Chapter 3--STORM
WEATHERSHIP TANGO DELTA," were the only words that the disembodied voice on the other end of the phone spoke. They were the only words that needed to be spoken for they were the words that told Sammy that he was being activated for an assignment, in this case the final assignment of his career. He would need to make preparations to go to the nation’s capital. But first things first. Whenever Sammy received a call for an assignment it was necessary, for security reasons, for him not to go directly to Washington, D.C. but to use a circuitous route in order to avoid detection. Once the call was received he knew he would have to report to the office in precisely 168 hours. The only good thing about the week preceding an assignment was that Sammy’s trips were paid for by the Company. The bad thing, of course, was that he had a week to think about what he could potentially be assigned to accomplish. Once he flew to Chicago (during baseball season when the Cubs were in town) once to San Francisco (the Giants) and once to Paris, just because he wanted to go. This time he wanted to do something different. He decided that he would spend a full week in Alaska. He knew he always wanted to go there (he also wanted to go to Australia but didn’t need the long flight preventing him from carrying out his responsibilities) and, with the uncertainties of knowing if he’d live to ever go there on his own, he decided to make the arrangements. The next day he boarded a commuter flight from Albany to JFK and took a connecting Anchorage Airways flight from JFK to Anchorage, Alaska.
Sammy was attracted to Alaska for its splendid scenery. With 51 million acres set aside as National Park Service land, Sammy knew that there would be no shortage of sightseeing opportunities. He enjoyed the idea of going to a state that was the largest in area, but the least populated; however, once he got there he could see why the population increase in the past two years was four times the national average. The landscape was beautiful and the entire state was nearly pristine, touched by man, yet nearly untouched in many respects. It was a cold and brutal place in some areas, but he had not seen any of those places. He rented an airplane and a pilot and flew over much of Denali National Park and Mount Mckinley, the highest point in North America. Named for future President McKinley in 1896, he knew, its South Peak was first climbed in 1913. The trip wasn’t as onerous as he thought it would be because he had expected it to be much colder. It was a warm May day with temperatures hovering around a comfortable 56 degrees. He spent time hiking around the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge with a guide and toyed with the idea of renting a plane to fly past the Seward Peninsula and across the international dateline but gave up on that idea when none of the bush pilots he talked to would consider the opportunity for any amount of money. He went fishing and caught many salmon and halibut, which he had packed in ice and sent to his parents. He also met a gorgeous big-chested female eskimo named Anouk, whom he spent a large portion of the week with and took with him on his travels. One of the sites they enjoyed the most was the Klondike Gold Rush National Historic Park, which included tours of buildings associated with the gold rush of 1897-98. But the fun was not to last. As was his procedure on his pre-assignment trips, he had nothing more than a fling with any female he met because he never knew if he would be coming back from the assignment.
Before he knew it his time in Alaska was up. At the airport, he did not fly back on the ticket he purchased, but rather checked in at the gate and pretended to board. He told the flight attendant that he left something in the waiting area and wanted to get it. She told him to hurry up and to make sure that he held onto his boarding pass. With a brief smile he patted his jacket pocket indicating that the pass was securely on his person. He accomplished all of this as other passengers were boarding so that he would be lost in the shuffle of packing the overhead bins, making sure the items were stowed securely and performing the menial housekeeping functions of distributing magazines, pillows and blankets. Evidently, it worked as the plane left the terminal without any concern for his whereabouts.
His luggage was stashed in an airport locker and after the plane departed he retrieved it. He then proceeded back to the main terminal, luggage in hand, and purchased another ticket in cash from a different ticket agent using the assumed name of Richard Billings. He proceeded to his gate and awaited his boarding call. When the flight was called he quickly took his first class window seat. As he had no carry-on luggage he was able to stretch out comfortably. He accepted a local newspaper and that day’s New York Times and declined a glass of champagne, asking, instead, for a glass of orange juice.
