The Grace Bay Agreement

by D. Alan Johnson

  “I’ll meet you back here in half an hour. We can go dancing. I’ll show you the club,” Lillian said. She ignored his excuses about not being able to dance.

  Pete and Lillian walked toward the upstairs bar at eleven o’clock. The salsa music wafted across the beach, inviting, almost narcotic. As they climbed the wide wooden steps, he let Lillian go ahead and he admired the view of her backside. While there were other bars around, this one was part of the resort, so all drinks were free, and it was just a short walk from the rooms.

  Wearing no jewelry, her long hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, and dressed in a backless short black dress, Lillian looked graceful and sexy. On her feet, she wore black low-heeled sandals. Pete had on blue jeans and a white guayabera shirt with his boat shoes.

  He saw an empty table near the dance floor, and guided Lillian over with a deft hand in the small of her back. As he pulled out her chair, he leaned forward. “You are one sexy, beautiful woman.”

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the women who pick you up.”

  He smiled and sat down close to her so that they could both view the dance floor. He placed his hand on her knee under the table. They spotted Bob and Connie at the same time.

  The music seemed to pulse out of their bodies. Cheek to cheek, they whirled together. Bob’s left hand held her right, his other hand around her waist. He let her out, spun her once, then reeled her back. Pete’s mind would not compute the data that seemed to prove that fat old Bob Ferrara could dance like a Puerto Rican salsa king. Everyone on the dance floor gave them room, and watched the way they moved and spun, either for entertainment or to get ideas on how to improve.

  The music ended, and Connie spotted Pete and Lillian. They came over and sat down. Bob was covered in sweat and breathed in heaving gasps.

  “Where did you learn to dance like that?” Pete asked.

  “Now, my son, I can’t tell you all of my secrets, can I?” He smiled over at Connie and she looked deep into his eyes, still caught in the spell of the Latin dance.

  “A Guatemalan general once told me that a Gringo who could dance salsa could have any woman in Latin America he desired,” Pete said.

  “Do you salsa?” Lillian asked in a low voice meant only for Pete’s ear while she squeezed his hand.

  “Uh, no my love.”

  The music started again, the introduction giving a broad hint of the quick salsa number to follow. Lillian grabbed Pete’s arm, and lifted him toward the dance floor. She ignored his protestations, and swung his body close to hers, holding him close.

  Just then, the main part of the song started, and Pete lead with his left foot, guiding her back, and then forward again. He had not danced salsa for over ten years, but it came back instantly. Flying for the CIA and then the DEA for over twelve years in Latin America had been a great opportunity for Pete to learn salsa, meringue, and cumbia. Of course, it helped that Lillian was an accomplished Latin dancer also. They moved together as though they had been a couple for years.

  As she spun back in close to him, she said, “So you don’t dance salsa, you liar.” He only smiled and led her into a front crossover. Too soon the song was over, but without a break the DJ played “Chained Melody”.

  “I suppose that you can’t slow dance either,” Lillian whispered in his ear.

  I need to get away from this woman for a few minutes, or I’ll be in big trouble. I need my wits about me, and I can’t afford an entanglement right now. But he held her close, and they swayed with the music. He felt the muscles in her back through the thin cloth, and let his hands move a little lower. He heard her mumble in his ear and knew that it was approved.

  She lifted her head off of his shoulder and looked in his eyes. Without thinking, he kissed her softly.

  Finishing the lingering kiss, Pete saw Connie and Bob dancing close by. Bob was looking away, but Connie caught his eye, smiled and gave him a “thumbs up”.

  Before the song was over, Pete pushed Lillian away, and they walked back to their table. She knew to walk in front of Pete to hide the evidence of his attraction for her.

  November 18, 1999

  2330

  Penthouse, Hotel Parque 84

  Santa Marta, Colombia

  Ramon Alvarez Menchaca Ledesma puffed his Perdomo cigar as he reviewed his emails. Ever since the first message from Jose Leal telling of the agent that Joiner had in the organization, Ramon continued to check all his sources to find out who knew about his operation in Turks and Caicos.

  As the head of the Santa Marta Cartel, Ramon personally managed his intelligence function. The Cali Cartel and the Medellin Cartel lost their leaders due to flaunting their wealth and power, and through failures of intelligence. Carlos Lederer still languished in prison, while Pablo Escobar rotted in a tomb just north of Medellin. Ramon would not end up like that. He not only wanted to make unholy amounts of money but also to keep the existence of his cartel as quiet as possible.

  After first hearing that the DEA was onto the operation, Ramon only used the cartel’s secure website. To add a layer of security, the cartel used the latest French encryption technology. This software featured one-time keys that changed every day so even if someone got the key today, the coded the messages sent over the secure site tomorrow would be unreadable.

  Yesterday he dispatched Jose in one of the cartel’s jets so that he could interview Mary Warner. As always, the best debrief was in bed after a renewing of their “love”. Ramon smiled when he thought about how easily Jose slipped into the heart of the forty year old secretary. When they started this operation, all they knew was that she was a secretary at the new DEA facility. They had no idea she would turn out to be so well connected. Luck oft times smiles on the diligent.

