Subsequent to his promotion to managerial status, he became known for his overtly protective nature toward his staff, a character trait which attracted the moniker of the 'Manson Family' to his departmental sections and earned him the nickname of 'Chuck'.
'Hey, Chuck, sounds like your Friday morning is already off to a good start!'
Manson recognised Jackson's voice without checking the caller ID.
'Hey stranger, you're not wrong there. There is shit flying all over the place and its all dropping on us from on high, nobody knows whether it's something they ate in the staff canteen or a stomach bug that they picked up from abroad. You have any spare room in that fishing boat when you retire?'
Jackson chortled at the euphemistic image his boss had used to describe a major internal terrorist alert.
'Come on Chuck, you're even older than me, you haven't retired yet because you love it so much. You'd miss wading through shit!'
A raucous laugh erupted from the earpiece and Jackson held the handset away to soften the volume.
'Right again my friend, although I guess that they'll be presenting me with a company tie and lapel pin any time soon, we're a dying breed!'
Jackson could not help but nod to himself in agreement.
'Yeah, literally true in some cases, did you hear that Jim Swanson had died recently? He'd been out for less than a year. The damn fool had a heart attack pushing a lawn mower over his front yard.'
Manson paused.
'Shit, I didn't hear about that. I'll have to send belated condolences to his wife. Don't be doing anything stupid like that when you start collecting your pension. A grass manicure really isn't worth dying for, besides, I'll need a few buddies still around so that I can share the old times with them over a few shots!'
'No worries there,' Jackson smiled, 'I had my yard paved, and Chuck, you're welcome to join me any time down in Florida; I'll be the one drinking jugs of margaritas to combat the boredom.'
'I hear that!'
They both thought for a moment, considering the passing of the reins to yet another generation.
'So Jackson, you just shooting the breeze or is something up?'
Jackson sucked in air between his teeth, a faint whistling sound illustrating his reticence.
'I'll be completely honest Chuck, I need a favour and I need you to hear me out before you say 'no' and then decide to change your mind later!'
After explaining the situation to Manson, guiltily exaggerating some of the aspects of his suspicions and even more guiltily hiding the more esoteric elements, Jackson had obtained agreement to his plan and was a giant step closer to manoeuvring events to the benefit of his last hurrah.
Manson had even gone as far as to requisition a CIA officer attached to the US Embassy in the Netherlands and now that Jackson had set a flaming match to the blue touch paper it had only taken a quarter of an hour for Manson to contact Jackson's manager in the OSC and in turn, for him to ask Jackson into his office for a quick chat.
Richard Clayton was a perfect example of the new breed of dynamic management intent on re-organising the monolith represented by the acronym of the CIA into an efficient and surgical instrument fit to deal with the perceived risks and issues of the new world order. Perhaps self-conscious about his own lack of military experience, he had inaugurated the use of the nickname 'Dickie' for himself, apparently nonplussed that such familiarity was usually bestowed in the form of an affectionate caricature by comrades or as an honorific epithet by subordinates, regardless of whether his forename generally qualified for an alternative appellation.
As a further indication of his mindset, Richard 'Dickie' Clayton regarded the OSC as an intelligence agency with the ultimate street credibility, populated not by the archetypal spies of imagination and fiction but by technologically astute analysts who would most likely attract the monikers of geeks, cyberpunks and even 'hackers'. They roamed the internet tracking news stories, blogs, life style chatter and even social networking sites, identifying the moods and trends of a myriad of sub-cultures and indulging the ethos of the virtual movements that could so often erupt in dissent and confrontation. They did not just read the news, they predicted it, able to shape-shift their identity and appearing just like any other fervent subscriber to the Zeitgeist of the moment, never needing to leave the comforting glow of their screens and the familiar clacking of their keyboards
Men like Jackson just did not fit into that mould and he watched disdainfully as Clayton eased back in his orthopaedic office chair, the necessity of which was ambiguous although it was clearly the comfiest chair in his office and certainly a customary perk of all management positions. He waited for the overly familiar tones, already knowing why he had been called into this meeting.
'Gosh, Jackson,' Clayton effused, 'you've performed a great service to your country during these last -'
He paused to examine the personnel sheet in front of him.
'Thirty-two years of service. A great service!'
Jackson could not help but think that Richard Clayton had not even been born when he had entered the service all those years ago and his feelings of animosity were exacerbated by Clayton's evidential lack of knowledge of his staff, even if Jackson was on secondment rather than a 'proper' member of the department. In spite of his innate enmity toward the man sitting before him, he smiled self-deprecatingly.
'Well sir, it has been an honour to work for the protection of these United States of America.'
'Undoubtedly Jackson, and please, call me Dickie, we want to engender a more egalitarian working culture and it helps if senior members of staff engage in the process, lead the way so to speak.'
The younger man assumed a jocular tone and laughed in mocking reproach.
