The Monkey Handlers

by G Gordon Liddy

  “Ha!” Aunt May sniffed. “Probably already have. Go on, get out of here, and let me have some peace while I can before I have to go back to putting up with the two of you.”

  Saul Rosen laughed, and Michael Stone bent down and kissed his aunt goodbye. Then, waving, they left the hospital room. They were barely out of earshot of Aunt May when Stone said, “Goddamn it, Saul, there’s a lot more going on in that Riegar plant than someone abusing a bunch of monkeys. The prosecutor’s going after Sara like she’s a Colombian drug lord, complete with ignoring the trashing of her apartment. My livelihood’s been threatened, and a bunch of motorcycle cretins set on me. Then they tried to bribe me. When that didn’t work, they ripped off my safe. There’s at least one detective in with the show—clumsy son of a bitch was even spying on us in the courthouse—and now they try to kill my aunt! They could’ve killed you, but didn’t, but they did try to kill her. I don’t know what I’m dealing with here. I need some intel, ol’ buddy, and I need it fast.”

  The two men left the hospital and headed for the parking lot. Saul said, “Well, I know a few electronic tricks I picked up when I went to the Hebrew equivalent of TACSIGINT school in Tel Aviv. We studied both communications and electronic intelligence. Sort of a combination of COMINT and ELINT. I could give it a shot.”

  “Wiretapping?”

  “No, their commo’s probably protected by encryption—proprietary drug research leads to patents worth billions worldwide. Best bet’d be to go after their computers.”

  They got into the Mustang, and Stone started the V-8. “So you’re a hacker? Always thought you looked a little nerdy.”

  Saul laughed. “I’m barely computer literate. Wouldn’t get past their password system.”

  “So what are you gonna do?”

  “Not even going to try to crack them. Let them do it for me. I’m gonna see if I can record what’s on their screens on videocassette, then we can read it at our leisure.”

  Stone pulled into his driveway. “How’re you gonna do that?”

  “I’ve gotta buy some stuff first, then see if I can put it together right. We used to have to put field-expedient stuff together on our exercises. If it works, I’ll show you how.”

  As the two men went into the house, Stone was troubled. Saul had just given him a pretty good layman’s description of TEMPEST technology. Stone wasn’t all that long out of the navy, and TEMPEST was the acronym for the highly classified Transient Electromagnetic Pulse Emanation Standard. One of the last locked-door briefings he’d had was on NACSIM-5100A, a National Security Computer Information Memorandum. That was BUBERE, “Burn Before Reading” stuff. What was Saul Rosen doing knowing about something like that?

  Stone covered his concern by saying to Saul, “Better call your sister, and let her know her stuff’s safe. Better yet, have her come over so I can show it to her, so there won’t be any question. I’ve gotta clean up the mess in my office.”

  “Gotcha covered.”

  As Stone laboriously picked up the wills and matched them with their jackets to reinsert them, he decided that he might be overreacting. After all, Israel was pretty advanced when it came to technology. He’d withhold judgment until he saw what Saul came up with and how well it worked.

  Saul stuck his head through the door. “No answer. She’s probably with Eddie Berg raising hell outside the Riegar plant. I wanted to catch their act anyway; if I see her, I’ll tell her.”

  “Take my car if you want, this is gonna take me some time.”

  “Nah, it’s not that far, and I want to be able to mingle and check things out. Walk’ll do me good.”

  “Just don’t you get busted.”

  “Not a chance, ace. I’ve got diplomatic immunity, remember?” Saul left and Stone was alone with his wills and his thoughts.

  * * *

  Stephanie Hannigan arrived back at the public defender’s office feeling depressed. She’d been down at the county jail interviewing her latest client, a young man charged with burglary, who insisted upon going to trial with the defense that the reason he’d been caught inside the house was that he was homeless; he thought the place was vacant, and he needed a place to sleep. Why that required him to unplug and move to the back-door area two television sets and one electric typewriter, he handled by telling Stephanie, with a straight face, that that was the way he found them.

