by Dale Amidei
A substantive exchange, the personnel manuals call it, Reese thought. Holy shit!
“Boone, you are well over the line right now,” Bradley managed. She noticed a trembling hand set his coffee down onto his desk. Yes. Before any of it drips onto his executive-level carpeting.
“I’m over the line? You are the one who just ordered me to bludgeon the officers of a private firm into submission on the orders of an out-of-control, power-mad narcissist in the West Wing! Show me one legal precedent which supports us moving forward on a state-sponsored hostile takeover of InterLynk.” When he blew a breath, she took it as a definitive sign he knew she was correct.
“Doctor,” he responded, “I have no choice. The directive constructed by the Executive Branch is too narrowly focused. They want InterLynk in the fold, and it’s our job to move on the order.”
“Terrence, eight months ago I killed Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin, and part of the reason was his having the balls to attempt just what you’ve proposed. You gave me a fucking medal for that action, and now you want me to pick up where the son of a bitch left off?”
“Boone, lower your voice and watch your mouth. I will not be addressed in that manner.” The Director of National Intelligence was visibly angry now.
I will not be a party to a governmental assault on Daddy’s operational autonomy. I won’t do it. Boone straightened, bit her lip and paused for a moment. She remained unapologetic. “It’s an abrogation of free enterprise and private-property rights, and likely an illegal order. I’m afraid I will need to decline this assignment.”
“Not an option we have, Agent Hildebrandt.”
Boone felt herself infuriated nearly to the onset of tunnel vision. “Excuse me?”
Bradley dug in. “I am making the assignment mandatory. I have no choice. At this point, neither do you.”
Make your decisions, and then live with them, Becky honey. Her father’s voice rang across the span of years, reverberating in her mind. Boone's lips pulled away from her teeth. “Then get yourself another goddamned combination morning boink and Senior Case Officer.”
“Boone—” he began.
What, you didn’t expect that? Tough. Life is one long learning curve. “I resign—effective immediately. Good-bye, Terrence. Good luck.”
He seemed to be without words, not that she allowed him much of an interval to deploy them. She returned to her office, grabbing only her coat and handbag, fully aware now of why she never allowed in any workspace a possession from which she was unable to walk away. It’s time. It’s past time. Too many compromises. Far too many dead bodies. I’ve had it with this shit.
Stomping through the front reception area a few moments later, she passed through a herd of federal alpacas who looked as if they wanted to crawl under their desks to shield themselves from her countenance. Yes, I look pissed. I have a reason, stick girls. The glass entry doors, fortunately dampened, would have been difficult to push open with enough force to inflict any damage. Boone knew a subconscious part of her must have tried.
Lake Geneva
Geneva, Switzerland
Peter McAllen’s cell rang as he was relaxing in his den before dinner. Even off-hours activity entailed tracking as many of the world’s events as possible, only at a more relaxed pace and in a setting other than his office. Becky. She doesn’t usually phone on Wednesday. The General answered his daughter’s call. “Hiya, darlin’ girl.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
She sniffed, sounding to him as if she might have contracted a cold. McAllen realized a moment later from her gasp his daughter had been bawling.
“What'sa matter, honey?” Who made my daughter cry at the top of a Virginia afternoon, and on a Wednesday besides? McAllen, forced to think, could not conceive of anyone being capable of making her weep at all.
“Daddy, I resigned from ODNI today. I didn’t have any other choice.”
Hoo, doggies. “Well, Becky, I believe you. Any reason you can tell me?”
“They’re gonna come after you … you and the company. The Executive Branch wants you reigned in. Terry Bradley assigned me to make it happen. We … ended up exchanging some words.”
And it used to be you couldn’t say ‘em on television, I bet. “It’s OK, baby. Did you … uh … maintain your cover?”
“Yes. No one there has any clue I have a familial interest. They probably just think I lost my mind or developed some hormonal issue.” She sniffed again.
“And here I thought I was too old to be taking calls after one of your breakups.”
A smidge of bitter laughter sounded. “Oh, Daddy. What am I going to do now? What are you going to do?”
McAllen considered the question. It was not a difficult one for any father to answer. “Come on home for a while, darlin’.”
“Daddy,” she objected, “you know Mom and I can’t live in the same house.”
Ain’t that God’s truth. “I was talking professionally, Beck. The company still needs an assistant director in Field Operations, you know.”
She went silent. The lull in the conversation was almost lengthy enough to have him ask if his daughter was on the line.
“This feels as if it would be more an allowance than a salary,” she groused.
“Oh, don’t worry, honey,” McAllen reassured her. “I can be just as big an asshole as any boss you’ve ever had.” He sensed her wavering. “We've got things to do here, Doctor. Come on board. Keep Washington off my six until I can figure the rest out.” He detected nothing for a long moment, and then he heard his daughter sigh.
“OK, Dad. You got me. It’ll take me some time.”
“Well I’ll be here ... whenever my baby girl comes home.” He heard a barely audible reaction. Yeah, I might have got to her again.
“I’ll see you guys soon, OK?” the tearful voice informed him. “Hug Mom.”
