by Wolf Wootan
Gramble was an ambitious man with his eye on the office of the DDI (Deputy Director of Intelligence), since he was certain that they would never make him DDO. He was barely five-foot-three, and some said he had a Napoleon Complex; he was pushy, controlling, and could be obnoxious in meetings. The activities of the last six days were threatening his ambitious goals. First, a call from McGinnis in London informed him that two Stasi agents were dead, Bob Hatcher was dead, and his lead contact agent in Europe had quit and disappeared, but not before blabbing everything on an unsecured phone line. Now, every intelligence organization worth its salt knew that The Hatchet Man was dead. Champagne corks were popping all over the secret world of spies.
Second, he had talked to McGinnis in London the day before, finding out that six Stasi agents and a KGB Colonel had been killed during the days since Hatcher’s death. The KGB and Stasi were blaming the CIA. McGinnis claimed it was not any of his agents taking revenge, unless they were lying to him. Then, who was it? The DDO had made a rare call to Gramble this morning demanding an explanation that he could give to the DCI, who was bugging him.
And now, the final straw! He had just been informed that McGinnis was found floating in the Thames, cause of death unknown. It was officially deemed a suicide. Gramble’s world had become a nightmare in just six days!
What’s happening here? It should have been a simple job. The Stasi take care of the bitch, their own defector. Hatcher kills a couple of them for revenge. Hatcher doesn’t quit. We go on as usual. That damned Gaines fucked up everything, and now he’s gone. But I’ll find him and tie off that loose end! What’s the real story on McGinnis? And who is trying to start World War III? Shit!
Gramble decided he had better get out of the office before he got any more calls. He would go home and have a drink. There would be no one there to bitch at him; his wife and two daughters had just finished the first week of a two-week vacation on Cape Cod. He was supposed to fly up tomorrow and join them for the weekend.
• • •
Gramble pulled his car into his long, curving driveway and hit the button on his garage door opener. The double door opened smoothly, and he pulled his Lincoln into the garage and parked next to his Jaguar. He got out, then locked the car. He deactivated the alarm system on the entry door and went into his house, flipping on the hallway lights as he entered.
He strode straight to his den, which doubled as his home office. He had a wet bar in there. He switched on the lights and froze where he was. A man was sitting in the comfortable leather wing chair in front of his desk. The chair had been turned around to face the door. The man was big, about six feet plus, over 200 pounds. He had a full beard, neatly trimmed and very short. He had a drink on the table next to the chair and was smoking a cigarette. On his lap, he had a semiautomatic pistol with an attached silencer.
Shit! I’m a dead man! That looks like Bob Hatcher, even though I haven’t seen him in a while. But it can’t be! He’s dead! It must be someone who resembles him.
“Come on in, Jim, said the spider to the fly,” the man in the chair said. “Fix yourself a drink. You’re going to need it. Then, sit right over there.”
He pointed to a chair that had been moved to a spot so the man in the chair would have a good view of it.
“Put out that cigarette. There’s no smoking in the house,” said Gramble.
The man laughed, knocked an ash into the saucer he was using as an ashtray.
“What? You’re worried about dying of second-hand smoke? You’ll never live long enough for that!”
Trying to get himself under control, Gramble went to the bar and mixed himself a strong drink. Then he swaggered to the indicated chair and sat down. He was trying to not show his fear.
“How did you get in here? The security system was still armed,” said Gramble, stalling for time.
“Most of the assignments you gave me required much greater skill than it took to get in here, Jim,” the big man answered.
“Then, you are Hatcher, aren’t you?” gasped Gramble.
“Hatcher is dead. Didn’t they tell you? He died in Berlin along side his fiancée, the woman carrying his child,” the man said coldly, ice dripping from his voice.
“Jesus, Bob! She was pregnant? I didn’t know!” Gramble pleaded, very scared now.
“Would it have mattered? I don’t think so. I got the truth from Gaines, and it was confirmed by McGinnis before he took a dive off that bridge,” Hatcher sneered.
“You talked to McGinnis? Then maybe you know why he committed suicide?” queried Gramble.
Hatcher did not answer.
“If you are here, whose body was that in Berlin?”
There was still no answer, just smoking.
My God! He killed Gaines, and then made that call to McGinnis to purposely make everyone think he was dead. Then he went to see McGinnis in London and got confirmation that I gave the order to kill Klaus; then he killed McGinnis. Now he’s here to kill me!
“I can explain this, Bob,” Jim Gramble blurted, his hands sweating.
“Don’t even try. Lying to me will only make matters worse. Believe it or not, I know how that warped, pea brain of yours works. You found out about Kat and me and guessed correctly that I would quit when I got her out. You couldn’t allow that—for many reasons—and you figured if the Germans killed her, I would stay on the job for you. So you set us up. It might have worked, except when I told Gaines that she was pregnant, he lost it for a second and blurted out the wrong thing. When he saw my eyes, he decided to kill me, or be killed. That sealed his fate. Everyone who was directly involved in Kat’s death, and the baby in her womb, is now dead. Except you.”
