“Suppose you tell us in one sentence what all this bad news is.”
“How about one word,” McCall said.
“Fine. In a word then.”
“Attashah.”
Wainwright squirmed irritably. “Beautiful. What’s an Attashah?”
“A kind of walking disaster looking for a place to happen.”
Wainwright looked at the thick dossier in McCall’s hands. “How long is it going to take?”
“Ten minutes,” said McCall. “Bad news is quickly told.”
The chairman sighed heavily. “Start firing.”
McCall opened the packet of photographs. Far away a helicopter pumped across the Washington sky. Another VIP in full flight from the heat.
“Here’s the situation, Mr. Chairman.” McCall handed Wainwright a photograph of President Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger with the Shah of Iran in Tehran. “In 1971 when President Nixon and Henry Kissinger visited the Shah, they permitted His Serene Majesty to buy great quantities of our most secret military weapons. Billions of dollars’ worth. Not even our allies in Europe were allowed to buy this stuff. It was our most sophisticated surveillance equipment. The Shah was able to snoop not only on the Russians but on all his other neighbors as well. And that gave the Shah an awesome amount of military power.”
“I know this,” said Wainwright. “Get to the point.”
McCall said, “When the Shah fled his country, he left behind mountains of this sophisticated equipment. And to this day most of it is scattered in military storehouses all over Iran.”
“Yes, yes, McCall.”
“Martin,” said Mrs. Woolman, “you are either going to let this man give his report without your editorial ragging or I’m going to tell him to leave this room.”
“Okay. Okay. Get on with it, McCall.”
McCall said, “Lately the Iranians have realized what enormous political power they have in their hands. So their military people have been trying to get the stuff working again. Fortunately for us, they’ve come up against one severe problem: no spare parts.”
McCall put the parts lists on the conference table and pushed it over to Wainwright, who quickly flipped the pages and looked back at McCall.
“You have to appreciate what a gold mine that list is for a skilled smuggler, Mr. Chairman. It’s the temptation of a lifetime.”
Wainwright nodded. “I understand, McCall. Get on with it.”
McCall slid another photograph across the table to the chairman. It was an extreme close-up of a mound of diodes and computer chips. They all rested on the tip of a human forefinger.
“These parts,” said McCall, “are made only in the United States and almost all of them are on the official U.S. Proscribed Exports List. Okay? So, in a nutshell, Mr. Chairman, Iran can’t beg, borrow, or steal the parts they need to get that very dangerous equipment operating.”
“That’s good news. So what are we here for?”
“I’m getting there, Mr. Chairman. There’s only one way for Iran to get the parts they need. From an independent arms dealer who knows how to find them and smuggle them out of the U.S.”
Wainwright rubbed his face irritably.
McCall said, “We think Iran is about to solve its problem.”
Wainwright stopped rubbing his face. “How?”
“Rooley Attashah.”
“Who’s he?”
McCall pushed another photograph across the conference table. “He’s a very skillful Iranian agent. And he’s been sent out into the marketplace with a satchelful of money to buy the needed parts at any price.”
Wainwright studied the face in the photograph. Attashah’s eyes seemed to study Wainwright’s face in return. “So? There must be some way to stop him.”
“Name one.”
Wainwright turned his eyes to McCall, looking for a sign of insolence in his face.
“That’s your department, McCall.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“But Iran is a backward nation,” said Mrs. Woolman. “What good are a few pieces of modern equipment to them?”
“It can enable them to tune in on any communications anywhere in the Mideast. It can enable them to disrupt Israeli and Western military communications. It will give them the matériel they need to cause great dissension among the Arabs. And it will positively drive Russia crazy. They’ll be able to raise hell from the Russian border to northern Africa. In the Middle East, this can be your worst nightmare come true.”
“Dear God in heaven,” said Mrs. Woolman.
“So. What’s the answer?” demanded Wainwright.
McCall cast a glance at Mrs. Woolman and shrugged.
