by Jack Slater
In truth, he didn’t much like the death penalty either. It wasn’t really a moral thing, he just preferred the idea that the men and women he put behind bars had to stay there until they served their time. Going to sleep seemed like the easy way out. But today, as so often, it served as a useful pressure point. Most men will do just about anything to avoid facing death.
And so it proved.
When Fitz next spoke, his voice was quiet. Broken. “What do you want?”
“You’ll take the deal?”
“Seven years.”
Pope shook his head. “Ten. That’s the only offer. You don’t want to take it, I walk right out that room, and you can take your chances with the US Attorney. But like I told you, she’s in a real bad mood.”
“Okay!” Fitz yelled, attempting to stand before he was yanked back down by his chains. “Ten. Whatever.”
“You’ll sign a national security agreement requiring your silence both during and after incarceration,” Pope said, quickly ticking off the terms on his fingers. “Ten years in general population, but you’ll get a new name. You can go into witness protection when you get out. But I doubt anyone will bother to come looking for you. And there’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“I need some help with your friend.”
“What friend?”
“Warren Grover.”
50
Pope nervously smoothed his suit as he waited. This wasn’t his first meeting with President Nash, but it was the only one in which he had been forced to take center stage.
“Relax,” FBI Director Rutger murmured, subtly motioning toward the ground. “He’s all bark.”
Pope frowned. “Is that a good thing?”
“Sir, arms up please.”
The Secret Service agent – he hadn’t given a name – blandly brandished a magnetic wand, and Pope acquiesced, taking half a step out and lifting both his arms. Since he’d thought better than to bring a weapon into the White House, the check was cursory, except for a moment’s consternation as his belt buckle made the device squeal.
“Thank you. If you’ll follow me.”
Pope did as requested, walking slightly behind the director, and they proceeded through the last few yards of the tunnel from the Treasury Building to the East Wing.
“Thanks, Jake,” came a voice as they turned the corner. “I’ll take them from here.”
It belonged to the familiar face of Emma Martinez, the president’s chief of staff. Familiar only to Pope from the media rather than any previous personal interaction. She looked tired and a little older than she had upon entering the White House a couple years earlier. Still, her posture was upright and her intention serious. They stopped in front of her, and the Secret Service agent made himself scarce.
Martinez nodded expressionlessly at the director. “Vince.”
“Ms. Martinez.”
“Care to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“Truth be told,” Rutger chuckled, “I don’t exactly know myself.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I’m not asking you to believe it, Emma. The president can choose to loop you in on this or not, but that’s not my decision to make.”
Nash’s chief of staff pursed her lips and said nothing as she spun on her heel. Rutger followed after her easily, but it took Pope a couple of seconds to catch up. They followed her through the East Wing for about a minute before stopping in front of an elevator. Pope noticed that in all that time, they didn’t encounter anyone else. He suspected that wasn’t unintentional.
The elevator arrived a couple of moments later, prompting an almost farcical situation as the three of them squeezed themselves into a tiny box that looked barely designed to accommodate one. The combination of the tension between his boss and Martinez and their present situation made Pope want to laugh out loud, but instead he steeled his features, reasoning it wouldn’t make him popular.
The elevator took them three floors up and opened onto a hallway. Another Secret Service greeted them upon arrival but maintained his post once he saw who was leading the small procession. As they left him behind, Pope thought he heard the man murmuring something into a radio.
What a life this would be, he thought. President Nash wouldn’t be able to visit the toilet without an entire chain of command knowing about it.
With a start, Pope realized that Martinez had led them into the White House Executive Residence. The president’s home.
“Dear God,” he murmured his breath.
“You say something, Nick?” Rutger said, turning.
“No, sir.”
“I’ll bet.”
Martinez led them to a large office and bid them inside. “Wait here. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rutger replied easily. Pope said nothing.
The office looked familiar, and he eventually realized that indeed it was. Though it was now both decorated and configured differently, he’d seen this place before – if only on television. Wars had been declared in this room, or at least announced to the public. And the good Lord only knew what else besides.
It was clear that the room’s present purpose was as a private office. It was dominated by a large hardwood desk and a leather executive chair. Two striped armchairs, plushly upholstered but well-worn, were angled just in front of an unlit white marble fireplace. Above the mantelpiece was a large mirror, in which Pope saw the reflection of a lacquered French cabinet on the opposite wall.
“Vince,” a male voice boomed. “Sorry for keeping you.”
“Not at all, Mr. President,” Director Rutger said as Pope turned back to the open doorway. “I serve at your pleasure.”
“And don’t forget that,” President Nash chuckled. “Agent Pope.”
Nick inclined his head, wondering if he was supposed to curtsy or something. He would probably have been given an etiquette briefing before an ordinary visit to this place, but today had been anything but ordinary. “Mr. President.”
“Come on, sit,” Nash said, gesturing at the armchairs. He walked over to the desk and dragged an upholstered conference chair from in front of it over to the fireplace. Pope tried intercepting him halfway, only to be brushed off.