His hazel eyes bore into Gramble’s very frightened ones. Sweat was pouring off Gramble. The silence was thick. Bile rose in Gramble’s throat. He never carried a weapon any more, not that it would do him any good. The man facing him was the most deadly man in the world. Better men than Gramble did not have a chance against him. Those that had tried were all dead.
Finally, the man spoke again.
“I have thought a lot about killing you, you short, sniveling bag of shit. How much pleasure it was going to give me. But then I thought, ‘What do I do afterwards?’ I have some money salted away, and I’m good at changing identities, but what kind of job could I get? Then I came to the conclusion that you might be more useful to me alive rather than dead. At least for a while.”
He took a drag off of his cigarette, and took a sip of his drink. He let Gramble think about what he had just said.
“Did you just say you’re not going to kill me?” Gramble nearly blubbered.
“There are a lot of strings attached. First, I know what you are thinking—that if you can live long enough to get to a phone, you’ll have me tracked down and killed. Not an option. I have a journal that includes all the details of every sanction you ever ordered—names, dates, the whole enchilada. If I don’t call a certain number once a week, that book will be delivered to the Washington Post and the Attorney General. Two, you don’t have anybody good enough to send up against me. I would spot them, take them out, and then get you. Three, in addition to my journal surfacing, I have a hit on your wife and daughters already in place. After they are savagely killed, and after you suffer a while, knowing that you caused it, the same hit man will take care of you. So don’t even think of telling anybody that I’m alive, or trying anything against me. Is all of that perfectly clear?”
“Christ, Hatcher! What do you want of me?” Gramble pleaded.
“It’s really very simple. I intend to start a new company that will, in the long run, actually provide a service to the CIA. You don’t need to know any details at the moment. To start that company, I need money. You’ll transfer two million dollars from the Black Fund to my numbered account in the name of Joseph Jerome. It’s an account we have used before.”
“Two million! Impossible!” blurted Gramble.
“Suit yourself,” Hatcher shrugged. He snubbed out h
is cigarette in the saucer and took a sip of his drink. Then he picked up the gun in his lap and pointed it at Gramble.
“This will ruin your family’s vacation. I’ll let them grieve for a while, then they’ll join you.”
“Wait! You can’t do this!” screamed Gramble.
“Of course I can.”
“All right! I’ll work out a way to do it!” moaned the trembling Gramble.
“That’s better. Now for the rest of the plan. Is Van Lincoln, my real persona, still stashed in the Switzerland office—on paper?” asked Hatcher.
“Yes. Your paychecks go to your account there every month, just like we agreed four years ago when you went NOC.”
“Good. You are going to recall Lincoln to Langley; then, he will retire with honors. He will start a new company, and after about six months, he will approach the CIA asking for a contract. You will see that he gets it. Understood?”
“Yes. It will be difficult, but …”
“No ‘buts.’ You know the alternative.”
“Right.”
“Now, to get you back in the good graces of the DDO and the DCI. I need you to have maximum power to do the things that I need done. You must be in deep shit right now,” laughed Hatcher. “You are to tell them that you have, on good authority, information that the killings in Germany are the result of a KGB-Stasi ego-turf war. That’s why I killed the KGB agent. You know what egos those bastards have. They are always arguing over who is in charge. Both the DCI and the DDO should buy the story, mainly because they will want to. To make sure, we’ll blow some smoke, give them something to distract them. We’ll give you a big coup in West Berlin.”
Hatcher paused and lit another cigarette, blowing smoke in Gramble’s direction.
“In the building across the street from the U.S. Embassy, third floor, there is a whole nest of Stasi surveillance gear and the accompanying agents. A little raid ought to pick up about twenty agents, and all of their equipment and files. You can make a big deal out of it, even though we know they are small fish.”
Gramble’s face lit up a bit as he began to see his situation brightening.
Hatcher continued, “Before I left Germany, I learned that the Stasi have imprisoned Kat’s mother and sister. Use as many of those spies that you capture as you need, and trade them for the mother and sister. Bring them here and make sure that they have a good, comfortable life. I’ll be watching.”
“What …”
“Make it happen!” growled Hatcher.
Hatcher stood up and holstered his gun in the small of his back. He crushed his cigarette out and drained his drink.
“Thanks for the drink. I’ll be leaving now. Van Lincoln will be coming in from Switzerland on Monday. In the meantime, go spend the weekend with your family. It will be your last chance to spend time with them if you fuck up any of this.”
Chapter 6
Langley, Virginia
Monday, October 7, 1985
5:00 PM
Van “Hatch” Lincoln sat in his tall-back swivel chair in his corner office in the Intelligence International, Incorporated building. He was the CEO, President, and Chairman of the Board of the company that he had founded nearly a year ago. He swiveled his chair and looked out his big window. There was not much of a view, but someday there would be, he promised himself. He felt good. He decided to have a drink to celebrate his good fortune. He arose and fixed himself a bourbon and water with lots of ice, and then sat back down. He lifted his glass to the window and a high-flying airliner on its way to somewhere.