“You got it.” His daughter ended the call as he heard his wife’s voice announce the evening meal in German from downstairs.
Well, now we have something to talk about over dinner. And, as usual, I got plenty to think about from now until who knows when.
Chapter 12 - Outside the Box
The White House West Wing
Washington, D.C.
Thursday morning
It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind, Bradley reminded himself. He thought the previous few days, so far at least, to have been dedicated to continually validating the canard. Once I am inside her office, I suppose it might no longer seem the case.
The DNI had been left to cool his heels here, in the West Wing’s reception area and waiting room, until called for his audience with Valka Gerard. His morning began with a summons to the Office of the Senior Advisor. In a vulgar display of power by the woman from whom he earlier requested clarification of his Presidential Directive, his inquiry had been accommodated in the belated and rather heavy-handed fashion typical of ruthless power politics. Bradley assumed from evident indicators his day would be written off as a loss. But then … it’s been that kind of week, hasn’t it?
Boone was gone, having checked out of her hotel last night, according to the front desk. He had not yet had a chance to deal with her employment status but knew his duties as Director would force him to address the task as his second order of today’s unpleasant business. Yes. That’s what’s going to be waiting, once Valka Gerard finishes chewing and shaking me like a rawhide bone.
The door leading to the White House Senior Staff offices opened, and a young woman—the DNI assumed her to be a Deputy Assistant of one stripe or another—called him in to his appointment. It was now some forty minutes overdue. “Mister Bradley? The Senior Advisor will see you now.”
“Thank you,” Bradley managed without any underlying inflection. He followed the aide down the hall and around the corner. It was one of two possible routes, and the option which symbolically communicated a message of power. Namely, it demonstrated the Office of the Senior Advisor to be one passed before reaching that of th
e President, with the Oval Office being located on the circuit of this same passageway. Like his wait, Bradley knew the journey to be no accident.
As she had prior to the last commune with nature of Delmar Givens, Gerard occupied the larger of the two offices. The other was now vacated and awaiting its next, and as yet unnamed, occupant. If there is to be one. I can almost feel the consolidated power radiating from this place. Bradley, this time, had only a short wait as his escort ducked into Gerard’s personal enclosure to announce his arrival.
“Mister Bradley,” the young woman invited him through the doorway. He entered, and the panel assuring their privacy was closed behind him immediately.
Gerard did not rise, apparently preoccupied with the contents of several folders stacked before her on the desk. “Ah, Mister Bradley—have a chair. I apologize for the delay. There were a few sets of supporting documents I wanted available during this morning’s discussion.” While he seated himself, she looked up at him over the top of her reading glasses. “The paper chase just never ends. I’m sure you agree?”
More than you know. “Indeed. We are all busy,” Bradley allowed, perhaps for the first time letting a nuance enter into his tone.
She seemed satisfied rather than tweaked by his implication. “Well, let me be as considerate of your time as I may, Director. I understand my staff fielded your call yesterday concerning clarification of the Presidential Determination. I myself thought the composition quite straightforward. Was it not the case?”
“Indeed it was. It is the thinking behind the initiative which is unclear.” Perhaps, Bradley thought, a small flake just fell from the Gerard edifice following his deft and less-than-deferential comment.
“To the contrary, Mister Bradley, our goals are straightforward,” she asserted. “Tell me, if you can: what is your action plan going forward, particularly in regard to the CIA’s child organization in Geneva—InterLynk?”
Bradley crossed his legs, easing back in her visitor’s chair. “I approached my Senior Case Officer—Boone Hildebrandt, who you’ll remember from the evening of the 26th—on acting as a liaison to the firm.”
“And how is the effort proceeding?”
The DNI smiled. “Doctor Hildebrandt questioned the ethical grounds of the effort as well as the legality of the order and has refused the assignment.”
Gerard looked incredulous to hear his news. “I assume you will be taking the appropriate disciplinary action?”
“It is a personnel matter I am unable to discuss.” Don’t go there, Madam Advisor.
Returning her attention to her folders, Gerard’s mouth seemed to pinch off the next of her words. “Regarding my original question, then, Mister Bradley … what is your action plan to address the President’s Directive?”
“Being InterLynk is not only a privately held firm but one established on foreign soil, Madam, I would more than welcome any of your enlightened suggestions.”
Gerard’s finger traced one of the line items on the printout in front of her. “Technical consultations … well in excess of three hundred thousand dollars. Ongoing support … a total exceeding the same amount. Communications and referrals to various foreign intelligence entities—Mister Bradley, our government has acted as a publicity agent for this so-called ‘privately held firm.’ Can we not assume the CIA is fully able to claim the status of a silent partner?”
“The benefits of free and open access to General McAllen’s system were well worth the initial investment from the start,” Bradley countered. “His allowing us continued access at will represents reciprocation which—if you knew the company’s fee structure—more than returned those initial expenditures within the first year of operation. Not to mention the intelligence windfall which has followed.”
Gerard seemed unimpressed. “All the more reason to secure your loose cannon, Director. I’m forced to ask a third time—what is your plan of action?”