  Ramon got the idea of recruiting the secretary after reading The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence during his study to prepare himself to head his own intelligence department. This one piece of intelligence was worth all the money and time spent keeping Jose running back and forth to Ft. Worth.

  Ramon knocked the long ash off of his cigar. Now, the question in Ramon’s mind was, “How will this affect our operation to buy the Turks and Caicos?” Ramon never thought he could keep such a large operation secret forever, but he had to keep it clean of US agents. The cartels planned to allow the Turks and Caicos government to participate in investigations with the European Union and the US, but warn the Cartel and hide their accounts and activities. The US would suspect, but they could never be allowed full knowledge of the Cartel’s accounts, trading companies and real estate holdings.

  Once he got the TC government in up to its eyeballs, they would be easy to blackmail and control. Now, during the early negotiations, was the delicate part where the Finance Minister or Prime Minister could be spooked by a US agent. Especially if confronted with evidence before they signed on.

  And his long-term plan of political power to influence the legalization of cocaine must start with the seduction of a government. Once he had one, he could get another. After a chain of conquests, he could shepherd legislation to legalize drugs. Then, he would be positioned to become the dominant supplier of cocaine and its derivatives to the world. He would be the biggest and the first, a world-wild conglomeration like Microsoft or Caterpillar.

  He leaned back in his chair thinking of how his plan could help the peasants to sell their crops of coca, the leaves of which, when crushed and processed, provided the base for cocaine. Merchants, transportation companies, and warehousing all would prosper. And his companies would control it all.

  A new email from Jose popped up on his screen. It was addressed to “Don Humo”. In Spanish, Don is a term of respect used by those close to the subject. Humo meant “smoke” in Spanish and was Ramon’s alias. Only his body guards, two lieutenants, and his mistress knew his real name. Mostly, he ran his large organization by email.

  Don Humo,

  According to the information from Mary, we have narrowed down the possible agents that could be working f
or Stephen Joiner. We have reconstructed Joiner’s movements the last few days. According to an informant, the day before Wilson left for his trip, Joiner met with the new co-pilot in a downtown bar. The co-pilot’s name is Peter James Dolan. I had a friend run his name through the government computer, and we have proof that he is the one.

  1) Worked for the CIA 1980 – 93

  2) Worked for DEA 1993 – 97

  3) Undercover as a corporate pilot. No visible income.

  We think that he has been shadowing David’s operation. He’s been flying as a part-time pilot for David for several months. Waiting for your instructions.

  Your servant,

  Jose

  Reading the name Stephen Joiner raised the hair on the back of Ramon Menchaca’s neck. That man is responsible for over thirty millions in losses! Ramon’s rage started to burn his neck. He took several quick breaths. I must remain calm. I can’t just kill Joiner. They would then know I have access to their inmost secrets. No. Better to know your enemy than kill him and have an unknown one spring up.

  For years Joiner outfoxed druggies all over Latin America. He was one of the few DEA chiefs who could not be bought off. Several drug shipments and the aircraft that carried them had been lost, but the worst were the continuing seizures of bank accounts both in the US and overseas. Drug and aircraft losses were part of the cost of doing business. Losing money that had already been through the washing process hurt the organization badly, setting back the timetable to have Ramon Alvarez Mechaca set up as a legitimate billionaire.

  Get your mind off of Joiner. Think about him later. Now, I must solve this problem of Peter Dolan. There was only one way to deal with a spy in your midst, Ramon thought. Eliminate him. This would serve both as a deterrent to the DEA, and show the ministers of Turks and Caicos that the cartel could protect them. He looked up at the ceiling as he puffed, savoring the smoke, and let his mind ratchet around this problem.

  As he saw it, he had three choices. Open actions let everyone know who killed the agent. Covert operations showed the enemy your fist, but provided plausible deniability. Clandestine attacks make the death seem like an accident or maybe a heart attack. No one even knows that a crime was committed.

  Ramon decided that the assassination needed to be a covert kill. An open kill would not serve their best interests with the bureaucrats of Turks and Caicos. Too bloody. Too many investigations. However, a clandestine kill would make Dolan’s death look like mere chance. Everyone needed to know why Peter Dolan had died and who was responsible, even if there was a plausible “accident”.

  Jose, my son,

  Your hard work will be rewarded. Now, see to it that this spy is snuffed out. You know how to do it. Make it look like an accident, but let our enemies know that our reach is long.

  Proud of you, as always,

  Humo

  Ramon gritted his teeth as he hit the SEND button. His conscience poked him. He would have to tell his priest about this during the next confession. He ground the cigar into his ashtray, flattening the end with his fury.

  November 19, 1999

  0025

  NSA Listening Post #16

  Green Cove Springs, Florida

  Christopher Monk drank back another slug of coffee to help him stay awake as he scrolled through the “interesting” websites he monitored. I’ve got to stop partying so much, he thought. I’ll never be able to stay awake tonight. Only 26 years old and already over two hundred and eighty pounds, Chris stretched like a giant housecat and looked around his office.

