by James Bruno
“I don’t have to listen to this nonsense.” Lisa wiped her mouth and signaled for the check.
Perhaps too quickly, Gallatin’s hand braced her wrist. He retracted it. “I’m sorry. Really. Please.” He motioned for her to continue eating. He dug into his beef and baked potatoes. Neither spoke for the next five minutes.
Lifting her gaze but not her head, Lisa asked, “How’s your girl?”
Gallatin shook his head silently.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you…” He paused to search for the right word. “Connected? Anyone special in your life?”
“Yeah.”
“Is he good to you?”
“I don’t know. I rarely see him.”
Gallatin looked puzzled.
“His name’s Merriman.”
Gallatin got the joke and chuckled.
“Yeah. Well. The great love in my life these days is called the National Security Council. But the longer our relationship goes on, the more I’m thinking that we’re not cut out for each other.”
“Then quit. Get a less pressured job.”
“You men are all alike. Here I’m looking for sympathy and you’re offering up answers. Anyway, the divorce proceedings may come from the NSC. I’ve pissed off somebody important for refusing to do his bidding.” She lifted the cup of hot herbal tea to eye level and carefully studied the delicate wafts of steam rising therefrom.
“I’ll never understand why people stay for years in Washington,” Gallatin offered. “It’s like everybody’s on this giant treadmill. The faster they run, the quicker they kill themselves. Life is empty here. A vast wasteland of the heart.” He finished his coffee.
Outside the bistro, they stood for an awkward moment. Both were aware that Gallatin’s business remained unfinished. But there was more, a sense of leaving a party too soon.
Gallatin stared at his feet, then looked up with those sympathetic eyes. “How about a short walk?” He nodded toward the Potomac.
Lisa looked at her watch, then up. A dozen sudden-death obligations intruded in her mind. Her immediate instinct was to make haste. But she thought again. An Indian summer sun shone brightly above as a gentle breeze carried crisp pre-autumn air. She savored it with a deep inhalation. She took in the tall, intense gentleman with the gorgeous eyes who had just invited her for a stroll. “Okay.”
They walked at a leisurely pace on the Washington Harbor path, hugging the slow-moving Potomac. Office workers, ties loosened, shoes off, lazed in the brilliant sun. Couples on wooden benches had arms wrapped around each other. In a sea of self-absorbed workaholics, this place was an island of tranquility.
“I have something I must tell you,” Lisa said after a moment of troubled thinking.
“I’m all ears.”
“Remember Buckwheat Thompson? In my office?”
“Yeah, the preppy-looking guy.”
“Well, he told me to warn you not to get close to this case.”
“Why?” Gallatin demanded.
“He didn’t say.”
“He must know. I want to talk with him.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? He obviously knows. About the criminals coming here, about Ferret—”
“He’s going through a difficult time.”
“You think I’m having the time of my life?” Gallatin’s voice cracked. He regretted again losing his cool.
“What’s his job?”
“Policy coordination.”
“What the hell is that? Don’t you get it, Lisa? You’re a dupe to all those phonies you work for. They’ve got you putting out the perfect smokescreen through your P.R. work. What better person to have doing that than somebody who’s not privy to the truth? You’re lying for them, but you don’t even realize it. And Thompson’s got to be in on it.”
The strain of being pulled in different directions, of so many conflicting emotions was becoming too much to bear for Lisa. She stopped and stared at the cloudless sky.
