Three Minutes to Doomsday

by Joe Navarro

  I’d gone in there with my tail low and chin down, but Greg’s pep talk lifted my spirits instantly. His challenge to “fix it” was as good as the opening bell at the Kentucky Derby.

  * * *

  WHICH IS WHY TWENTY-NINE hours later, She-Moody and I are back in Greater Orlando, waiting for Rod in a steakhouse close enough to Disney World to overcharge for dinner and still pack ’em in.

  I’m tired. Last night’s surveillance didn’t produce a damn thing—the cigarette boat packed with cocaine that we were hoping would pull into Bradenton, just south of Tampa Bay, either never existed or headed for some other drop-off port or offshore rendezvous instead. But five hours in the sky is still five hours no matter what you net. Also—big surprise!—I’m a worrier: Sleep isn’t easy when something like this is staring me in the face, especially when I know everyone from the Germans to the Swedes to DOJ, HQ, and WFO is going to be reading our latest FD-302s and wondering just what in hell I was thinking. Plus, I had a ton of other things to catch up with today.

  Moody might be even more tired. She’s been detailed to me, but she hasn’t been un-detailed from other assignments. Plus, her husband is gone on training, she already has one kid, and a bun in the oven, and her nanny arrangement has been unraveled by what might be the Asian flu. If I were in Moody’s shoes, I probably would have told me to get lost when I begged her to join me in Orlando, but she knows the stakes, and maybe she feels a little complicit for not jumping in when I was hypothetically accommodating (playing?) Rod’s game.

  In the end, we struck a compromise: She agreed to drive herself up to Orlando and join us for dinner and an hour’s session back at the Embassy Suites during which I would try to right my previous wrongs. After that she would head for home, and I would stay behind and see if I could push the line of scrimmage ever closer to the goal line.

  Now, as Rod shows up by the maître d’ stand, I’m plagued by angst-ridden thoughts. Our always-eager-for-a-meal traitor waves cheerfully our way, and hotfoots it through the teeming crowd. One of us, at least, is in a tip-top mood, despite having confessed to us to crimes against his country less than forty-eight hours earlier, and almost in spite of ourselves, Rod’s good spirits soon affect the whole table.

  He describes his day for us, tells us what it’s like to spend literally hours waiting at Orlando International for paying customers. His favorite time-killer, he says, is to read books—two of them today alone, if he is to be believed, sitting in the cab queue and tearing pages out as he finishes.

  Vaguely, I remember Rod telling us that this was a trick he learned from Clyde. While enthusiastic readers often speak of “tearing through” books, Rod means it literally.

  That, at least, clears up one confusing report from a surveillance agent who spent an hour at the airport, watching Rod edge forward in the cab queue: “Subject appeared to be destroying books as he waited.” That was the same agent who’d tracked Rod when he left the Embassy Suites two nights ago, after our marathon interview session. Turns out, after he left us, Rod made a beeline straight to a flea-trap motel on South Orange Blossom Trail. Maybe that’s why he’s so jaunty tonight. He sure as hell doesn’t seem to be getting any loving from his camper mate.

  Rod is still full of bonhomie when the waiter finally wanders over to take our order. At Moody’s urging, I opt for the steak again, a New York strip this time, blood-rare with pomme frites (“French fries,” Rod helpfully explains) and a garden salad with blue-cheese dressing, instead of the sautéed spinach. Next, Moody selects the mahi-mahi, and when the waiter turns to Rod, he orders exactly what I did—if I’m not mistaken, in exactly the same words and with the same snarky look at Moody to let her know we’re not taking any salad-dressing shit tonight.

  Odd, I’m thinking, he always asks for his steak medium-rare. But there’s no time to dwell on the mimicry because Rod has suddenly become an erudite oenophile.

  “Mahi-mahi? You’ll need some Riesling with that, Terry!” he insists, then engages the waiter in a five-minute discussion of grapes, vintages, regions, blah, blah, blah, from the upper Rhine to the Alsace. When Rod turns to me and asks, “Two glasses or three?” I finally have to put a halt to the whole business. If the prosecutorial waiver stuff doesn’t kill us in court, then plying Rod with alcohol before somehow getting him to waive his Miranda rights surely will.