The president plunked himself on the least comfortable of the three chairs, much to Pope’s intense consternation. He glanced at the director, wondering if he should offer to trade, but the amused look on his boss’s face suggested not.
“I said sit,” Nash repeated.
The door clicked shut, catching Pope’s attention. He saw that Emma Martinez was inside the now-sealed room. He was caught between wanting to offer her the sole remaining armchair and protesting her presence. In the end, he said nothing.
The expression on his face, however, must have been obvious. Nash snorted. “Emma prefers standing. She says sitting encourages lazy thinking, would you believe it? Maybe she’s right. But she hears what I hear, and if one of us has to think properly then I’d rather it was her.”
“Yes, sir,” Pope muttered, chastened by the implicit – if mild – rebuke. He sat.
Nash looked expectantly at Rutger. “Now, Vince, I expect you’re about to tell me what’s so damn important I had to interrupt my supper?”
“I’ll leave that to Nick here,” Rutger replied with a broad smile. “I’m just the tour guide.”
The president’s attention shifted in turn, and he leaned forward, pushing his elbows on his knees.
Thanks a lot, Pope thought, suddenly wishing that he had brought with him a sheaf of notes to fiddle with, or even a damn pen. It wasn’t that he thought he needed the information – in fact, as little of the present crisis was being committed to paper as possible, given the ramifications – he just wanted a shield. There was something strangely disconcerting about Nash’s gaze, as though the man could read him like a book.
That, of course, would be a useful talent to possess in his position.
Pope cleared his throat and looked up at Martinez one last
time before beginning. “Mr. President.”
Nash leapt up and held a finger in the air. “Hold that thought!”
He crouched down on hands and knees in front of the fireplace and fished for a box of matches. The kindling was already arranged, and he struck the match and held it into its midst. It didn’t take long before a low flame was crackling.
“You know, every other year the cleaning company sweeps the chimneys for free,” he remarked, dusting the soot of his fingers as he resumed his seat. “A gift to lower the budget deficit. Every chimney in this damn place. It takes them six days, crew of ten, and they do it for free!”
Nash shook his head. “If you think about it too hard, the guy just volunteered to pay more in federal taxes. And it doesn’t do a damn thing for the deficit. But it’s a nice gesture, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I liked it, and I clean it,” Nash continued. “It’s one of the few jobs around here the staff allows me to get on with.”
“I’m sure they’re only trying to help,” Pope remarked, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say to that.
“And they are,” Nash said, brandishing his fingers. “But sometimes you put to use these things for more than signing legislation. And besides, it helps me clear my head.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rutger coughed politely and said, “I think Agent Pope here had something important that you needed to know.”
It struck Pope in that moment that Nash wasn’t making small talk – he was procrastinating. Engaging in avoidant behavior. And it was obvious why.
Nash gestured impatiently. “Go on, then.”
“Sir, have you ever heard of an organization called The Apparatus?”
“Should I have?”
“In an ideal world,” Pope remarked dryly, momentarily forgetting himself. “But probably not.”
“Okay. Enlighten me.”
“Sir, it’s – I should say, it was – an ad hoc intelligence unit under the auspices of the Army. It dates back at least 30 or 40 years, and for most of that time was a think tank for kind of out-there ideas. Kind of the brainiac twin of the military’s least known intelligence unit, The Activity. Otherwise known as Task Force Orange.”
“You talking MK Ultra, or something even more bananas?” Nash grunted, looking around for something, Pope wasn’t sure what.
“Probably less crazy than staring at goats. More crazy than invading Panama.”
“Great. So what was it?”
“Mainly an off-the-wall think tank. A military talk shop for generating low-cost, higher-impact solutions.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Nash remarked. He stood abruptly and walked toward the lacquered cabinet. “Either of you want a drink?”
“You know me, sir,” Rutger said. Pope shook his head, though in truth a little alcohol would have done a world of good.
Undeterred, Nash opened the cabinet and took out a bottle of scotch. He poured a generous measure into each of four tumblers before carrying two of them in either hand. He handed one to Martinez, then sat back down.
“Don’t be polite,” he said gruffly as he pressed one into Pope’s unresisting fingers. “That’s an order. This sounds like one of those conversations it’s best not to have when you’re entirely sober.”
“Yes, sir,” Pope said, taking a sip.
“Carry on.”
“Though The Apparatus more or less dissolved naturally several years ago, we’ve uncovered evidence that one of the ideas its members tossed around was a hostile takeover of a Mexican drug cartel with a view to seizing control of the entire South-North narcotics trade and thus blocking flows into the continental United States.”
Nash groaned. “Agent Pope, please tell me that what you just said is only color.”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. President. It appears that several former members of the unit have taken the plan freelance, and that this is the cause of the recent violence in Mexico.”
“Dammit,” Nash hissed. He sank half the whiskey tumbler in one gulp, then set it onto the floor. “Is that all?”