Scanning the Times he noted that the lead story on the front page announced:
PRESIDENT TO FORM PANEL TO INVESTIGATE ALLEGATIONS OF WRONGDOING IN THE INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY
special to the New York Times
Washington, D.C.- President Walter Jenkins announced today that he would, based
upon a recommendation from the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, appoint
a blue ribbon panel of investigators, including former judges, prosecutors and
law enforcement officials, to work with the Committee to determine if the
Central Intelligence Agency has been operating domestically in contravention of
its 1947 charter, which prohibits the CIA from carrying out any domestic
activities.
Sammy’s eyes widened at the next paragraph:
At least one congressional source has stated that the reason the panel is being
formed is the deaths of influential government and public figures in the past
several months. These include William Chesterton, Director of the Office of
Management and Budget, United States Senator Vincent DePasquale (D-NY) and movie
star Paul Eastman. All were outspoken opponents of the activities of the Central
Intelligence Agency who were attempting, through various means, to have
legislation introduced to limit the CIA’s activities with an eye towards
eventual elimination of the agency.
Sammy bolted upright in his seat. His hands began to get clammy and sweat started to pour from his forehead. Chesterton, DePasquale, Eastman. He was responsible for those. They were his previous assignments. He realized, like a lightning bolt hitting him between the eyes, that the President was investigating him. His breathing became shallow and labored. He felt the color draining out of his cheeks. A major storm was brewing and he was at its eye. He reached up to turn on the air vent located directly above his seat. The rush of cool air made him feel slightly better but his hopes of sleeping for the rest of the flight evaporated. He had the desire to throw the paper away and not read anymore but he couldn’t. He read on:
James Lee Patterson, Director of the CIA, often called ‘Gentleman Jim’ because
of his courtly manner to even his staunchest opponents was uncharacteristically
vehement in defense of his Agency. " I am appalled and ashamed to think that
this President would even dare to question the loyalty of myself and of those
people who work for me. We have acted, at all times, well within the bounds of
the law, despite there having been many temptations to operate outside of it to
strengthen this nation’s security. In any event, any major operation is done
with full advice given to the President and Congress, a point the President
seems to overlook. If the President continues to make unsupported insinuations,
I will have no choice but to resign this post which I have held during the
bipartisan tenure of seven different presidents."When the President was advised of Mr. Patterson’s ultimatum, he responded only by saying, "I can only respect and admire Mr. Patterson for doing what he, in his heart, thinks is right. I hope he respects me for doing the same thing."
Meanwhile, other sources say...
Sammy couldn’t read any further. He put down the newspaper but just as quickly picked it up again. He looked at the dateline. It was yesterday’s news. Was there any way the Chief knew it was going to break. There had to be. The Company was so wired into everything that it was possible there were a couple of agents elected to Congress. The thought scared him. Could his summons to D.C. be because they knew of this development and were bringing him in for "closure", a Company euphemism that he did not wish to think about. He was now fully terrified that he would be sacrificed and that his body would be turned over with forged documents indicating that he was a rogue CIA agent, operating beyond the pale of any authority extended to him. His mind swam with so many thoughts he couldn’t think straight. He was glad no one was sitting in the seat next to him witnessing his strange behavior. Had there been such a companion they might have believed that the young man sitting next to them was having a myocardial infarction. Frantically, he grabbed for and pushed the flight attendant call button.
"Yes sir, may I help you?," she said. Her name was Christine, according to her name tag.
"Yeah, I’ve changed my mind about that drink. Do you have any tequila?"
No, I’m afraid we don’t."
"Then I’ll have a Scotch. Please give me two. No ice. Just straight up." As she started to walk away, he asked, "Excuse me, do you have any Jack Daniels, instead?"
"Why, yes we do"
"Okay, two of those instead."
The drink burned his throat when he took his first swallow, but afterwards it went down smoothly and had a tremendous calming effect upon him. He decided to watch the movie that was beginning in the hopes that it would take his mind off his current predicament and help him pass the time easily. Since this was a long flight there were two movies. The first was one of those mindless comedies with a threadbare plot whose sole existence was necessary to keep all of the endless sight gags and tired one-liners coming. This one was a war movie spoof. While it wasn’t a great movie by any stretch of the imagination, watching it made Sammy relax to the point where he was even laughing at those endless sight gags and tired one-liners. He actually felt that he would be able to sleep for a while on the plane and did, in fact, doze off during the news program that was shown between the first and second movie.
