“The guard at the quadrangle entrance will be expecting you and will escort you to my office.”
Special Agent Hooper was staring at the classified file on this operation when his assistant, Freddy Murray, returned from the director’s office. Freddy pulled up a chair and reported:
“The director made the calls. The publishers agreed to kill the story unless it runs elsewhere, then they’ll have to run it. That leak’s plugged, at least for a little while.”
“Thanks, Freddy.”
“We got to wrap this operation up, Tom, and make some arrests. The pressure is excruciating and it’s gonna get worse. While I was in the director’s office he was on the phone to the attorney general. The AG has been talking to the President. Did you see this morning’s paper?”
Hooper laid three documents on the table. “Why’d we start this operation, anyway?”
Hooper knew the answer to that question, of course, but he liked to think aloud. Freddy Murray thought this quirk of Hooper’s a fortunate habit because his subordinates then knew where the boss’s thoughts were going without having to ask. So he willingly played along. “To find out who in the bureau is on McNally’s payroll.”
“And what have we discovered?”
“Nothing.”
“Correct.”
“So.” Hooper used the eraser on a pencil to scratch his head. “So.”
“We’ve got enough to put McNally out of business,” Freddy pointed out. “It’s not like this operation hasn’t borne fruit. Ford has filled our stocking with goodies. And the people in the front office are getting more desperate by the hour.”
“Who are the three guys we thought might be dirty?”
“Wilson, Kovecki, and Moreto.”
“Aren’t these documents still on the computer?” Hooper pointed to them. Freddy looked at them. They were weekly progress reports to the assistant director. Harrison Ford’s name was contained on each.
“I think so.”
“Let’s rewrite these reports. We’ll construct four files, one for each of McNally’s chief lieutenants, naming each of them in turn as our undercover operative. Then we let each man get an unauthorized peek at one of the files. What d’ya think?”
Freddy sat silently for a minute or so, turning it over and looking under it. “I think we’re liable to get somebody killed.”
“Listen, Harrison’s dangling over the shark pit on a worn-out, fraying rope and blood is dripping into the water. The word is out—the feds have somebody inside. If McNally hears this rumor he’ll be looking for the traitor—you can bet Harrison Ronald Ford’s ass on that. Our first duty is to keep our guy alive, and our second is to find the rotten apples around here. We’re about out of time, Freddy.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You got a better suggestion?”
“Four files. Three suspects. Who’s the fourth file for?”
“Bob Cherry.”
Freddy scratched his crotch and picked his nose. “You’re not playing by the rules,” he objected, finally.
“There ain’t no rules in a knife fight,” Hooper growled. “Ask Freeman McNally.”
“Why Cherry?”
“Why not? The shit started the rumor. Let’s give him something to season it with. A name.”
“What if our little conversation this evening goes well and he shuts up?”
“You had any dealings with this guy? He thinks he’s one of the twelve disciples.”
“Okay, so we let him get a sneaky peek at a bogus file. Then we talk to him? He’ll come unglued—we call him in so we can bitch at him about his loose mouth and we leave secret files lying around unattended? He’ll latch onto that like a pit bull with AIDS. He’ll crucify us.”
Hooper swiveled his chair and looked out the window. “Gimme something better.”
“So we forget the file for the senator,” Freddy said, musing aloud. “Let’s play to him. We’ll just stroke him and when everything’s copacetic, introduce the name into the conversation. After all, he’s entitled to be briefed. Let’s brief the son of a bitch.”
They got busy with the computer. The facts had to change on each report to fit the bona fides of the man they wanted to use. It took some serious brainstorming. They had two files constructed when Freddy said, “What if two or more names get back to McNally? Where are we then?”
They discussed it. After batting it back and forth, they decided that McNally would probably conclude that the FBI was engaged in funny business, which would discredit not only the names but the undercover agent rumor as well. They went back to work on the last file.
