William Christie 02 - Mercy Mission

by William Christie

  "Only because the guy's family wouldn't let it go. The Embassy had to demand it. But no Guatemalan troops, no matter how drunk, are going to have the balls to tag an American without orders. And a few years later, it turns out the colonel who gave the order was on the CIA payroll. Which isn't exactly a revelation, since every officer in the Guatemalan Army above the rank of second lieutenant is on the CIA payroll."

  "Unfortunately," said Welsh, "the CIA knew what the colonel did as soon as it happened, and just plain forgot to mention that fact to anyone."

  "Like what the fuck are they going to do?" Longenecker demanded tiredly. "Say: 'Okay, Colonel, please stop violating human rights. And by the way, what's the latest news in the Army?' What the fuck do people think intelligence assets are? Noble foreigners in love with American democracy?"

  "More like scumbags who betray their countries for money," said Welsh.

  "Or sex and money or blackmail and money or excitement and money. And the CIA says: 'Hey, it's a dirty business, but our job is to gather intelligence, not be Amnesty International.'"

  "Of course," Welsh countered, "that attitude, however realistic, sometimes leads the local intelligence assets to believe they can, with impunity, cut the head off any American citizen who gets in their way."

  Longenecker lowered the beer from his lips. "Wouldn't be the first time, I tell you that."

  "Why would someone in the Guatemalan government want a bunch of our Marines dead?"

  "What makes you think it's the government?"

  "It was a textbook professional assassination, but when it was done, and under no pressure at all, the killers just dump their rifles on the ground and drive off? No one gives up an automatic weapon—goddamn things are hard to come by. And they just happen to be Venezuelan-made AK-103's, fresh from the brand-new factory the Russians built for them? Coincidentally just when we have such a hard-on for Hugo Chavez? I don't think so."

  "You're not as stupid as you look," said Longenecker.

  "But then on the other hand, I don't see why I should suspect the government since…"

  "Since it's a nice, democratically elected government anxious to right all the wrongs of the last forty-plus years," Longenecker said, finishing the sentence. He grunted down the rest of his beer. "On a good day the current government of Guatemala controls a fair chunk of Guatemala City, and that's about it. They only think they control the Army and the intelligence services. So don't say government like it's all one team under one manager. Any half-assed official with a couple of grand and either a scheme or a grudge could have set up that hit."

  "And you can't narrow that down for me?"

  "No. But good government doesn't pay all that well. The Army's out a lot of money if they can't hire their troops out as security for the big ranches or drug-runners' airstrips, kill union activists as a favor to manufacturers, or clear-cut the hardwood forests for hard currency. All the cops who got dismissed from the police force are still doing the same strong-arm and kidnapping they used to do in uniform. And they've still got their uniforms."

  "You're trying to tell me there's a lot of incentive to upset the apple cart," said Welsh.

  "Ordinarily, but Guatemala is one of those countries where, like it or not, if the U.S. raises a finger, the economy collapses. If the Army overthrows the government and the U.S. says, 'We don't like that,' then the troops go back to their barracks and the generals catch the next flight to Spain to see if they can make do with what's in their Swiss bank accounts. So anyone who wants to change things has to think about the U.S. first."

  "But the Army did go along with free elections and a peace treaty with the guerrillas," Welsh said doubtfully.

  "That's because a new generation of smart military leaders came in to replace the old Nazis. They looked at El Salvador and saw that they could make peace and still dominate the guerrillas—but politically instead of militarily. A hell of a lot better for business and relations with the U.S. and Europe, not to mention less chance of getting yourself killed. Their main problem now is that a lot of the old cavemen are mightily pissed at the way things have changed. And there's another wild card. In exchange for a peace treaty the Army got total amnesty. But they're turning up Indian mass graves in the countryside, and genocide's not covered by the amnesty."

  "And the guerrillas?" said Welsh.