When he woke up, he was calmer, but the second movie was a spy film that only served to remind him of his problem. He remembered that he had some big time problems, indeed, but felt he could deal with them if he forced some rational thought on the issue. He knew that if the Company did not want him to be safe, he would very well be the target of the investigation, but what could he do. If he ran, the Agency would dispatch an untold amount of agents to take him down. In all reality, even if he were able to keep running, he would never be able to stop. And, unfortunately, he did not have the resources to keep running. While he was paid handsomely for his efforts and had an extraordinarily large bank account for most people, not to mention a twenty three year old, his finances were not sufficient to allow him to constantly move. In addition, while he had $5,000 in cash on him presently, it was more likely than not that the Company would freeze his bank accounts, thus preventing him to obtain the funds to keep on the lam. With the Company’s strings carefully placed all over the world, internationally and domestically, it was highly unlikely that he would be safe in the FBI’s witness protection program. In fact, that would probably be the most dangerous. He could never be anonymous. The Agency could easily find out his new identity and he would be liquidated shortly thereafter. For Christ’s Sake, he was dealing with the "blackest" and most covert unit within the government. Goddamit, he had to think.
He took a deep breath. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was not going to be a scapegoat. He had served the Company well and it was quite possible that they would not use him as a sacrificial lamb. Yet he could not wonder what effect his attempts at resignation had. Damn! He shouldn’t have been so stupid. He should have realized that he could never leave. That they would never let him. He should have asked for reassignment from the field to an intelligence analyst position, one of those desk jockeys that monitor threats to the nation’s (and the Company’s) security. He knew that he hadn’t asked for this previously because of his conscience. He was directly responsible for the deaths of three people and becoming indirectly responsible for future deaths was no salve. He couldn’t live with himself so he proffered his resignation. Well, hell’s bells, he thought. A dead man has no conscience. Should’ve thought of that before, Sammy. Now you can meet up with your victims in the afterlife.
He had no choice. He would report tomorrow morning and withdraw his resignation and request re-assignment to a desk position. He hoped it was not too late. If asked, he would feign ignorance of the Congressional inquiry and the Presidential panel. He would do his best to act surprised. That was one thing he was good at, maintaining a cover. No reason for them to even doubt him one bit. He’d been in Alaska for a week and it was widely known that he preferred to rent a video and watch a movie rather than watching the news. While his specific assignments may have mandated his keeping current with the news, his overall job responsibilities did not and he avoided television news programs or newspapers whenever possible.
He would carry out his last assignment, be re-assigned to a desk position and would then live the rest of his life in a cloak of anonymity, keeping his mouth shut and assisting the CIA and the Company to deflect all criticisms. He, of all people, would find a way to do so because of his intimate knowledge of the questioned activities.
His thoughts were interrupted by the announcement from the Captain. "Ladies and Gentlemen. This is the Captain speaking. We have begun our final descent into the Capital area. As we make our approach in to Dulles Airport you will be able to see the downtown D.C. area on the right hand side of the cabin. The flight crew has asked me to ask you to fasten your seat belts and make sure that your tray tables are in the upright position. I’m glad the flight has been uneventful. On behalf of the flight crew and myself we thank you for flying Trans National Airlines and hope you come back to see us again. We hope you enjoy your stay in Washington, D.C."
Sammy laughed to himself. ‘Uneventful flight’ my ass, he thought. For him, it was one of the worst flights he had ever been on.
After retrieving his luggage from the baggage carousel, he waited an interminable period of time for a taxi. When he finally got his cab, he was dismayed to see that the driver was a rancid Pakistani with little or no experience in driving in the Washington area. While wanting to fall asleep during the twenty minute cab ride, he felt very pissed off that he had to force himself to stay awake to give directions to the cabby. With the cab driver not really understanding English all too well, the twenty minute drive turned into a forty minute drive. When they pulled up to Sammy’s apartment, a faded brownstone in the Foggy Bottom section of Washington, Sammy paid the metered amount and refused to give a tip. The cab driver vehemently yelled "Fuck you."