  And of course somewhere in the back of my mind, I can’t help wondering if this, too, is another trap Rod is setting for us, knowing full well the damage that a cheerful bottle of Riesling would do to the case against him. If that’s what he’s up to, though, he takes this little setback in stride. We sail through our entrées buoyed by Rod’s tales of imperial Russia. Dessert finds us traveling back in time with him along the ancient Silk Road (a spy’s wet dream, by the way). By coffee—Rod has his black, like mine, instead of with cream as per usual—he has moved on to the global dangers posed by electromagnetic pulses from the sun, the subject of one of the books he shredded today.

  Normally, I’d challenge him on the facts occasionally or see what other byways I might take him down—partly for the sport of it but also to remind him of who is ultimately running this show. But I’ve got a more important agenda this evening, and Rod’s good spirits are still much in evidence by the time we get back to the Embassy Suites and settle into our original haunt, 316, with Rod once again sitting by the door.

  I begin the evening’s festivities by reminding Rod that Agent Moody is a short-timer tonight.

  “We were fortunate she could even carve out this little piece of time to be with us,” I say.

  He dismisses the very thought of inconveniencing her with a wave that would do the pope justice.

  “Mothers must be mothers,” he adds in what I’ve come to recognize as his magnanimous voice, so I figure why not pile it on?

  “Let me say it again,” I begin. “I—we—Terry and I are very appreciative that you were able to clear up the microchips issue for us the other night. The last thing I need right now is an illicit technology transfer case on my plate, and so I personally am very thankful for that and glad that nothing happened.”

  Again that dismissive wave that says, “Really, how could I have done otherwise?”

  Moody, I can see, is wondering where I’m headed next. If I knew for sure, I would try to signal her somehow, but I’ve gotten to the point where all I have to go on is instinct honed by thousands of interviews and a gut feel for the person directly across from me. I take a deep breath, open myself up nonverbally as wide as I can—big exhale; a tilt of the head so Rod and I aren’t talking face-to-face, eyeball to eyeball; a kind of downward glance that says I’m vulnerable—and then, what the hell, I jump off the cliff and begin what Terry and I really came for.

  “Rod, when we talked about the computer chips, we talked, of course, about hypotheticals. [“Of course,” he mouths, silently.] But we need to be clear about something. Neither I nor Agent Moody can make a decision as to who can be prosecuted, why, or when. You asked a hypothetical, and I answered the same way, as a hypothetical, not as a binding legal opinion. Was that clear to you?”

  “Could I have a Coke?” Rod asks, nodding toward the ever-present mini-cooler on the coffee table.

  “Of course,” I say. “Let me get it for you.” This isn’t the time for dominance games, and Rod clearly understands that.

  “I know we were talking about hypotheticals,” he allows, once he’s fired up a cigarette to accompany his soft drink. “I know you don’t decide who gets prosecuted. I get it.”

  “That’s good, because, Rod, I don’t have to tell you this, you’re a smart guy, but a prosecutor can come along and indict a tuna sandwich or prosecute a Rod Ramsay or even a Joe Navarro if he really wants to.”

  “Sure,” Rod says, “I got that.”

  “Good, good,” I tell him. “I’m really glad we cleared that up.”

  Relief Number One. I celebrate silently while Moody jumps in with some follow-up questions we rehearsed
, on Rod’s Vienna stint as Conrad’s money-and-documents mule. She’s in the middle of one of them when I jump back in with both feet, hoping for a soft landing.

  “Rod, there’s something else I want to thank you for.”

  He looks at me quizzically, one eyebrow arched in a way I recognize as my own “what’s this about?” look.

  “Your candor two nights ago.”

  “My candor?”

  Moody, I notice, is looking at me with her own quizzical look, more of the “what the hell are you doing now?” variety.

  “Yes, your forthrightness about your relationship with Clyde, the tests he put you through, how you helped him, all that.”

  “Ah, well,” he says, “you know, what happened happened.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say. “Maybe all of history could be summed up as ‘what happened happened.’ ”

  That at least gets an approving nod, so on I charge.