  Another winner, she sighed to herself as she picked up her message slips. They were all routine except for one, “Brian Sullivan, Reuters. Please call. 471–3400.” Probably a hotel, the defense lawyer in her speculated on the double-zero ending of the telephone number. Her curiosity placing the Reuters reporter’s message at the top of the list, Stephanie sat down and picked up the telephone.

  Sullivan’s Irish accent betrayed him even on a single word—“Hello.”

  “Mr. Sullivan? Stephanie Hannigan, returning your call.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Hannigan, and I thank you. I know anyone named Hannigan will be immune to me Irish charm, so I’ll get right to the point. I’d like to take you to lunch or dinner, your choice, as soon as is convenient. Before you say no, I’ll admit that I wouldn’t blame you; reporters in your country being held in less esteem than abusers of horses in mine. And, lovely as you are, I’ll admit that ’tisn’t that on me mind. I’ll be after cultivatin’ you as a source. Which means if you’ll put up with me for the length of a meal, it’ll at least be a good one, for it’s Reuters’ll be payin’ for it. What d’you say?”

  “I say you’ve definitely kissed the Blarney stone, Mr. Sullivan, and I have no idea why you’d want me as a source, but a good meal is worth finding out. When did you have in mind?”

  “Why, I imagine a handsome women like yourself is booked solid for months, but I’m sure from time to time you have a cancellation from a death in the family or such. But, if not, that’s why I suggested lunch as an alternative.”

  “As a matter of fact, Tom Selleck’s great-grandfather died just this morning, so Tom had to cancel for tonight.”

  “Rest in peace. Five-thirty at your office?”

  “Ha! With our caseload and budget, the public defender’s office is no nine-to-five job.”

  “Six-thirty, then?”

  “You’re on, sir. See you then.” So saying, Stephanie scooped up the motions that she had dictated for typing in her absence and headed for the district attorney and county clerk’s offices at the courthouse.

  At the clerk’s office, Naomi was up to her usual form. “So, what’s new at the public defender’s office, kiddo?”

  “Very funny, Naomi. As a matter of fact, I’ve been asked out to dinner by a foreign correspondent, Brian Sullivan, of Reuters.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “Well, he’s not not cute. I’ve seen him around town a bit. More … intense than anything else. He talks like a professional Irishman and says he wants me for a source.”

  “Source of what? That’s always the question, honey.”

  “Oh, Naomi, you’re such a cynic.”

  “Realist, when it comes to men. How’re things with your friend the fish?”

  “SEAL. Not so hot. We both blew it, and we’re both dancing around trying not to make things worse. He’s got a lot of problems with his identity, I think, and, I mean, how can you get to really know someone when he doesn’t know himself or what he wants in life? How can I relate to that?”

  “Sounds like you want to, anyway. What’s he trying to choose between?”

  “The law and the navy.”

  “So why not become a navy lawyer?”

  Stephanie thought about her answer for a moment. She wanted the benefit of Naomi’s counsel, but not at the expense of betraying Stone’s confidences.

  “No. Not that simple. It’s not so much the navy per se, as what he did in the navy. He obviously loved it. But it’s more than that. It was a way of doing things that, I’m sure, was completely different from the way a lawyer does things.”

  “You wouldn’t be trying t
o nudge him one way or the other, would you, kiddo?”

  “Naomi, he already is a practicing lawyer. The other’s in his past. It’s time to move on!”

  “How much do you know about what he did in the navy?”

  “Very little. Just that he was a SEAL, and he seems to think that was tremendous.”

  Naomi paused to accept and block-stamp some papers from another lawyer. When she was finished and he had moved out of earshot, she replied, “You see what you’re doing? You’re trying to get him to choose between two alternatives, but while you know all about the first—being a lawyer—you know beans about this SEAL business. And it’s none of my affair, but it sounds to me as if you’d like him to choose you, too. Lemme tell you something, honey; before you start influencing someone about a choice, you better know all about both alternatives—otherwise, you’re flying blind. And another thing, you hook up choosing you with one or the other of those alternatives—especially when you don’t know much about one of them and how strong a pull it could have on him—you better be ready to settle for a calico cat and a lot of flannel nightgowns.”

  Stephanie sighed, looked down, and picked at a button on her suit. Abruptly, she raised her head, looked straight at Naomi, and said, “Okay. So what’s the plan?”