Sammy replied quietly, " I guess I was wrong about you not knowing English." He shut the door with a bang and carried his bags up to the front stoop. After unlocking the door, he stopped to collect his mail and walked up the stairs to his apartment, which was on the second floor of the brownstone. As much as he hated the Company, he was glad that they paid for two apartments for him so he had easy accessibility. He had requested the second apartment to be in Albany so he could be close to his friends when he was not working and the Company was glad to oblige.
Friends, he thought. It was good to be with them. Davey, Steve and Bill. Wait a minute, he thought. Bill was on the staff of Senator Joseph Humphreys, a freshman senator who hailed from Schenectady. Bill’s father, a lawyer, got him an internship during college in which Bill helped manage Humphreys’ senatorial campaign. When Humphreys ousted the incumbent, Senator Paul George, Bill, through the wonderful patronage system, was proffered a high level staff position in the Senator’s office. He was given the job on graduation day, a nice present from mentor to mentee.
Maybe he could talk to Bill. If he funneled information to Bill, perhaps he could make inquiries, using the power of his office. After all, Congressional leaks were more common than holes in Swiss cheese. He’d have to look into that.
Once inside his apartment, he did not bother to unpack. He took a shower and shaved and then promptly went to sleep, setting his alarm for 6:30 in the morning. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow and slept soundly throughout the night and, as far as he could remember, he did not dream.
So well did he sleep, in fact, that he woke up fifteen minutes before the alarm went off. He turned off the alarm and made coffee. He was glad that he did not sleep until the alarm went off because if he woke up before the alarm went off and decided to sleep until it did go off, he suffered major bouts of undesired grogginess. That was something he didn’t want to experience today.
While drinking his coffee, a special Colombian brew he ordered via a catalog from the Egyptian Coffee House in Walla Walla, Washington, he went through the mail that accumulated during his two week absence. Nothing remarkable. Two issues of Newsweek, a phone bill, the cable bill and an ad for a credit card offering a low 18.7% APR. He also received an ad from a computer company hawking their wares and a catalog from an order by mail electronics company. He threw everything out but the two Newsweeks and the two bills.
After finishing his coffee, he showered and shaved and dressed in his most conservative gray suit, white shirt and paisley tie. He left his apartment at 8:30 and hailed a cab, not an easy feat given the amount of people who took cabs at this time of morning to get to work. He was lucky and got a cab within five minutes. The cab took him to an inauspicious office building on 13th Street near the National Theatre.
Entering the building, he took the elevator to the basement offices of Renfro Sales Corporation, the Company’s cover. "Nice to have you back Mr. Johnston" greeted Julie, the red-headed, big chested receptionist that was rumored to have slept with most of the guys at this place. "Mr. Renfro is expecting you."
"Thanks, Julie." Passing Julie’s desk and entering the sales floor, Sammy marveled at the cover the Company used. In fact, this was not a new feeling for him. Every time he passed through he was awed by the meticulous care the Company used to maintain the cover. Renfro Sales Corporation was a company that procured job lots of items and then sold them to various liquidation warehouses and retail stores that were located throughout the country. With the decline of the department store as the prime buying source, and people looking for a bargain, many of these stores catered to people who wanted to save a buck and began popping up all over suburban America. The dozen salesmen in cheap off-the-rack suits were actually salesman employed by Renfro totally unaware of the true nature of the operation. Their cries, actually selling items procured by Renfro, could be heard as Sammy passed through the sales floor.
"Come on, you gotta help me here."
"So what are we talking about? Two dozen grosses. Is that all?"
"Listen, I can cut a hundred bucks off the whole shipment but that’s it."
Renfro Sales Corporation was a real company with a very healthy bottom line. These salesmen were responsible for net profits of $10 million last year and this year proved to be even better. Renfro paid all of its taxes on time, gave to charities and if anyone from the Internal Revenue Service ever desired to see detailed sales records, they would be able to produce them. Of course, that eventuality had never come to pass, to Sammy’s knowledge. Renfro took less deductions than a normal corporate entity would and, therefore, the Internal Revenue Service would never audit them, lest they actually lessen the amount of taxes paid.