  “Here’s the thing, though. My supervisor . . . ”

  “Koerner?”

  “Yes, Koerner. He is concerned that Mrs. Moody and I are taking up too much of your time and that we’re bothering you, and I want to get your opinion on that because he gets upset with me.”

  “No, no,” Rod says, “it’s no problem, I really appreciate you guys coming over,” and for whatever odd reasons, I think he truly means it. “It’s no bother at all.”

  “Good,” I say, “I’m very glad to hear that because I want to get Koerner off my back. He’s always overanalyzing things, and he thinks I am intruding into your life. I just want you to know from the bottom of my heart that if at any time you feel that you don’t want to talk to me or Mrs. Moody, then you don’t have to. You talk with us because you feel like it, because it’s fine with you, for whatever reason, but the key thing is, you have a choice in the matter.”

  “Joe,” he answers, “Terry [turning her way], I know I can stop at any time.”

  “Good,” Moody answers, “because the last thing we want is for people to think you’re being forced.”

  Rod laughs as if the very possibility of his being forced to say anything is inconceivable.

  “Rod,” I go on, wanting to make sure we nail this once and for all, “you watch TV, right? [Yes, he nods.] And I’m sure you have seen plenty of police shows.”

  “Sure,” he answers. “Of course.”

  “Well, then you know what police officers say to arrestees: ‘You have a right to remain silent . . .’ ”

  “And ‘Anything you say can be used against you,’ ” Rod pitches in helpfully, in a voice a lot like Captain Frank Furillo from Hill Street Blues.

  “Correct. And they also say ‘If you cannot afford an attorney, one can be appointed for you.’ ”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Well, I just want you to know that those things apply to everyone, not just people in cop shows. You’ve never been in trouble with the law before, at least that you’ve told me, and it’s important for me that you know that even if a person isn’t arrested, they have those rights. When you leave here tonight to go home, I want you to be absolutely assured that if you decide you don’t want to talk to Moody and me, we won’t ask you any more questions. Do you understand that?”

  Rod looks at Moody and says, “Yes, I do.” She smiles back.

  “Well, that’s great,” I say, “because Koerner really had it in for me this morning.”

  “You want me to call Koerner and tell him it’s okay?” Rod offers.

  “No need. So long as you understand this is all voluntary and you have the right to an attorney.”

  “I do, Joe. Mrs. Moody,” he adds, turning to Terry, “look, don’t worry.”

  “I won’t, Rod,” she says, “but I don’t want you to feel trapped any more than Agent Navarro does.”

  “I even know a good attorney if you need one,” I say, picking up Terry’s cue and very thankful for it.

  “My mother knows several good attorneys,” Rod says after a short pause, “and she hasn’t been exactly shy about giving me their names and telephone numbers. So I’m okay, I thank you both, and you can tell Jay Koerner to chill.” And with that, Ramsay’s look affirms there’s no need to go on.

  “Okay, then?” I say, to double-check.

  “Understood,” he says, and when I reach over to shake his hand, he gives me a firm grip in return.

  “Well,” I say, “you’ve taken a great burden off my mind.”

  “Oh,” he says, and all of a sudden, he’s back to solar electromagnetic pulses and potential global catastrophes—i.e., exactly where we’d left off at the restaurant. I wait until Rod pauses to light his cigarette to look Moody’s way, and when I do, I can see that she’s finally realized what has just happened.

  I’ve given Ramsay his Miranda warnings, and he’s agreed to cooperate. It’s that simple. True, the rights have been presented a little differently, but the Supreme Court never said that the Miranda warnings had to be the “virtual incantation” heard so often on TV. All that matters is that Rod has verified he understands his rights and that Agent Terry Moody was there as my witness. And the smile now spreading across She-Moody’s face tells me she’s as relieved as I am to finally get this behind us.

  Son of a bitch, I’m thinking, as Rod drones on. He’s somewhere between the Earth’s magnetic field and a fried global power grid when I gently remind him that Mrs. Moody needs to be saying goodbye. Gallant that he is (for the moment), Rod rises and shakes Terry’s hand, wishing her a safe and pleasant journey. Then he turns to me with a more serious look on his face.