  “First, find out what you’re dealing with in this SEAL business. Research it in the library if you don’t want to bring it up with him. I’ll tap into the state library in Albany with the computer ’n see if I can come up with anything, all right?”

  “Thanks, Naomi.” Stephanie turned to leave.

  “Hey!” Naomi called out to her in a hoarse whisper. “Lemme know how it goes with the Irishman, okay?”

  * * *

  A little after 6:00 P.M., Saul and Sara Rosen, accompanied by Eddie Berg, all three carrying groceries in brown paper bags, entered the Stone home in high spirits not shared by Michael Stone. The look on his face, reflecting his frustration, caused Sara to grow serious immediately and ask, “Michael, I was so sorry to hear about Aunt May. Anything new?”

  “No, no. Nothing since she threw Saul and me out of her hospital room this afternoon. You guys are all sure charged up. What’ve you been up to?”

  “We got great coverage this afternoon!” Sara said. “Eddie had photographs of some experimental rats; some the military dipped into boiling water to test burns and some hairless ones taped down to boards and fried alive under sunlamps until they died, just to test suntan lotion. He got to show them on television—network, not just cable.”

  “Riegar’s doing military work and making suntan lotion?” Stone asked.

  “No,” said Eddie Berg, “but these things, and a lot worse, are being done by the military and in the LD-Fifty tests for consumer products, like force-feeding helpless animals shampoo, even oven cleaner, until they die from hemorrhage and convulsions. It’s got to be brought to the attention of the public. We don’t get many chances like this Riegar thing. I didn’t say Riegar was doing it.”

  “But that,” said Stone, “was the clear implication.”

  “You saw the photos Sara got,” Berg rejoined. “With that kind of equipment, they’re doing a lot worse!”

  “Speaking of which,” Sara said, “I remember specifically you told me you were going to put my photographs in your safe. But Saul said the safe was ripped off and they’re still here. How come?”

  “Suppose,” said Stone, “someone threatened to kill a little kid if you didn’t tell them where the pictures were. What would you have told them?”

  “In the safe.”

  “Right. And you’d have been convincing, even under Pentothal or a polygraph, because you believed it to be true. My way, the stuff was safe.”

  “But, what,” asked Eddie Berg, “if they came back empty-handed from your safe? They’d kill the kid and maybe Sara!”

  “Uh-uh,” Saul jumped in. “Like Mike says, you’d have convinced them with your answer because you thought it was true. They’d have killed you and the kid before they left.”

  “Could I see them?” Sara asked.

  “Sure.” Stone slid the manila envelope out of the letter-holding rack on his desk and handed it to Sara. She shook the photographs out into her hand and studied them, then smiled. “Eddie got busted yesterday for chaining himself to the Riegar fence,” she said.

  Stone turned to frown at Eddie Berg. “What charge?” he asked him.

  “Disorderly conduct,” Eddie answered.

  With Stone thus distracted, Sara slipped the photographs into her pocketbook, then returned the manila envelope to the letter holder on the desk.

  “Well,” Stone continued to Eddie, “they obviously didn’t jail you.”

  “Hundred-dollar bond. I’ll forfeit. The movement needs me more than the hundred.”

  Saul turned his head away to hide his smile. Sara glowed in silent agreement. “Thanks for the groceries,” Stone said. “We gonna eat them or save them for the class picnic?”

  * * *

  The Surf & Turf restaurant in Rhinekill was lighted just above dim. What it saved in electricity, it spent for top quality in its steak and lobster. The decor was ersatz Chaucerian England, and the ale was served in chilled pewter mugs by costumed barmaids. “You’ve got to try some of this raisin bread,” Stephanie said as she sliced a thick piece off a loaf next to the salad bar. “You’ll love it.”

  “On your say-so, Miss Hannigan,” said Brian Sullivan. He added a piece to his salad plate, then led Stephanie back to their table. They were seated in the rear of the restaurant, near the completely unnecessary fire that fought the air conditioning, itself unnecessary if the windows had been openable to the rain-cooled June evening, which was all the “air conditioning” anyone could want.

