“We may have to,” General Land said. “The world’s changing and we may have to change with it.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN the attorney general walked into William C. Dorfman’s White House office, the morning paper was on the desk, open and folded, displaying Mergenthaler’s column. Gideon Cohen sighed and sat while he waited for the chief of staff to finish a telephone call.
“No, we are not going to release a text of the indictment. It’s sealed. And no, we are not going to ask Mexico to hand over any of its citizens. We have no extradition treaty with Mexico.”
He listened for several seconds, then spat into the phone, “Fuck no!” and slammed it down.
“That bubble-brain wants to know if we are really offering rewards for these guys”—Dorfman stabbed the newspaper with a rigid finger—“and paying bounty hunters to bring them to the U.S. for trial.”
Cohen pursed his lips and crossed his legs. Ottmar Mergenthaler’s column in the Post this morning had revealed, for the first time, that a federal grand jury in Los Angeles had handed down a secret indictment several weeks ago bringing charges against nineteen former and present members of the Mexican government for drug smuggling and complicity in the kidnapping and murder of U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration undercover agent Enrique Camarena, whose body had been discovered near Guadalajara in March 1985, over five years ago. One of those indicted was the former director of the Mexican Federal Judicial Police—the Mexican equivalent of the FBI—and another was his brother, the former head of the Mexican government’s antidrug unit. And one of those indicted was a medical doctor who had been arrested just yesterday in El Paso. It seemed that several unknown men had accompanied the good doctor on a plane trip from Mexico, turned him over to waiting federal agents, then immediately reboarded the plane for the flight back to Mexico.
“Are you going to pay bounties?”
“Why not? It’s perfectly legal to pay rewards to people who deliver fugitives to lawful authority. That principle has been firmly embedded in the common law for hundreds of years.”
“Oh, spare me the lecture. What in hell are you trying to do, anyway?”
Two years ago Cohen would have bristled. Not anymore. “Enforce the law,” he said mildly. “That’s still one of the goals of this administration, isn’t it?”
Dorfman sat back in his chair and stared at Gideon Cohen. Dorfman’s eyes looked owlish when magnified by his hornrim glasses. “It won’t be news to you that I don’t like you.”
“Do you mean that personally or professionally?” Cohen asked, and tried to look interested.
Dorfman continued as if he hadn’t heard. “I’ve suggested to the President that he ask for your resignation. In my opinion you are not loyal to this administration. You don’t seem to appreciate the political realities that the President has to face every day, for every decision. With you every decision is black or white.”
“Frankly, Dorfman, I really don’t give a damn about your opinion. Are you informing me officially that the President wants my resignation?”
The chief of staff took his time answering. He played with a pen on the table, scrutinized a coffee cup, examined the framed photograph of his family that sat on his desk. “No,” he said when he had squeezed all the juice from the moment that it could conceivably yield, “I’m not. I’m just letting you know where you stand.”
“Thanks.” The disgust Cohen felt showed on his face. Dorfman’s petty grandstanding was so typical of the man.
Dorfman and Cohen went into the Oval Office as a Boy Scout troop came out. The official photographer was still there, snapping pictures of the President behind his desk. This morning, Cohen thought, George Bush looked more harried than usual. He obviously was not paying much attention to the photographer’s directions.
“Come on over here, Gid. Let’s get some of the two of us.”
When the photo session was over, the photographer closed the door behind him on the way out. Dorfman flopped the morning paper on Bush’s desk.
“Where did Mergenthaler get this information?” the President asked curtly.
“I don’t know.”
“This administration has more leaks than an antique rowboat. Anybody who’s caught chopping any more holes in the bottom without the permission of a cabinet officer is to be fired on the spot.”
“If we catch anyone.”
Bush nodded, his mind already on something else. In the age of telephones leaks were an inevitable fact of government life, although that didn’t make them any easier to swallow. Still, the Bush White House had been remarkably tight under Dorfman’s iron hand.
“When’s the Mexican ambassador coming over?” the President asked his chief of staff.
“Two-thirty.”
“What should I tell him about this indictment?” he asked Cohen. “And this bounty business?”
“That we have good solid evidence against these nineteen individuals. Tell him we want Mexico to sign an extradition treaty.”
Dorfman exploded. “They will never—”
Bush chopped him off. “Mergenthaler says the DEA wants to kidnap a couple of these men and bring them here for trial.”
“That’s accurate. The whole column is accurate. The way the DEA presented it to me, they want to escort one or two of these men into United States territory and arrest them here.”
President Bush picked up the paper and let it fall to the desk. He pushed his chair back and sat staring at Gideon Cohen. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, and that’s final. The Mexicans owe us 50 billion dollars.” He repeated the figure sourly. “Nine years into the longest economic expansion in American history and we’re in debt to our eyes. Trillions of dollars in federal debt, savings-and-loan fraud, farm credit disasters, credit card debt at an all-time high, the junk bond market ready to implode, and the Third World tottering on the brink of bankruptcy—no, no, they’re beyond that—they went beyond the brink years ago and are dancing as fast as they can on thin air. They’re paying the interest on old loans with the proceeds from new loans, in exactly the same way that the federal government finances the federal deficit. The same kind of funny-money shenanigans that sank the American S-and-L industry. It’s fraud. Outright, government-approved fraud. And now, on top of everything, the Soviet Union wants foreign aid. I feel like a poor man with twelve sick kids and one aspirin.”
