“Uh-oh, the dreaded trench coat. Heavy action going down in spytown.” She glanced at my bag. “What’s with the suitcase?”
“I got a job today. It requires some travel. Will you be here when I get back?”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, then, I don’t know if I’ll be here.”
There was silence while we digested that exchange.
Claudia took another sip of wine and said, “You’re Mr. Superspy. If you’re so convinced the president is guilty, why don’t you go get the goods on him?”
“Will you marry me if I do?”
“You can’t afford me.”
“I never could. You knew that when you moved in.” Claudia was a six-figure lawyer on a partnership track with her firm.
She wasn’t surprised by my question. “Was that your usual proposal?”
“Number five. How many times do I have to ask?”
“As many as it takes.” That was the Cabernet talking.
My marriage proposal wasn’t sincere. Claudia knew it. In times of stress, it had become my perverse way of reminding her that I understood the terms of our relationship. Her eighteen-hours-a-day-and-weekends work schedule didn’t leave time for a husband and Claudia didn’t want one. What she did want was that partnership at her law firm. I was a rest stop and sexual filling station on her way to a corner office.
Outside, my cab honked. I picked up my suitcase and grabbed the doorknob.
Her voice softened. “Did you pack warm socks … and your silencer?”
“It’s not a silencer, it’s a sound suppressor. Too bad it doesn’t work in this house.” That was my scotch talking.
I took the cab to the Ritz-Carlton at the Pentagon City mall and made a public telephone call to Sherri Layton. She had the chops I needed for this mission: CIA experience, fluent Russian, and connections to a competent talent pool of brains and muscle. Sherri was a single mother when we started out together at the Agency. We dated briefly, until the father of her child reentered her life, crippled her financially, and disappeared, again. Just when Sherri’s career was taking off, her income needs caused her to leave the Agency and enter the lucrative world of security contracting. Over the years since she left, I had steered Agency jobs to her company, and we had worked together in the field on a few. Our romantic relationship was dead, but mutual trust and respect were alive.
“Layton Security Services. Can I help you?” asked the male voice.
“This is Max Geller. I have a job offer for Sherri.”
“I’ll connect you, sir.”
Sherri Layton answered, a smile in her voice. “Max! I thought you’d forgotten me.”
“No chance of that. Is your passport current?”
“Always.”
“I need a month of your time in Europe and east, starting Monday. What’ll it cost?”
“I’m obligated for a few days during that period. I’d have to cancel. Let’s say five thousand a day and expenses.”
“Deal. Find me two computer hackers, a couple of speed readers, and a four-man heavy metal band. I want everybody in London by Monday evening. The band has to bring its own instruments. No local procurement. Copy?” I didn’t want Sherri’s guys running around London trying to buy guns.
“That’ll require a chartered aircraft.”
“That’s okay for the band. The rest of the team goes commercial. If the band gets jammed up in customs, the show has to go on. Book separate hotels near the Savoy. You take a suite big enough for a team meeting. Text me when everyone is in place.
“And Sherri, get people who might not have a file in the U.K.”
“Is this a company op or … ?”
“Or. I was fired three weeks ago.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
I had one more piece of vital business with Ms. Layton. “Sherri, when I get to the airport, I’m going to mail you a surveillance video disc. About 3:30 p.m., a suit wearing cowboy boots comes into Lenny’s. Claims to be a lawyer named Bill Bowen and he’s connected to a corporation in Panama. I’ll send you the address. I need the book on Mr. Bowen and his employer.”
“When do you want it?”
“I need accuracy, not speed. Get it right. See you in London.”
My second call was to Tommy Leeds in London. Tommy was an intelligence freelancer and professional colleague. We had worked together when I was in Europe and had our own code. I had used Tommy when we couldn’t have CIA involvement.
When Tommy answered, I said, “This is Dolby.” That was the name he knew me by. “I’d like to arrange baggage service.” Baggage service was code for a black bag job, a surreptitious break-in to plant a bug or steal something. In this case, the something was the names of the sources for the allegations against the president in the Ironside Dossier.
“Baggage service is possible. What’s the origin and destination for the bag?”
“The origin is London, destination is Washington.” The break-in would be in London. A destination was bogus, to throw off eavesdroppers.
“I’d like to have expedited service. I’ll call with details on Thursday.” Tommy knew I wouldn’t call. I was telling him to expect a fax with the encrypted address for the break-in. He was to use our Thursday Code to decrypt it.
I added, “The bag will be large and heavy. I suggest you send a man around before the pickup to be sure you send adequate staff to manage it on shipping day.” Translation: You’ll need detailed surveillance ahead of the break-in. The target may have lots of security devices.
I went to the hotel’s business center, wrote out the coded address, and faxed it to Tommy.
On the way to Dulles Airport, I called Bowen to let him know I was on the clock and told him where I’d be staying. My first mistake.
CHAPTER 4
THE FLIGHT TO London was long, but eleven hours after talking to Sherri and Bowen, I checked into the Savoy. A message was waiting for me at the desk: News from Bowen. Call me when you settle in. No name. The phone number was for a room in the Savoy.
