A Spy Came Home

by HN Wake

  Koen cleared his throat. “Congressman Peter is one of our staunchest allies."

  “Hannover is also an ally of gun rights.”

  He paused. “Yes, we are aware.” He placed two fingers to his lips, contemplating this turn of events.

  Surreptitiously she pulled out a small round stone from her jacket pocket and deposited it between the seat cushions before standing. “Mrs. Bodie expected you might hesitate. She asked me to tell you her support will be on-going, year on year. That will involve the media, the personal networks and her corporate networks.” She stepped to his desk and set down a Julep Foundation business card. “Through the foundation of course.” She reached out and flipped the card over in his hand. On the back was written, “$1M. Every year.”

  The number startled him.

  She looked down, her smugness was genuine. This man would take the money; the incentive was too large.

  He feigned hesitation. “Your Mrs. Bodie is quite a business woman.”

  “Yes, she is. Quite a business partner.”

  “Quite smart.

  “Yes, she is.”

  “And persuasive.”

  “Indeed.” She paused. “The only real dilemma, Neil, is Congressman Peter. Everything else is very much in-line with your current work.”

  His bony fingers waggled the business card while he nodded gravely, all in a false, yet dramatic display of deep consideration. Then he stood, smiled and offered his hand. “Please tell Mrs. Bodie we will be delighted to work with her.”

  She allowed a small breath to escape and smiled. “Superb. I’ll tell her this evening.”

  “Lovely. And lovely to meet you Dora.”

  "Have a nice day, Mr. Koen."

  He opened his door and spoke into the hallway. “I’ll leave you in the hands of Amanda here for all our bank information and what not.”

  Amanda and Mac clicked back down the long hallway. Mac grinned conspiratorially to her. “Well, he seems smart.”

  “Absolutely. One of the smartest on the Hill.”

  "Good boss?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Honest, reliable, all that?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Great, great. Looks like we’ll be able to work together. You, Neil and I.”

  Amanda beamed.

  “It will be nice to have a woman to work with on this. Great to have met you.”

  “Absolutely." Amanda delivered her to the front door and shook her hand. "You let me know what you need from us.”

  “I’ll be in touch soon.”

  As she stepped back out onto the street, Mac allowed a small smile. That was easier than she had expected. She had no doubts she would be able to turn Amanda.

  Langley, VA

  Ten miles from Capitol Hill, Staff Operations Officer (SOO) Frank Odom rifled through a pile of papers in a cluttered inbox. A slight man in his late 60s and a life-long CIA Headquarters Based Officer in Clandestine Services, Odom was wary by nature, timid and hesitant. Those who had seen him in a state of panic, swore that even his breathing was cautious. Once he made a decision, however, he had been known to take bold action, contrasting sharply to his normal demeanor.

  The inbox sat on a messy desk that was centered squarely in the middle of a windowless basement office of CIA headquarters. Across the floor was a geometric designed Persian Shiraz his wife had purchased in Iran years earlier and had personally carried - despite his vociferous protests and the embargo - through JFK. It, and the office, were illuminated by a single, green-glass desk lamp hauled home from Marrakesh.

  He found the hard copy of an email he had received two weeks earlier. “CALL LOG. TO: Case Officer Frank Odom. FROM: Operative AD99. Called in via main line. QUOTE: “I’ve got pen pals. I think in China. I’m going on vacation for two weeks.”

  Odom glanced at his desk calendar. It had been three weeks since he had heard from Operative AD99, internally known as Mac Ambrose.

  Rumor had it that Mac was not only her Agency name, but was also a nickname for her given name. Odom was not ’need to know’ on that. Rumors aside, Mac was one of the CIA’s best field operatives. Although she was a risk taker who played a little loose with the Agency rules while on assignment, she stayed on-task and reported in often. Extraordinarily, she had been promoted to personnel grade GS-14 ten years ago at the tender age of 34.