At noon Hooper sent his secretary home for the rest of the day. She was aghast. Hooper was insistent. “And don’t mention this to anyone.”
“But the personnel regulations!”
“See you Monday.”
By three that afternoon Hooper and Freddy had drilled a hole through the plasterboard between the outer office and Hooper’s office. They installed a one-way mirror on Hooper’s side of the wall. The secretary’s forgettable print was rehung on her side to cover the hole. Freddy trotted down the hall and borrowed a vacuum cleaner from a cleaning closet to clean up the dust and drywall fragments.
The suspects were called one at a time into Hooper’s office to interview for the new positions in the division that Hooper had just yesterday recommended be created and filled in response to President Bush’s recent announcements.
Wilson didn’t look at the files on the desk in the fifteen minutes Hooper kept him waiting. When Hooper went into the office finally, Wilson flatly stated he wasn’t interested in transferring from his present position. But he appreciated being considered.
They had better luck with the second man, Kovecki. He did glance at the target file. The name in his was Ruben McNally, the accountant. In fact, Kovecki looked at all three files on the desk. One of them was his personnel file, and he settled in to examine that closely. He was still looking at it when Hooper went in to interview him.
Moreto also looked. He selected the bogus file from the three on the desk and scanned it quickly. The name in his file was Billy Enright. Then Moreto went over to the window and stared out. He was at the window when Hooper entered the room.
In between interviews Hooper fielded a call from the director. “I want you to take your man to the grand jury on Monday. The prosecutors are doing the indictments this weekend. Monday night you start picking these guys up.”
“Yessir.”
“Hooper,” the director said, “this comes straight from the White House. I expect you to make it happen.”
At six-seventeen that evening the senator arrived. With the former Miss Georgia parked in the outer office visiting with a ga-ga young agent who was acting as the building escort, Tom Hooper and Freddy Murray gently cautioned the great man behind closed doors and gave him a fairly complete briefing on the operation, including the name of the undercover man, Ike Randolph. Most of the other things they told the senator were equally accurate but carefully tailored to fit the bare bones of the truth, which the senator already knew. They failed to mention the planned expedition to the grand jury Monday or the arrests they hoped to make within hours of obtaining indictments.
At seven thirty-two Hooper finally locked his office and he and Freddy headed for the Metro.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THANOS Liarakos, please. This is Jack Yocke of The Washington Post.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Yocke,” the female on the other end of the telephone line told him briskly. “Mr. Liarakos isn’t taking any calls from the press today.”
“Well, we’re running a story in tomorrow’s paper about the extradition of General Julio Zaba from Cuba. The FBI brought him in from Havana this morning. The spokeswoman at the Justice Department said he’ll be placed on trial here in Washington. They have a secret indictment handed down just yesterday from the grand jury. According to her and the press folks over at the White House, General Zaba was personally paid big buc
ks by Mr. Liarakos’ client, Chano Aldana, to allow dope smugglers to use Cuban—”
“Really, Mr. Yocke. Mr. Liarakos is not—”
“Would he like to comment on this story?”
“If I say, ‘No comment,’ what will you say in the story you’re writing?”
“I’ll say that Mr. Liarakos refused to comment on the story.”
The phone went dead. She had put him on hold.
Jack Yocke put his feet on his desk and cradled the phone between his cheek and shoulder. He cracked his knuckles. Aldana and Zaba. The A-to-Z connection. Too bad the Post wouldn’t let him make a crack like that in print.
She came back on. “Mr. Yocke?”
“Still here.”
“You may say this: In view of the gag orders issued in the Aldana case by Judge Snyder, Mr. Liarakos does not believe he is at liberty to comment on this matter.”
“Okay. Got it. Thanks.”
He was just finishing the story when the phone jingled. “Yocke.”
“This is Tish. Sorry I couldn’t get back to you earlier.”
