They found Hardesty’s office and knocked on the cipher-locked door. It opened in a few seconds.
“Big John,” Hardesty said in greeting.
“Hey, Jimmy. What’re you doing in this rat hole?”
“Writing the history of operations that nobody will ever read, at least not while we’re alive. You’re Chavez?” he asked Ding.
“Yes, sir.”
“Come on in.” Hardesty waved them into his cubbyhole, which did have two spare chairs and almost enough room for the extra legs, plus a worktable that acted as an ersatz desk.
“What year are you in?” John asked.
“Would you believe 1953? I spent all last week on Hans Tofte and the Norwegian freighter job. That job had a real body count, and they were not all bad guys. Cost of doing business back then, I guess, and the sailors on the ship should have thought twice before signing on.”
“Before our time, Jimmy. Did you talk to Judge Moore about it? I think he had a piece of that operation.”
Hardesty nodded. “He was in last Friday. The judge must have been a handful in his younger days, before he took that seat behind the bench. Him and Ritter both.”
“What’s Bob Ritter doing now?”
“You didn’t hear? Shit. Died three months ago down in Texas, liver cancer.”
“How old was he?” Chavez asked.
“Seventy-five. He was at MD Anderson Cancer Center, down in Texas, so he had the best treatment available, but it didn’t work.”
“Everybody dies of something,” Clark observed. “Sooner or later. Nobody told us about Ritter over in England. I wonder why.”
“The current administration didn’t like him much.”
That made sense, John thought. He was a warrior from the worst of the bad old days who’d worked in Redland against the main enemy of the time, and cold warriors died hard. “I’ll have to hoist a drink to his memory. We butted heads occasionally, but he never back-shot me. I wonder about that Alden guy.”
“Not our kind of people, John. I’m supposed to do a full report on people we whacked along the way, what laws might have been violated, that sort of thing.”
“So what can I do for you?” Clark asked his host.
“Alden pitched retirement to you?”
“Twenty-nine years. And I’m still alive. Kinda miraculous when you think about it,” John observed with a moment’s sober reflection.
“Well, if you need something to do, I have a number for you to call. Your knowledge is an asset; you can make money off it. Buy Sandy a new car, maybe.”
“What sort of work?”
“Something you will find interesting. Don’t know if it’ll be your kind of thing, but what the hell. Worst case, they’ll buy lunch.”
“Who is it?”
Hardesty didn’t answer the question. Instead he handed over another slip of paper with a phone number on it. “Give ’em a call, John. Unless you want to write your memoirs and get it through the people on the seventh floor.”
Clark had himself a laugh. “No way.”
Hardesty stood up, extended his hand. “Sorry to cut this short, but I have a ton of work to do. Give ’em a call-or don’t, if you don’t feel like it. Up to you. Maybe retirement will agree with you.”
Clark stood. “Fair enough. Thanks.”
With that, it was one more elevator ride and out the front door. For their part, John and Ding did stop and look at the wall. For some of the people at the CIA, those stars did represent the Honored Dead, no less than Arlington National Cemetery, though tourists were allowed to go there.
“What number, John?” Chavez asked.
“Some place in Maryland, judging by the area code.” He checked his watch and pulled out his new cell phone. “Let’s find out where…”
Jack’s daily electronic traffic scan took up the first ninety minutes of his day and provided nothing of substance, so he grabbed his third cup of coffee, picked through the bagels, then returned to his office and began what he’d come to call his “morning troll” of the myriad intercepts the campus received from the U.S. intelligence community. Forty minutes into what was amounting to an exercise in frustration, a Homeland Security intercept caught his eye. Now, that was interesting, he thought, then picked up the phone.
He was in Jerry Rounds’s office five minutes later. “Whatcha got?” Rounds asked.
“DHS/FBI/ATF intercept. They’re looking for a missing plane.”