As Senior Vice President in charge of marketing, he was known to all of them as Harry James and they waved to him as he crossed the floor. He returned every wave with one of his own. At the end of the sales floor he came up to a set of double doors that said "Executive Personnel Only." This was a security area and it was necessary for him to push his access card into a slot to unlock the doors. Passing through them, he entered into a long corridor with an elevator at the end. Once again using his security card, he summoned the elevators by pushing the button marked "one". After a few seconds, the elevator doors opened and he walked into an area right out of a spy movie. Computers lined one entire wall, enclosed in glass sarcophagi. Banks of monitors rested against another set of walls. More monitors lay in a console located towards the middle of the floor. Glass walls with world maps on them dotted the perimeter of the room. Large Screen Television monitors were scattered throughout. Printers were located in strategic positions near the computers and monitors. The crowning achievement, however, was the glass enclosed conference room with its own set of computers, monitors, printers and maps as well as a large oak conference table that was surrounded by twenty luxuriously appointed leather chairs. The conference room was empty, for the moment, but the rest of the supermarket sized floor was busily traveled by the one hundred or so analysts monitoring various intelligence operations.
This was the heart of The Company, the ultrasecret arm of the Central Intelligence Agency created by its Director, James Lee Patterson, with his own personal funds. No one, aside from Patterson and a handful of others who reported directly to him, in official Washington knew that The Company even existed. Created in 1961, the Company was established by Patterson to operate domestically and to carry out activities that could not be handled by the CIA proper. Patterson wanted all threats to the nation’s security, no matter how trivial, monitored. He also wanted any threat to his own power base effectively eliminated with no trace. So secret was the Company’s true identity that most of the people who actually worked as analysts believed that they were working for the CIA proper. Through use of secret funds and access to the government’s highly sophisticated and encrypted computer system Patterson was able to ensure that all of his analysts were paid by official government checks like their official counterparts, although no record of them as a group ever existed. Patterson knew that the federal bureaucracy was so large that no one, but no one, would catch one or two additional personnel per federal agency. No bureaucrat performed a line by line search of personnel or inventory. All they cared about was the bottom line. Thus, it was easy to place Company employees inside various departments within the CIA, but also within other agencies of the federal government, including the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Department of Labor and the Environmental Protection Agency. The last agency was the best as they had begun a massive expansion in light of the recently enacted Superfund legislation and were counting head growth in the hundreds per month.
It was never Patterson’s intention to call the secret side of Renfro Sales Corporation ‘The Company." He started referring to it as Renfro, as in ‘let’s see what Renfro can dig up’ or ‘let the boys at Renfro handle it’. Patterson’s direct subordinates merely got to the now official name by saying they had to get back to Company premises, or that the people at the Company were looking for them, and thus creating the name. Patterson did nothing to dissuade the use of the name. He reasoned that in the unlikely event that any communication from Renfro referencing ‘the Company’ was intercepted, the interceptees would assume that the CIA proper was involved. And if Patterson was questioned about it, he could open up his doors and prove that the CIA was not involved.
The current head of Renfro was George Connolly. He was Patterson’s most trusted aide and, although titularly in charge of the Company for only a short time, he had unofficially been Patterson’s pipeline to Renfro since its inception. For ten years prior to Connolly, Henry Richardson headed up Renfro and his removal had been mysterious. Most of the analysts were young and had only been around for Richardson’s tenure so they had not known the nameless man who preceded Richardson and who disappeared under even more mysterious consequences. After Richardson’s demise, Patterson installed Connolly to avoid further upheaval as Connolly was the only person Patterson trusted anywhere close to one hundred percent.
Most of the staff were analysts, monitoring transmissions from all over the globe. A small corps of elite personnel were known as The Liars, Patterson’s intelligence version of the Delta Force. Sammy was one of these elite individuals and, despite his youth and relative inexperience, was considered to be the best. The Liars were the ultimate undercover personnel, chameleons who could fit into any situation at any time. They were utilized by Patterson to infiltrate any person or organization that he felt was inimical to his self perceived best interests. Some had fit in as White House Aides (and were, to Patterson’s chagrin, named as unindicted co-conspirators some eight years ago) some had been FBI agents and some had been Congressmen. Whatever the task, the liars were best suited for the job because of their intelligence and loyalty. Not one of the Liars had ever broken rank and divulged information about Patterson and the Company. And Patterson’s strict selection criteria and generosity in terms of huge payments for assignments ensured that it would remain that way. However, none of the Liars had Sammy’s effectiveness, especially considering his short tenure with the Company. In fact, Patterson, not one to heap praise upon any of his subordinates, said that Sammy’s last two assignments had been nothing short of miraculous.
