ALSO BY JAMES A. SCOTT
The Iran Contradictions
Copyright © 2020 by James A Scott
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction, based in part, on events reported in the news media. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-60809-413-4
Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing
Sarasota, Florida
www.oceanviewpub.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Time will tell, but Silence is
The Code of the Village Triflers
CHAPTER 1
Fall 2017
Lenny’s Place, Washington, D.C.
AT THREE THIRTY in the afternoon on a Wednesday, I sat alone at the bar, nursing a scotch, and wondering how my career, my love life, and my country could have been ruined by just one man—the President of the United States.
Lenny’s was quiet at that time of day. The three-martini lunch crowd had gone and the three-martini-after-work crowd wouldn’t arrive for ninety minutes. I needed the peace and semi-darkness of a familiar refuge to figure out what the hell was happening to my life and how to deal with it.
My immediate problem was getting a job. After ten years at the CIA, in positions of increasing responsibility, potential employers should have been in a bidding war for my services. Yet, after three weeks of interviews, I hadn’t gotten so much as a nibble. Maybe the rumor that the Agency might revoke my top-secret clearance was the reason.
As I mulled over solutions, a guy came in. His expensive suit and cowboy boots told me he didn’t belong. He stopped at the door to let his eyes adjust to Lenny’s tasteful gloom. The sun was behind him, casting his long shadow across the floor. As he scanned the room, I could hear the uh-oh theme from a bad spaghetti western playing in my head. My gaze dropped to the black attaché case in his left hand. I was hoping it didn’t contain an Uzi. Call me paranoid, but I had been working some very sensitive issues at the Agency. I could think of lots of people who would be relieved if I and what I knew died in a pool of blood on Lenny’s floor.
“Velma.” I called to the barmaid, Lenny’s wife. She tends bar during business lulls to save on personnel costs. Velma is forty-something and a looker. She sauntered down to my spot.
“Refill me and leave the bottle on the bar. I may need a weapon.” I cut my eyes to the suit, who was coming my way.
Velma followed my gaze. She poured, left the bottle, and moved down the bar.
The suit eased his six-feet-plus, 260 pounds onto a stool one place removed to my left and parked the attaché case on the stool to his left. If he made a fast move for it, his head was going to have a traumatic meeting with the scotch bottle. He pointed to it and told Velma, “I’ll have the same, a double.”
Velma poured his drink and set the bottle down next to my right hand.
I was in a foul mood and decided to mess with him. “Hi, sailor. Come here often?”
“First time,” and he was not amused. “I’m more of a Mayflower Hotel bar guy.”
“You’re here on business, then.”
“Yes. My business is with you, Max Geller. I’m a lawyer, Bill Bowen.” He put his card on the bar next to my left elbow.
“What’s in the attaché case?”
“A lot of money.” He said it in a low voice, glancing down the bar at Velma.
“Show me … and keep your right hand on the bar.”
He was confused momentarily. Then, he got it. “I’m not a threat, Mr. Geller.”
“Every lawyer is a threat.” I was thinking of my current live-in.
Bowen leaned toward the stool on his left, popped the locks, and opened the case. I saw four bulging manila envelopes inside.
“Can we talk in private?” asked Bowen.
“About what?”
“About something private.” He was a touch irritated. So was I until he added, “I have a job offer for you.”
With an okay from Velma, Bowen and I went to the lone table in Lenny’s small, private dining room. Bowen downed his drink in one gulp and placed the attaché case between us on the table. “Would you be interested in earning ten million dollars?” he asked.
“Who do I have to kill?”
“No one. We want you to find some people and interview them.”
“They must be pretty important people. Who are they?”
“You’re aware of the dossier that’s being circulated concerning the president’s alleged activities in Russia and his collusion with the Russians; we want you to track down the original sources and verify the allegations.”
“Or refute them?”
“If those are your findings, yes … but we believe the allegations to be true.”
“Who are we?”
“I should’ve said they. I’m just a messenger for they.” He gave me a humorless smile.
“Okay, who are they?”
“A group of people who, like you, are not fans of the president. Like you, they think the president is a traitor and a serious threat to this country.”
“I don’t work for people I don’t know.”
“I believe you know Ben.”
“Ben who?”
“Ben Franklin.” Bowen took a large manila envelope from his attaché case and shoved it across the table.
I looked inside. It was stuffed with neatly bound stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
“Part of your retainer,” said Bowen. “I have three more envelopes in this case … for expenses. I can provide additional funds as your investigation progresses.”
“There are already four investigations in progress to verify the dossier,” I reminded him, “one by the special prosecutor at the DOJ, two in Congress, and one at the CIA. Why not let them handle this?”