“Hey. I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner with me at the Graftons’ tomorrow night? I meant to call you last week, but I got called out of town unexpectedly.” The last sentence was a lie. He had intended never to call her again, but Mrs. Grafton had specifically asked him to bring Tish Samuels. He wondered what Mrs. Grafton’s reaction would be if she heard Tish’s little speech about her literary ambitions.
“I’ve been reading your Cuba stories. They’re very good.”
“Thank you. I was down there and all and real busy.”
“You apologize too much, Jack. Yes, I’d like to go to the Graftons’ with you. What time?”
You apologize too much. Only to women, Jack Yocke thought. Why is that?
Thirty minutes later he was in talking to Ott about General Zaba when he was summoned back to his desk by the telephone operator. “Your Cuban call is ready.” He had a call in for Pablo Oteyza, formerly known as Hector Santana.
Yocke picked up the phone. “Jack Yocke speaking.”
“Pablo Oteyza.”
“Señor, I’m the Post report—”
“I remember you, Jack.”
“Congratulations on being named to the interim government.”
“Thanks.”
“I sent you my articles on Cuba. Did you get any of them yet?”
“Not yet. The mail is still very confused. And I haven’t yet heard a megaton detonation from the north, followed by a tidal wave of reporters, so I assume you honored your promises to me about what you would and would not publish.”
“Yessir. I don’t think you’ll find anything embarrassing to you or the American government in the articles.”
“Or my American friends.”
“Right. Señor, I know you’re busy. It’s just been announced here that General Zaba was extradited and brought to Washington for trial. What can you tell me about him?”
“He was an associate of Chano Aldana. He used Cuban gunboats and naval facilities to smuggle cocaine. We gave the FBI agents all the evidence we have been able to assemble and let them interview Zaba’s subordinates. Your people were very pleased.”
“Will there be any other extraditions?”
“Perhaps. It will take time for the FBI and the American prosecutors to evaluate what they have. And to see if Zaba wants to talk. If the American government gets indictments for drug trafficking against other Cubans, my government will evaluate them and decide on a case-by-case basis. We made it plain to the FBI that people who were just following orders will not be extradited.”
“Any truth to the rumor that Zaba’s extradition was a quid pro quo for American economic aid?”
“Speaking for my government, I can say that the new government of Cuba and the government of the United States will cooperate on many matters. Economic aid is very high on our list of priorities.”
“You sound like a politician.”
“I am a politician, Jack. I look forward to reading your stories.” “Thanks for your time.” “Yes.” Oteyza hung up.
Jack Yocke tapped keys on his computer to bring up the Zaba story, then began to make insertions.
To say that Harrison Ronald was apprehensive when he drove to work on Friday night would be an understatement. After his second telephone conversation with Special Agent Hooper, he had walked the streets for an hour, then reluctantly retraced his steps back to his apartment.
He had gotten out his slab-sided .45 Colt automatic and stuffed a full clip up the handle and jacked a round into the chamber. With the weapon cocked and locked and under the pillow, he tried to get some sleep.
He couldn’t. He lay there staring at the ceiling and wondering who was saying what to whom.
Why in hell had he insisted on two more nights? Two more nights of waiting for someone to blow his silly brains out.
He had thought his nervous system had had all it could handle the other evening when he walked four miles from the Lincoln Memorial to McNally’s northwest hidey-hole. He had told the tale of the evening’s adventures to that little ferret Billy Enright, who left him sitting in a bedroom while he went to call Freeman.
He sat for an hour listening to every sound, every muffled footstep, waiting. Then Freeman had come in, inspected the bullet groove in his arm and cuts in his face and insisted that the wounds be cleaned and bandaged by a proper doctor. In the living room Billy had the television going, with the victims and blood and smashed car being shown again and again. When they had had their fill, Freeman and Billy drove him to some quack who had gotten himself banned for life from the practice of medicine by prescribing painkillers to rich matrons suffering from obesity and boredom.