“No, sir.”
“Of course not…”
“Part of the plan – or at least the revised plan that was put into practice – was aimed to engineer the election of a friendly face into the office of the Mexican Presidency.”
“Neto’s up for election now, isn’t he, Emma?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“So what you’re telling me, Agent Pope, is that American intelligence officers in this day and age have attempted to affect the results of free and fair elections of one of our closest allies?”
Pope nodded.
“You planning on bringing me any good news?” Nash muttered irritably.
“Kind of, Mr. President. The man behind this is Warren Grover. We have him under surveillance as we speak.”
“Why haven’t you brought him in already?” Nash snapped. “Or better yet, killed him.”
Pope glanced anxiously at Rutger, who thankfully intervened in his typically booming voice. “Because, Mr. President, this is one of those decisions that guys like me don’t get to make.”
The president’s expression softened, taking on an almost apologetic bent. “This one’s on me, huh? Then tell me – what are my options?”
“The problem we have, sir, is that Grover’s plan called for the installation of a new individual as president of Mexico. Someone with whom he could do business.”
A deposit of resin inside one of the logs on the fireplace sizzled then popped as Nash glanced sharply up. “Who?”
“Senator Josefina Salazar.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“No sir. So you see –”
“This isn’t an intelligence issue anymore. It’s a diplomatic one. God – you’re telling me that we nearly toppled the entire Mexican government?”
Pope nodded his agreement.
“And it’s not over, is it?”
“Not even close. We think Grover has pivoted in order to save his own skin. He’s going to try and engineer Salazar’s election, using the current chaos in Mexico as pretext. He doubtless has leverage over both the senator and a senior officer in the Mexican Armed Forces, a man called Abalos. All three are too deep in this to simply back out. So they are going to raise the stakes.”
“What are my options?”
Pope looked over at Director Rutger, but Nash slapped his thigh to attract his attention. “I’m asking you, Agent Pope. You’re the one working this case. What do you suggest?”
“Sir, this is a tricky situation. But that’s kind of the CIA’s core competency. If you order it, they can clean this up.”
“Clean this up?” Nash frowned. “You mean kill them. All three of the plotters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then say that. I don’t like euphemisms.” Nash paused, studying Pope. “You don’t look like you like that option.”
“No, Mr. President. But it’s not like I have a better one.”
“I think you do.”
Pope hesitated, wondering how Nash knew, and fearing he was about to be labeled as a Pollyanna. “Sir, my opinion is that you don’t fix one cover-up by starting another. I would come clean.”
“Thankfully in this situation the right choice is also the only viable one,” Nash mused. “You’re right. This won’t leak from our side. But if we try and hush things up, and the Mexican government ever finds out – which they will – then not to put too fine a point on it, but we’re fucked.”
The president rose to his feet, looking equal parts determined and uncertain. “Emma, get me President Neto on the phone immediately. And tell the Air Force to fire up the big bird. I’m guessing this one will require the personal touch.”
51
The first words out of Ethan Fitz’ mouth as Grover approached were, “Are you alone?”
Leo Conway’s former handler was now sitting under a café awning on the corner of Calle de
Tacuba, in the historic center of Mexico City. It was the appointed place at the appointed time. He had a rolled-up newspaper on the seat next to him, the agreed signal that they were not being watched.
That, of course, was a lie. In truth, Fitz was here to sell a story. A story that would save his life.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Grover snapped, not standing on either ceremony or any conception of loyalty to a friend. “I saw your mark. I’m here. So this better be good.”
“What am I doing here?” Fitz spluttered with disbelief. “What do you think? You screwed me.”
“How?” Grover asked coldly.
“The feds are looking for me,” Fitz replied, starting to pace. “They were at my front door, Warren. You understand what that means? They know who I am!”
“How is that my problem?”
“You think I didn’t keep records, you asshole?” Fitz replied. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed, seemingly aware that he was losing control. He reached for the coffee cup in front of him and wrapped his fingers around it. He leaned forward. “I’m not an idiot, Warren. I knew what we were doing was dangerous.”
Grover signaled for a waiter and ordered a cup of his own. Both men waited until the man departed before they resumed conversation. “I repeat: how is that my problem?”
“I can screw you,” Fitz snarled. “Just like you did me.”
“Don’t blame me for your own inadequacies, Ethan,” Grover said with an affected calmness. “If the FBI are after you, it’s because you failed. Not me.”
“Hell, maybe it was, but it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference. Like they say in the movies, Warren, I’ve got receipts.”
“And how do you think that helps you?”
Fitz squinted in confusion. “I need money. More than we agreed. A lot more. I got you what you wanted; I didn’t know what you were planning to do with it. You killed five US Attorneys, Warren. And the administrator of the DEA. Are you insane?”
“You never asked why I needed it. I might have told you.”
“Well I didn’t, all right? And now they are looking for me. I can’t go home. I’ve lost everything.”