“There’s something terribly rotten. In the government. In the White House. You’re sitting right in the middle of it, yet you don’t even smell it.” Gallatin almost tripped over his words. He spoke with the conviction of a religious zealot. “Lisa, you’re helping in a coverup. It’s wrong. Wrong. Join with me. We can expose it. We can…”
Lisa studied his face with fascination. All sound was blocked out. The carotid arteries in Gallatin’s neck pulsed. His eyes bored into her. A river of emotions poured, raged from his heart to hers. She felt the intensity of this strong, principled man, was swept up by it. His voice became a hum. Like the fiddles the old men played back in West Virginia on warm, summer weekend nights. Like her mother singing a gentle lullaby when Lisa was a small girl. Like the buzz of bees and the chirps of birds in the woodland meadows around Cayuga Lake near Ithaca. When she was free. When she was…
A flash of heat from somewhere deep inside Lisa snaked soothingly upward, through her heart, to her head. An electric tingle relaxed her muscles and anesthetized her brain.
Lisa didn’t give Gallatin any warning. Of the sensation of a female body suddenly pressed close to his. Of soft lips on his. Of the blush of a young woman’s gentle cheek against his face. Initial shock gave way to reciprocal affection. He held her tightly and kissed her hungrily. All other sensation was negated. To each it seemed that beams of renewed life radiated from the other’s body and were sent back again, stronger in intensity. Two lonely, love-starved human beings had nothing at that moment but each other.
Lisa eased back, a stunned expression on her face, eyes wide, unbelieving.
“Oh. I…I’m—”
“It’s, uh, it’s okay,” Gallatin said gently. His face exhibited an identical expression of surprise and contriteness.
“I’m sorry. Why…I don’t know what got hold of me.” She swept her hair back with jittery hands and fought to bring her breathing under control.
Gallatin let out a nervous laugh. “We’ve both been under a lot of stress…”
He fell silent. They stood apart, the eyes of each locked on the other’s. A 737 taking off from National Airport roared overhead. The sad wail of a boat’s horn from across the river echoed on the surrounding buildings. A slow, damp wind lolled over them, carrying with it the fecund, slightly nauseating smell of stagnant shore water.
Gallatin offered his right hand, palm upward. Lisa placed hers in it. Gently, he pulled her back to him and they kissed again, this time with forethought and no shame and with all the time in the world.
Gallatin skipped toward his car, parked on K Street, downhill from Georgetown center, near the river. His head swam with emotions. Strong emotions. Conflicted feelings. He felt light afoot and weighted down at the same time. So much to think over. So many questions.
He grabbed the door handle and readied the key. Then he withdrew. He returned to the river edge to think. He sat on a bench and watched the seagulls flitting over the water, darting down when they spotted lunch.
The questions lingered, but at least he was getting a clearer picture of them as well as a sense of priority in how to tackle them.
Gallatin rose, inhaled deeply and stretched. He lumbered back toward his rented Maxima. Half-consciously, he pulled the key out of his pocket. He looked at it. Attached was a small remote device. Gallatin marveled at the pace of technological change that was taking place in everybody’s lives. Micro-chips were taking over the world. He pressed the unlock button.
The blast blew him seven feet back, the heat singed the hair on his face and hands. A fire ball surged to the sky from the remnants of the Maxima.
Yet another question confronted Gallatin.
Tulliver did some of his best thinking with a couple of scotches under his belt. If he wasn’t off to some Georgetown dinner affair or White House reception, Tulliver liked to reserve Friday evenings — the two-to-three hours of catch-one’s-breath time after the normal work day — to share a drink with Haley and to take stoc
k of things.
With his feet propped up on his desk, Tulliver contemplated his glass of single malt as if it were a crystal ball. Haley sat attentively, ever the Marine, on the billiard-green leather chair directly in front. He took tiny, infrequent sips of his drink.
“Dan, what job do you want at State?” Tulliver asked without warning.
“Sir?”
“When I’m Secretary of State,” Tulliver replied. He took his eyes off the swirling liquor and looked matter-of-factly at Haley. “What? Name it. Undersecretary for Political Affairs? A nice, juicy ambassadorship? What? Name your reward.”
Haley never liked Tulliver, but he did respect the man for his candor. The White House adviser would see right through false modesty which, when one came down to it, had no role other than to ease the conscience of a schemer. Besides, In Washington, only naive fools lacking in ambition would exhibit modesty needlessly. Haley took up the gauntlet.
