by Brian Haig
“All right. Help me get my sister’s murderers.”
Sounded like a good solution to me.
But Peterson scowled and said, “The CIA isn’t permitted to engage in operations inside the United States. I’d like to help;I can’t.”
“You mean,” Janet said, “you don’t want to risk having your precious operation compromised.”
“Of course it’s a factor,” he confessed. “The killer is not my concern, however. It’s a domestic matter, not international. My interest is this syndicate, with protecting millions of lives from international terrorism, drugs, and other criminal mayhem.”
And like that—bang, something went off in the back of my head. What?
Janet said, “That’s too bad. My sister is my concern. And if you think . . .” and so on, and so forth. I hadn’t slept in two nights. I was forgetting something, and I was groggy, and the temperature in the room wasn’t helping. Yet . . . what?
I sat up. “Wait a minute.”
Janet stopped talking. Peterson stopped talking.
I said, “The cops, Meany—how did they get to my apartment so fast this morning? And what the hell was Meany doing there?”
Peterson shook his head. “Who’s Meany? What are you talking about?”
MacGruder coughed. Phyllis sat and looked ladylike and grandmotherly, like she should have a sewing kit in her lap and should be knitting something; like a handmade garrote, maybe.
“Who’s Meany?” Peterson repeated.
Only after a long pause did MacGruder inform his boss, “I believe he’s referring to Special Agent George Meany, sir. He’s the SAC of the FBI task force hunting the serial killer.”
And like that, another piece fell into place in my head, and I said, “Tell us about the cover-up, Jack.”
He did not respond to that. In fact, aside from some squeaky seats and feet shuffling, the room went completely quiet.
Peterson said, “Drummond, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I nodded in the direction of Phyllis and Jack. “They do.”
So he regarded Phyllis a moment. And then Jack.
After a moment of this, Phyllis suggested, very suavely, “Director, perhaps we should have a word with you . . . in private?”
Janet was staring at me.
But I broke eye contact with Janet, and I established eye contact with Phyllis. I asked her, “When did you know?”
She was still making eye contact with her boss, who said to her, “Answer him, Phyllis.” He then added—actually, he emphasized—“I’d like to know, too.”
Well, all this asinine eye contact stuff came to an abrupt end, because Phyllis turned back to Jack and said, “You explain it.” Shit really does roll downhill.
Jack stammered, “We weren’t . . . I mean, when Captain Morrow was murdered, we had no idea . . . we never put two and two together . . . she’d left the law firm, weeks before. The police concluded it was a robbery.”
“What about after Cuthburt?” I suggested helpfully.
“No, no . . . not then either. We made no connection between her and Captain Morrow. Not really until Anne Carrol was . . . well . . . she was SEC, and the FBI discovered the link, actually . . .” He paused, then said, “Only then was it brought to our attention.”
Janet fixed him with a frosty glare and asked, “Why?”
MacGruder’s eyes darted at Peterson, who nodded. He said, “Trojan Horse is a joint operation between us and the FBI. We handle the overseas parts, the FBI handles the domestic pieces. Our FBI counterparts have an operation inside Culper, Hutch, and Westin. A lot of work went into setting it up. It’s critically important and must be protected.”
“What kind of operation?” I asked.
“You’ll recall that I mentioned the syndicate is exploiting distressed companies. In fact, Morris Networks was one of the first”—he shook his head—“actually, it was the first we detected. That discovery made us nervous.”
“About what?”
“How the syndicate knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Understand, corporations experiencing financial turmoil, that are hemorrhaging cash, they are extremely secretive with this information. If word leaks, their competitors know and jump on them, their stock tanks, and bankruptcy becomes virtually unstoppable. Consider Exxon, WorldCom, Global Crossing, or any of the others that have been in the news in recent years. Their CEOs knew . . . their chief financial officers and legal departments knew. The rest of their people had no clue they were teetering toward bankruptcy. Even Wall Street and their bankers were kept in the dark.” He added, “So, how was our syndicate cherry-picking these companies? How did it know to target them? It had to be acquiring insider information.”
“Go on.”
“We gave that a lot of thought. It’s very sophisticated, really. You see, when corporate officers know a financial train wreck might be unavoidable, what do they do? They face a legal nightmare, lawsuits from bondholders, from stockholders, from banks, possibly SEC investigations, and so on. Many corporate officers and board members confront personal liability. Their risks are enormous. Those risks have to be scrutinized, managed, even minimized, and, hopefully, well in advance.”
I said, “So they consult lawyers with expertise in these matters.”
“Precisely. In advance of a bankruptcy declaration.”
I thought about this a moment. I asked, “You’re saying the firm is . . . what? A talent scout for the syndicate?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Troubled companies approach your firm for advice and preparations, and the syndicate is notified.”
“Who’s notifying it? The whole firm? Everybody?”
He chuckled. “Only in a John Grisham novel, Major. No, not everybody.”
I didn’t chuckle. “Who?” I asked.
“We’re not sure.”
“But you said—”
“I said the FBI is running an operation.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the FBI has a mole inside the firm.”
“A mole?”