All concern he was, Freeman that night. His face reflected solicitude, glee when he heard how Sammy Z had killed the guy in the backseat by crushing his larynx, laughter when he heard about the high-speed chase and the final, fatal crash. Keystone Kops stuff, slapstick. Ha ha ha.
“Ya did good, Z, real good.”
“Sorry about your merchandise, Freeman, but I didn’t think it was smart to go hiking down the street bleeding and all and carrying ten pounds of shit. And I had to ditch the car fast. It looked like Swiss cheese.”
“You did right, Z, my man. Don’t sweat it.”
“Sorry about the car.”
“Fuck the car. I’ll get another.” McNally snapped his fingers. “That
Tooley! I’d like to know who put that chickenshit cocksucker up to robbing me. No way that bubble-brain would dream that up by hisself.”
“I’ll ask around,” Billy Enright promised. “Put the word out. Maybe offer some bread for info.”
“Offer ten Gs,” Freeman said, taking a thick roll of bills from his pocket. He divided it without counting and handed half to Harrison Ronald. “Here. I pay my debts. You were working for me, so I owe you. Here.”
Harrison glanced at the stack and pocketed it. “Thanks,” he said, with feeling.
“Make it five Gs,” Freeman told Enright. “If we offer too much, people’ll be dreaming up tales. Five’s enough.”
So Harrison Ronald was in tight with Freeman. Maybe. In any event, McNally had tossed him the keys to a four-year-old Ford Mustang, and that was what he was driving this evening. And that wad of bills, when he counted it back at the apartment, consisted of forty-three $100 bills.
In tight—maybe. Ford had no illusions about Freeman McNally. He would pay forty-three hundred dollars to see the look of surprise on his victim’s face when he jammed a pistol up his ass and pulled the trigger.
If he had heard the rumor and decided Sammy Z was a cop, he would still be the same old Freeman McNally, right up until he grinned that grin and took care of business.
Take care of business. That was Freeman’s motto. God, he took care of it all right!
Well, dealing coke and crack wasn’t for the squeamish or indecisive. Nobody who knew McNally ever suspected he had either of those
flaws.
As he threaded the Mustang through the heavy evening traffic—only seven shopping days left before Christmas—Harrison Ronald wrestled again with the why. Why had he demanded two more nights of this?
He had worried this question all afternoon and he still was not satisfied with the answer that fell out. He thought Freeman and the boys ought to be locked up for a serious stretch and he thought it was worth a big risk for somebody to accomplish that chore. But he had no personal ax to grind, other than the fact he loathed all these swine. Still, there were a lot of people in the world he would just as soon not spend time with. The discovery of another dozen or two wasn’t earthshaking. No. The question was, Why did he want to risk his butt to put Freeman and friends and maybe one or two crooked cops where the sun don’t shine?
Grappling with the why question made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t a hero. The possibility that someone might see him as one was embarrassing.
Harrison thought that perhaps it was the challenge. Or some sense that he owed something. Payback. Something like that, probably. That wasn’t too bad. But when he thought about it honestly—and he did do that: he was an honest man—he sensed a little bit of thrill at the excitement of it all. Living on the edge burned you out and scared the shit out of you and made you want to heave your guts at times, but it was certainly never dull. Every emotion came full blast, undiluted.
The thrill aspect made him slightly ashamed, coming as it did with a dollop or two of the hero juice.
Two more nights. Hang in there, Harrison Ronald, Evansville PD.
He parked the car in the alley and said hi to the guy standing in the shadows, hopping from foot to foot to keep warm. His name was Will Colby and he and Sammy Z had delivered crack on a half dozen occasions. Harrison rapped on the back door.
If they thought he was a cop, the reception inside was going to be very warm. As he waited for the door to open, he wiped the perspiration from his face with a glove and glanced again at Colby, who was looking up and down the alley. Colby seemed relaxed, bored perhaps.
Thirty degrees and a breeze, and he was sweating! Where’s the thrill now, hero? He consciously willed his muscles to relax.
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