by Brian Haig
Well, this was a very long list, but you expect that from the CIA. Not that anybody was padding the rolls of bad guys or anything, but I noticed one group called GSA. I guess I just ate my last Girl Scout cookie. I love my country.
Phyllis interrupted at this point, saying, “You can see we have a large and diverse problem. You would be surprised at how much illegal money washes around the world every year. We estimate it’s over a trillion dollars. And that’s a conservative figure. It could be two, possibly three times as much. Chinese triads, Japanese Yakuza, Burmese generals, Balkan warlords, African rulers who loot their national treasuries . . . The list is endless.”
“You see our problem?” MacGruder asked.
“Money?” I answered.
“Illegal money,” Mr. MacGruder corrected. “In around two hundred different currencies, shuttling through banks, moving electronically, so invisibly that it’s become impossible to segregate and track. Every time we find a new way, the crooks get a little smarter, and invent a new scam. The world’s best bankers in Geneva and New York work with them. They employ MBAs from Harvard and Penn. They’re sophisticated and, believe me, they’re ingenious.”
“And,” Phyllis added, “they use it to buy bombs, guns, nuclear materials, political influence, and, ultimately, death. Shakespeare had it right—money truly is the root of all evil. Every year a hundred thousand Americans die from drugs. Entire nations—Mexico, Russia, much of Central America and Africa, and of course, Colombia, as Jack mentioned—are virtually run by criminal cartels. A recent Russian poll suggests that ordinary Russians pay half as much in bribes as they pay in taxes. Criminal power has grown exponentially in the past forty years. Capitalism may be the best conceivable economic engine, but the greedy and wicked thrive in it.”
MacGruder stood up and walked up to the stage to be near the screen. A new slide appeared; another map of the world, but certain countries had cute little red stars. He tapped a pointer at the screen, and informed us, “These are the countries and territories with banking and financial regulations that virtually encourage criminal elements and illegal groups—like terrorists—to use their financial institutions. There’s a lot of money havens, aren’t there?”
Janet and I nodded to acknowledge that indeed there were. So what?
“The so what,” Phyllis Carney said, somehow reading our minds, “was, how were we to accomplish this mission the President gave us? So many strategies and techniques had been tried and failed. Intriguing question, don’t you think?”
“How?” Janet asked.
MacGruder said, “Money is their lifeblood. So we started by hunting their money. The dilemma with making dirty money is you have to get it cleaned before it has real value. Laundered, in the vernacular, and then safely invested. And the more you have, the more difficult this is to accomplish. You expect your money to lose fifty percent of its value in the process, sometimes as much as eighty percent. The middlemen and the launderers take great risks and demand prolific rewards.”
Phyllis spun and asked us, “Any questions at this point?”
I thought she was joking. We obviously had questions, starting with, Why are we here? But they’d get to that in their own good time, so I traded a glance with Janet, and we both shook our heads.
She continued, “It was Jack’s brainchild, actually. We decided to pick one of these hidden money laundering organizations. And about four years ago, our DEA found one for us. It was well established in Europe, and was making impressive inroads into the drug trade in Latin America. We made a cursory examination of the organization. An impressive group—smart people, good systems, a very sophisticated understanding of banking, commerce, and . . . goodness, I hope this isn’t too boring for you.”
“Not at all,” I replied.
She nodded at MacGruder, who continued, “It was just what we were looking for. We cooked up a plan. We would protect this syndicate from the DEA, from the Treasury Department, and from the prying eyes of our counterparts in Europe and Asia. We would, in effect, invisibly nurture it, help it grow and succeed. We would try to put other money launderers out of business, creating market forces that drove the customers toward this syndicate. We would try to turn this syndicate into a powerhouse, the Microsoft or GE of money laundering.”
“Grand Vistas?” I asked.