“How do we know Mexico would default?”
“That is precisely what they would do. Try to imagine the howl that would go up if agents for the Mexican government kidnapped a few prominent citizens here in the United States and dragged them off to Mexico City for trial. Half of Texas would grab the ol’ thirty-thirties and head for Nuevo Laredo to teach the chili peppers some manners.”
Dorfman added, “I can name a dozen senators who would demand a declaration of war.”
“We’ll never get the money back regardless,” the attorney general pointed out with impeccable logic.
“I’m not going to argue, Gid.” This said, the President continued anyway: “Right now foreign investors are financing about thirty percent of the federal deficit by buying Treasury bonds. If Mexico defaults on its foreign debt, the rest of Latin America probably will too. The American banking system will then collapse unless the federal government bails it out, which it will be forced to do since all deposits are insured by the government up to a hundred thousand dollars. The only way to bail out the banks will be with more bonds, and to sell more bonds interest rates must rise. This will only work for a short period, then the government must raise taxes, which will suck even more money from consumers’ pockets. The net effect of all this will be to send the economy of the United States—and the rest of the world—into a deep recession, further decreasing the nation’s ability to service existing debt. Get the picture?”
“And if the Fed lowers interest rates drastically to save the economy, the Japanese and Europeans will stop buying bonds.”
“Y
ou got it.”
Cohen ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. He was reminded of a remark by a Soviet politician: “The Soviet Union is on the edge of the abyss.” Here in the Oval Office he was hearing a different version of the same thing. Only this time it was the United States. Gideon Cohen shivered involuntarily.
“We’d have to devalue the dollar,” Cohen said slowly.
George Bush flipped his hand in acknowledgment.
“So why not devalue right now and go after these dope smugglers who are murdering us with slow poison?”
A sneer crossed Dorfman’s face as the President rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Get serious,” Dorfman muttered.
The President said, “Congress would never approve it. If I even publicly suggested devaluing the currency, you wouldn’t see another Republican in this office in your lifetime. For God’s sake, Gid, I didn’t run for this job just so I could become the most hated man in America. I’m supposed to be doing what the people want. That’s what I’m trying to do. Surely you see that?”
“Mr. President, your good faith has never been in question. Not with me, at least. My point is that the American people want an effective solution to this dope business. A lot of past and present Mexican government officials—including cops, especially cops—are in it up to their eyes. We’re not talking about just looking the other way while a load of marijuana goes by—we’re talking about the torture and murder of U.S. law-enforcement officers by Mexican police officials. The voters in this country want it stopped!”
“The voters have got long shopping lists, and they elect congressmen to get the goods for them. They elected me to mind the store. The American people aren’t stupid: they know that government can’t be all things to all people. I’m supposed to do what’s in the best interests of the United States as a nation, as an ongoing concern. And I will!”
“Mr. President, I’m saying that drugs are our number-one domestic problem. Mexico is a large part of that problem. We can’t ignore that simple, fundamental fact.”
“Mexico, land of la mordida, the bite,” Bush said, the fatigue evident in his voice. “Everybody who’s ever been there has had to bribe some petty functionary or other. Five bucks here, a ten-spot there. And no doubt big bribes are taken for big favors. I recall one time when Barbara and I—”
“Are you implying that there’s no drug corruption here?” Cohen asked ingenuously. “In America?”
The President and the chief of staff looked at each other.
“What are you saying?” Dorfman asked.
“Mexicans are no different from anybody else. The amounts of money that are right there for the taking—it’s a rare man who can say no. The DEA has been swarming over Mexico for years, so we have a pretty good feel for who, when, and how much. We’re years behind here.”
“The FBI is working on cases against highly placed American officials? Not just county sheriffs and border patrolmen?”
Cohen nodded.
Dorfman sighed. “That really wouldn’t be so bad,” he told the President. “Exposing bad apples is good politics.”
“There are exceptions to that rule. This will probably be one of them.” Cohen leaned forward in his seat and spoke to the President. “A fistful of indictments against some highly placed officials, very high. Think about it. Dorfman can manage the PR impact until hell won’t have it, but the ‘war on drugs’ is going to look like those little red, white, and blue WIN buttons—all show and no attempt to tackle the underlying problems, the real problems. We’re going to get it all thrown back in our faces unless we take effective steps to meet the drug problem head-on.”
The President got out of his chair and stepped to the window behind him. He stood looking out into the Rose Garden. “We aren’t just sitting on our thumbs. I approved the bounty on that Mexican doctor. I approved the use of U.S. soldiers to arrest Aldana. That hasn’t come out yet but it will. When it does the hue and cry will be something to hear. I don’t give a damn what anybody says, we’re doing a lot, all we can, and the voters will see that.”
