Dunne reached Sarah Gilroy, the assistant deputy director for S&T. The call was put through only because Gilroy’s secretary didn’t know any better.
“I’ve been told not to talk to you,” said Gilroy.
“By whom?”
“Legal. The Inspector General’s Office came yesterday afternoon.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I’m not allowed to say. They were very specific about that. They threw around stuff about obstruction of justice and conspiring to interfere in an investigation. Oh, my god! What have you done, Mike?”
“You know very well what I’ve done. You told me to do it. You asked me to accept a special mission, and then you sent me to see Strafe. Don’t hang me out to dry here, Sarah. I know too much.”
“Don’t threaten me, Mike. And especially not on an open phone line. Any suggestion that I told you to bug an American news organization is false. I should tell you, although I’m not required to, that I am recording this call for my own protection. Get a lawyer. Don’t call me back.”
Finally, Dunne tried Morris Hoffman. No one answered at the office number; an email to Hoffman’s address bounced. He and the group appeared to have vanished from the CIA’s grid.
Dunne had Hoffman’s home address in Alexandria, so he drove down Glebe Road to Old Town and rang the bell for thirty seconds, until someone inside said, “Stop.”
It was Hoffman’s voice, but he didn’t open the door. Dunne could see the dark of an eyeball on the other end of the peephole. He pounded the door some more until Hoffman opened it a few inches, protected by the chain bolt.
Dunne could see his round, patrician forehead through the crack. He was wearing his bathrobe, in the middle of the day.
“What do you want?” asked Hoffman.
“We need to talk,” said Dunne. “I’m being thrown under the bus.”
“My lawyer says I am forbidden to talk with you. I’m paying him a lot of money. I need to listen to him.”
“What are you telling them about our operation?”
“That it’s classified and compartmented, and that I am not authorized to speak about it.”
“And they’re letting you get away with that.”
“I am not getting away with anything. This conversation is over.”
“Have you been diming me, Morris?”
“Go away!”
Hoffman slammed the door. Dunne tried ringing the bell and pounding some more. He heard Hoffman’s voice through the wooden portal telling him to go away, and after another thirty seconds of useless buzzing and pounding, Dunne left.
Dunne had one last person he trusted, and that was his mentor, Roger Magee. Unlike the others, Magee took his call and proposed to meet at Legal Seafoods in Tysons Corner in thirty minutes.
Magee was wearing jeans and a red-checked woolen shirt. With his long beard, he looked like a lumberjack.
“I told you not to do this,” said Magee.
“Spare me, Roger. I don’t need another lecture. You’re the only friend I’ve got. What should I do?”
“Get a lawyer. Here’s the name of someone I trust. He’s at Warren and Frankel. White-shoe firm, but don’t let that put you off. He has all the clearances. The agency trusts him. He knows how to clean up a mess. He can help. If he tells you to plead, take his advice.”
Magee handed Dunne a card with the lawyer’s name, phone number, and email.
“But I didn’t do anything wrong, Roger. I just did what Strafe told me.”
“My friend, there is a big avalanche of shit that is going to fall on your head if you don’t play along here. People haven’t told me anything, and I haven’t asked. But this is one where I humbly suggest that you take one for the team. Stay down for the count. Don’t get up swinging. If you do, it’s going to be ugly.”
Dunne shook his head. His Scotch-Irish temper was rising. A whole team of friends and counselors couldn’t have kept him from fighting back in that moment.
“No fucking way,” he said. “I’m not taking a fall for Strafe. I’m going to tell the truth. If that causes problems for anyone, that’s just the way it is. They can lawyer up, too. Fuck them.”
“Cool down, brother. The world doesn’t work that way. You’re a little fish in this pond. The big fish eat the little fish.”
“I’m not going to play, Roger. I’m sorry. I’ll call your lawyer and try to follow his advice. But I won’t cave.”
“Suit yourself.” Magee shrugged. “As I said once before, you have been warned. I don’t like to see good people get hurt.”
“No point in talking anymore, I guess,” said Dunne.
“Nope.” Magee turned and walked back toward the parking lot. Dunne sat for a moment on a bench in the restaurant lobby, and then called the lawyer and arranged an appointment for late that afternoon. For the first time in his life, he was truly frightened.
* * *
Mark Walden, a spry Warren and Frankel partner in his late sixties, welcomed Dunne to the firm’s offices in a showy new building downtown. He had a top-secret security clearance and had represented many CIA officers in past litigation. He was temporarily cleared for Dunne’s compartment, so that he could discuss the case with him.
“Maybe you should explain this matter from the beginning,” said Walden.
So, Dunne did: He described the first approach from Sarah Gilroy; the meeting with Strafe and the discussion of targeting Fallen Empire and the Quark Team; the legal paperwork he had signed to create the compartment; the anodyne name “European Special Collection” for the office he had shared with Hoffman and the support techs; the forward post in Geneva; the move into Urbino to collect detailed intelligence about the targets.
Walden took careful notes, and stopped Dunne after the first run-through, to focus on details he didn’t understand clearly.