“That’s the name it uses in its partnership with Morris Networks. Grand Vistas is a subsidiary, if you will. It has many other subsidiaries that go by many other names. The syndicate really does own diamond mines and shipping companies and equipment leasing companies. Also banks and steel mills, and it even has significant ownership of a foreign car manufacturer that’s very popular with modern yuppies. It’s a remarkable money machine.”
The lights suddenly flicked back on. MacGruder said, “Do you see why we can’t let you expose Grand Vistas and its relationship with Morris?”
I looked over at Janet, who appeared horrified. She said, “You nurtured the organization that murdered my sister?”
MacGruder and Phyllis obviously knew this moment was coming, had even anticipated it. Phyllis smoothly replied, “Well, we’re not sure they were even implicated in your sister’s death.”
“Not sure?” Janet snapped. “You mean hope. When this blows up, your asses are going down, too.”
MacGruder calmly said, “Miss Morrow, if we thought they were implicated, you would never have been brought here, would never have heard this briefing, and would never be able to point an accusing finger at this Agency.”
Which I guess was his sinewy concept of a reassurance. Only a CIA person would tell you, on the one hand, to trust him, because he’s letting you in on a secret, while confessing that if he thought it would land him in hot water, he’d never tell you.
And I think even Phyllis noticed MacGruder’s faux pas, and she added, “We’re very sorry about your sister’s death, but we can find absolutely no link or connection between Grand Vistas and her murderer. Our people have looked quite hard.”
Phyllis continued explaining to Janet the Agency’s all-encompassing pursuit, turning over rock after rock, looking for a tie-in. It was such patent bullshit.
Anyway, when she finally paused to catch her breath, I asked her, “And could you tell us how Morris Networks and this money laundering syndicate are connected?”
She nodded at MacGruder, who explained, “The past three years, as you know, stock markets around the world have been tanking. Thousands of companies, like Morris Networks, have found themselves overextended, deeply in debt, credit ratings destroyed, banks refusing to make more loans, their revenues shrinking so drastically they’re on the verge of cratering.”
Phyllis said, “The money launderers haven’t been blind to the rich possibilities. Many of these distressed companies are desperate for capital. The companies face bankruptcy. Their executives confront professional ruin. Grand Vistas was created to be Morris’s white knight. This syndicate has dozens more Grand Vistas, operating in tandem with other corporations. Some are targeting American companies, some are infiltrating other stock exchanges.”
MacGruder said, “What Phyllis is saying is that the criminal cartels, through this syndicate, are making a massive investment in the American and European economies. Through these interlocking relationships they are getting in at fire sale prices, and when the global economy recovers, their wealth will expand exponentially.”
They both paused, and their eyes flicked back and forth from Janet to me. They weren’t sweating or anything, because CIA people get some kind of gene injection that makes them permanently cool and reptilian. But their sphincters were probably the size of pinheads.
Janet said nothing. She appeared either mesmerized by the big empty screen, or so mentally stunned she was left speechless. Having bumped against the CIA before, nothing, I mean really nothing they do or say surprises me.
But the pressing question was, what if Janet and I, or Janet, or I, didn’t want to take a vow of silence? Obviously, we
were brought here to have so much bullshit thrown at us that we’d agree to a gag order of some sort. Would we be pumped full of drugs and awaken on the Agency’s version of Johnston Island Atoll? Every month or so a plane would fly over and parachute food.
Perhaps I’m too cynical, but I also sensed something was missing. I mean, when it’s the CIA something is always missing; too often, that something is the truth. But the CIA treasures it secrets. It takes a root canal to get them to admit their real names. Yet here we were, and they were letting us in on a very big secret. Why?
There had to be more. I was sure there was more. But what? Were they trying to cover up an operation that went sour? A rogue operation? Had some of their people failed to keep their fingers out of this syndicate’s cookie jar?
You can go crazy trying to second-guess the CIA, which is so compartmentalized, salami-sliced, and balkanized, it can’t even second-guess itself. I wondered if Phyllis and MacGruder even knew what they were hiding.
