“See you at seven.” She broke the connection.
* * *
Jill Rucker was there on time. She was wearing a green, hooded parka, dark slacks, and a green-and-blue headscarf. I watched her from the south platform long enough to be sure she was alone before I dialed her number.
When she answered, I said, “Lenny’s restaurant is two blocks north. Find it. I’ll find you. No calls on the way. If you stop or talk to anyone, I’m into the wind.”
I watched her leave the station before I ran to my waiting cab. When Jill entered Lenny’s, I took her arm and steered her to the private room where Bowen had offered me a contract so many dead bodies ago. Jill and I sat facing across the only table.
“Here.” I slid my body cam over to her. “It’s the one I used to record our conversation. I didn’t copy the memory card.”
“Thank you.” There was a question in her eyes.
I added, “I didn’t want you to worry that I might show up some day, demanding favors and holding that recording over your head.” Those last two words drew my attention to her stylish headscarf. She had skillfully wrapped it to hide the forehead wound I inflicted in Panama.
Jill saw where my attention was focused. “You marked me for life.” It was a statement without rancor, just a fact.
“I’m truly sorry, but you were trying to shoot me.”
“And I’m truly sorry that I missed.” That was rancor.
I laughed. She didn’t.
“Max, I still want the kompromat on Walldrum.”
“We all want something. I want to know what happened to my old Agency boss, Prescott Hamilton, aka Rodney.”
“Why are you asking about Rodney?”
“Curiosity. I haven’t been able to contact him.”
“Why do you want to contact the boss who got you fired?”
I smiled politely. “I have difficulty terminating relationships unless firearms are involved.”
Jill didn’t appreciate my humor, but she gave me an update on Rodney so we could get back to her favorite subject, the kompromat. “Rodney,” she said, “stands accused of shooting two Russian illegals to death on his boat. There’s no murder weapon … yet, but his fingerprints are on everything else that matters. Because of the Russian angle, the FBI took the case and quashed the news story. Rodney is being held in a secure location and interrogated by a joint CIA-FBI task force. He claims he was framed, but can’t think of anyone with a motive.
“The task force is pursuing two lines of inquiry,” Jill told me. “The first is Rodney’s involvement with the Russians. The second is identifying people who had a motive to frame him. On the second issue, the investigators went thorough—among other things—Rodney’s personnel actions. Your name rose to the top of the list of people with a motive. That’s when the Agency pulled me into the investigation. Since I worked with you recently, the Seventh Floor thought my insights might be helpful.”
“And were they, your insights, I mean?”
Jill ignored my question. She was doing a lot of that. “Speaking of people with a motive,” she said, “where’s your live-in, Ms. Claudia Navarro, the lady who initiated the email exchange that got you fired?”
“At my house or hers, I guess.”
“Neither. She put her condo up for sale and cleaned out her bank and brokerage accounts. The forwarding address she left with her real estate agent is in Greece. We visited her workplace. Mr. Lyle Palmer, Esquire, of Stratton, Radcliff, and Bowles told us”—Jill raised her nose in the air and looked down it—“‘Ms. Navarro has been let go due to an ethical issue involving one of the firm’s clients. Of course, we can’t discuss it—with you. Attorney-client privilege,’ ‘cetra, ‘cetra. Prick.”
Jill continued, “It seems that Claudia Sleep-Over has vanished with the dawn like The Good Pussy Fairy.”
“There you go. The guilty party is running. My money’s on Claudia for the hit on the Russian illegals.”
“Bullshit.”
“Your language has gotten salty since you began discussing Ms. Navarro. I think you’re jealous. How about a breath mint?”
“How about you kiss my ass.”
“Didn’t I do that on our cruise? Am I scheduled for an encore?”
“What you’re scheduled for is a harsh interrogation at a safe house with lights shining in your eyes. The FBI has security camera footage of a man near Rodney’s boat at the National Marina the night the Russians were killed. It’s a partial profile shot, not enough to make an ID, but since you have a motive, a lot of people are looking for you.”
“And here I am. Why didn’t you turn me in when I called? You could have been voted CIA Employee of the Month.”
She took too long to answer. “I didn’t want anyone else to know about the body cam recording.”
“That’s partially true,” I acknowledged. “The other reason you didn’t give me up is that if I’m in custody, the focus will be on trying to nail me for the boat murders and ‘case closed.’ That’s not what you and the Agency counterintelligence types really want. Is it? You want to know how Rodney was connected to the Russians. Right now, the Agency is looking at everything Rodney ever touched to see if he spied for the Russians. Am I right?” That was a rhetorical question. We both knew the Agency’s mole hunt drill.
“Did you kill those Russians, Max?”
I smiled. “On the advice of counsel, I respectfully decline to answer that question on the grounds that it would tend to incriminate me … and make me a hero.” I laughed. She didn’t.