  "The leadership are good Marxists, which means now that Moscow and Havana aren't paying the bills anymore, they've decided to become Social Democrats, join the system, and get their patronage jobs by running for office like everyone else. The lower level are just bandit gangs with guns. Take away the ideology and they'll still keep kidnapping people and extorting businesses. It's a good living, hell of a lot better than most in Guatemala these days."

  "You should always brief after a few beers," Welsh marveled. "I mean, the content might be the same, but the extra flourishes would bend some people's minds."

  Longenecker slowly extended his middle finger.

  "Why would the CIA come to me through Kohl?" Welsh asked. "Why not use a guy I know, like Ed Howe?"

  The colonel gave him an irritated smile. "Because then they'd have to tell Howe what it's all about, dickhead."

  "Jesus!" Welsh exclaimed. "You fucking spooks. You'll put me on some shrink's couch yet."

  "I'll tell you a little about Kohl. Don't let him fool you; he's been around. Spent most of his career in the field. And really good, from what I've heard. Done his share of dirty work, but always avoided taking the blame."

  "For what?"

  "For anything. Everybody wants the dirty work taken care of, but nobody wants to give the order. If something blows up in someone's face, which it nearly always does, then the guy who actually did the job gets the blame. Kohl was always smart enough to never take the blame, which is the real art."

  "In everything," Welsh agreed, even though it was another skill he had yet to master. "Hey, Mike, I need you to run a name for me."

  "Because if you do it the CIA will find out, right?"

  "You're not so stupid yourself. The survivor of the attack gave me a name that he didn't give to the FBI. Tim Brock. American. Lives in Guatemala. Claimed to be an ex-Army sergeant."

  "FBI has no sense of humor about that shit," Longenecker warned. "They'll ram some obstruction of justice up that kid's ass before he knows what hit him."

  "No one has any plans to tell the FBI just yet."

  "Then you better pucker up your asshole, 'cause you might just get yourself obstructed too."

  Welsh handed Longenecker an index card with Brock's name and the details Corporal Costa had given him.

  "How does this guy fit in?" Longenecker asked, studying the card and then handing it back to Welsh.

  "He might have been trying to recruit some Embassy guards for someone. He might have set them up for the hit. Or maybe he had nothing to do with anything. Can you check him out without putting your name on any requests?"

  "I didn't just fly in on the noon balloon."

  "Sorry," Welsh replied.

  "When I get something, I'll call Mr. Welsh about some samples."

  They both laughed at that.

  "Can you stay for dinner?" Longenecker asked.

  "Thanks, pal, but that military family of yours rates some time alone with you," Welsh picked up his empty beers and rose to leave. "I really appreciate this little talk."

  "No problem, for a guy who can keep his mouth shut. You know how that Scanlan story came out, don't you?"

  "Yeah, a State Department guy read the Top Secret files and thought it was a little sick that the CIA not only knew that one of their informers ordered the killing of an American, but had every intention of covering it up. So he leaked the information to a Congressman."

  "And the CIA got his security clearance pulled for divulging classified information. And without a clearance he had to give up his career at State, which he did."

  "Revealing the name of an intelligence source being an infinitely greater sin than cov
ering up a murder."

  "Another good lesson for whistle-blowers, though," said Longenecker. "Do the right thing and get fucked for sure."

  They walked down the driveway.

  "You going down to Guatemala?" Longenecker asked.

  "That's right."

  "If they're worried about what you might find down there, knowing how the Company operates, I wouldn't be surprised if Kohl asks you to join the team."

  "Because once I'm on the team I keep my fucking mouth shut, right?" said Welsh. "Or else."

  Longenecker nodded solemnly. "And heads up, because sometimes they don't bother to ask, if you know what I mean."

  "Great," said Welsh. "That was just what I needed to hear. Just fucking great."

  "One other thing," said Longenecker.

  "What's that?"

  "Don't believe a goddamned thing anyone tells you down there, unless you check it out three different ways. They only thing they love more than spreading rumors is selling them to gullible government employees like you."

  "Okay."

  "And don't trust anyone. Americans included."

  "I already came to that conclusion," said Welsh.