“To you, Kat,” he said with feeling. “I’m keeping my promise to you. I’m building a new life, thanks to you!”
He had just signed another contract, this time with the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA). They had seen how good the reports and services the CIA was receiving were, and wanted in on the action. He had counted on interagency jealousy to expand his business. If one agency had something, all of the others wanted it, too, with their own cover sheets or bindings on it. It should not be long before the rest of the intelligence community came knocking on his door. He let his mind wander back over the last hectic months he had endured to get here.
• • •
Van Lincoln returned from Switzerland as promised. Gramble transferred two million dollars into the specified account. Lincoln retired from the CIA and embarked on building a new life, one without his silenced pistol and sniper rifle. He never put a contract out on Gramble or his family, but he had never had any intention of doing so. He had pulled a big bluff and he had won. He did watch his back closely, because he did not trust Gramble, but he was sure Gramble’s fear would keep him in line.
Lincoln used some of the two million dollars to lease office space, office furniture, and the normal office equipment. His space was just outside Langley. He also leased some computers, printers, and other technical equipment and began writing his System Specification. He hired a lawyer and incorporated the company he fondly called Triple Eye. When the first draft of his specification was complete, he began hiring some people. He did not need many at first. A secretary who doubled as Girl Friday, a technical writer, and four computer specialists knowledgeable in both software and hardware. Finding the right people took a month, and he had to provide very good salaries to entice top people to join a start-up company. The team began adding flesh to the System Specification, and began writing Functional Specifications and software. Lincoln learned quickly that guru programmers had the egos of a KGB Colonel, and he had to adjust his management style to keep them focused on the product he needed in a very short time span.
He and the technical writer began work on the proposal that he intended to present to the CIA at the appropriate time.
Hatch programmed the operating system himself. He had become a good programmer and system designer while in college, where his major was Engineering and his minor was Computer Sciences. He chose this part of the system for himself for several reasons. The obvious reason was that the people he had hired, with one exception, were specialists in relational databases, search algorithms, and report generators. The private reason was that he wanted to create a way to access the databases without leaving a “foot print;” that is, a record that the access to the database had been made. This was commonly called a “back door” entry. Only his one System Programmer knew about this, and the rationalization was that this was required for debugging and maintenance. He had no devious future plans for this feature, but he had one of his “feelings” that it might prove useful at some later date.
As the programs were developed and tested, Hatch gave lectures on the types of intelligence data, their relationships, and how the data should be presented to the various types of analysts. It soon became obvious that he needed a couple more programmers to handle the workload that they had defined. He also needed a communications expert. His current staff, now very happy and devoted to the project, recommended people they knew, so he added to his staff. The system began to take shape. They tried to pay special attention to areas that they knew would be expanded or modified later. Team morale was high. Lincoln was enjoying his knew career.
Lincoln felt uncomfortable being called “Van” by his staff—“Mr. Lincoln” was out of the question—so he had them call him “Hatch,” the nickname he had used most of his life. He called them by their first names … or nicknames if they had one.
He and his technical writer, Jane Forbeson, who had been concentrating on documenting the programs, got back to finishing off the proposal. Hatch wrote a first draft of the section on how the new reporting system would help CIA analysts. She polished it up for him, learning about intelligence analysis in the process. And so it went, chapter by chapter, with technical areas being provided by the programmers, and polished by Jane.
By the middle of February, 1985, Hatch felt that the system was ready for a test run with real data. He called Gramble and told him it was time to get him a hearing with the appropriate people in the CIA, and that he was to
use his clout to make sure a contract was given to Triple Eye. No other result would be acceptable. Gramble said that he understood.
On March 4, 1985, Hatch had his meeting. The DDI was there, as well as Gramble and several department heads. He had sent his proposal to them a week before, so they had all read it. Hatch gave his pitch and sat down, awaiting a response. The meeting attendees discussed things among themselves for a while, and Hatch was just about to give Gramble the high sign to put on the pressure, when the DDI, a long-time analyst himself, said that he liked it, and a high-ranking Threat Assessment Analyst said it was like manna from heaven. Gramble only had to support their position, which sealed the deal.
Triple Eye got a three month contract to test and demonstrate the system using real intelligence data, furnishing real reports for evaluation. Security of the data and the reports had been the biggest stumbling block to inking the contract. This had been resolved for the test phase when Hatch proposed that the data be loaded by CIA employees, and only CIA agents would see the printed reports. Also, they could install their own encryption system. Any problems with reports could be discussed with Hatch, who had retained his “spook” security clearance as part of his retirement agreement.
Then Hatch presented an addendum to his proposal, which had been prepared in advance, and stated that Triple Eye would install secure communications equipment on their end—at Triple Eye’s expense—if the CIA would do the same on their end. This way, no paper would be generated except at the CIA offices. This proposed system was to be put in place at the end of the trial period if the CIA wished to give Triple Eye a contract extension. This was met with enthusiasm by all CIA attendees. Hatch also proposed that the CIA begin the processing necessary to get the appropriate security clearances for all Triple Eye employees. This was accepted.
