The Mercenary Option

by Dick Couch

  Covert action had long been a unique and controversial faculty of the Central Intelligence Agency. The job of the CIA is to gather information using open sources, technical collectors, and clandestine methods. Their customer is the U.S. government. While the intelligence product, both the raw data and the information generated through analysis and deduction, is provided to a long list of consumers throughout the government, the Agency operates under the direction of the executive branch with oversight from Congress. In the past, the president had sometimes wanted more from the CIA than just reporting. Covert action is not intelligence collection; it is a means of changing the course of events in a foreign country to produce an outcome favorable to the interests of the United States or one of its allies. Basically, covert action was the illegal meddling in the affairs of another sovereign nation.

  In its crudest form, covert action becomes a not-so-secret activity, as the toppling of Salvador Allende and his communist government in Chile or the support of the Contras in Nicaragua. Both were expensive, bloody affairs that attracted the Western press like tramps to a muffin and made enemies for the Agency in Congress. When done properly, it was cheap, effective, and left no fingerprints. The objective could simply be to influence an election or to bring to light damaging information on some dictator. Fagan had been particularly skilled with the use of information, or disinformation, often by coopting a foreign politician or an influential journalist to work under his direction. On occasion, covert action might call for some heavy-handed activity like a kidnaping or a beating, or worse, with the responsibility laid at the doorstep of an opposition service. In the old days, the Eastern European intelligence services were good scapegoats for this activity, because they were operationally quite brutish. Normally, this thuggery, or wet work as it was called, was to be avoided if at all possible. It increased the risk of disclosure and, if brought to light, was usually disastrous for those behind it. And contrary to what their detractors in Congress and the press might think, this kind of brutality was morally objectionable to most who worked at the CIA. While terrorism, extortion, bribery, physical threats, and violence were all a part of the covert operator’s world, he generally looked on them as crude and dangerous tools. The mark of a true professional was to accomplish the objective cleanly, with neither “side” aware that the course of events had been manipulated, unless of course, the strategy called for one side or the other to be so informed. Basically, covert action was the stuff of the old television series Mission Impossible or MacGyver, but without much of the derring-do.

  Covert operations were usually preceded by a great deal of research and target analysis. A safe and effective covert undertaking began with a detailed picture of the people and local environment. Because Steven was particularly good at this tedious aspect of covert action, he had earned a reputation as one of the best at his trade. Since his retirement, he had been hired as a consultant by several corporations who did business overseas on a regular basis. He undertook no action but presented a range of options, most of them legal and aboveboard, to help the corporation in its business dealings or to enhance its image in its host country. Since the terrorists had struck New York and Washington, the calls were invariably about corporate and personal security. But for the most part the work had been modestly interesting and fairly lucrative, and had it kept his hand in the game.

  The last eighteen months in Larkspur had been far different from what Steven could have imagined—and far better. Though the handwriting had been on the wall for more than a year, he was still a little shocked when the early retirement notice was circulated to “selected personnel” at Langley’s CIA headquarters. He had been a covert-actions specialist for the better part of the last twenty years, living and operating under shifting U.S. government and commercial cover arrangements. He had been based at Langley, but his work took him overseas, usually two to four months at a time—occasionally longer. The nature of his work meant finding related employment in the private sector was all but impossible. Anything meaningful he could put on a resume was top secret. And the Agency didn’t really fire him; they just offered him an additional five years of seniority if he’d take retirement now and go quietly. The alternative was to be subject to a reduction in force, or RIF, notice, which he could expect probably sooner than later. Then he would be put on the street with less credit for retirement. He had bought the home in Larkspur ten years ago when he worked for two years out of a San Francisco–based notional corporation in support of operations in Asia. This had meant that he and Lon had to live in a small rented condo in Washington, but the sacrifice paid off. They now owned their Larkspur home free and clear. And after a few weeks of life as a retiree, he was astonished to learn that there was plenty of consulting work for a man of his considerable skill—work that was, for the most part, completely legal. The jobs seldom kept him on the road for longer than a week at a time, and usually came with first-class airline tickets.