  She had grudgingly accepted Odom as her home based office 'manager' for the last eight years. Their operations had produced noteworthy intel; she was the reason he had survived CIA culls and had reached grade GS-13. He knew it. She knew it.

  With a gnawing feeling, Odom pulled up an internet chat room on his screen. He typed out an innocent looking message. It was code requesting Mac to report in to him. ASAP.

  18

  North Capitol Hill, DC

  ATF Director George Wilson glanced up from an immaculate desk as Cal stepped into the top floor office in the new ATF building on New York Avenue.

  Wilson was a tall, black man with the thick neck and arms of college football that he attempted to disguise with finely tailored suits. Similarly, his bullying personality was never quite hidden behind an affected refinement. He quickly looked back down and barked a sharp, “No."

  Cal calmly held a manila folder with both hands in front of his waist, waiting.

  Without looking up, Wilson delivered a command. “Go back to Arlington. Whatever it is, my answer is no.”

  Cal remained silent by the doorframe.

  Wilson set down his pen, ran a thumb along his bushy eyebrow and scowled. “What is it Agent Bertrand? It better be uncustomarily good.”

  Cal stepped forward, pulling the cables from the folder, and slid them across Wilson’s desk. “Something you need to see or I wouldn’t be here.”

  Five minutes later Wilson leaned back in his chair, his voice taut. “Let me summarize the essence of what you're presenting here, Agent Bertrand. You have shown me Confidential State Department cables detailing a shipment last year of legitimate DOC licensed M4s to the Pakistani Army.”

  “Yes.”

  “Upon arrival in Islamabad, they went missing.”

  “Yes.”

  Wilson flipped to the last cable. “They were then spotted going through Peshwar.”

  “Into Afghanistan."

  “From where I sit, this is a standard Blue Lantern investigation. A State Department problem.”

  “Perhaps not.” Cal nodded to the cables. “In the last cable, the Blue Lantern coordinator was able to track down the trucking company that moved the stolen arms. It’s one Khan Trucking Company up in Peshawar.”

  Wilson confirmed this from the third cable.

  Cal said, “From the DOC license number mentioned in the cable, I was able to pull the phone records of the US manufacturer.”

  Wilson’s anger flamed.

  Cal quickly handed him the phone logs. “It's Scimitar Defense out of Lexington. Sir, I’ve confirmed two calls made from Scimitar to Kahn Trucking.”

  Wilson grabbed the logs, his curiosity cooling his temper.

  “The evidence points to Scimitar’s involvement in the guns gone running. They called Khan Trucking”

  Wilson scanned the phone logs. “Jesus H.” He looked up. “Any idea who Maar is?”

  “No. Other than someone with either State or CIA ‘need to know’ clearance.”

  “Why were they sent to you?”

  Cal gave a slight, one shoulder shrug; he had a good idea why.

  “Because you’ve blown whistles.” Wilson barreled on, “You’ve verified these cables?”

  “Yes. I have a man inside the CIA. He confirms they are legit. They are in the system.”

  “Why send these a year later?”

  "I believe State dropped the investigation into the missing guns. I believe Maar wants the ATF to finish the investigation into the gun running. And Scimitar’s possible connection.” Cal crossed his arms. “If Scimitar is connected to the guns going missing, we’ve got a domestic player and
it becomes an ATF issue.”

  Wilson’s stare was unflinching. That stare, having unnerved many tough criminals and law enforcement officers alike, had been a significant asset to his career’s upward trajectory. Eventually, he conceded, “Maar wants Scimitar nailed.”

  Cal nodded.

  “If they’re involved.”

  Cal nodded again.

  “So Maar is sending you - a proven whistle blower - the cables,” he said. “Ok. Your hypotheses make sense. Two calls to Khan last week aren’t an indictment, but they are probable cause. I’m assuming you want a warrant for Scimitar’s offices in Lexington?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The case will hang on documentation of Scimitar’s involvement in the M4s moving. We’ll need tangibles: emails, phone logs, bank statements.”

  “Understood.”