  “Why don’t you and I talk a little longer,” he says. And thinking that this could be heralding even more revelations, I readily agree. Turns out, I’m wrong.

  * * *

  SHE-MOODY IS PROBABLY STILL waiting for the elevator when Rod settles back into his corner of the couch, lights yet another cigarette, hunches slightly forward (exactly as I’m hunched slightly forward in my swivel chair, I can’t help but notice), and lets me have it hard.

  “I want to know if you’re lying.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, desperately parsing this little salvo as I ponder what might make him question me.

  “The guy from ABC news, Bamford—he says my arrest is imminent. Are you lying to me, Agent Joe Navarro?”

  This time Rod is not playing, and I can see why he waited till Moody was gone. We’re hombre to hombre now, but I still have to be careful. This is going to be a no-extra-witness, his-word-against-mine moment.

  “Rod,” I say, looking straight into his eyes, “no one has authorized your arrest. Not that I am aware of, anyway, and I’m the only agent on this case, except for Mrs. Moody. You have my word on that.”

  Rod is scanning my face, trying to see if I’m lying, but I’m not. Every word I just spoke was true, even if not the whole truth.

  “Christ almighty, Rod,” I go on, trying to press what I sense is an advantage, “stop talking to ABC News! They’re in the business of reporting news, and you’re helping them make it. I thought you played them well that first time you talked to them. [He nods in agreement.] But now I’ve got a fresh news bulletin for you: They won’t leave you alone until you tell them to fuck off.”

  I don’t know why, but the “fuck off” kicker seems to drive everything else home to Rod.

  “I just wanted to check with you,” he says, almost apologetically.

  “Rod, I’d be the first to tell you if you’re under arrest. Now let’s get the hell out of here. Frankly, I’m tired and have a headache coming on, and you have plenty of other things to worry about, like your so-called girlfriend.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You game for another sit-down with Moody tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says, his face brightening to nearly the magnitude it was over dinner. “Same time?”

  “Yes, and bring your appetite.”

  “One more thing,” Rod says as the elevator is opening in the lo
bby. “I’m sorry I questioned your word.”

  “Rod, come on, that’s your right to do, anytime,” I tell him, and with that he gives me a bro-hug, an abrazo, and in an instant he’s gone.

  I wait until he’s out the door to punch 11 on my pager for surveillance: suspect walking.

  * * *

  NINETY-ODD MINUTES LATER, AND thanks to an apparently colossal wreck on I-4 that forces me to find an alternative route home, I’m on Highway 60 near the strawberry capital of the world, Plant City, when a huge sleep deficit finally catches up with me and I go from awake and alert to asleep with no transition that I can remember. With my brain on shut-down, I careen off the highway, thank God to my right and not across lanes, and when I wake up seconds later, I’m sixty yards into a plowed field, with the windshield caked with mud.

  13

  COGNITIVE DISSONANCE

  November 9, 1989

  I’m lucky. It rains cats and dogs while I’m at home getting a brief, fitful sleep, and when I awake, the Bu-Steed has been washed almost clean in the driveway. All I have to do is dig some grass out of the grill and give the underside a good hosing down, and I can’t see a reason in the world to report this, or even mention it to anyone.

  I’m lucky in another way, too: nothing broken, not in me, not on the car, just a little knot where my dozing head hit the steering wheel, barely visible, and a sore shoulder, probably from the strap that kept my head from smashing into the windshield instead. No dead bodies scattered around the smoking remains of a head-on crash caused by one Joe Navarro, soon-to-be-former FBI agent. I shook like a man with palsy all the way home from that farmer’s field last night, just thinking about what could have been. My God—what could have been!

  I’d ponder the issue some more, but my first duty now is to get the paperwork done because nothing exists in the Bureau until the paperwork is in, and nothing requires more of it than espionage. With criminal cases, FD-302s are straightforward. They catalog what is observed or what is obtained from an interview—pretty much the bare essentials of what is necessary to prove the crime, maybe two or three pages at the most. But espionage is a totally different world because here everything matters—not just what was said and observed, but how it was said, when, in what order. In fact, the nuances of counterintelligence are surreal at times.