Bowen assumed a professorial tone. “As you know, the CIA director is the president’s political ally. The congressional investigations are slow and only one of them is serious. If history is any indicator, the special prosecutor’s investigations could drag on for years. Furthermore, we”—there goes that word again—“have reason to believe steps are being taken to cover the president’s tracks, steps that will confound those investigations and keep them out of the Oval Office.”
“Who believes this, we or they?”
“Please don’t be tedious, Mr. Geller. I was told you’re a serious person.”
“Yeah, well, I seriously don’t want to get trampled by the herd of government investigators already working this case. Why did you come to me anyway? Why not go to a private spy outfit?”
Bowen sighed heavily to let me know I was testing his patience. “We discussed that option. We settled on you because you are under the private spy outfit radar, and you have the contacts and a skill set best suited for this endeavor.”
“And those skills and contacts would be … ?”
“You’re resourceful, you worked for the CIA in Russia, you have Russian contacts, you speak the language. Also, I believe you know Jeffrey Ironside, the MI6 agent who assembled the dossier on the president.”
“And how am I supposed to earn the ten million dollars, go to Jeffrey Ironside and convince him to name his sources for the dossier dirt?”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. To date, Mr. Ironside has refused to reveal his sources. I doubt he would simply give them to you. A
s I said, we—my employers—selected you because you have a reputation for being resourceful. How you identify Mr. Ironside’s sources would be a product of that resourcefulness.”
I gave him a skeptical look and let the silence build until Bowen added, “There is another reason why we selected you. You have a reputation for … ah … beneficial disregard for legal obstacles to mission accomplishment.”
And how did he know that? “So, you don’t care if I break laws to verify the dossier?”
The humorless smile again. “We don’t want you to break any laws, but …”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“Yes, it is, ten million dollars’ worth.”
Bowen took two documents from his attaché case and slid them across the table. “We don’t want to rush you. Here’s your contract. Review it and let me know if it’s satisfactory.”
“When do you want to know?”
Bowen checked his Rolex. “In five minutes. I’ll wait.” Another phony smile.
The contract bound me to a corporation in Panama. I read and signed it, a copy for him and one for me. Bowen reached for his copy, but I pinned it to the table with a forefinger. “It says that one million dollars will be deposited in my bank account before I begin work. Don’t you want my account number?”
“Is your account in the States?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid that won’t do. We’ve established an account for you, in Switzerland. Here’s the number.” Bowen handed me a slip of paper and a printed form. “This is the authorization form required by the bank. It’s a joint account that requires your signature and mine to release funds.”
“They were very sure of themselves.”
“They do their homework.” That smile, again. “I assume you would prefer to handle your own personnel and logistics. However, now that you’re with us, I’m authorized to tell you that I’m your quartermaster.” He handed me a card. “Call this number day or night, if you need people, equipment, or money. Someone will answer. Leave a number. I’ll return your call within twelve hours. If you need a faster response, tell the person who answers the phone.”
Bowen snapped the attaché case shut and pushed it across the table. He stood to leave and added, “I assume you’ll be traveling. If you need passports, I’ll need photographs and some lead time. Good hunting.”
When Bowen had gone, I went to the bar. “Velma, is your security camera working?”
“Twenty-four-seven.”
“Can you print a head-and-shoulders photo of the guy I was just talking to?”
“No, but I can make you a copy of the disc. Will that do?”
It would. She did. I put the disc copy into my new attaché case full of new hundred-dollar bills.
The kitchen staff had arrived. I decided to have a soft drink and do some mission planning for my new job, while I waited for the dining room to open.
By the time I was halfway through my steak dinner, I had received a half dozen cell phone calls from Claudia and ignored them. She was my love life—maybe my former love life—that presidential intervention had ruined. I just didn’t have anything positive to say to her. I was considering the dessert menu when my cell phone rang again. This time, it was Rodney, my former CIA boss, the one who fired me. He wanted to meet me in Georgetown right away. For a guy who had spent weeks as a leper, I was suddenly very popular. Why?
CHAPTER 2
RODNEY WANTED TO meet me at his Georgetown home. Rodney was not his real name; it was his nom de guerre, as he would inform you in fluent French. His real name was Prescott Hamilton. At the Agency, we speculated that he chose “Rodney” from a classic he read at his New England prep school or his Ivy League alma mater. Rodney was well bred and old money. He loved to show off both. Hence, the meeting in his home for selected colleagues, but I was no longer a colleague. What was going on?
When we were seated in his study, I started the conversation. “Did you ask me here to give me my job back?”
“No.” Rodney was usually blunt and sometimes truthful.
“What about my appeal to being fired?”
“Dead in the water. You knew that when you submitted it.”
“I didn’t write that stuff about Walldrum. My girlfriend wrote it. I’m not Claudia!”