  The table was lighted by a candle in a glass chimney. It increased, by its reflection, the intensity of the dark eyes of the Reuters correspondent as he lifted his mug to Stephanie and said, “Your health, Miss Hannigan.”

  “Mud in your eye,” Stephanie answered. She took a drink, then said, “I’m really curious about your saying you want me for a source. I mean, what could possibly interest Reuters subscribers about the goings on in the Mohawk County public defender’s office—assuming that I could tell you anything without breaching the attorney-client privilege or some other aspect of legal ethics?”

  “My dear lady, I assure you there isn’t a thought in me head about asking you to compromise your principles in any way. You’re quite correct. I have no interest in the operations of your good office. I’m here to cover the Riegar animal-experimentation dispute, which, if I may say so, has taken on an importance in the press out of all proportion to its merit as news. But, as we both know, these things happen from time to time, and we must deal with what we have.”

  Sullivan looked up to greet their waitress, who arrived at that moment bearing sizzling skillets of steak and lobster, large baked potatoes, and sides of drawn butter. “Ah, thank y’lass,” he said.

  “Sour cream?”

  “No, thank you,” Stephanie said.

  “If you please,” said Sullivan. When the waitress retreated, he said, “As you might expect from me heritage, I’ve visited every pub within miles. It’s also a good source of information, tongues loosening as they do with a bit of liquor across them. In one place, across the river, the bartender told me that you were there with a man who gave quite a good account of himself in a fight with a gang of ruffians. Bested the lot of them and made it look easy, the bartender says. Now, even allowin’ for the usual exaggeration, that was quite a feat. But the reason for me interest is that this man’s picture was in the paper over there as the lawyer defending Miss Sara Rosen, La Pasionaria of the Riegar affair. It’s him I’d like to be finding out about, for what we call a ‘sidebar’ in the newspaper business. A color piece, you might say. What can y’tell me about him?”

  Stephanie put a big piece of steak into her mouth and chewed it slowly to give her time to think over Sullivan’s request. Her first th
ought was to wonder how the bartender knew who she was, then she remembered that her picture had been in the paper when she was appointed, and a few more times when she had handled newsworthy cases for the office. She decided it wouldn’t be right to tell Sullivan as much about Stone as she had told Naomi. Naomi might be expected to share her information with a lot of her girl friends, but that was a far cry from publication in the international press.

  Stephanie swallowed. “Well, Mr. Stone’s a navy veteran of the Vietnam War, specializes in real estate law, and is quite an athlete.”

  “Interesting,” Sullivan observed. “A real estate lawyer defending a woman in a criminal case. How did that come about?”

  Stephanie lied. “Not sure. Sara Rosen’s from out of town and wouldn’t know Mike’s—Mr. Stone’s—specialty. And it’s not exactly Sacco and Vanzetti, you know. He can handle it.”

  “If it’s a slow enough summer for news, it could run Messrs. Sacco and Vanzetti a close second, the way things are going. You wouldn’t be givin’ the lad a few pointers, now, would you?”

  “Lawyers talk shop, bounce ideas off one another all the time.”

  “Ah. And what kind of ideas might Mr. Stone be bouncin’ off your lovely head?”

  “That, I’m afraid,” Stephanie said, “would be privileged information.”

  “Unfair to Mr. Stone?”

  “Unfair to his client.”

  It was Sullivan’s turn to chew on steak while he thought about the conversation. Presently, he said, “As devoted as you are to the law, do y’not think you might be suffering from what the religious call ‘scrupulosity’?”

  “No. I went to Catholic schools, too, Mr. Sullivan, and I know the meaning of the word. Let me put it to you this way: The law is all that stands between us and the world of Thomas Hobbes.”

  “Well, now,” said Sullivan, taking a long draft of ale, “let us not be unfair to Mr. Hobbes. He was describing life in its natural state, not advocating it. What’s more, he was right. You’re privileged to live in the richest country in the world. But I assure you, my dear, that for most of the rest of it, including places right here in your own country, there are ‘no arts, no letters, no society’ or what there are are mockeries of the words. There is nothing but ‘continual fear and danger of violent death, and the life of man—’”