'Regardless of whether they are retiring in a few months -'
Jackson just smiled again, the creases of his cheeks not quite reaching his eyes.
Clayton started to engage in a summary of the personnel sheet, seemingly unaware that Jackson was already quite conversant with the major events of his own life.
'So, Jackson, you were born in Memphis, Tennessee, 1953. After the death of your father and mother in an automotive accident when you were four years old you were sent to Charleston Mississippi to your paternal grandmother. You had an outstanding academic record, right from elementary, through to junior and senior high school; clearly your grandmother knew the value of a good education.'
Jackson wondered whether the last statement evinced an overtly positive discriminatory attitude. He considered whether to remind 'Dickie' that since he had been born in the early '50s rather than a century earlier, it was not exactly unheard of for an African-American from that era to gain an education.
'You graduated tertiary education with a Bachelor's degree from Howard University, Washington DC. Looks like you cut your teeth in their University Library System,' he paused, 'interesting that you didn't go on to complete a Master's degree.'
He looked up, beaming.
Was that academic snobbery? Jackson realised that he was being prickly, a reaction to this meeting with a man young enough to be his son. He smiled again.
'It occasionally came in useful for what has turned out to be my career.'
'Yes, quite, anyway, it would have been our loss had you gone on to a purely academic career and not decided to enter the agency. You joined in 1978. What did you do in-between university and joining up?'
Was he following a script? What the hell did it matter? It was over thirty years ago! He was facing retirement, not submitting an application for a graduate programme. Jackson decided to turn the conversation to his own ends.
'Oh, this and that, with the naivety and confidence of youth I took myself off to Europe for a while, tried to experience the history that I had only read about.'
'Ah yes, Europe. Now you want to go back at the agency's expense?'
He laughed conspiratorially, like an indulgent father responding to a teenage son's request for financial support durin
g a gap year.
Jackson took advantage of the segue he had engineered.
'Richard,' he paused and self-consciously corrected himself, 'Dickie, we both know that for all intents and purposes my section will disappear when I retire. After I've gone it will be absorbed into I don't know what. My work is largely done here, however, there are some loose ends still to be tied off. I would feel much better if I could hand over the bulk of my research and knowledge as a fait accompli so to speak. In light of changing priorities, my area of specialisation may be redundant for a while and so it makes sense to bring it to order before it is packed away.'
He watched as Clayton nodded, a non-committal humming emanating between the church steeple of fingers pressed against his lips.
Jackson emphasised the point further.
'I believe that it would be in the best interests of the agency to finish off certain areas of research, or at least bring them to a convenient point of fruition, not to mention my own personal satisfaction and professional pride in a job well done.'
'Dot all the i's and cross all the t's?' Clayton nodded vigorously.
'Something like that sir.'
Richard Clayton turned to his computer monitor and hastily zigzagged the mouse across his desk, selecting various documents on the screen.
'You've requested a week of pre-emptive travel and subsistence, Europe; the itinerary is a little sparse. Mr. Manson has also seconded an agency resource within the Netherlands on your behalf, Dale Mallory?'
Responding to the implicit admonishment, Jackson started to justify his actions.
'You're aware that I've been afforded considerable autonomy in my work. In the main, I've not felt it necessary to engage in field research but at this particular time it seems a reasonable course of action.'
He guessed that he could get away with some placatory platitudes.
'I can only guess at the burden of balancing the section budgets, but it seems appropriate that I take advantage of my latent travel budget. As for the junior operations officer attached to the embassy, it would be efficacious to complete this research with the aid of a local resource. I know that I won't be able to task too much of his time, he is currently assigned to the FBI and working in liaison with the Drug Enforcement Administration and the Dutch police authorities but this should only take a couple of hours at most.'
'Yes, of course,' Clayton nodded again, 'I suppose we have to make use of resources where we can find them and I have no wish to usurp the authority of your senior role, I fully understand the desire to ring fence your research, very conscientious. You know, Jackson, I think that an officer of your integrity and seniority deserves a chance to round off his work. Consider the T&S signed off, I'll budget for two weeks.'
Jackson smiled appreciatively.
'Why thank-you sir.'
He nodded at the slightly raised eyebrows of the younger man.
'Thank-you Dickie.'
Pleased with the incongruous use of his sobriquet, Clayton leaned forward as if in collusion.
'Let's be circumspect though, eh? We don't want to start a rush for retirement tour packages do we?'
The older man felt the need to wink an unspoken understanding, inwardly wincing at the demeaning gesture and watching as the younger man turned to square away the papers from his desk as he purposefully summed up.
'Good, excellent, well, I'll formalise the authorisation and request for secondment from the Netherlands sub-section and I guess we can expect to see you in a couple of weeks. Have a great trip Jackson.'
With his smile remaining static until he had exited the office, Jackson softly closed the door behind him; he guessed that Dick's smile had also then evaporated into thin air. He was under no illusion that the previous conversation had been a rhetorical engagement in an otherwise pointless negotiation. Neither party had immersed themselves particularly deeply into their respective role plays.