  Chapter Six

  The lunch took place at an upscale Washington steak house. The dark wood-paneled decor practically screamed WASP establishment; that is, if the WASP establishment had ever been in the habit of screaming. It was a little too tight-assed for Welsh's taste, but in a way he was relieved.

  He'd been dreading having to eat at one of the precious high-end restaurants infesting the Washington area. The squiggles of sauce, chosen for color, not flavor, cascading around the plate; the chef wielding his squeeze bottles like Jackson Pollock. The food, carefully harvested before maturity from pygmy animals and vegetables, artfully arranged on the plate to appear as even less. Being forced to eat the floral arrangement in order to stay alive long enough to conclude your business and go get a pizza.

  Kohl was waiting for him in the bar. Before Welsh even had a chance to look around, a well-dressed gentleman in his early fifties suddenly popped up and grasped his hand.

  "Mr. Welsh," he announced confidently, "Thomas Kohl."

  Welsh wasn't wearing a name tag, so the idea that Kohl had studied a photograph of him didn't seem farfetched. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Kohl. You make me feel as if we know each other. Or at least one of us does."

  Kohl pointed out their table with a vigorous thrust of one hand, and nodded to the maitre d'. Then, in the most polite and unobjectionable way possible, he took Welsh's arm, led him over to the table, sat him down, and motioned for a waiter. Everything, Welsh thought, except tuck the fucking napkin in his collar.

  Kohl's hair was steel gray and cut short. A beautifully tailored Italian suit covered the stocky, densely packed frame of a man who had never stopped lifting weights. Welsh couldn't help but admire the body language and psychology; Kohl was out to establish control over the meeting. It told Welsh that he wasn't dealing with an intelligence analyst or bureaucrat. This was a case officer: a recruiter and agent runner. An honest-to-God spy, which were actually a small minority within the CIA.

  A waiter appeared. Welsh counterattacked by insisting that Kohl order first. Kohl chose a vodka on the rocks. Welsh declined to take the hint. Quietly amused with the way things were going, he had a club soda.

  After the waiter left, Kohl began with basic chitchat. He asked Welsh about the Marine Corps, and brought up mutual friends at U.S. Special Operations Command in Tampa. In each case he deferred to Welsh's opinion. Welsh was very impressed. He could easily picture Kohl as gravel-voiced and hard-assed in a blue-collar bar, or sipping white wine and chatting about the early Impressionists with the wife of a Foreign Minister. And if you didn't watch yourself, you'd end up telling him your whole life story.

  It was all so charming that Welsh's first impulse was to throw a little burr under the man's saddle. The more Kohl put up with, the more he'd want from him. But then Welsh decided that the smartest move was just to sit there and be courted. After all, he wasn't paying for lunch.

  So he just kept his face buried in the menu and remarked conversationally, "A lady friend of mine would have something to say about all this red meat. Just looking at a menu like this is enough to make the cholesterol go up."

  "It's ironic, isn't it," Kohl replied, "that we've come to the point in our history where the greatest threat to our lives is our own lethargy?"

  "That's a very interesting observation," said Welsh.

  "And perhaps I should stop imposing on your good nature and come to the point?"

  "Only if you feel like it. I'm enjoying myself."

  "You're planning a trip to Guatemala, as part of your investigation into the deaths of those three Marines."

  "I didn't hear any question there."

  The conversation stopped when the waiter reappeared. Kohl ordered crab cakes. By now it was quite obvious that Kohl wasn't on his own, and Welsh had skipped breakfast in anticipation of eating out on Uncle Sam. He asked about the lobsters. Unfortunately, all they had were one-pounders; too small for his taste, all shell. The look on Kohl's face, though, was priceless. Welsh ended up ordering the largest porterhouse on the menu, medium-rare, with pomme frites and a salad. And it was a damn shame he had to keep his head clear, the wine list was really nice.

  When the waiter left, Kohl continued. "You have a reputation for discretion. May I count on it?"

  Welsh finished swallowing his bread roll before answering, "I always say absolutely, up to the point where whatever I hear puts me in jeopardy of felony conspiracy."