This got Rounds’s attention. The Department of Homeland Security had something of an event threshold system in place that generally did a good job of keeping trivial inquiries off its intelligence plate. The fact that such an inquiry had climbed this high on the food chain suggested that another agency had already done the routine legwork and confirmed that the plane in question hadn’t simply been misplaced by a sloppy charter company in an administrative shuffle.
“ATF, huh?” Rounds muttered. Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms also specialized in explosive-related investigations. Combine that with a missing plane… Jack thought.
“What kind?” Rounds asked.
“Didn’t say. Has to be small, noncommercial, or the news would have it.” Missing 757s tended to generate buzz.
“How long ago?”
“Three days.”
“We know the source?”
“The routing looked internal, so FAA or NTSB, maybe. I checked yesterday and today; not a peep from anyone.” Which meant somebody had clamped a lid on the subject. “Might be another way to go about this, though.”
“Tell me.”
“Follow the money,” Jack said.
Rounds smiled at this. “Insurance.”
32
IT WAS 10:47 when his phone rang. Tom Davis had just finished a fairly large bond trade, one that would earn The Campus $1,350,000, which was not bad for three days’ work. He grabbed the phone on the second ring. “Tom Davis.”
“Mr. Davis, my name is John Clark. I was told to give you a call. Maybe do lunch.”
“Told by whom?”
“Jimmy Hardesty,” Clark replied. “I’ll have a friend with me. His name is Domingo Chavez.”
Davis thought for a moment, immediately cautious, but it was more an instinctive reaction than a necessity. Hardesty didn’t hand out these introductions to hacks. “Sure, let’s talk,” Davis replied. He gave Clark directions and said, “I’ll look for you about noon.”
Hey, Gerry,” Davis said on entering the top-floor office. “Just got a call.”
“Anybody we know?” the boss asked.
“Hardesty at Langley sent two guys to see us. Both slotted for retirement from the Agency. John Clark and Domingo Chavez.”
Hendley’s eyes went a little wide. “The John Clark?”
“So it would appear. He’ll be here around noon.”
“Do we want him?” the former senator asked, already half-knowing the answer.
“He’s certainly worth talking to, boss. If nothing else, he’d be a hell of a training officer for our field people. I only know him by reputation. Ed and Mary Pat Foley love the guy, and that’s a hard endorsement to ignore. He doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty, thinks on his feet. Good instincts, plenty smart. Chavez is cut from the same cloth. He was part of Rainbow with Clark.”
“Reliable?”
“We have to talk to them, but probably.”
“Fair enough. Bring them over if you think it’s worthwhile.”
“Will do.” Davis made his way out.
Christ on a bike, Hendley thought. John Clark.
Left here,” Domingo said as they got within a hundred yards of the light.
“Yeah. Must be that building there on the right. See the antenna farm?”
“Yep,” Chavez observed as they took the turn. “Get a whole shitload of FM with that.”
Clark chuckled at that. “Don’t see any security. Good sign.” Professionals knew when to play harmless.
He parked the rent-a-car in what seemed to be the visitor
s’ lot, and they got out and walked in the front door.
“Good morning, sir,” said a uniformed security guard. He was in a generic uniform, and his name tag said CHAMBERS. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see a Mr. Davis. John Clark and Domingo Chavez.”
Chambers lifted his phone and punched some numbers. “Mr. Davis? Chambers here in the lobby. Two gentlemen here to see you. Yes, sir, thank you.” The phone went back down. “He’s coming down to see you, gentlemen.”
Davis appeared in just over a minute. He was black, of average size, about fifty or so, Clark estimated. Well dressed, shirtsleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The busy broker. “Thanks, Ernie,” he said to the security guard, then: “You must be John Clark.”
“Guilty,” John admitted. “And this is Domingo Chavez.” And handshakes were exchanged.
“Come on up.” Davis led them inside to the elevators.
“I’ve seen your face before. Other side of the river,” Chavez clarified.
“Oh?” Davis reacted guardedly.
“At the operations room. Watch officer?”