Cohen spoke. “Mr. President, I’m not questioning your commitment. But the public doesn’t see enough of it. What the public sees is slogans and presentations to sixth-graders. ‘Just say no’ is an obscene joke. Hell, the mayor of Washington couldn’t say no. The chief of the Mexican federal police couldn’t say no. The president of Panama couldn’t say no. Professional athletes and movie stars can’t say no. Cops can’t say no. Congressmen can’t say no. That list is going to grow like a hothouse tomato in radioactive soil irrigated with steroids.”
“Who?” George Bush asked.
“I haven’t asked,” Cohen replied. “I don’t want to know.”
“You don’t?” The President turned slightly and looked at Cohen with raised eyebrows.
“It’s come to that,” the attorney general said woodenly. “If I don’t know I can’t be accused of tipping anyone off, of inadvertently or intentionally warning a suspect under investigation. You don’t want to know either. Believe me, some of them will find out one way or another that they are under suspicion and try to throw their weight around. It’s human nature.”
With the possible exception of journalism students in a university somewhere, no one reads every single word in any edition of The Washington Post. Even if the classified ads were ignored and one were a fast reader, reading all the stories would take hours. Your twenty-five cents usually buys you two and a quarter pounds of paper, ten or more sections full of news, features, articles, and ads aimed at different tastes and interests. Statecraft, politics, murders, rapes, disasters, business, sports, science, gardening, celebrity gossip and gushings, book reviews, movie hype, music tripe, opinions from every hue of the political spectrum, television listings—the entire world was captured every day on thirty-six ounces of newsprint. Or as much of the world as any civilized being at the very center of the universe—Washington—could possibly care to learn about.
Jack Yocke had a secret ambition to be the first human to read the whole thing. He had it on his list for some morning when he was in bed with the flu. But not today. Sitting at his desk he flipped through the paper scanning the headlines and speed reading the stories that looked interesting.
The Soviets’ formal request for foreign aid from the United States was the hottest topic of the day. Senators and representatives were having a field day, as were most of the political columnists. No one denied that the Soviets needed real money—all they could get—but the hard fact mentioned only by the hopelessly practical was that the United States government had no money to give. The cookie jar was empty. There weren’t even any crumbs.
Most pundits and politicians were making lists of things the Soviets would have to do to qualify for American largess, confidently assuming that if America wanted to badly enough, some largess could be found somewhere. After all, do we really need a military in this brave new world? Surely the nations now receiving foreign aid, together with welfare recipients and Social Security retirees, would be willing to share their mite with the Russians, for the greater good.
In any event, to qualify for the American dole the Soviets would need to free the Baltic states, release all their remaining political prisoners, and open borders for U.S. trade and investment. Of course the Russians would also have to permanently cease all financial and military aid to Cuba and Libya and Vietnam and Afghanistan and Angola and every other Third World manure pile where the godless commies had opposed the holy forces of capitalism and democracy. They would also have to disband the KGB and the GRU, quit spying on the U.S. and everybody else. And—this almost didn’t need to be mentioned—while they were at it the Russians would have to disband the entire Soviet military and sell their ships, tanks, and artillery for scrap. If they did all this, well, they would certainly be entitled to some bucks if and when we found some.
Today Jack Yocke scanned the wish lists and moved on. He found a couple of interesting columns by two pundits
who had solved the foreign aid issue yesterday. The price of coca leaves in Bolivia and Peru was down from one hundred U.S. dollars to just ten dollars per hundredweight. One columnist opined that this fact meant that George Bush was winning the war on drugs. Another, who had probably stayed awake during his freshman economics class, thought the price drop meant that Bolivian and Peruvian farmers had a bumper crop this year and all the millions spent on eradication efforts had been wasted.
Jack Yocke checked his Rolodex. He found the number he wanted under a code he had made up himself. He called it.
“Yeah, man.”
“Hey, this is Jack Yocke. How’s it going?”
“Too smooth, dude. What’s on your mind?”
“You seen this morning’s paper?”
“I never read that honkey shit. You know that.”
“Question. What’s the street price doing right now?”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Is it going up or down?”
“Steady, man. Five bucks a pop. Some talk about dropping it to four, but nobody wants to do that. Not as much juice for everybody, you know?”
“Any supply problems?”
“Not that I heard.”
“Thanks.”
“Be cool, dude.”
The man that Yocke had been talking to, Harrison Ronald Ford—he had taken to using his full name since that actor became popular—cradled the telephone and went back to his coffee.
The newspaper that he had just told Yocke he never read was spread on the kitchen table in front of him. The story he had been reading when the phone rang had Yocke’s byline. Second Potomac Savings and Loan taken over by the feds, the headline shouted. Recently murdered cashier Walter P. Harrington apparently involved in money laundering, according to an unnamed source. Second Potomac officials aghast. Massive violations of record-keeping requirements. The rank-and-file staff knew something fishy was going on, but no one wanted to speak out and risk his job and pension rights. So now they had neither.
05.Under Siege v5 Page 12