“The two of you communicated using your official email account and what you wrote characterized the president in a way that reflected bias. Both of you should have known better, given the current political environment.”
I didn’t hide my anger and Rodney changed the subject. “You had a visitor earlier today at Lenny’s. What did he want?”
“How did you know I had a visitor?”
Rodney gave me a look that asked, “Are you serious?”
“He offered me a contract to find and authenticate the sources for the allegations against the president in the Ironside Dossier. You probably know that, too.”
Rodney explained, “After you left the Agency, we got word that Bowen was looking for a skilled operator with Russian experience to vet the sources of those allegations. We didn’t know he would pick you, but we made sure he got your name … along with some lesser qualified people.”
“How did you do that?”
“That’s above your pay grade.”
“I’m no longer employed by the Agency. I don’t have a pay grade.”
“Exactly. Your pay grade is zero.”
“Is this an Agency operation?”
“No … and yes.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You know that certain intelligence activities have become politicized since the election. As a result, some operations don’t make it to the Seventh Floor for approval.”
“Are you telling me I’m involved in an off-the-books operation?”
“No. I’m telling you that nobody knows what’s going on between the Seventh Floor and the White House. So, we professionals are not divulging operations that could impact the political processes … or be impacted by it.”
“Who is Bowen working for?”
“We don’t know.”
“So, you got me a job. What do you want in return?”
“The same thing Bowen wants, the names of the sources who gave Jeffrey Ironside the information in his dossier, if the dossier allegations are facts, and if his sources were in positions to know those facts.”
I told Rodney, “Bowen is paying me eight figures. What do I get from you?”
“The thanks of a grateful nation.”
I laughed and got up to leave.
“What do you want?” Rodney asked.
“I want my job back.”
“That’s not going to happen. Besides, if you pull this off, you can start your own intelligence agency. What’s number two on your wish list?”
I hadn’t thought past number one, but, at that moment, the next best thing to working for the CIA was having the CIA working for me. “I might need Agency help to pull this off.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Bowen gave me an around-the-clock support number.”
“I’ll match that and throw in a secure satellite phone. One caveat: you deal only with me. You’re to have no contact with other Agency assets anywhere in the world.”
“If I get the information, who will see it?”
“Why do you care?”
“Exposing Russian sources could get them killed.”
Rodney uttered a derisive grunt. “I don’t give a damn if some Russians get a bullet in the head, Max. Putin is trying to steal our country. President Walldrum is helping him. I want the White House cleaned out and some real patriots in there. So, get on with your part of it.”
CHAPTER 3
IT WAS LATE when I got home. I entered the front door and looked into the dining room to my right. Claudia was sitting at the table, eating and reading a legal brief. There was no place setting for me and the Cabernet had taken a serious hit.
Claudia announced, “Rodney calle
d. He wanted a meeting. I tried to reach you. Are you still not taking my calls?”
“Rodney found me.”
“Where were you?”
“Interviewing.”
“What were you interviewing, a scotch bottle? I called Lenny’s. Velma said you were sitting at her bar all afternoon.”
Jesus, this is already like being married, I thought, as I headed for the stairs.
“Did Rodney give you back your job?”
“No.” I went up to our bedroom, found a suitcase, and started packing. Claudia didn’t come up. I was glad. When I was packed, I called a cab and took my suitcase downstairs. Claudia hadn’t moved. The Cabernet bottle was almost empty.
“I’m sorry they fired you.” That was her first apology in three weeks.
“Me, too.”
She added, “I shouldn’t have taunted you in that email. I was angry after our fight … and you wouldn’t answer your phone. You shouldn’t have written what you did in your reply. That temper is what got you fired.”
Apology rescinded? “What got me fired,” I told her, “was that you exposed my attitude about the president in your email. My answer didn’t matter. I knew I was in trouble when I opened your message. That’s why I exploded. Don’t you understand? There are people at the Agency who monitor everything I do, say, write. We agreed that politics stays in this house!”
I knew her legal brain agreed with me, but her gut wouldn’t let it go. “We’d never have had an argument if you weren’t so bullheaded and illogical. You said you believe a man is innocent until proven guilty. You can’t abandon that standard when it comes to the president, just because you don’t like him or his politics. Everyone should be held to the same standard.”
I wasn’t taking the bait. Calmly, I said, “That standard is fine, if the suspect is some dirtbag K Street lobbyist. If he’s threatened by an investigation, he’ll hire a lawyer and go on buying congressmen until the FBI gets the goods on him.
“The president should be held to a different standard because he’s unique. If he gets desperate, he could say, ‘To hell with it,’ and start a nuclear war.” I took my Burberry coat from the hall closet and pulled it on.
The President’s Dossier Page 1