Wainwright looked at Mrs. Woolman, then back at McCall.
“If Attashah gets those parts—” McCall began.
“Yes, yes, McCall,” said Wainwright. “You’d better have some damned convincing evidence.” He slapped the mahogany table. “Thank you, Mrs. Woolman. I think I’ll take our friend here out for a little drink and a long conversation.”
Martin Wainwright was a bourbon drinker—and he drank it straight. In Dino’s he ordered it in a two-ounce glass. Then he sat and scowled at it, preoccupied, with the expression of a habitually unhappy man.
There was no secret about his mood. Recently he had turned sixty. After twenty years of making himself useful in Washington, his once-promising career in public service had still not borne fruit. His future was in shadow. And the hour grew late.
Kudos, applause, awards, decorations, magazine sobriquets—these eluded him. In spite of all his efforts, all his accomplishments, his indefatigable chairmanships, speeches, newsletters, public service donations, he was still known in Washington merely as Engine Andy’s grandson.
His main claim to fame was his inheritance of one of America’s greatest fortunes. Yet he was a dedicated, civic-minded patrician, a man who set standards. With his noble face, he belonged in a toga.
He needed a victory and he needed it soon. Above all he wanted to be somebody, not somebody’s grandson. And that was McCall’s trump card.
Wainwright faced McCall with his usual brusqueness. “Okay. How do you handle this Attashah?”
McCall shrugged. “There’s only one solution, Mr. Chairman. Eliminate unhappiness. Happy men do not buy guns.”
“Very funny, McCall.”
“It’s the only answer.”
“Come on. There was obviously something you didn’t want to say in front of Mrs. Woolman.”
McCall shrugged.
Again, Wainwright rubbed his face irritably. “We’ve got more spooks and counterspooks in our government than most of the other countries in the world combined. You can’t tell me we’re not doing something about this Attashah.”
McCall said, “Yes. My bureau has had off-the-record chats with some of the bigger arms traders. We’ve told them that the U.S. takes a dim view of anyone supplying those spare parts to Mr. Attashah. And so far no dealer has tried to fill in Mr. Attashah’s dance card for him. But now Iran is putting some real money on the table—and as Oscar Wilde said, ‘I can resist everything but temptation.’ So it’s only going to be a matter of time before one of them eventually takes up Mr. Attashah’s deal. Martin, you have to understand: Warnings aren’t going to work. This one Iranian package can make some arms dealer rich beyond his dreams. And wreck the peace of the Mideast—and worse.”
“I know. I know about worse. Let’s get back to Attashah. What kind of a guy is Attashah? Can you buy him off—or scare him off?”
“Attashah has big brass balls. Four of them. You don’t buy him. You don’t scare him. He’s a devout Muslim—a Shi’ite—dedicated to his country’s cause.”
“You’re saying he’s a dangerous fanatic.”
“Worse. He’s also one of the smartest men in the business. We’ve got our hands full.”
“Well, what about the arms dealers?”
“We warn them. We use the carrot and the stick. And we have them watched.”
“That’s it? Have them watched? Christ, those arms traders have more moves than a snake. It would take a goddam army to watch them. You’re holding back on me, McCall. I can feel it. What’s the answer?”
McCall shrugged.
“Listen, McCall. You’re the expert on arms traffic and smuggling. Not me. That’s why I got you appointed as special adviser to the committee. You see what I’m saying? So come on. Just between us girls, what do you think we ought to do?”
McCall sat back and eyed Wainwright speculatively.
“Well?” Wainwright said. “Out with it, man.”
McCall slowly reached into his pocket. He drew his hand out and pressed something into Wainwright’s palm. Doubtfully, Wainwright glanced about the barroom, then put his fist in his lap and glanced down as he opened his fingers.
“What’s this? Dear God. It’s a silver bullet.” He was mystified. “You want us to use the Lone Ranger?” Wainwright waited for McCall to answer him. Instead he got silence.