  “Get on the plane today. You’ve got your warrant.” Wilson rubbed his eyebrow. “To wit, Bertrand, don’t fuck this up. If you find Scimitar is involved, the list of agencies we loop in is going to be extensive. The task force will include DCIS over at DOD, FBI, Immigration and Customs, potentially Homeland and of course State and CIA. There are enormous jurisdictional issues on this one. Especially if State bungled this.”

  Wilson was politically savvy; releasing evidence to a joint task force across jurisdictions relieved ATF of the political fall-out if it turned out State had screwed this one up.

  Wilson eyed Cal. “Bertrand, Maar may have chosen you, so I’ll let you lead for now. But if it were up to me I’d keep you out in exile for eternity doing penance for the enormous shit storm you already dropped me in.”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m aware of that.”

  “Actually, if it was up to me I’d fire you.”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m aware of that also.”

  At the elevator bank on the top floor, two televisions were set to separate news channels. Their broadcasts competed for attention.

  An MSNBC newscaster spoke on screen. “The Senate Judiciary Committee completed hearings on new gun control legislation this week. Senators heard from a wide array of experts on the potential impact of legislation affecting ownership, sale and transfer of assault weapons. As expected, two sides of the debate lined up. Representatives of law enforcement spoke compellingly in favor of the ban. In contrast, representatives from the SFG were vociferous in their lambasting of the bill. The Committee now turns to marking up the bill before it heads to the Senate floor in two weeks."

  An elevator door opened and a swarm of ATF agents streamed around him. Alone, he stepped into the empty elevator heading down.

  19

  Capitol Hill, DC

  The coffee shop was surprisingly crowded. Mid-morning caffeine needs ran high among Congressional staff. Mac recognized the vibration of the NYC burner phone from deep in her courier bag.

  Penny had sent her a text. “Who was the last person you were with?”

  Mac typed her back. “An Italian. In Hong Kong. For a few months. Two years ago.”

  “Was he a spy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Italians have spies??”

  “Everyone has spies.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you love him?”

  Mac swirled the latte in its cup. “No.”

  Five minutes later another text arrived. “Have you ever loved anyone?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  Penny was quick on the response. “Who???”

  “I’ll tell ya later.”

  “Party pooper. I think my colleague may like me.”

  “You like him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh oh.”

  “Xactly.”

  Her regular cell phone pinged with the arrival of a new email. The worm installed on Neil Koen’s desktop had forwarded her a copy of an email he had just sent to Congressman Peter. “We got a very interesting opportunity here today. A big donor. Could be beneficial to both of us. Can you meet for lunch?”

  An instant later Koen sent another email, this time to Amanda. “Please do due diligence on Mrs. Bodie out of New Orleans.”

  She didn’t have to wait long for the next note confirming the noon lunch at a restaurant called Charlie Palmers.

  On her way out of the cafe, Mac dropped the rest of her coffee in the trash and texted Penny. “Gotta run.”

  Two hours before the lunch crowd, Charlie Palmers restaurant was quiet. Waiters walked silently through the brightly lit venue, smoothing out table clothes and setting extensive glassware. By the door, the maître d' looked up as Mac entered.

  She offered a diminutive wave. “Hi. I'm Amanda Hughes from Neil Koen’s office."

  "Oh, hi, Amanda. Lovely to meet you in person!”

  "I was just on my way to do an errand and I remembered Neil had asked for a private table for his noon meeting with Congressman Peter.” She craned her neck, looking down the tables.

  He followed her gaze. “Right. How about that one all the way back to the left?”

  "Perfect! I’m so sorry, but can I use your bathroom?"

  "Of course! Just in the back on the left.”

  The open hallway passed a commanding glassed-in wine cellar floating above a dramatic water moat.

  In the bathroom, she pulled out a one-inch-round container from her purse. Inside, nestled on tissue paper, was a small plastic disk the size of a dime. She positioned the disk on the top of her fingertip and removed the sticky backing.