“And I am forced to repeat myself—the Directive is unworkable within the bounds of civil interaction, and I will not move on General McAllen as if he were a hostile player regardless of the language incorporated in the President’s Directive.” Bradley saw her bristle at his daring to take a rare stand against her. He continued without a pause. “Presumably, Madam Advisor, the Senior Staff had an action plan in mind when the determination was composed. To move forward, I will require clarification as to just what series of actions your presumed plan contained.”
Now clearly angered, Gerard flipped closed the folder containing her supporting materials. “I am not sure it will be necessary, Director. Considering your lack of effective response to direction and your attitude—which in my opinion stems from your obvious lack of support for the President’s policy shift—perhaps it is better if I re-task this initiative to a less distracted delegate.”
Nodding, Bradley smiled once more. “Then I will wish you and your people good luck, Madam.” He seemed to inexplicably change the subject. “I understand from others you’ve accompanied the President during his working vacations in Hawaii.”
Her head cocked, betraying her confusion. “Of course, though I find the fact hardly relevant to our discussion.”
Bradley felt his gaze harden. “Then you have undoubtedly seen the offshore transition zone, where the beach falls away, and the deep blue water begins.” Yes, she has. I see the answer in her eyes. “One should not swim there, Madam. It marks the boundary of an entirely different food chain … one on which we appear at a significantly lower level than in our natural environment. It is something to think about, as you consider your options in the pursuit of policy goals.” Message received, if not appreciated. The meeting, it seemed to Bradley, had in Gerard’s mind run its course. Yes, we’re obviously done here. Dismiss me now as the inferior you assume me to be.
“Thank you, Director Bradley. That will be all … for the time being.”
“Madam Advisor.” Bradley stood and turned for the door, content to let himself out. Being a member of the National Security Council, he knew the way back to the lobby of the West Wing without needing guidance. And I know it better than you know the way out of the labyrinth you have just blindly wandered into, honey.
St. Ermin’s Hotel
London, England
Benedek Jancsi Novak’s intercom buzzed, and with the flick of his finger on his telephony desk set, Ludwiga’s businesslike tones were able to grace his working space in the suite’s interior. “Jawohl,” he answered in deference to her Teutonic heritage.
“Herr Novak, it is your electronic caller once more. Shall I send them through?”
“Bitte, my dear.” This interest seems determined to become my most high-maintenance as well as being my most expensive to maintain. In a few moments the electronically altered voice was back on his line.
“Benedek, thank you for allowing me to take up your time again, and so soon,” the caller rasped through the output of the filtering device.
“And what can I do … today?” he wondered aloud.
“A favor … though one which will benefit us both. One you are better suited to address through your … how shall I say it? Your more practical business contacts.”
And those always seem to be the less legitimate ones, as well. “The reserve, my friend, is a wellspring best left in reserve for the worst of droughts,” Novak replied.
“Benedek, how often have I called when it has been anything less than necessary?”
“Admittedly never,” he conceded. “What favor do you wish, then?”
“Are you familiar with a company named InterLynk—out of Geneva? One of the first to deal with commercialized intelligence on an international scale?”
Benedek nodded to himself. The financier was both well connected and current enough to be cognizant of any enterprise capable of generating as substantial a bottom line as had Peter McAllen’s. “Of course. I have an account there myself.”
“How so? We were under the impression it is quite an exclusive privilege!”
> Smiling, Novak answered, “Yes … it is, unfortunately, a limited-access account only of the type they offered for a brief time earlier this year. The objective, I believe, was the apprehension of the then-international-fugitive named Yameen al-Khobar.”
A sound of comprehension, made more sinister by the electronic filter, came across the connection. “Of course, we saw that here. He was a Saudi who single-handedly waged war against McAllen, did he not? It followed other such operations on behalf of a Russian magnate—”
“Mikhail Ivanovich Smolin … may his soul rest.”
The sentiment did not appear to register with his caller. “The Saudi would be a natural choice for just the favor we have in mind.”
Is there anything this one does not think I can and will do? “It would be a challenge, being InterLynk’s effort was entirely successful. The man is in the cantonal prison in Switzerland, for God’s sake!”
“Beyond even your reach, Mister Novak?”
Novak drew a heavy breath. “Few things are. It is a question of whether the risk is balanced by the level and likelihood of reward … for a sane man, at least. Some of my people have paid the ultimate price already this week for such dangerous games.”
“An administrative role in managing the revenue-generating end of InterLynk’s business … and unlimited rather than restricted access to his data. What would that be worth to a man with your interests, Benedek?”
An incalculable sum, of course. This one knows my weaknesses. He was forced to pause before his tone took on a note of resignation. “Your particular answer is not easily quantified, I am afraid.”
“Though large enough to repay your trouble in taking action resulting in the firm operating under our control rather than McAllen’s?”
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “I have seen cases where even minor changes in executive makeup can alter a firm’s resistance to acquisition.”
“Then you seem to be the right man for this job, Benedek, as much as is the Saudi. We wish to contract for you both. Do you agree?”