the investigation? That way no one has to die.”
Thornhill looked at his younger colleague in a disappointed fashion. “And how would you propose going about explaining to the FBI director why we wish him to do so?”
“How about the truth?” the younger man said. “Even in the intelligence business there’s sometimes room for that, isn’t there?”
Thornhill tapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. He truly saw the FBI as one of the worst offenders in trying to usurp the CIA’s powers. And his colleague wanted essentially, to partner with them. Idiot!
He smiled warmly. “So I should say to the FBI director, who by the way would love to see us all permanently interred in a museum, that we wish him to call off his potentially blockbuster investigation so that the CIA can trump his agency. Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that? And where would you like to serve your prison term?”
“For Chrissakes, Bob, we work with the FBI now. This isn’t 1960 anymore. Don’t forget about CTC.” CTC stood for the Counter Terrorism Center, a joint, cooperative effort between the CIA and the FBI to fight terrorism, by sharing intelligence and resources. The CTC encouraged relationships at both the senior and field levels between two agencies that had, historically, been more enemies than allies. An impetus behind the CTC was to stop the jurisdictional-hogging, ego-driven bickering between the two behemoths, and encourage working together for the good of the country. It received substantial funding from the federal government, and had been generally deemed a success by those involved. To Thornhill, it was simply another way for the FBI to stick its tenacious fingers in his business.
“I happen to be involved in CTC in a modest way,” Thornhill said. “I find it an ideal perch on which to keep tabs on the bureau and what they’re up to, which is usually no good, as far as we’re concerned.”
“Come on, we’re all on the same team, Bob.”
Thornhill’s eyes focused on the younger man in such a way that everyone in the room froze. “I would request that you never utter those words in my presence again,” Thornhill said.
The man paled, and sat back in his chair.
Thornhill clenched his pipe between his teeth. “Would you like me to give you concrete examples of the FBI taking the credit, the glory for work done by our agency? For the blood spilled by our field agents? For the countless times we’ve saved the whole bloody world from annihilation! Would you like me to give you instances in my forty-year career where the FBI did all it could to discredit our mission, our people? Would you?”
The man slowly shook his head.
“I don’t give a damn if the FBI director himself came down here and kissed my shoes and swore his undying allegiance to me, I will not be swayed. Ever! Have I made my position clear?”
“Yes.” The younger man nodded slightly.
Another person said, “Okay, I get your point, but if we kill the agent don’t you think the FBI will go on a crusade to find out the truth? Then where are we?”
Some grumblings rose from the others. Thornhill looked around warily. The collection of men here represented a very uneasy alliance. They were paranoid, inscrutable fellows long used to keeping their own counsel. It had truly been a miracle to forge them together in the first place. He was well aware that it would not take much to undo it all.
“The FBI will do everything they can to solve the murder of one of their agents, and the chief witness to one of their most ambitious investigations ever. So what I would propose doing is to give them the solution we desire them to have.” They looked curiously at him. He cleared his throat, sipped water from the glass in front of him, and then took a minute to restoke his pipe.
“After years of helping Buchanan run his operation, Faith Lockhart’s conscience or good sense or paranoia got the better of her. She went to the FBI and has now begun telling them everything she knows. Through a little foresight on my part we were able to discover this development. Buchanan, however, is completely unaware that his partner has turned against him. He also does-n’t know that we intend to kill her. Only we know.” Thornhill inwardly smiled at this last remark. It felt good, omniscience; it was the business he was in, after all.
“The FBI, however, may suspect that he does know about her betrayal, or may find out at some point. Thus, to the outside observer, no one in the world has greater motivation to kill Faith Lockhart than Danny Buchanan.”
“And your point?” the same man said.
“My point,” said Thornhill tersely, “is quite simple. Instead of allowing Buchanan to disappear as we previously agreed, we tip the FBI that he and his clients discovered Lockhart’s duplicity and had her and the agent murdered.”
“But once they get hold of Buchanan, he’ll tell them everything,” the man quickly responded.
Thornhill looked at him as a disappointed teacher to pupil. Over the last year, Buchanan had given them everything they needed; he was now officially expendable.
The truth slowly dawned on the group. “So we tip the FBI about Buchanan posthumously. Three deaths … correction, three murders,” the man said.
Thornhill looked around the room silently gauging the reaction of the others to this exchange, to his plan. Three deaths by whatever means meant nothing to these men. What they all did for a living routinely cost people their lives; however, their operations had also avoided open war on many occasions. Kill three to save three million, who could possibly argue with that? Even if the victims were relatively innocent. Every soldier who ever died in battle was innocent, too.
No formal vote was taken by Thornhill; none was needed.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Thornhill said, “I’ll take care of everything.” He adjourned the meeting.
The Simple Truth Page 50