Richard Clayton considered Jackson's proposed trip a complete and utter waste of time, judging Jackson himself as a product of a bygone era. In contrast, three decades of service had bought the older man leverage and favours at higher levels than his immediate line manager inhabited and once Manson had agreed to the travel request and secondment proposal he knew that he was home and dry.
As it was, he was not entirely clear as to who had found the formal sign-off more painful. In any event, Jackson now had a plane to catch and before he would be ready for take-off he needed to download his reference material to a secure memory stick, make a couple of calls to organise logistics and return home to pack some luggage in preparation for a chilly two weeks in mainland Europe.
Chapter V
Something for the weekend -
The Embassy of the United States within The Netherlands resembled a large grey monolith horizontally pock-marked with repetitions of an ancient Mayan pictograph, the windows designed as an array of inverted trapezoidal recesses to offset the banality of the blunt exterior. The building's austere character exuded utilitarian purpose and was perhaps more commonly associated with the archetypal image of a Gulag headquarters as opposed to the residence of a bilateral diplomatic mission between friendly governments.
On rainy Northern European days the bunkered exoskeleton was prone to emanate an even greater depressive funk as the severe façade of stark concrete walls became stained with patches of precipitation and creeping damp. If image was everything, the US Embassy would indicate a distinctly lamentable relationship between the two nations, contrary to the reality and in spite of the so-called 'Hague Invasion Clause' of the 'National Defense Authorization Act' which had been signed as federal law by the Bush Administration.
Passed by Congress in 2002 and officially entitled 'The American Service-Members' Protection Act', the amendment had been dubbed with the somewhat alarmist but derisory nickname in accordance with its intimidatory intentions against the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court.
Its stated purpose was to protect military and official personnel against sequester by all means necessary and appropriate, however, since The Hague was essentially the home of the ICC, the act had been characterised as a licence to use any and all force against the city should a US citizen be brought to trial there.
Regardless of the inference of a cynically cavalier approach to the concept of international law, official diplomacy between the two countries stretched back to 1782 and the ostensibly congenial relationship between the Dutch and American allies would probably have been better celebrated via a residence that captured and illustrated the old-world architectural style of its situation in The Hague, the political capital of The Netherlands. In spite of the choice of habitat, the Dutch life of an embassy employee of the US government could be good, in fact, Dale Mallory usually considered it to be great, but opinions could change quickly.
Gently but exaggeratedly replacing the handset back onto the cradle of his desk phone, Dale flaked back into his chair as if completely exhausted.
'Damn it!'
His colleague Phil, on the opposite side of the desk, looked up from peering intently at his computer screen and raised his eyebrows.
'Trouble?'
Dale shook his head and glowered, quickly glancing at his wristwatch to check the time.
'I don't believe it! It's just gone three o'clock and I had the OK to take the rest of the afternoon off! That was some guy from Langley,' he checked the notes he had made during the call, 'Jackson Revere from Library Services. Can you believe he wants me to run an errand for him? Today! Right now! Some old book that he needs to have picked up. I cannot believe that they've got us doing their shopping for them now! I can't work like this!'
Phil shrugged and shrunk back behind his monitor.
'Can't be all bad, at least you'll be out and about, you can slink off afterwards.'
'He's sending over the requisition now,' Dale grimaced, 'shit!'
After a short introspection, he resigned himself to his fate.
'I'm going to the
coffee machine, you want one?'
'Yeah sure, I'll have a wiener melange,' Phil responded without looking up.
Dale grunted and stood, turning on his heel to head out of their cramped shared office to the coffee machine further along the corridor.
It took less than five minutes for the electronic requisition documents to appear in Dale's e-mail in-box with copies to his departmental chief. A second mail contained the details of his short secondment, details which made no sense at all to Dale.
'I'm supposed to be working with the DEA not playing delivery boy! Do they think I sit around all day with a finger up my butt?'
Dale's exclamation was rhetorical although Phil was keen to respond as he supped at his mild chocolate coffee.
'What are you worried about, you were going to take the afternoon off anyway, besides, I thought that you'd just finished your last assignment?'
Although thirty-four years of age, Dale was still regarded as a junior operations manager within the CIA but had demonstrated some notable proficiency in getting to grips with the procedural mechanisms of liaison in global operations and the finalisation of his last assignment had brought him much recognition within the organisation's management team.
The DEA had seconded a couple of Special Agents to the Dutch National Crime Squad and he had shadowed their work as part of a joint law enforcement effort, helping to direct the investigations into a South American related cocaine cartel. Their work had led to the seizure of over five thousand kilograms of cocaine and the arrest of almost forty defendants; statistics which always looked good on a résumé and which would stand him in good stead in future promotion stakes.
Ignoring Phil's comment, Dale read through the detail of the request from Jackson Revere, distractedly blowing over his hot black coffee to cool it down.
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