  The dark carpeted floors, the soft florescent lights, and the gentle hum of cooling fans made up the perfect environment to lull young Christopher to sleep. Yet this command post, made up of two hundred flickering computer screens, was both an exciting and familiar workplace for Monk. Some people work well with people, others feel most comfortable working with machines, but Christopher Monk truly loved listening in on other’s lives by reading their email.

  He pulled up one of his favorite sites and reviewed the thread of explicit love notes exchanged between a male Colombian Congressman and a fifteen year old boy. This one he forwarded to his boss and copied the CIA station chief in Bogotá. The CIA now has a handle on this guy. It may be years later, but the CIA will use those emails to bend this rube whichever way they need. Chris felt a little sorry for the congressman, but he knew statecraft used some old and very dirty tools, like blackmail, sexual favors, bribes, and threats.

  “I love this job,” he said aloud. “If I hadn’t gotten this job, I’d probably be in jail for hacking into some government computer network.” He smiled and leaned back in the swiveling captain’s chair as he checked other screens above his head.

  As a third year employee NSA promoted him out of Washington to this post due to his Spanish proficiency. But the promotion also meant going on rotation every sixth night for the “Black Watch.” He arrived at 2300 and worked alone until 0700 the next morning. While computers monitored most of the emails, looking for one of 1,500 “hot button” words, a human always sat on watch. The human looked through the hot button messages to see if such messages warranted further action.

  Most of the young men and women who took the Black Watch slept in the reclining chairs, and trusted the chimes to wake them when a hot button word came up. But Christopher Monk was dedicated and tried his best to stay awake the entire night. Besides, he loved to read the mail.

  The National Security Agency monitors hundreds of thousands of websites and millions of emails per day, looking for anything unusual. These websites are doled out to individual listening posts spread around the world. Other parts of each listening post were dedicated to cell phones, satellite transmission, and fax machines. Radio traffic and telemetry are routinely monitored by military listening posts, Army and Navy surveillance aircraft, and Navy submarines. Their intercepts are then fed to the NSA.

  Most people believed NSA listening posts were concentrated around the DC area, Maryland, and Northern Virginia. But that arrangement changed in the Eighty’s when several books came out about the intelligence services. The Clancy novels especially spurred the NSA to open listening posts all around the country. This one in Northern Florida dealt mostly with Latin American issues.

  A soft bell sounded and Chris looked at his monitor to see one of the watch sites come up with a new series of messages. The first message dealt with the outing of Pete Dolan. The second was Ramon’s order to kill him.

  These idiots write in the clear just because they think their encryption will keep us out. What fools.

  Several years ago the NSA, concerned about the spread of powerful encryption technology, tried to keep the more powerful programs off the market. But in 1995 a young man named Phil Zimmerman thought the whole world should have access to encryption to guard their private conversations. He offered his very secure program, called “PGP” for “Pretty Good Privacy” on the market for free. One just bought his book and scanned in the source code using an OCR reader. Exporting the code was illegal, but exporting the book was not.

  When the National Security Agency saw that restrictions were futile, they changed course, and offered programmers cash bonuses to provide the “back doors” to these encryption programs. These back doors were originally designed by programmers so they would have a way to enter the program to fix a jam or a bug, but these same back doors allowed the reading of the messages without having passwords or “keys.” At first, the Agency would offer $10,000 per back door, but as the encryption business grew, the price for the back doors rose.

  The French encryption that the Santa Marta Cartel used was especially robust, and so the programmer that eventually gave the NSA the back door demanded, and received, $250,000 and a permanent residence visa in the US. Meanwhile, the NSA still protested vigorously to the French government to ban the sale of the product overseas, and this only made the program more desirable to the druggies and terrorists.

  The overriding goal of the NSA is to protect their me
thods of acquiring encrypted intercepts. Therefore they almost never interface with other agencies or share any of the encrypted intercepts that could be traced back to them. It was the greatest irony to have powerful, actionable intelligence, but not have the ability to act because that would then alert the enemy that his mail is being read. Chris had read about plans for assassinating South American politicians, and then read about the assassination on the internet two days later. He had the evidence to solve murders all over the Caribbean and Latin America, yet he could do nothing about it.

  At first, he found it easy to sit back and watch the action, like one of the gods on Olympus. But around three months ago, Chris started having nightmares. In his dreams he was calling to the man targeted, but the man could not hear. Chris ran to catch him, but he lacked the speed and strength. The frustration grew until he would wake up screaming out warnings to the target. The nightmares were coming more regularly now, and they happened almost every time he read an intercept that foreshadowed a murder. Chris often got very drunk, hoping to sleep through the night and avoid the horror.

  Tonight, before coming to work, he promised himself that he would help these targets. There would be no “spillage” of NSA sources or methods. He would just disguise the source. He could not let another murderous email go unanswered and watch as another person was assassinated. He would not. He had vowed never to let that happen again. Chris Monk would not feel responsible for another death.