“Well, once I was an NIO. Here I’m a lowly bond trader. Mainly corporate stuff, but some government issues.”
They followed Davis to the top floor and then to his office-or most of the way. His office was right next to Rick Bell’s, and someone was heading in there.
“Hey,” Clark heard, and turned around to find Jack Ryan Jr. walking down the hall.
Clark took his hand, and for once his face showed surprise. “Jack… You work here, eh?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Doing what?”
“Currency arbitrage, mostly. Swapping money back and forth, stuff like that.”
“I thought the family business was stocks and bonds,” Clark observed mildly.
“Not into that… yet,” Jack responded. “Well, I’ve got to run. Catch you later, maybe?”
“Sure,” Clark said. His brain wasn’t exactly spinning, but he wasn’t entirely oriented to the day’s discoveries.
“Come on in,” Davis said next, waving him through the door.
The office was a comfortable one and wasn’t full of furniture made in a federal prison, such as they had at CIA headquarters. Davis waved them into seats. “So how long have you known Jimmy Hardesty?”
“For ten or fifteen years,” Clark replied. “Good man.”
“He is that. So: You want to retire?”
“I’ve never really thought about it.”
“What about you, Mr. Chavez?”
“I’m not ready for Social Security, either, and I guess I have a few marketable skills. Wife and kid, with another one on the way. Till now I haven’t had to give it much thought, but what you do here looks to be miles out of our skill set.”
“Well, everyone here has to know the language anyway,” Davis told them. “But beyond that…” Davis shrugged. “How’re you fixed for clearance?”
“Top secret/special intelligence/poly-both of us,” Clark replied. “At least until Langley puts our paperwork through. Why?”
“Because what we do here is not for public dissemination. You will sign some pretty tight NDAs,” he said, referring to non-disclosure agreements. “Any problems with that?”
“Nope,” John said at once. His curiosity had been well and truly piqued in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. He noted that they hadn’t asked him to swear an oath. That was passé anyway, and the courts had voided them a long time ago-if you spoke to the newspapers.
The signing took less than two minutes. The forms weren’t anything they hadn’t seen before, though the setting certainly was.
Davis checked the forms over, then slid them into a drawer. “Okay, here’s the short of it: We get a lot of insider information through irregular channels. NSA keeps an eye on international trading for security reasons. Remember when Japan had that set-to with us? They clobbered Wall Street, and that made the Feds think they needed to keep an eye on such things. Economic warfare is real, and you can really mess up a country by clobbering its financial institutions. It works for us, especially for currency trading. That’s where we make most of our money.”
“Why is that important?” Chavez asked.
“We’re self-funding. We’re off the federal budget, Mr. Chavez, and therefore off the radar. No taxpayer money comes in the front door. We make what we spend, and what we don’t spend ourselves, we keep.”
Curiouser and curiouser, Clark thought.
You kept something secret by not having Congress fund it, and not having the Office of Management and Budget do the audits. If the government didn’t fund it, to Washington it existed only as a source of taxes, and a good accounting firm could ensure that Hendley Associates-The Campus’s official cover-kept a low profile: Just pay everything in full and on time. And if anyone knew how to hide money, it would have been these guys. Surely Gerry Hendley had enough contacts in Washington to keep the heat off his business. You mainly did that by being honest. There were enough high-priced crooks in America to keep the IRS and SEC interested, and like most government agencies, they didn’t go freelance looking for new crooks without a solid lead. As long as you didn’t get a reputation for being too good at what you did, or sailing too close to the wind, you didn’t appear on the radarscopes.
“How many real clients do you have?” Chavez asked.
“Essentially, the only private accounts we manage belong to our employees, and they do pretty good. Last three years we’ve averaged a return of twenty-three percent, over and above salaries that are pretty decent. We’ve got some good benefits, too-especially educational perks for our employees who have kids.”
“Impressive. What exactly do you have to do?” Ding asked. “Kill people?” He’d thought he’d added that as a minor-league joke.