  Steven was shaken free of his daydream by a muffled purring. He pulled the cell phone from the pocket of his windbreaker and unfolded the transceiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. This is Joseph Simpson calling. May I speak with Mr. Steven Fagan, please?”

  “This is Steven Fagan speaking. How can I help you, Ambassador?” Fagan had no advance warning of Simpson’s call, and while Simpson was not a conspicuous public figure, Fagan was well read and made it a point to stay informed.

  “Mr. Fagan, I understand that you’re retired, but a number of your former colleagues still speak very highly of you. I have a project I’m entertaining, and I was calling to inquire if you might be interested in serving as a consultant.”

  Steven didn’t answer for a moment. Lon had stopped weeding and was now watching him carefully. “It would be something to consider, sir, but obviously I’d have to know a great deal more before I could give you an answer.”

  “I understand. My plans call for me to be on the West Coast next week, so I’ll be in the Bay Area this coming Monday and Tuesday. Would sometime either of those days be convenient?”

  “Monday would be fine. What did you have in mind?”

  “I was hoping we could meet for lunch, if that’s satisfactory.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Would you like me to meet you in San Francisco, or would you like to come across the Golden Gate to Marin County?”

  “I’ll have a car, so something away from the city in Marin County would be most satisfactory. Perhaps you could recommend a convenient restaurant.”

  Steven did, giving him the address and directions, and they agreed to meet at noon on Monday. He collapsed the phone and absentmindedly pushed it back into his pocket. Now why the hell would Ambassador Joe Simpson be calling me? He considered the call for a moment, quickly concluding that he would just have to wait until they met for lunch. While he had been lost in thought, Lon quietly approached and now sat beside him.

  “You look puzzled, my husband. Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t think so. That was Joseph Simpson; he was the U.S. ambassador to Russia a few years ago.”

  “Another mysterious phone call?”

  He smiled at her. “It could be. You never know about these things.”

  Unsolicited offers of employment often began like this, with a polite phone call from someone important he had never met. He again smiled. Those who called had usually never met, let alone dealt with, someone in the CIA. They often spoke in a stilted, cautious manner, as if in some James Bond film. Simpson had seemed comfortable and very straightforward on the phone, but then Joe Simpson was no stranger to dealing with intelligence officers.

  Steven put his arm around Lon. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you hurry and finish your weeding. I’ll put on some soup and make up some avocado sandwiches. We’ll have lunch on the deck.” The house was wrapped with an expansive redwood deck that enjoyed a distant view of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, and the city.

  She blew him a kiss and returned to her chore
s. After enjoying a leisurely meal with Lon, Steven slipped into his library office and clipped on the computer. It was a state-of-the-art, high-speed processor with a large, high-resolution screen and served by a high-speed DSL phone line. He quickly entered the Web and instructed the Google browser to search for information about Joseph Simpson. There were a number of documents, and Steven read them all in chronological order. Occasionally he tapped the keyboard, and a nearby machine began to hiss as it issued a hard copy of text. He then searched the Web for information about Ameribeef, which provided a great deal more information. Again, he read and copied documents. He paused from the scope to do a few calculations, then whistled softly in appreciation. “I knew he was a wealthy man,” he murmured, “but I had no idea he was that wealthy!”

  He finished late that afternoon, placed the documents neatly in a labeled file, and turned off the equipment. He closed and locked the door, as much from habit as anything, and found Lon reading in the living room.

  “So what now, Mr. Retired Ex-Spy?” she said, laying the book aside.

  “I say we grab a bottle of wine and drive over to Stinson Beach and watch the sunset, then maybe stop for an early dinner on the way home—or maybe not.” Five minutes later they were snaking down the hill in Steven’s old BMW.

