, as if it were putrid, and unceremoniously dropped it into a burn bag.
"And the Mexicans are massacring Indians again. They should be ashamed to be our neighbors. It's all in the papers anyway." Embassy Mexico City telegram number 13251 followed the French minister into the burn bag.
Robin enjoyed Innes's sense of humor, a commodity sorely lacking in a building in which too many people took themselves far too seriously.
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"I'll try to get the world to cough up some better news next time," she said in mock seriousness.
"You can start with Bernard Scher." Innes puffed up his chest and set his mouth into a frown of grave pomposity.
"What's the latest with the Terror of the Terrorists anyway?
Has he gotten down to Sudanese kindergartens yet?"
"Not sure. But people on the Hill aren't letting up.
Senator Scofield announced late yesterday that the Senate would order the General Accounting Office to investigate the Mortimer case if the administration couldn't do it properly. And the Washington Times has another one of its scathing editorials skewering the State Department for being namby-pamby on the case."
"Anybody from the IWG call me?"
"Nope. Oh, I almost forgot. The secretary took a phone message for you from Embassy Rome." Robin handed Innes a yellow message slip. It said, "Please call: 'Colleen.
02-595-003-291.'"
Innes found an empty cubicle allowing privacy, and punched the number.
"Hello? Chargé's office," came a chipper female voice.
"Colleen?"
"Bob?"
"One and the same."
"Guess what? I've been assigned to Bangkok. I'll be in the political section. It's a great job."
"Oh, uh, sure. Congratulations." Innes wondered why she was calling him with this news. Bangkok. Hm. Great.
Never see those gams again.
"Yeah! And I'll be starting ten months of Thai at FSI."