Besides me, there were now three people who knew I was in London, where I was staying, and the purpose of my visit. That was way too many. In two weeks or less, a lot of people would be trying to find me or someone with my profile. At that point, the fewer people who knew me and my address, the better my chances of staying out of prison and collecting that ten million dollars. Rodney had an incentive not to tell anyone about me, but Bowen was another story. I had to verify that the anonymous note came from his rep and stop him from telling anyone else about me. I dialed Bowen’s number from memory. Disconnected. That was a bad sign.
I stood in the hall outside of the room mentioned in my anonymous message and dialed the occupant on my cell. I pressed my ear to the door and heard the phone ring. A faint female voice said, “Yes?”
I answered, “Got your note. Meet me at the bar in five minutes.”
I broke the connection and kept my ear to the door, trying to hear if she made a call. She did, but all I heard was her muffled voice. I waited. A minute later, she opened the door. I shoved her back into the room and checked to make sure she was alone.
She was angry. “What the hell are you doing!” Then, she recognized me.
“You wanted to meet me. I’m here.” I snatched her purse and found her wallet.
“Let’s see who you are. Jillian Rucker,” I read from her driver’s license. I rummaged through her purse and compared her passport to the license.
“Okay, Jill Rucker, why are you here and why is my direct line to Bowen dead?”
“Bowen sent me to be your paymaster and quartermaster. I don’t know why your line is dead. Maybe Bowen and his client want to distance themselves from this operation in case it goes wrong. I’m the cutout between them and you. Any problem with that?”
I had a big problem with that. One, the moving parts were multiplying. Two, if Bowen wanted deniability, why involve Jill Rucker. She was one more per
son who could connect him to my operation and corroborate my story, should I ever have to tell it.
I replaced the documents and handed Ms. Rucker her purse. “What do you bring to this party besides money and a cell phone?”
With sarcasm and innuendo, she said, “I’m sure I can be useful. I speak Russian, I can shoot”—she looked me up and down—“and I can kick your ass in a fair fight.”
“Those are the minimum qualifications for my team,” I informed her. “I’ll start you as an intern and see how you perform. You should know that I speak Russian, too. I don’t plan to shoot anyone and I don’t fight fair in an ass-kicking contest.”
Before she could reply, I asked, “Do you know why I’m in London?”
“Conducting research, according to Bowen.”
Good answer, but was that what Bowen told her or did she make it up to put me at ease? If she wanted to put me at ease, why tell me about her shooting and hand-to-hand combat skills? CIA work gives you an ear for inconsistencies and a gut full of paranoia.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“Give me your cell phone.”
She tossed it over. I pulled up her number, memorized it, and tossed the phone back.
“Keep your phone handy. I’ll call if I need you. Otherwise, don’t contact me and stay out of my way.” I left her and went to my room to get some sleep.
The alarm woke me at 2 a.m. I went to the lobby and gave the desk man two one-hundred-pound notes—the Savoy is upscale and requires upscale bribes. In return, he gave me the outside number Jill Rucker called from her room phone while I had been standing at her door the previous day. I dialed it.
“Yes?” answered the guy on the other end.
I used my tough voice. “I want to call Bowen tomorrow. What’s the best time?”
“Who’s calling?”
“If you need to know, Bowen will tell you after I talk to him.”
Hesitation on his end followed by rustling pages. “Call between ten and noon.”
I hung up. Mr. Bowen, you have been reacquired. I had no intention of calling him any time soon, but, now, I could contact him directly without going through Jill Rucker.
CHAPTER 5
EXCEPT FOR THE meeting with Jill Rucker, I spent my arrival day in London resting. The next day was my first workday. I called Tommy Leeds and arranged a morning meeting with him at his flat. Tommy had already taken a preliminary look at the target building. He was not happy.
In his South London Cockney accent, he yelled, “Do you know who lives in that bloody building, Jeffrey bloody Ironside!” Tommy gave me a disgusted look. “Sure, you do. Ironside is retired MI6 and everybody wants to know where he got the information for that damned dossier. If he’s on his game, he’ll be expecting something like this.”
“That’s why I picked you. You’re the best thieving villain I know, and I know a lot of thieving villains.”
I added, “Look on the bright side,” as if there was one. “Since his office, apartment, and garage are in the same building, you only have to execute one entry.”
“That’s the bloody bright side for you. You don’t have to get by his security.”
“Tommy, just name a price that will get you and your team inside that building.”
That got his attention. “Whatever it takes?”
“Blank check,” I said.
“Exactly what do you want, once we’re inside?”
“Everything. Photograph the contents of his safe, his file cabinets, right down to his desk calendar, if he has one. I’m particularly interested in travel documents, credit card receipts, and phone bills.”
“Not much in file cabinets these days, mate. You want us to copy his hard drive?”
“Of course.”
“It’ll be encrypted.”
“Let me worry about that. And get his emails, too, if you can.”
“How much time do we have to perform this little miracle?”
“You’ll have plenty of time. Ironside will be vacationing in Ibiza for ten days.” That’s what Rodney told me. I assured Tommy, “He’s being watched. If he checks out of his hotel early or changes his plane reservation, my sources will notify me. I’ll warn you.”