“Well, the wife has her commitments and the kids are placed in good schools, so I’d prefer to stay here.” He scrunched his brow and pondered for a moment. “Yeah. Undersecretary for Political Affairs. Hmm. That would be nice. Are you offering it?”
“You’ve earned it, God knows.”
“When?”
Tulliver again diverted his attention from his glass to his assistant. “McHenry’s right on the edge of a precipice and we helped put him there. First the Africa debacle. Then this Ferret affair. And Goldman trying to hang himself, the poor, dumb son of a bitch. Those were merely embarrassing to the Secretary of State until the leaks about Ferret’s taking ‘top secret’ documents came out.”
“I’ve got the Post eating out of my hand,” Haley said coolly. “We can put the word out that he’s a spy — for Moscow; worse, Iran. We can work the Hill. I can have everybody clamoring for a ‘house-cleaning at State’ in no time.”
“I don’t know. It’s risky. Those horse’s asses on the intelligence committees will next be demanding to know what documents he took. It’s State we want to smear, not the White House. Besides, CHASM’s too vulnerable already. Can’t risk exposing it. Or we’re dead.”
“What then?”
“Just keep working at it. It’s only a matter of time. Who knows? The old fart may just keel over from a heart attack, a stroke. In any case, I’ve got things wired with the President. The First Lady’s been of enormous help.”
Haley glanced at the ceiling to conceal a knowing look.
Tulliver poured himself another scotch. He offered Haley a refill, but the Marine indicated that he was still working on his first.
“How’s Lisa doing?”
Haley was somewhat taken aback by Tulliver’s abrupt switching of gears. He’d wondered whether Tulliver’s interest in the fast-rising young woman was more than professional.
“She delivers,” he answered carefully. “Especially on the P.R. side of things. She has a knack for it. And, of course, with those radiant green eyes and dimples, the media guys love her. They trust her.”
“And CHASM? Has she gotten any inkling?”
“No. Not that I’ve seen. She’s got the public convinced that we’re out there beating the bushes to nail war criminals.”
“I don’t know, Dan. She’s risen too fast, taken on too much responsibility for a kid her age.” Tulliver rose from his desk and, with glass in hand, sauntered over to one of the high windows facing the South Lawn. The illuminated Washington Monument stood like a glinting excalibur against the crisp autumn night.
Haley restrained himself from reminding Tulliver that it was he who had been behind Lisa’s meteoric rise, insisting that she be given more responsibilties, resulting in her being in closer proximity to and spending more time with Tulliver.
“She’s proven she can handle it,” Haley said.
Tulliver turned on his heel. “Just do as I say, Dan! Give her less. Watch her more!” he commanded.
Haley winced at Tulliver’s verbal blast. He nodded.
“She’s real chummy with that…that faggot who works on your staff,” Tulliver spat with disgust. He knocked back another single malt. His face was flushed; he blinked nervously.
“Sir?”
“Stop sirring me, for Christ sake! Don’t you military guys ever speak normally? That little lap dog. Works on CHASM.”
“Thompson.”
“Yeah. How in hell did you ever let a homosexual get into this program? How did he get cleared?” Tulliver demanded.
Haley’s mind raced. “Well, uh, to tell you the truth, I didn’t focus—”
“Well, now’s the time to start, mister!” Tulliver slurred. He sloshed half his drink on the floor as he pointed reproachfully at Haley with his drinking hand. “He works on CHASM? All the nitty-gritty stuff? Who we’re bringing in? Where they’re being settled. All that?”
“He coordinates operations. He gets his hands into all of it.” Haley, with his eye on the prize of higher office, was careful not to defend his exceedingly competent underling.
“And the…the Recall Program?”
“No. I handle that personally, through other channels.”
“Good. Keep it that way. But you keep an eye on him too. Closer even than on the paperwork needed to become a full-bird colonel. Got me?”