  The following Monday, Steven arrived well before noon. The Pelican Inn restaurant, just up from the beach at Mill Valley, was as close to an English country inn as there was on the West Coast. An unruly bed of wildflowers segregated a cobbled walk from the white stucco of the main building. Sweeping gables, weathered cedar shakes, and shutter-flanked windows completed the image. A small single-room pub just off the entrance seemed a little contrived. The darts were plastic fletched and the beer was cold—but it had rigid wooden chairs and a damp atmosphere that lent authenticity. Steven and Lon had been there on several occasions, but not enough to be recognized by the inn staff regulars. He parked in a corner of the lot with a good view of the entrance and waited. Simpson arrived precisely at twelve. Steven waited five minutes, then followed him inside. The previous day, he had made the reservation in the name of a Mr. Simpson rather than his own. Old habits were sometimes hard to break.

  The hostess showed him to a private table by a dark stone walk-in fireplace. A small fire burned between a set of massive andirons. Stout cooking arms and pot hooks suggested that the structure had once done more than provide atmosphere. Rough oak flooring and heavy exposed post-and-beam construction contributed to the dim interior. Joseph Simpson smiled up at him, then rose and extended his hand. He was dressed casually in a soft tweed sports coat and tan slacks, but he was a tall man, and his bearing was impressive. Several heads turned when he rose. No one recognized him, but he was the kind of man people seemed to think that they should know. Steven noted this as he accepted Simpson’s firm handshake.

  “Mr. Fagan?”

  “That’s right, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.”

  They took their seats. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. Lovely spot. You live nearby, do you not?”

  That’s really no concern of yours, Ambassador. “In Larkspur. It’s the next town, just over the mountain north of here.” There was an edge in his voice that he had not intended. Spies had a phobia about mixing their personal life with their business life, even when they were technically no longer in the business of spying. But it told Steven that Simpson too had done his homework, which Steven fully expected.

  The Pelican Inn served a modest fare, English in origin, but with continental seasoning and a superb house chardonnay. They made casual conversation as they began to eat. Halfway through the meal, Simpson rested his fork and regarded the man across from him.

  “A few weeks ago I had lunch with Jim Watson in Washington. I told him I was considering an undertaking that might require someone with your background and experience. Shortly after our meeting, he called and suggested that I contact you. Am I correct in assuming that you may be available for some consulting work?”

  “There’s that possibility, sir. Obviously, that would depend on your requirements and the nature of the work.”

  Simpson toyed with his food for a moment before continuing. “Mr. Fagan…Steven?” Fagan nodded. “Thank you. Steven, I think the only way to do this is for me to be totally candid with you so that you can fairly evaluate what it is that I have in mind. Then you can decide if you can help me. Fair enough?” Fagan nodded. “In Moscow, my relations with Jim Watson and the other members of the station were first rate, so I know the premium you place on security and confidentiality. But I still have to ask you for your word that what I am about to tell you remains strictly between us, for you may find what I’m about to say rather startling.”

  Steven considered this. The deadly blue eyes of the man across from him said that he was about to hear something quite dramatic, but he regarded Simpson with an even gaze. These were certainly dramatic times, and Steven could only assume that this might be related to terrorism. Fagan knew Ameribeef had a first-rate corporate security department, so he could only conclude that what Simpson wanted was of a highly personal nature or involved an issue well beyond the capabilities of his corporate staff.

  “You hardly know me, sir. Are you sure you want to do this? Isn’t this something of a risk for you?”

  “Of course it is. But then, if I could do this myself—if I didn’t need your help—I wouldn’t be here in the first place. I’m certainly not a foolish man, Steven, but I understand the risk and am prepared to take it. May I have your word?”

  Curiosity was not the issue. Information, this knowledge that Simpson was about to share with him, brought involvement and responsibility and, Steven sensed, even danger.

  “Very well,” he replied, “you have my word.”