“Well?” Phyllis asked.
“Well, what?”
“I think you know.”
“I believe I do.” I suggested, “You’d like us to stop looking for the killer because it might expose or compromise your operation. Did I miss anything?”
“Not a thing.” She smiled. “I think you’ve grasped the issue quite well.”
Janet said, “And also forget about the brutal murders of four innocent women? Including my sister.”
Phyllis reiterated to Janet, “I told you, we’re not sure there is any connection.”
“Up yours.”
“There’s no need for that. I’m trying to be helpful.”
“Then drop dead.”
I think we knew what Janet’s answer was.
It seemed appropriate for me to add, “I’m with her.”
And that’s the exact moment when the door flew open and two new gentlemen entered.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
JAMES PETERSON HAD BEEN DIRECTOR OF THE CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE Agency for six years, a long time in any appointed job in Washington—an eternity for the head honcho of the cosmically accident-prone CIA.
He was short and stout, dark-haired, with intense dark eyes, thick, blubbery lips, and, like many powerful men, he exuded great doses of competence and self-confidence. What was surprising for someone with his dark title, complexion, and responsibilities, this was combined with a look of openness, candor, and even friendliness. Of course it was illusory.
His eyes were directed at Phyllis as he entered and asked, “Well, how’s it going?”
“I’m afraid not well,” she confessed.
He nodded at her and MacGruder, and then said, “This is Tom.”
There was no need to introduce Tom to me, the second man, if you will, who I wouldn’t call Tom anyway, because he was General Thomas Clapper—at that precise moment, the last person I expected, wanted, and needed to see.
But Clapper moved straight toward me, held out his hand, and said, a bit too formally, “Major Drummond, how are you?”
“Okay, General. You know, considering.”
His eyes indicated that he did know. Also that a serious career counseling session lay in my near future.
From their timing, it wasn’t hard to guess there was an observation port into this room.
He smiled at Janet. “I’m Thomas Clapper, Lisa’s former boss.” He smiled harder and asked, “May I call you Janet?”
As I mentioned, Clapper is a bona fide southern gentleman. He can be quite charming, even captivating, when he’s not pissed at you. Or so people tell me.
Janet replied, “Yes . . . please do.”
“Janet, I’m very sorry about Lisa. I’ve spoken with your father, and now I’d like to convey my sympathies to you. I’ve spent almost thirty-five years as a JAG. I thought the world of her. She was both a wonderful person and one of the best lawyers I ever saw.”
This sounded perfectly sincere and probably was. Janet replied, “Thank you.”
“I was the one who sent Drummond up to Boston to be your family’s survival assistance officer.”
“Thank you, again.”
He glanced at me. “Don’t thank me for that.”
She mistook this for humor and politely chuckled. He didn’t. She said to him, “He saved my life. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him.”
“No chance of that.” He smiled at her, though. Not at me;at her. Bad sign.
But speaking of bad signs, I noticed that Peterson had used Clapper’s little diversion to gather his lieutenants in the corner and whisper a few directions. He who called himself Jack MacGruder did not appear to like or approve of the directions. Peterson leaned closer to him and whispered something. MacGruder shrugged, backed away, and apparently lost the debate, whatever it was.
Peterson then joined us, shook hands with Janet, then me, then ordered everybody to get reseated. He remained standing and looked down at us. Short men know all the tricks.
To Janet and me, he said, “I’ve instructed Jack and Phyllis that it’s time to let you in on the rest of the story.” He stared at both of us as he added, “You realize that nothing said here will ever be repeated outside this room.”
Janet said, “I won’t agree to that.”
“When we’re done, I’m sure you will.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Oh, you’ll come around.” The poor fool obviously didn’t have my experience with her.
But there’s a thin line between confident expressions and polite threats, and I wasn’t completely sure which I had just heard from his lips.