“Tell me more about the Geneva and Urbino operations,” Walden said. “Was that all authorized?”
“Yes. I was in regular contact with George Strafe. He knew about every move that I was making.”
“Just so you know: That’s not what he has told the inspector general and, I assume, the FBI. He says that you were on a technical-collection assignment in Geneva but were behaving erratically. He says that there was a personal matter that showed you had been using bad judgment. He considered replacing you then, but didn’t, to his subsequent regret. He says it’s all documented. You were unstable and off the reservation. That’s his version of events.”
Dunne groaned as he heard the reference to his personal life. It sounded like a warning. It should have made him scared, but instead it deepened his anger.
“I followed orders. My instructions came directly from the deputy director for operations. I may have made mistakes in my private life, but that’s my problem.”
“It’s not just your problem, I’m afraid. Things like this sometimes become public.”
“I pray they don’t,” said Dunne, his face reddening. “But I’m not backing down.”
Walden nodded. He couldn’t tell his client what to do. He knew that anger was the least useful emotion in dealing with a complex legal matter. But even if he had tried to explain that, Dunne wouldn’t have listened.
“What should I tell the FBI?” asked Dunne. “They want to see me tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t talk to the FBI. My advice as your lawyer: Don’t tell them anything.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t want to look guilty, because I’m not. My best defense is to tell the truth.”
“I repeat: My recommendation is don’t talk to the FBI.”
“But I’ve worked with the Bureau my whole career. I can’t play games with them or take the Fifth. I’d look like a crook.”
Walden sighed. A righteous client was a legal liability.
“Your call, in the end,” he said. “If you see them tomorrow, tell the truth. It’s always a mistake to lie to the FBI. Always.”
“What if my version of the truth doesn
’t match what Strafe and Gilroy and the others are saying?”
Walden sat back in his chair and thought a moment. The lights from the luxury boutiques that surrounded his office were beginning to twinkle. Louis Vuitton. Gucci. Tiffany’s. The rewards for playing the game, or having powerful friends protect you if you happened to cheat.
“If there is a conflict about the factual evidence, as I suspect there will be in this case, that ultimately will be up to a judge to resolve. But I don’t think it will get that far. The government will offer you a plea agreement, and if it’s reasonable, I will advise you to accept it.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” repeated Dunne.
“I believe you. I am your lawyer. But I must caution you that this is a matter where the facts are in dispute. There are a number of powerful people who apparently are prepared to say that you did do something wrong. My job is to get the best outcome for you.”
“Too late for that,” said Dunne. “My reputation has been destroyed.”
Walden glanced at his watch and began tidying his notes. Another client was waiting.
“There’s just one more thing,” said Dunne. He hadn’t been sure how much he would reveal about Strafe’s complicity, but it was obvious now that there was no benefit in holding back.
“Please,” said Walden gently.
“Strafe warned me that my actions in this operation might technically be illegal, but that if anything went wrong, I would never be prosecuted. And if I was prosecuted, I would never get convicted.”
Walden smiled, and then pursed his lips.
“Did you get that in writing?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Was anyone else present?”
“No. Just the two of us.”
Walden nodded. He looked Dunne in the eye.
“Let me give you a piece of advice. Do not describe that conversation to the FBI. If you do, you will be accusing Mr. Strafe of a serious felony. Perhaps he committed it, but you have no proof. And your own testimony will be insufficient, given the questions about your own reliability. So the principal effect of such a statement will be to reduce the likelihood of the government offering you a favorable plea agreement.”
“But what I just told you is true,” said Dunne. There was a rasp of frustration and anger in his voice.
Walden sighed. A lawyer could counsel, but not decide.
“Please think about what I said. Would you like me to come with you to the FBI interview tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Would that be a good idea?”
“If you feel you have criminal jeopardy, certainly.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Dunne repeated. “I don’t want you telling me to shut up.”
“Then go alone. And tell the truth. And don’t start a fight you can’t finish.”
27 Washington, D.C. – October 2016
The FBI Washington Field Office was a bland, eight-story limestone block in the hodgepodge of construction between the Capitol and Pennsylvania Avenue. It was framed by the red-brick hulk of a building constructed in the 1880s to process pension checks for Civil War veterans, which was now a museum, and a little Catholic church where penitent special agents could duck out for confession and Mass in the lunch hour.
Dunne entered the front door alone. He had breezed through the entrance before when he came to meetings with the Bureau on surveillance plans. But now he had surrendered his CIA badge, and the privileges of access. He was an ordinary person – worse than that, a suspect in a criminal case – and was alone and unprotected against the weight of a government that had identified him as a target.
A security officer escorted Dunne to an interrogation room, where two special agents greeted him solemnly. Candy Velazquez was a short Latina woman; Jeff Rudd was a tall, bull-necked man with a shaved head. They both wore the bulky black suits that were the FBI dress code. Dunne wore a blue blazer, white shirt, and a tie that was fraying along the edges.