Now, Sammy passed through the floor, sidestepping people running back and forth with reams of paper in their hands or talking excitedly to other colleagues and swerving around the monitor bank workstations that were set up haphazardly on the floor until he came to a solitary door cut so precisely into the wall that one would not notice it except for the security keypad to its left. He ran his card through the slot and typed in a six digit acknowledgment code that would announce his identity to the Chief. Sammy was still amazed that the Chief operated without a secretary; however, Connolly felt the less known about him the better. None of the clerical people had ever seen him and only a handful of the analysts had ever met with him. If he required a briefing, the analysts would brief their respective section chiefs who would then, in turn, brief the Chief. He stayed in his office all day long and when he left it was by a secret passage in his office. One of the things Sammy liked to do when he was bored during a meeting with the Chief was to peruse the room to determine where the secret entryway was. To date, he hadn’t been able to find it.
Sammy heard a buzz from the security console and an unlatching sound within the door mechanism. He pushed the door inward and entered the Chief’s office. He noticed for the first time that the door was four inches thick. He heard the door close behind him and heard the noise again, indicating that the door was securely locked. There was an oversized mahogany desk with two highback Queen Anne chairs in front of the desk for the visitors as well as a luxurious brown leather couch against the far right wall. The walls were covered in mahogany from the floor to six feet high and the remaining four feet was painted a splendidly ungovernmental cream color. While there were no windows because they were underground, there was a set of expensive drapes behind the Chief’s desk that gave the impression they could be opened at any time to let the sun in. What it really hid was a large screen television capable of broadcasting everything from regular television stations to satellite broadcasts to state of the art computer generated video.
George Connolly came around his desk to greet Sammy, appearing genuinely happy to see him. "How are you, Sammy? How was your week’s vacation? Where did you go?" he asked as if he didn’t know. Yet he had hoped to be sort of a father figure towards the young man. Sammy had some, but not a hell of a lot of contact with his parents and Connolly decided to step in and mold the young man to his own ends. That was how Sammy moved from the Company’s version of the Directorate of Intelligence to the Directorate of Operations.
"Alaska" was Sammy’s reply.
"Alaska," The Chief asked, feigning polite surprise. "I can’t wait to see your expense account. Why did you go there?"
"I’ve always wanted to go there. Take a dog sled over the tundra, see the midnight sun, fall in love with a pretty Eskimo."
The Chief laughed. "Did you do and see what you wanted?"
"And more." They both laughed this time.
"Please, Sammy, sit down and make yourself comfortable." He repositioned himself behind the desk. "Are you ready for your last assignment?"
"I am, but first I’d like a favor."
"What’s that."
"I want to change my request for resignation into one for re-assignment to an analyst spot."
"No shit," the Chief replied. This time he sounded truly surprised. "When did you decide this?"
"I had the idea brewing in my head for a while now and I got to think about it more and more when I was out in the wilderness last week. I think I would miss the environment. And you seem to like my work so I thought I could be a great resource staying on as an analyst. If you’ll still have me I’ll be happy to stay on when I finish my last assignment."
"If we’ll still have you," the Chief exclaimed, getting up and coming around his desk once again. "Hell, this is the best news I’ve heard in a long while."
"Really?"
"Hell, yes. You’re the best that’s happened to the Company in a long time. You’ve accomplished things that no one else has had the capability of doing. In fact, I’ll let you in on something else. The Director was truly upset when I told him about your resignation. He said that I had unlimited authority to keep you on board. He wants me to convey to you that you can have any position within the Company that you want after you accomplish your last assignment. I didn’t even need to tell you that since you asked for reassignment without any carrot in front of you, but, goddamit, I’m so tickled pink that the offer stands." He grabbed Sammy’s shoulders. "You made my day."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Now that we’ve taken care of that, let’s get down to brass tacks about your last assignment. Have you read yesterday’s or today’s papers or watched the news on TV?" he asked as he walked around the desk to his chair.