“An undercover agent.”
“I know what a mole is. Who?”
“That’s considerably more than you need to know.”
There was a long pause before Phyllis explained, “We have to know what companies this syndicate is getting involved with. Consider your friend Jason Morris. The precise details are cloudy, but we’ve been able to speculate how it happened.”
Jack picked up on her cue and explained, “Several years ago, Morris found himself in dire trouble. His personal fortune, all of it, was invested in company stock. His business was sharply contracting, the entire telecom sector was suffering an overcapacity crisis, and the banks turned merciless. He therefore approached your firm for preparatory bankruptcy advice.”
“Why my firm?”
“We don’t know. But somebody in the firm informed the syndicate of this, Jason Morris was approached, and he made his deal. The money exchange works through capacity swaps. It’s a shell game, of course. Grand Vistas ships him cash, and he ships them stock. Because the transaction occurs under the accounting rubric of a capacity swap, it escapes the scrutiny of an outright loan or sale.”
There was silence for a moment as we all considered what this meant.
As though we were too stupid to figure it out, Phyllis commented, “Really, it’s brilliant. The money gets laundered every time Grand Vistas sells the stock. Very large amounts of money. And if Morris Networks’ stock rises in value, Grand Vistas and its clients make scads more money.”
Well, the realities were ever-shifting inside this room. The floodgates were open, and Janet and I were being deluged with disclosures and information—just, notably, not the specific information I had very clearly asked for.
In short, we had their balls in our hands, just not all their balls.
I said, “Explain why George Meany was at my apartment so fast this morning?”
Phyllis re
plied, “You’ll have to ask George that question.”
“I’m asking you.”
“I don’t have that answer.”
“I think you do.”
“You think wrong. We’re teamed with the FBI on this matter, but we don’t share everything.” She added, “And neither do they.”
No kidding. The CIA and FBI not talking to each other? Could that be? She was probably lying, but the best lies are always grounded in the best truths.
I looked up at Peterson. A minute before, he had realized that his subordinates were withholding information not only from us, but from him. Phyllis and Jack probably now had a few career issues to sort through with him.
But he had either concluded that we’d already heard enough, or that we really did not need to hear the next big revelation, because that next big revelation was very bad—that it was illegal, and completely indefensible. Or perhaps he didn’t want to hear that next confession because he’d lose his plausible deniability. Nobody survives six years in his job who doesn’t know when he’s heard enough.
Changing the conversation, he faced Janet and asked, “Tell me what you think I can do for you. How can we resolve this?”
Janet said, “I want the killer and the people responsible.”
“You’re asking too much.”
“I am not. I want justice for my murdered sister and my father. The murderer and the people who sent him.”
He looked at me. “Can you reason with her?”
Shit—there it was. The Choice; do I screw Lisa’s memory and my friendship, or whatever my exact relationship was with Janet; or trample on my oath of service and my sworn duty to safeguard and preserve what was obviously a dire national secret?
I could feel Janet’s eyes looking into my heart, and I could feel Clapper’s eyes boring into my soul.
I said to Peterson, “The hit man has sworn to kill me, Janet, and our families. You understand this, right?”
“I have no problem with getting the killer. He’s a cold-blooded murderer and deserves to be brought to justice.”
“Define justice.”
He had anticipated this question and replied, “Don’t be premature. We’ll define his justice when we find him.”
And at just that moment, Clapper, who’d been silently witnessing this affair, said, “Director Peterson, I think you should answer Sean’s question.”
I glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at me.
“All right,” Peterson said. “I won’t pretend or deny that it wouldn’t be hugely convenient if the killer were to resist apprehension and force the issue. There are alternatives, however. If we take him alive, the Director of the FBI and I can classify him as a terrorist, and a security risk, and seal his trial. Are you satisfied?”
No—I wanted this bastard dead and buried. But I was satisfied the legal technicalities were being met.
Clapper asked, “And if we learn the names of his direct accomplices?”
“I can’t, and I won’t, bend on that,” Peterson replied. “His accomplices need to feel secure and stay in place for the continued success of Trojan Horse.” He added, “At some point, indeterminate at this stage, their day of reckoning will come. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
Janet’s lips were just parting, so I swiftly said, “We won’t expose the connection to Grand Vistas. But until the killer is stopped, I want protection for Janet, for me, and our immediate families.”
“We can arrange that.”
MacGruder said, “Let’s not forget the matter of this lawsuit he’s threatened his firm with.”
“How do you know—”
He smiled. “The FBI’s person inside the firm keeps us well-informed. You have that firm up in a lather, Drummond. You have to find a convincing way to withdraw your threat and let things get back to normal.”
“We can do that.” I glanced at Janet. She looked shocked, disappointed, but more than that, also disillusioned. At the outcome, most certainly, and, I suppose, in me. I swallowed and said, “Janet, there’s no other way. Half a loaf is better than—”
“Shut up.”
“Right.”
Peterson regarded her a moment, then said, “And do I have your agreement?”
“And do I have a choice?” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of bitter resignation. She then added, “I’ll do what I have to do.”