Velazquez, who was the senior agent, read Dunne his Miranda rights. She was meticulous. “You must understand your rights before we ask you any questions.” He nodded. “You do not have to make any statement or answer any questions.” He said he understood. “Any statement you make or any answers you give may be used against you in a court of law or other proceedings.” Right. “You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before you answer any questions and you have the right to have a lawyer present during the interview.” Okay.
Even with that preamble, Velazquez still asked Dunne to sign a written waiver of his rights. As he did, he could see Rudd staring at him across the table, wondering, maybe, how Dunne had gotten himself in such a mess.
“Do you know my friend Rick Bogdanovich?” asked Dunne, as he was signing the waiver. It was an inappropriate, ingratiating remark and he regretted it immediately.
“We don’t know anyone by that name,” said Velazquez coldly. “Let’s begin the interview. We appreciate your voluntary cooperation, which will be noted favorably in any report that’s made to the U.S. Attorney.”
Dunne took a drink of water from the bottle on the table. They hadn’t even begun the interview, and they were already talking about a criminal referral.
“Just to be clear, we are recording this interview on audio and video.”
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“We have received a referral from the CIA inspector general.” She was reading from a paper in front of her, to make sure she got the details right. “The inspector general found ‘reasonable grounds’ to believe that you violated Executive Order 12333, specifically the section that requires intelligence-community personnel to, and I am quoting, ‘protect fully the legal rights of all United States persons, including freedoms, civil liberties, and privacy rights guaranteed by Federal law,’ and the section that forbids any covert action, quote, ‘intended to influence United States political processes, public opinion, policies, or media.’”
“I deny violating anything. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Hold on, Mr. Dunne. We’ll get to all that. I need to read you what’s on my sheet.”
“Okay, sorry.”
Velazquez looked down at her paper again.
“We are conducting this interview because Section 1.7(a) of Executive Order 12333 requires senior officials of the Intelligence Community to report to the attorney general possible violations of the federal criminal laws by employees, in a manner consistent with the protection of intelligence sources and methods.”
“Is that it? For the boilerplate, I mean?”
“Yes, that’s it,” she said, putting the paper in her black briefcase. She didn’t like reading the canned legalese any more than he liked hearing it, but it was required.
“Now, rather than me asking you questions, Mr. Dunne, perhaps you could just tell us what happened in your dealings with the journalistic organization called Fallen Empire, which is headed by a U.S. person named Jason Howe, who falls under the protection of Executive Order 12333. We call it a ‘free narrative.’ You can tell us what happened, from your recollection. How does that sound?”
Dunne cleared his throat and then faced them with a look that said: Here goes.
“I did what I was ordered to do, by my boss. Like I said, I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“I was asked by George Strafe, the deputy director for operations, to conduct a special collection operation to gather information about a group operating overseas, with the same name you used, ‘Fallen Empire,’ same person, ‘Jason Howe,’ and some associates who called themselves the Quark Team. I asked Mr. Strafe if this was a covert action, because I knew we couldn’t do that without a finding from the White House, and he said no, it was just collection. Because Howe was an American, I asked if that would violate the rules – all the gobbledygook you just read. And he said no. Howe’s group had been in contact with a Serbian intelligence officer, and that made it a legitimate collection target.”
Dunne reached into his blazer pocket for a sheet on which he had written some notes.
“There was also an undeclared Russian intelligence officer later, operating from Germany. We received a liaison report that he had met with the Fallen Empire group in Urbino, Italy, and after that, with Mr. Strafe’s approval, I went in.”
Rudd spoke up. “You don’t need to share classified information with us if it’s not relevant.” He was from the Counterintelligence Division, Dunne guessed.
“But it is relevant. It was the legal justification for the operation.”
Velazquez and Rudd both made brief scribbles in their notebooks. They didn’t ask any questions, so Dunne continued.
“I wasn’t sure it was kosher in the beginning, so I asked Mr. Strafe what would happen if I got caught. Suppose Fallen Empire cracked my cover, and put out a press release saying there was a CIA witch hunt or something, what would happen then?”
“And what did Deputy Director Strafe say, allegedly?” asked Velazquez.
Dunne took a deep breath. He looked at the two special agents across the desk in this tight, low-ceilinged interrogation room. He hated being in this situation. He wasn’t a rat. But if you were threatened, you had to fight back, or you would be destroyed. He felt dizzy for a moment. He closed his eyes, and then opened them and began to speak.
“Mr. Strafe said that if anything went wrong, he would take care of it. Fix it. He said that even if there was a flap, nobody would prosecute me, and if they went ahead, they wouldn’t get a conviction.”
“How could he promise you that?” asked Rudd. “The Justice Department makes decisions about prosecution.”
“I know. I was stupid. I shouldn’t have paid any attention. But I did.”
“Do you have any record of this alleged exchange with Deputy Director Strafe?”
“No. It was in his office. We don’t take notes about stuff like this. Sorry.”
“Did you report it to anyone? I mean, if what you say is true, you were being asked to do something illegal. You had an obligation to tell the inspector general. Did you do that?”
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