  Simpson extended his hand across the table, and Fagan took it. Ordinarily, he might have been offended by the need for shaking hands after he’d just given his word. But for the last twenty years, Steven had been in the business of reading people and understanding why they acted as they did. He knew Simpson had made this gesture for his own benefit.

  “I’ll need to fill you in on a few things about myself, Steven, so to save time, tell me what you know about me personally. I would assume by now that you’ve made a few inquiries.”

  “Yes, sir, but only what is of record or has been made public,” Steven said simply. “You’re chairman of the board and chief executive officer of Ameribeef as well as the major stockholder. You have a number of other business interests, most of them quite successful. After what is considered a very successful tour as ambassador to Russia, you returned from Moscow to your business in early 1997. You are a widower, and you’re a very wealthy man. Perhaps not quite in the same league as Bill Gates or Warren Buffett, but what’s a couple of billion, one way or another? Unless you’re into bragging rights, which I understand you are not. The terrorist attack on the World Trade Center Towers destroyed your corporate headquarters, and cost the lives of a dozen or so of your top managers. You also lost your only son. The events of 9/11 were a personal loss for you but not a financial one; your stock made up the ground it lost in the wake of the terrorist attacks and them some. You have bipartisan respect within the highest circles of the government and in the financial community—not an easy feat. With all due respect, sir, I’m also aware that your relationship with your daughter is not what a father might hope it to be. How am I doing so far?”

  “Pretty well, I’d say. Just how familiar are you with my business affairs?”

  Steven shrugged. “Only what is of record or what’s been reported in the press.”

  Simpson paused while the waitress cleared the table and they ordered coffee. “Then let me bring you up to date. I will continue to function in an official capacity on certain corporate boards and in an advisory capacity when invited, but I’ve just resigned as chairman and CEO of Ameribeef. I have just notified the SEC, as I’m required to do, that I will be selling my interest in the company. I’ve also n
otified my attorneys to proceed with the sale of my interests in a wide range of my other holdings. It’ll take a while to do this, of course, but in six months at the outside, I expect to be in a fully liquid position.” Simpson sighed. “The new capital gains laws will soften the blow to some degree, but my tax bill will still be well into twelve figures.

  “With a portion of the proceeds, I plan to establish and supervise the Joseph Simpson Junior Foundation. This enterprise will be dedicated to fighting poverty and hunger on a global basis, and provide humanitarian relief following disasters, natural and otherwise. Candidly, I expect the resources I can bring to bear on this project to be four times that of the federal government or any existing NGO, or nongovernmental organization. And since I will be directing the implementation of the foundation programs, I believe the efficiencies of the organization to be superior to current philanthropics and NGOs. I’m quite good at building an organization and running an efficient and effective operation, if I do say so myself.” Steven inclined his head to acknowledge this. “And this enterprise may, in some cases, come to serve as a notional or cover organization for another project I have in mind.”

  Steven started to speak, but the waitress intervened with the coffee. “Thank you,” he replied with a soft smile. After she moved away, he returned to Simpson. “You were speaking of another project, sir. And this project is one that might need a frontal organization?”

  Simpson smiled and carefully added a ration of cream into his cup. When he looked up, his blue eyes were positively burning. “It is my intention to set aside a portion of my available liquid funds to carry out a different fight.

  “Steven,” Simpson continued after a moment, “it’s obvious that the threats to our national security have multiplied since the end of the cold war. Today it is terrorism and rogue states with weapons of mass destruction; tomorrow it could be Korea, a military exchange across the Strait of Formosa, or further turmoil in Africa. I fear this terrorist business may be with us like the drug problem; we can fight it, but it may never go away. Our government’s ability to carry on this fight is limited, but there are certain inefficiencies in our military and intelligence services. If they get too far outside the box, there are political ramifications. It’s a tough problem and may be very difficult to extinguish or eliminate. And it’s always a problem trying to get the international community to take action on a timely basis. We end up with a protracted debate in the UN or with the NATO allies, so there is little prospect of nipping a small problem before it becomes a big one.”