“McCall, will you tell me what the hell you’re talking about? You want—oh—I see. Wait. Oh, come on, McCall.” He leaned forward and whispered in a hoarse voice. “You want me to send hit teams out to snuff a bunch of Iranians in shit-stained sheets?” He folded his arms and stared at McCall. “Even if we wanted to do that, McCall, we could never bring it off. Can you imagine what an operation it would take to get a hit team into Iran—the planning, the money, the time? Besides, we can’t go around knocking off all these people. Here. Take it back. You have to be out of your skull.”
McCall refused to take the bullet. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Then what, man? For God’s sake. Spit it out. Is it Attashah? You want us to knock him off?”
“I’m thinking about the arms traders.”
Martin Wainwright looked at McCall for a very long time. Then he said, “Oh.” He looked again at the silver bullet in his hand. “Arms traders. You want to ace them.” He looked at McCall. “No traders, no spare parts.” Then he shook his head. “Here. You take this little number over to the glory boys in the CIA—that’s their department.”
McCall said, “It doesn’t belong over there.”
“Take it,” Wainwright said. “I could never get anything this crazy through the committee.”
“You don’t have to get it through the committee. You asked me what I would do. And I’m telling you.”
Wainwright seized his bourbon like a man who had narrowly escaped death and finished it in one mouthful. “Jesus.”
McCall pulled the Operation Zealot dossier out of his case and handed it to Wainwright. “Why don’t you take five minutes to thumb through this?”
Wainwright took it and read the title.
“Where did you get this?”
“I have ways.”
“I shouldn’t be seeing this, McCall.”
“Maybe when you read it you’ll change your mind.”
Wainwright skimmed it in under two minutes. “Pentagon stuff,” he said when he was finished. “Crap. I don’t trust a word those people say. I’ll bet this whole thing is fabricated out of whole cloth. That doesn’t convince me of anything.”
McCall looked at the secret report wryly. He’d risked his life to get that thing, Daniels had risked his career, and the Masked Tumbler who flies through the air—whoever he was—had died as a result. And Wainwright had dismissed it out of hand.
The man sat across from McCall, slumped in his chair, his right fist pressed against his lips. He murmured something. Then cleared his throat and said it again.
“How many?” he asked softly. “Hits, I mean.”
After a pause, McCall answered. “Three. Maybe four.”
“Three total? That’s all?”
“That’s right. There are only three major dealers who have the high-tech knowledge and smuggling skill to bring it off.”
“Are you sure? Just three?”
“Three top bananas in one package.”
“I see.” Wainwright cleared his throat again.
McCall said, “That way the other arms traders get the message. We’d be cutting Attashah off at the knees. None of the other traders would touch his package after that. And that would be the end of this Iranian nonsense.”
Wainwright rubbed his hand over his face and bald head furiously. “It’s a damned dumb idea.”
“You’re right,” said McCall.
Wainwright looked at the silver bullet again. “Three of these and there’ll be no spare parts for Iran?”
“As you say, Martin. It’s a damned dumb idea.” McCall took his silver bullet back.
“What about reprisals?”
McCall shrugged. “Forget it, Martin.”
“No, no. Talk to me. Tell me about reprisals.”
“There would be no way to trace any of this to you or the committee. No one would know for sure who did it. But they’ll know exactly why. Besides, no one is going to weep over three of these animals even if they did know who did it. None of the other arms traders are going to take on the U.S. government. Which brings up one other interesting aspect to this.”
“Go on.”
“You asked me one night to keep my eyes open for a chance for you to make a little PR.”
“Oh hell, McCall. That was too much bourbon talking.”
“Brilliant careers have been built on moments like this, Martin. The Iranians could create the kind of problem that could fester for years. It could lead from one damned crisis to another. It could upset our diplomatic applecarts all over the world and put us on the defensive and finally bring on a major war. And you could stop that with one decisive act. You show all your qualities of leadership. And people would have to formulate a new opinion of you.”