Now that he had made his point, though, he turned to Mac-Gruder and ordered, “Tell them, Jack.” Gosh—maybe Jack was his real name.
And Jack, a bit sourly said, “Operation Trojan Horse—the cover name conveys exactly what’s happening. The syndicate we’ve been discussing has become the largest money-washing conduit in the world. Success breeds success in this occupation as in others, and what’s happening here is criminal organizations and terrorist groups have been lining up to let this syndicate wash and handle their cash.”
Phyllis put a hand on MacGruder’s arm and asked us, “Do you understand why we did this?”
“Tell us,” Janet replied.
“We’ve fostered this growth to allow our people, and the National Security Agency, to dissect the pieces of this sprawling syndicate. It is quite large, and highly fragmented, but we track a fair amount of its phone calls, e-mails, and wire transfers. We don’t have every piece of it mapped out yet, but with each day it operates its filthy business, we learn more.”
MacGruder amplified on her thought, saying, “Most important, we learn where its money comes from, how much, and where it
goes.”
I suggested, “Then seize it and shut it down.”
Peterson replied, “That’s the last thing we want to do.”
“Perhaps it should be the first.”
“It’s not about the money,” Phyllis responded. “That never was the point of this thing.”
“What is the point?”
“Money is just paper, printed by governments. Our interest lies in the syndicate’s customers. We care about the people and organizations who make this money, how they make this money, where it’s coming from, where it’s going, and what it buys. We learn where they deposit it and where they pick it up, once it’s been freshly laundered. We’ve been exploiting this information to roll up terrorist groups and criminal gangs worldwide. We pick off their people a few at a time, so they don’t become suspicious. We drag in those people, sweat them a bit, and learn more. Sometimes we do it, sometimes other U. S. government agencies do it, sometimes we cue our foreign counterparts to handle it.” She paused to let us absorb this, then commented, “It’s become a virtual Yellow Pages to the nastiest organizations on earth.”
MacGruder added, “How do you think we’ve been able to roll up so many Al Qaeda cells these past few years? Al Qaeda uses our syndicate extensively
. We’ve mined this piggy bank for intelligence we could never hope to get any other way. We’ve been able to plot Colombian money, Mexican money, terrorist money—”
Peterson suddenly said, “That’s enough, Jack.” And just when it was getting really interesting, Jack stopped.
Looking at Janet and me, Peterson said, “Do you understand what you’ve been told?”
But he wasn’t really inquiring, he was emphasizing, and he further amplified, “Trojan Horse is the most lucrative intelligence operation we’ve ever run. It’s the modern equivalent of Venoma, when we broke the Soviet code, or when we broke Japan’s and Germany’s codes in the Second World War. In this fragmented new world order of ours, this operation, this syndicate, this is our key to the bank.”
I glanced at Janet. It was a good thing she was studying Peterson’s face, not mine—I seemed to be experiencing a massive attack of moral claustrophobia. Understand that Clapper was here to jar my memory about my profession, to counter the concern, I guess, that after a few weeks of wearing civilian suits and hanging out with the rich and privileged, my brain had turned somewhat mushy toward the entire concept of Duty, Honor, Country. Also there was the matter of the signed oath required of all Special Actions attorneys. If my memory served, something about protecting national security secrets upon penalty of God knows what.
So I was sitting there, weathering a crisis of guilt, conscience, and conflicted loyalties. I could see absolutely no way for this to be resolved to everybody’s satisfaction—even to anybody’s satisfaction. Whichever side I chose was going to cause me great personal angst and loss.
Janet finished mulling and, of course, asked Peterson, “So who murdered my sister?”
“I don’t know.”
“You really don’t?”
“I really don’t.”
“You have suspicions, though, don’t you?”
“Remember where you are, Janet. This building is a vault of suspicions. My day begins with suspicions, my day is filled with suspicions, and the worst of those suspicions keep me awake at night.” He snapped, “Yes—I have suspicions.”