  As she passed the reserved table, she gently stuck the listening device under the wooden, top rail of one of the chairs.

  Two hours later, Mac held her left hand against her ear, hiding an earphone, while her right spun a coffee cup on a saucer on the Charlie Palmers bar. Through the earphone, she heard Congressman Peter’s twang from the reserved table.

  "Now wait a good goddamned minute, Koen. Are you saying she's offering to pay you to support Hannover against me?" he asked.

  There was a pause in the conversation as plates were set down on the table by a waiter.

  Koen replied, “Unfortunately, one of her political interests is Hannover.”

  "I am your best supporter in the House, Koen. My record is better than Scott’s. I’ve been rated SFG triple A for my entire elected career. Now you are going to tell me why you would fund Hannover, a Tea Party nut job - over a long-term ally. And it better be a good goddamned explanation.”

  “She has a huge amount of money to donate. And media support. And a very wide, influential network. It’s a sizable package, all up.”

  “Exactly who is this woman?"

  “New Orleans. Just got widowed. They own media. Turns out her late husband was a big gun man.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “She’s made me a deal.”

  “There had better be a punch line coming here soon, Koen.”

  Koen lowered his voice. “I’m going to turn around and make you a better deal, Congressman.”

  “I’m listening.”

  In her ear, Mac heard them sip from glasses.

  Koen explained, “Hannover won’t win. You know that. You also know as well as I do that a closer race is better for both of us. It rattles the base.” He paused. “So this is how it would shake out. We support Hannover. His numbers rise for a bit. Then our Kentucky brethren see a Tea Party nut job in the position of splitting the Republican vote. You come out strong and explain how this split would sweep in the Democrat. Business is not going to let Hannover win the primary in Kentucky. In the end, more money will actually be funneled to you.”

  Congressman Peter remained silent.

  Koen made the final push. “Crisis and controversy, Congressman, is the name of the game.”

  Mac heard the sound of knives cutting against plates.

  Congressman Peter admonished, “You’re playing a very loose game, Koen.”

  “It’s not a new strategy for us.”

  “It’s also not guaranteed.”

  �
��Bigger risk, bigger piece of the pie.”

  “Talk to me.”

  Mac set down her coffee and glanced at her cell phone, confirming the recording was on.

  Koen said, “She’s giving us half a million. I reckon I can get at least 100,000 over to your campaign. An old widow from New Orleans isn't going to be checking our receipts. If she does, I’ll make it work.”

  At the bar, Mac held her breath.

  Congressman Peter was quick on the draw, like he’d made corrupt deals a million times before. “Done. How’s the steak?”

  Mac tapped off the recording app, placed the earphone into her purse, and dropped some dollars on the bar. She worked her way through the crowded restaurant toward the restrooms, careful to keep her face turned. As she passed their table, she snapped three photos on her cell phone of Neil Koen and Congressman Peter eating lunch. She went completely unnoticed; the steaks held their attention.

  20

  Lexington, KY

  Sheriff Soloman, a large man with a commanding presence, spoke in a slow, pleasant Kentucky drawl. “I think he’s got about 150 folks working there. Mostly fellas. Manufacturing and all. About half of them live in town. The other half, the lower level guys, live out here in mobile homes, what not. They’ve never given us any trouble.”

  Under the mid-day sun, a drop of sweat ran down Cal’s calf. He and the sheriff stood at the top of a hill, looking down the rolling green slope to the Scimitar Defense Ltd building in the distance. The air was stifling; even the grass smelled humid.

  The sheriff scratched the inside of his ear. “I guess he’s been out here going on, what, 15 years? I been by his home in the city. Big, white place. Fences and walls. I’d say some security if you asked me. Lotsa imported cars. Italian, I reckon. No wife. No kids. The city guys say they’ve seen him out, carousing at the fancy restaurants.” He glanced at his freed fingertip, shrugged. “A rich city guy makin’ money off of makin’ guns out in the country. Not somethin’ we usually get involved in.”