“Occasionally,” Davis told him. “Kinda depends on the day.”
The room got very quiet for a moment.
“You’re not kidding,” Clark stated.
“No,” Davis said.
“Who authorizes it?”
“We do.” Davis paused to let that sink in. “We employ some very skillful people-people who think first and handle it carefully. But yes, we do that when the circumstances call for it. We did four in the last couple of months, all in Europe, all terrorist affiliates. No blowback on any of them yet.”
“Who does it?”
Davis managed a smile. “You just met one of them.”
“You have to be shitting us,” Chavez said. “Jack Junior? SHORTSTOP?”
“Yeah, he bagged one in Rome just six weeks ago. Operational glitch; he kind of fell ass-backward into it but did a decent job. The target’s name was Mohammed Hassan Al-din, senior ops officer for the terrorist group that’s been giving us a headache. Remember those mall shootings?”
“Yeah.”
“His handiwork. We got a line on him and took him down.”
“Never made the papers,” Clark objected.
“He died of a heart attack, so said the forensic pathologist of the Rome city police force,” Davis concluded.
“Jack’s dad doesn’t know?”
“Not hardly. As I said, his role had been planned differently, but shit happens, and he handled it. Had we known, we would probably have done something else, but it didn’t work out that way.”
“I’m not going to ask how Jack gave your subject a heart attack,” Clark said.
“Good, because I’m not going to tell you-not now anyway.”
“What’s our cover?” Clark asked.
“As long as you’re in the United States, you’re covered completely. Overseas is something else. We’ll take proper care of your families, of course, but if you’re bagged overseas, well, we’ll hire you the best lawyer we can find. Other than that, you’re private citizens who got caught doing something naughty.”
“I’m used to that idea,” Clark said. “Just so my wife and kids are protected. So I’m just a private citizen abroad, right?”
>
“That’s correct,” Davis confirmed.
“Doing what?”
“Making bad people go away. Can you handle that?”
“I’ve been doing that for a long time, and not always on Uncle Sam’s nickel. I’ve gotten into trouble at Langley for it sometimes, but it was always tactically necessary, and so I-we-have always gotten clear. But if something happens over here, you know, like conspiracy to commit murder-”
“You have a presidential pardon waiting for you.”
“Say again?” John asked.
“Jack Ryan is the guy who persuaded Gerry Hendley to set this place up. That was Gerry’s price. So President Ryan signed a hundred blank pardons.”
“Is that legal?” Chavez asked.
“Pat Martin said so. He’s one of the people who knows that this place exists. Another is Dan Murray. So is Gus Werner. You know Jimmy Hardesty. Not the Foleys, however. We thought about getting them involved, but Jack decided against it. Even the ones I named only know to recruit people with special credentials, to go to a special place. They have no operational knowledge at all. They know a special place exists but not what we do here. Even President Ryan doesn’t have any operational information. That stays in this building.”
“Takes a lot for a government type to trust people that much,” Clark observed.
“You have to pick your people carefully,” Davis agreed. “Jimmy thinks you two can be trusted. I know your background. I think he’s right.”
“Mr. Davis, this is a big thought,” Clark said, leaning back in his chair.
For more than twenty years he’d daydreamed about how nice it would have been to have a place like this. He’d been dispatched by Langley to eyeball the head of Abu Nidal in Lebanon once, to determine if it might be possible to send him off to see God. That had been as dangerous as the actual mission itself, and the sheer insult of such a mission assignment had boiled his blood at the time, but he’d done it, and had come home with the photograph to show that, yes, it was possible to take the bastard down, but cooler heads or looser bowels in Washington had voided that mission, and so he’d put his life on the line for nothing, and so later the Israeli Army had killed him with a Hellfire missile fired from an Apache attack helicopter, which was altogether messier than a rifle from 180 meters and had also caused considerable collateral damage, which didn’t really trouble the Israelis all that much.
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