  "Fair enough. We have an ongoing operation in Guatemala. And we're very concerned about your trip having an unintended impact on it."

  Welsh's antennae sprung out. He was fairly sure that Kohl was lying. After so many years with the CIA, Kohl would have found it easier to breathe underwater than tell the truth to a civilian. Especially about an ongoing operation. But Welsh thought if he listened carefully, he might find a jumping-off place to the truth. "Would you care to give me any more information?" he asked politely.

  "I'm sure a professional like yourself will understand why I can't."

  "Are you suggesting I not go to Guatemala?"

  "Absolutely not. We wouldn't want to interfere with your work in any way. But we are worried about our operation. We'd appreciate, as a courtesy, if you would keep us informed as to what you're doing."

  Welsh thought you couldn't get any clearer than that. Informed, as in informer. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to have some more details." He paused. "So I can make an informed judgment."

  "All right," Kohl said gravely. "It's a joint operation: CIA and Drug Enforcement Administration."

  The food arrived. Welsh ate while Kohl talked.

  "The multi-agency aspect of the operation is why we're giving it such importance. As you know, the Congress wants us to act jointly," Kohl said pointedly.

  Welsh nodded.

  "I really can't tell you any more."

  Now Welsh was sure it was a bullshit cover story. If there really was a joint operation that sensitive, a spook like Kohl would have cut his tongue out before saying even that much. Besides, the CIA and DEA working together in harmony sounded as feasible as carrying a cobra and a dog around together in one bag. The drug aspect was interesting, though. The DEA might be doing something that Kohl would anticipate him bumping into. Welsh shook his head. You could go nuts trying to figure this shit out.

  "What do you think?" Kohl asked.

  "I'm sure Senator Anderson would regard it as a conflict of interest."

  "You misunderstand me. We wouldn't dream of compromising you. This would be, in effect, normal liaison, but through back channels. We would also be in a position to assist you with your investigation. And to help out with any problems that might come up in Guatemala."

  "I don't think I'm going to have any trouble, Mr. Kohl." Welsh paused then, as it occurred to him. "That is, unless someone down there starts saying b
ad things about me to certain people. You don't know anyone who'd do a rotten fucking thing like that, do you?"

  Kohl didn't seem to have heard; he was concentrating on his crab cakes.

  "Is this the point where I name my price?" Welsh asked.

  Kohl didn't go so far as to wink, but his expression was enough to extend the invitation.

  Inside Welsh was churning, but he tried to keep a poker face. "You know, this reminds me of when I was in the Marine Corps." He paused. "You don't mind if I tell what's known as a Sea Story, do you?"

  "Not at all."

  "I was a new second lieutenant, going through the Infantry Officer Course. The major who ran it was this classic Marine Corps hard-dick kind of guy, loved to impart his own brand of homespun infantry philosophy. He used to say that if you kissed ass, even if you only did it once, then you'd be an ass-kisser the rest of your life." Actually, the major had referred to a different part of the anatomy than the ass, and a different act than kissing, but it was a public restaurant.

  "I don't think I understand you," said Kohl.

  "Oh, I think you do," said Welsh. "It's a typical Marine Corps metaphor, crude but pretty clear."

  "I was told you're in the habit of speaking your mind, Mr. Welsh. I was also told that you didn't think much of the intelligence community, but I didn't believe it until now." Kohl said it with more regret than anger.

  "Oh, I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings," said Welsh. "I'll make you a bet. If you can name one significant event that's occurred in the world since 1950 that didn't catch the U.S. government completely by surprise, then I'll kiss your ass. Of course, you boys always word the analysis so perfectly that no matter what happens, you can claim to have called it; it was just a goddamned shame no one listened."

  Welsh had lost a little of his cool mere. He wished he could stop doing that. He expected Kohl to be livid, but the man still wore that same pleasant expression, and there even seemed to be amusement in his eyes.

  "You're very sure of yourself, Mr. Welsh. But you're still a young man. As you age, you'll find you're not capable of that same certainty."