“Thank you. I mean that. This is hard to stomach, but it’s for the good of the country.” He then paused a moment before he said, “Now, this is distasteful for me, but I have to warn you both that if there’s a leak, if this operation is compromised in any way, I know where to look. We don’t have an official secrets act, like the British, but there are certain punitive measures that can—and I assure you, will—be brought against you. You understand.”
I nodded, and Janet stared at him a moment, before her chin dipped also.
But Peterson had good intuitive instincts and appeared to recognize that I had just paid a very dear price to seal this bargain.
To make amends, he leaned back on his heels and said to me, “Major, I must compliment you on your remarkable detective work. How you discovered this operation . . . how you unwrapped this mystery, it’s a great tribute to your integrity and your intelligence.”
Clapper commented, “Before Sean became a lawyer, he used to do a lot of work for your people.”
Peterson nodded, like that explained it. He added, “Well, when this is over, Drummond, maybe you should think about working over here.”
I smiled. “I might like that, Director.”
Of course, I was lying.
And in this building, it made no echo.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
IT WAS NOON WHEN JANET AND I STEPPED OFF THE ELEVATOR ONTO THE twelfth floor of Morris Networks.
I had called Mom, Dad, and brother John, and explained to them that life was going to be a little different for a few days, that stupid Sean had stirred up some stupid shit, and the nice boys and girls of the Federal Bureau of Investigation were going to be hanging around and watching over all of their asses for the next few days. I suggested to John that this might be a good time to visit Mom and Dad—this was easier for the Feds, and cheaper, a point I had been asked to stress by my new government pals.
Mom told me to be careful, Dad snorted that he’d watch after his own ass, and John said he thought that instead of visiting Dad and thirty years of grudges, he would just take a private jet to Tahiti or somewhere obscure like that.
Janet called her family also, but she had become very uncommunicative toward me, and did not inform me how it went.
We had driven over in my car, and while I did not observe any coverage, I had been assured that at least ten federal eyes would remain on moi and Janet wherever we went.
But Tiffany Allison was not smiling as the elevator door opened. In fact, Miss Allison looked positively stunning: coiffed, manicured, and buffed to a fine shine, but indeed, she was not smiling.
Without any welcome or ado, she coldly escorted us to Jason’s door. Perhaps I was imagining things, but her ass, and it truly was a world-class ass, appeared to be wiggling and swishing more erotically than usual. Good-byes and fuck-yous take many forms.
She opened Jason’s door and ushered us inside, offering me one final, frosty look, and then shut the door behind us.
Jason climbed out from his circular desk and walked toward us. Jessica Moner remained seated at the glass conference table with an expression of icy hatred. Sean Drummond was not having a very good day with the ladies.
Jason approached Janet and said to her, “You must be the lawyer I spoke with this morning.”
“Janet Morrow,” she reminded him, curt but businesslike. “Frankly, I’m happy we were able to work this out. I hate going to court.”
“You should be glad. Jessica says you wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s not happy with me.”
“Don’t listen to her. You made the right choice.”
Jessica growled something that sounded like “my ass,” but maybe she was just complaining about having to lug that big thing around all day.
Jason, however, wanted to keep things cordial and professional, so he smiled at Janet and said, “Please . . . call me Jason.” He swung his arm to indicate our seats. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
So we sat at the glass table, and Jessica pulled a lump of papers out of her legal case and spread them around.
Jessica looked at Janet and me and said, “This is the agreement Drummond has to sign before we pay a fuckin’ dime to you ass-holes . . .” and so on, as she continued in her pithy way to lay out the basic terms and conditions. It was all fairly boilerplate—a long-winded, legalistic way of saying that in return for not launching a suit, and keeping my mouth shut, the corporation of Morris Networks hereby pays me seventy million dollars.
Still, it was surreal listening to her babble on. Having already faxed Jessica’s office my checking account number, in mere minutes, seventy million dollars was going to start flowing across a thin copper wire and end up mine, all mine.
Actually, after Janet’s cut, half mine.
After Uncle Sam’s cut, a quarter mine.
After the fine Commonwealth of Virginia took its bite, less than a quarter mine.
What a country.
She finally finished her spiel, saying to Janet and me, “Now . . . read the fuckin’ contract and be sure you agree to our terms and stipulations.”
I glanced at Janet and she glanced back. The ice was thin under my butt, but she had to tolerate me, and for the greater good of Western civilization, we had to get through this. Also, one, or possibly two people at this table might have played a hand in her sister’s death and putting her father into intensive care, not to mention adding both our names to the killer’s social register, so this was tough going. But as I said, we had to play our roles, and we had to read through the agreement to be sure Jessica hadn’t slipped any nasty willies into the small print.
Thus, for the better part of the next ten minutes, we browsed and parsed the text like the good lawyers were both were. Jason acted like his usual caffeinated self, and he fidgeted, fiddled, and twitched. Three times, he trekked to his desk and inspected his beloved monitors. I caught him, once or twice, gazing curiously at Janet, perhaps calculating whether she was a candidate for a weekend in Bimini. Not a chance, pal.