I decided to make things easier for her. “Here’s a theory for you. Suppose Rodney sent those Russian illegals after someone, and that someone killed the Russians in self-defense. Maybe that someone left the bodies as bread crumbs that the Agency could follow back to Rodney, and find out what he was up to with the Russians.”
“Is that what happened?”
It was my turn to ignore her. “That brings us to the other reason you didn’t turn me in. You didn’t get the kompromat from me in Panama. So, you came to this meeting, to talk me out of it, complete your mission, and get that little gold star next to your name.”
Jill tried to be patient with me. “Max, I’m pretty sure Rodney screwed you and I know you’re angry, but I also know you’re a patriot. The American people need to see the documents we collected on Walldrum. Give them to me.”
“What are you offering?”
“If your product is good, the Agency could give you back your old job. You might even get Rodney’s job.”
“What if I don’t want an Agency job?” I was thinking about my five million in the Belize bank. “What I want is the same package the Agency would give a Russian defector who walked in with the goods on Walldrum. I want to come in from the cold with protection, a pension, and resettlement.”
“That’s not going to happen, Max.”
“Your pay grade is way too low to make that call. Take my offer to your boss.”
“And you’ll deliver the Walldrum kompromat?”
“I can. Zabluda hijacked the kompromat and stole five million dollars from me. I think I know where to find him.”
“Oh, Max, stop it! I know you’re lying.”
Jill was frustrated and done with me. She turned on the body cam and accessed the recording I made of her in Panama. For a few seconds, she listened to her voice telling me the things that saved her life and could ruin her career. Satisfied, she powered down the instrument and removed the memory card.
She said, “Get a new phone and text me the number. I may need to call you in an emergency.”
Or track me using my cell phone. “What kind of emergency?”
“I told you, the FBI and the Agency are on your trail. I’ll try to give you a heads-up if they get close.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Professional courtesy. Maybe you’ll want to deal the kompromat then.”
Jill got up to leave and I gave her something to think about. “Just in case the pe
ople on my trail get lucky, they need to know that if I did have the kompromat, I’d have taken precautions to release it to the media if an accident should befall me or I just disappear.”
* * *
I had no hope that the Agency would give me a defector package, but I had to ask. The Russians and Brits were after me. I needed cover. They were after Jill, too, but she had Agency protection.
At least my request would slow down the march of the bureaucracies while I attended to other business. Besides, given the then-current nature of D.C. politics, the CIA was far removed from people who made decisions about President Walldrum’s future. I wanted to deal with the DOJ’s special prosecutor’s office. Unfortunately, my pursuers would view that location as a likely place for me to visit and have it under surveillance. I needed an intermediary. Enter, Claudia’s former boss, Lyle Palmer, Esquire, of Stratton, Radcliff, and Bowles.
“This is Lyle Palmer,” his assured voice said into my cell-phone earpiece.
“This is the messenger who warned you about Claudia Navarro and your friend, Rodney. I hear you took my advice. Claudia’s been dismissed.”
“Resigned,” he lied. “Thank you for the heads-up. Claudia explained the … ah … circumstances of her involvement in Rodney’s scheme. I assume you’re Max.”
“I am.”
“If memory serves, you said you might need a lawyer someday. Is this the day?”
“It is. When can we meet?”
“My first available appointment is at three this afternoon.”
The environment at Stratton, Radcliff, and Bowles was all glass, teak, and soft leather, encasing soft-spoken, efficient men and women, sitting on even softer pillows. Lyle Palmer came for me before I could take the seat or the drink the receptionist in the white silk blouse and pearls offered.
A short walk down the hall and we were seated in the glass rectangle of a conference room, at a table that could accommodate the Last Supper and half an art class of Salvador Dali disciples.
Lyle gave me a perfect smile. “My firm owes you a debt of gratitude. May I call you Max?”
“Sure.”
“Please call me Lyle. What brings you in today, Max?”
“I need someone I can trust to deliver items of value to the DOJ special prosecutor’s office. I want to remain anonymous until I say otherwise. Can you handle that?”
“I have contacts with the special prosecutor. What’s to be delivered?”
“Evidence that President Walldrum is susceptible to blackmail by Russia and is involved in activities not in the interests of the United States of America.”
Lyle unbuttoned his Armani jacket, slipped it off over jade-and-gold cuff links and Patek Philippe watch, and draped it carefully over an empty chair. Thirsty Mr. Palmer went to a teak cabinet and withdrew a silver tray containing a decanter of scotch, two glasses, and a representation contract already made out for me. The representation fee was fifty dollars.
“I’m working for you pro bono. The fee is a formality. It pays for the scotch,” he joked. My lawyer poured, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned his collar.
Lyle said, “Okay, Max, let’s hear it.”