“Understood, sir — John.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ferret’s voice clanked in Buckwheat Thompson’s ears like a spoon in a garbage disposer. Totally unexpected and certainly unwelcome. But it commanded his complete attention.
“I’m not responsible. They are. You must believe me.”
Thompson struggled to come up with a course of action. Signal to his secretary to alert security. Hold him on the line until a trace could be put on it. Persuade him to turn himself in. Listen first. See what he had to say. A current of heat rushed through Thompson’s body, up to his face and ears.
Ask a question, he ordered himself. “Who? Who did it then?”
“Your boss,” Ferret replied.
Puzzlement combined with panic to render confusion in Thompson. Before he could ask for clarification, Ferret, in rushed speech, added, “They, all of them, are responsible for the evil. The evil killed my family. The evil. I…I loved my family. Don’t you see?” Through the receiver came sobs, followed by uncontrolled weeping.
“Listen to me, Ferret—”
“Now I must go,” Ferret interjected, changing moods as swiftly as a devil’s wind. “You know they want me? It’s risky for me to stay on the line. They have ways. I know. CHASM taught me. Sources and methods. Tradecraft. All that.”
“Ferret, this is an open line.”
“Fuck the open line, Thompson! Fuck CHASM! And fuck your bosses! Haley’s the one. He ordered the killings of the Branko boys. Did you know that? Also a bunch of Liberians, a Guatemalan, two Rwandans, others. Because those criminals had killed innocent people. Innocent citizens, all over the country. Did you know that? Did you?”
Thompson fumbled with a pen and paper to write it all down.
“They got out of hand, totally out of control,” Ferret continued.
There was a pause.
“Ferret? Are you still there?”
“…and so did I,” Ferret said barely audibly. “So, now they’re after me.” The last sentence he sang as a child sings a playground ditty.
“Listen carefully, Thompson. I’m going to give you some passwords. Write them down. Fast. Then check them out. HRACK. RAWFOLD, CPRESS, UPIRAN, NFRACK. Bye.”
“Wait, Ferret. You need help. I can—”
A loud click ended the conversation.
TOP SECRET DECEMBER 21, 1996
ULTRA
DISTRIBUTION: CHASM — EYES ONLY: NAT SEC ADVISER/DEPUTY NAT SEC ADVISER; NSC: CHASM COORDINATOR; DIRECTOR OF CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE; SECDEF; JOINT CHIEFS
SUBJECT: OPERATIONS PLAN II: CHASM
Executive Summary
Overall USG policy objectives re Bosnia aim at restoring stablity to the ex-Yugoslavia, political and economic rec
onstruction of Bosnia, creation of viable Bosnian armed forces, ensuring Serbian adherence to the Dayton Accords, safeguarding human rights, elimination of radical Muslim influence. Key USG policy objectives are addressed in NSDD-43 (Tab 1). OPS PLAN I, dated December 29, 1995 (Tab 2) addresses the program, with interagency agreement, to remove intelligence assets and others from the ex-Yugoslavia to the United States for a period of time to be reviewed regularly by the CHASM Interagency Task Force.
OPS PLAN II expands on OPS PLAN I accordingly:
— As a measure to ensure stability, U.S. forces in IFOR will suspend pursuing select persons named as war criminals by the International War Crimes Tribunal in The Hague;
— As a further measure toward restoring stability, efforts will be stepped up to remove and relocate those cadre in the Bosnian Republic (BR), Serbia and Croatia who pose a serious threat to the accords by their disruptive activities; agreement by the concerned governments has been obtained;
— In this light, special arrangements will be made within CHASM to relocate key staff of PM Karadzic, Gen. Mladic and other key officers of the Bosnian Serb forces; the particular sensitivity surrounding these cases dictates further compartmentalization within CHASM as well as total identity reconstructions on all individuals to be resettled;