Here it comes. I’m being given up after all, thought Sammy. Hell, here goes nothing. "No, why?"
"Well, it seems our beloved fucking president has taken a major step towards endangering America’s national security system."
"How," asked Sammy. So far, so good.
"Read for yourself." With that, the Chief tossed over copies of yesterday’s and today’s Washington Post. Sammy did his best to appear as if he never read the story before. He shook his head back and forth, feigning disbelief. He also muttered a couple of "Christs" under his breath. When he got to the part of the article regarding the suspicious deaths, he started to squirm in his seat. This was not feigned, however. This was the same reaction he had reading yesterday’s paper. Reading it again made him nervous a second time. The Post’s reporting was less genteel than the Times’ and listed the manner and cause of each suspicious death. As Sammy clearly remembered each one, he became more nervous and began to sweat. Loosening his collar, he exclaimed, "I can’t believe this."
"We’re in a very dangerous situation, here."
"You mean, I’m in a very dangerous situation."
"No, I mean we. You may have been the assassin, but here we are, a super secret arm of the CIA, established over twenty years ago by James Patterson, without Presidential or Congressional knowledge. Our sole purpose has been to carry out domestic activities in contravention of our charter. We are answerable only to Patterson and have carried out secret and illegal orders that has caused the CIA to be besieged with rumors that have upset its very existence. In fact, the only reason that the CIA has not been caught with their pants down is that there is not one shred of paper contained within any files at the CIA. All orders are issued by Patterson verbally to this office directly via a secure line. To be frank, I don’t think that anyone else within the CIA is aware of our existence."
"No one?"
"Think about it. Here we are. The world’s foremost intelligence operation. Patterson has been in charge of it for twenty five years. Twenty-five. If it hadn’t been for Hoover’s super tenure, Patterson’s longevity would’ve been unheard of. And Jimmy Lee got the idea to create us when he started accumulating evidence of activities by Presidents and Congressman to wield should there be any attempt to remove him from office. He’s been through three democrats, three republicans and now he’s on his third republican. And you know what we’ve done. Watergate, Watts, King, Malcolm X and Jack and Bobby Kennedy. We’ve precipitated all of these. What if the American public found out that we that we attempted to have one President impeached and actually had another one shot, along with his baby brother senator. Holy Shit. I don’t even want to think about it."
"You sold me."
"What would happen in the other superpowers’ intelligence communities if word of this got out. Utter chaos. It would be like gangland warfare. They would stop dealing with our agents and our ability to maintain the national security of this country would be totally compromised and that, I don’t need to tell you, is something we don’t need. You are the least of the problems. No one is going to place the blame on you or I or anyone in this office. There are contingency plans to shut down this operation without a trace so no one will discover us. But to do this will mean that that damage to America’s intelligence community would be irreparable."
"What can we do?"
"That’s where you come in. We are sending you under very deep cover into the White House to determine the status of this investigation and to report back. You will have a top security clearance and the background check will show that you are a very bright, resourceful government researcher for the NSA who has been found to possess a keen intellect and an ability to pick documents apart with a microscope. Your researcher background will be attractive to the White House as there will be volumes upon volumes of papers to go through on behalf of the panel. You will be an Assistant to the White House Chief of Staff and will be privy to all meetings regarding the panel. You will be in constant contact with President Jenkins. By the way, here is your cover. Memorize it."
With that, he tossed a five inch thick manila folder towards Sammy’s side of the desk. "Learn everything in there to the point where you become Paul Kalvin, which will be your cover, and are able to recite everything as second nature. As you report back we will determine the effectiveness of the panel. If it is not being effective, you will continue in your assignment until the panel adjourns. If the panel is effective and is coming close to the truth and there is no way for you to derail the investigation, you will have no choice but to kill the President of the United States.
"May God help us all and have mercy on our souls."