Wainwright looked at McCall’s face as though he were reading a road map. “I need another drink.”
Wainwright sat in deep silence, stroking his face with his fingers. Occasionally he would throw a piercing glance at McCall. He was oblivious to the other people in the barroom.
Then he sat up decisively. “Could you do all three at once?”
“Sure. That would be the idea.”
“All three?”
“All three.”
“My God, McCall. What a package that would be.”
“It would be a Washington legend, Martin.”
“How much?”
McCall shrugged. “Oh—let’s see. A package of three assassinations, all simultaneous? Say three bills.”
“Three million?”
McCall hesitated for a moment, then put his hand to his mouth. “Absolutely clean work. It would mean complete deniability for the committee. It will mean no more big trouble with Iran for a long time. And no more footsie between arms traders. They’ll know unofficially we have a heavy hitter in Washington who will come down hard on them if they get out of line.”
“What heavy hitter?”
“You.”
“Oh.” Wainwright was transparent. He was picturing himself with one of those sub rosa reputations in Washington that some men dream of. A man of behind-the-scenes power. A heavy hitter. The kind of man who, entering a crowded room, would be whispered about. The kind of man Presidents would solicit advice from. A legend. Tantalized, bemused, ensorcelled, Wainwright had a third bourbon. Somebody.
He lapsed into deep thought again. At one point he looked at McCall and snorted. “It’s so simple. Not bad. Not bad at all, McCall.”
At last he asked, “Who are these three men?”
“Garbage. Human garbage.” McCall took a bar napkin and wrote out three names on it with a felt pen. Then he wrote a fourth. He handed the napkin to Wainwright.
“There are four names here. Who’s R. Roe?”
“Anyone else that might take the Iranian deal.”
“Oh. I wonder who that would be.”
“So do I,” McCall answered. “So do I.”
They took a walk. McCall was almost completely silent, letting things cook inside
Wainwright’s mind.
The September sun was merciless, and the heat seemed to have emptied the city. The few people about tried to walk in the shade.
“Christ,” said Wainwright. “It must be a hundred and ten degrees.” But he walked along oblivious to it, up K Street. Shopkeepers in their cool interiors looked out on the streets for customers, in vain.
Wainwright walked like a man with a pain in his gut, plodding, bent, self-absorbed, unmindful of the perspiration that flowed down his face. At last McCall could stand it no longer. He pulled Wainwright into an air-conditioned bar.
Wainwright was still rejecting the idea. But he kept coming back to it, to scoff and sniff and back off—just as McCall had done earlier. Yet he didn’t leave—he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the thing he loved: a quick solution. Simple. Clean. Safe. If only he dared.
“Lordy. Lordy,” he said thoughtfully. “I wish I could go talk to my old professor of ethics and morals. I mean, this goes against the grain of everything I’ve been taught—everything I believe in.”
He rubbed his hands together indecisively. “To stop these criminals, I have to become a criminal.” He thrashed about in his seat like a whale trying to pull free from a harpoon.
McCall said, “We face questions no people ever faced before. Today’s combatants aren’t soldiers anymore—they’re agents operating in a slimy terrain created by terrorists and guerrillas. If we’re going to survive, we have to destroy them before they destroy us. History has stopped repeating itself, Martin.”
“I’m not sure I agree with all of that,” said Wainwright.
“The old rules of morality don’t apply anymore,” McCall said.
The most bemusing aspect of the conversation, for McCall, was the money. When he mentioned the price as “three bills,” he’d meant three hundred thousand. Wainwright thought he meant three million—and never turned a hair at the price.
Without preamble Wainwright abruptly stood. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this insane idea. I’ll see you later.” He strode away, through the door and out onto the sidewalk.
McCall sat finishing his drink and watching Wainwright pacing in the heat of the intersection, trying to flag down a cab. By the time he got one, his shirtfront was soaked through.
Foxcatcher Page 4