“Your sources in Ibiza, do they know what my team will be doing in London?”
“No. They don’t know there is a London operation.” That was true. Rodney’s people in Ibiza didn’t know about London.
“When do we go?”
“Ironside leaves for Ibiza tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
Fourteen Months Earlier, Headquarters,
British Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), London
JOCK McALLISTER HAD warned Sydney that this day might come. He was feeling vindication and dread as he knocked on his supervisor’s open door.
Sydney Swope-Soames frowned up from her reading. “What is it, Jock?”
“Heard the latest news from the Colonies?”
“No. Have our American cousins started another revolution?”
“Of sorts, yes. While we were sleeping, Ted Walldrum won the presidential nomination for the Republican Party.”
“God, no! Who saw that coming?”
“No one, apparently, but now it’s happened, what do we do about the material Novak gave us on Walldrum?”
“Well, if the file was sensitive when Walldrum was one of many possibilities, it’s radioactive now that he has a chance at the presidency. We’ll need a decision from the minister. Prepare a packet. I’ll make the calls and set up a meeting for us.”
“Right.” Jock was leaving, but turned back when Sydney called his name.
“Jock. For what it’s worth, I recorded in the file your recommendation to read the Americans in on the Novak material months ago. That was the correct call. Too bad our betters didn’t listen. In any case, full marks for you.”
Full marks, thought Jock, sarcastically. “Thank you, Sydney, but it’s extraordinary.”
“What is?”
“How often we get full marks … and fail.”
Sydney’s expression and voice hardened. “Our job is to feed our customers good intelligence. There are no guarantees they will consume it or share it with friends.”
“Well, this time, those at the feast are going to choke on it.”
* * *
Later, London, MI6 Headquarters
Jock entered Sydney’s office anticipating that Novak was the issue, once again. “You wanted to see me?”
“Close the door and sit down.” Sydney’s tone was part anger, part frustration. “The Novak material has boomeranged its way back to us.”
“They didn’t show it to the Americans?”
“No. Our betters have determined that simply giving it to the Americans at this late date would be tantamount to interfering directly in the U.S. presidential election, or so it might appear to voters and political parties in the States.”
Jock took up the thread. “And, of course, the Americans would be peeved that we had not brought the dossier to their attention earlier.”
“Why, Jock, what a suspicious mind you have.”
“So, we simply sit on the dossier?”
“We should be so lucky. No, direction from on high is that we must devise a way to get the compromising material on Candidate Walldrum to the Americans in such a way that our fingerprints—and by our fingerprints I mean those of MI6, our minister, and certainly those of the prime minister—do not appear thereon.”
“And this is what the prime minister wants?” asked Jock.
“It’s none of our business what the P.M. wants. It is not for us to know if the P.M. has even seen the material. Our business is to convey Novak’s allegations to the Americans in such a way that it cannot be traced back to the British government.”
Jock smiled. “So that, if, by chance, Candidate Walldrum is elected president, he will not hold a grudge against said British government.”
“Precisely,” agreed Sydney. “Now that you have cl
arified the issue for yourself, how do we get the job done?”
“Well,” mused Jock, “we can’t very well stand in Trafalgar Square and shout, ‘Who wants to tell the Americans that one of their presidential candidates has been compromised by the Russians,’ can we?”
“No, we cannot. We need a cutout who is not in our intelligence services—or the government, for that matter—and who would logically have access to the Novak material. That’s the sticky wicket, because, as far as we know, no one outside of government has seen that material.”
“Novak has seen it,” Jock reminded her. “We’re protecting him and paying his bloody resettlement pension. Maybe he could help us.”
“Novak isn’t coming out of the shadows,” Sydney assured him. “He’s afraid he’ll end up like Litvinenko, with a lethal dose of Russian polonium in his afternoon tea.”
“What about Jeffrey Ironside? He debriefed Novak and he’s retired.”
“Yes. Jeffrey might do,” agreed Sydney. “He’s worked in Moscow and Russia Section here at headquarters. What’s he doing these days?”
“He’s a contract investigator for corporate headhunters.”
“Well, then, he sounds like our man. He has the perfect credentials. If the Americans raise questions about the source of the allegations, they should stop at Jeffrey Ironside’s doorstep, and we will have plausible denial. Good.”
Jock cleared his throat. “Having Ironside volunteer the allegations is simply another version of the Trafalgar Square scenario. We need someone from the American side to employ Ironside to investigate Candidate Walldrum’s activities in Russia.”
A thoughtful Sydney said, “Yes … yes, of course. I believe I know someone who can cause such a request to be channeled to Ironside. However, Ironside can’t simply give the Americans our entire Novak debriefing file. We’ll have to create a dossier on Walldrum that looks like an authentic investigative work product that Ironside would normally compile for his clients. Would you prepare the document?”
“I’ll get right to it. Do we have a deadline?”
“Yesterday … and, Jock, this project must be ‘eyes only,’ for just us. No typists, no copies, no computer files. Also, I suggest we drop Novak’s name from the material and call it the Ironside Dossier. We don’t want outsiders asking about Novak.”
The President’s Dossier Page 2