I told him the kompromat story from my firing until my departure from Panama. I left out some details, the names of my teammates, and sources, U.K. and Russian.
When I finished, two hours later, Lyle shook his head, and poured us doubles. “How much can I tell the prosecutor’s office about you?”
“Tell them to review the evidence and get back to you. If they’re interested, we can talk about me.”
“Okay. Let’s see your evidence.”
I gave him an inventory and summaries of each piece of compromising evidence, and copies of enough documents and photos to get the special prosecutor’s attention. Lyle said he would call me soon. I took a cab to my hotel.
* * *
I didn’t have long to wait. Lyle called the next day and asked me to come to his office. When I arrived at the conference room, he looked unhappy.
I asked, “What did your contact at the special prosecutor’s office say?”
“He said, ‘No, thanks.’”
“Why?”
“The special prosecutor’s work is done. His staff is being reassigned. His report has been sent to the Attorney General. The AG will make the announcement in a day or two. It’s over. Our timing was bad. We got to the prosecutor too late.”
“I didn’t know there was an expiration date on the truth. A lot of people risked their lives to get those documents, and some desk jockey tells me it’s too late! To hell with that! I’ll give it to the New York Times and the House Intelligence Committee.”
Lyle spread his fingers and literally pushed back. “I would advise against those courses of action. If your story appears in media that have been unkind to President Walldrum, it will be viewed as a left-wing wet dream. You want the material to be taken seriously, don’t you?”
“What about the House Intelligence Committee?”
“I’m not encouraged by the partisan environment in Congress at present. Anything sent there enters a political meat grinder. The president’s allies will ask questions you can’t or shouldn’t answer.
“For instance, what if they ask you how you got the thumb drive containing those forged AVB documents? What will you say? You got it by impersonating a Russian colonel, escaped by shooting your way out of a bank, were trapped, and rescued by a faceless benefactor operating out of a church confessional, who told you about a Russian plot to get Walldrum the Nobel Prize? Do you hear how crazy that sounds? They’ll drop a net over you.”
“We’ve had two years of crazy since the election! Is my story that unbelievable?”
Evidently, Lyle thought it was. He exhaled loudly and offered, “I have a suggestion. If you refuse to give your information to the CIA, let me take it to the FBI’s counterintelligence people. They understand how our spies operate overseas. They can vet the material, protect your sources, and—let us hope—your methods. They will package the facts for Congress so your story doesn’t sound like the ravings of a madman. The FBI may even have sources that corroborate your findings.”
I didn’t like that much and my glare left no doubt.
“Max, may I take your information to the FBI? I think I can get an audience tomorrow morning.”
“Take it, but tell your contact I’m not going to be stonewalled by, ‘We don’t discuss ongoing investigations.’ I want updates, and if they don’t get my stuff to Congress soon, I’ll go to Capitol Hill myself and tell them the FBI is sitting on it. I’ll go to the news outlets, too. I have copies of the digital files and certified true copies of the documents.”
I called Lyle the next afternoon to get the Bureau’s reaction and, to quote him, “The usually staid FBI is in a lather after seeing your product. They think it’s dynamite.”
That was good news, but the secret to moving dynamite through D.C. bureaucracies is to make sure you’re not holding it when it explodes. When careers are at risk, explosives can end up on a conveyor belt to nowhere. Lyle counseled patience.
* * *
Meantime, I attended to unfinished business. I wired more cash to Vanessa’s D.C. bank account and called Australia to tell her to go back to work.
“What about us?” she asked.
“Rodney’s out. There’s no one to honor his promise to bring you back to Langley. I’m out too, thanks to Rodney.”
“You’re out?” There was panic and disbelief in her voice.
“I’m doing consulting work in the same field, and in a bit of trouble.”
Vanessa knew not to ask about my work. She just said a pitiful, “Oh, Max …”
“We said goodbye when you went to Australia. Maybe we should leave it there.” That’s where we left it.
A week went by. I changed hotels and logged a lot of TV time. The special prosecutor’s report was stuck in the Attorney General’s office and news outlets were in a feeding frenzy because of it. I called Lyle.
He hadn’t heard from his FBI contact. “Max, you gave them a hot property. It may have stirred up another investigation, maybe more than one. It’s going to take time to process. You have to be patient.”
“No, I don’t, Lyle. It sounds like the Attorney General is burying the special prosecutor’s report and, for all I know, he’s burying mine, too. Tell your FBI contact I want a progress report tomorrow or I go to Congress and the press.”
* * *
Stan Herman was a friend. We did a tour in Moscow together. He reported the news for his paper. I ran Russian assets and collected intel for the CIA. We drank a lot of scotch together in those days. I had Stan’s glass filled and waiting when he entered the bar.
He was a bear in corduroy and lumbered to my table with a broad smile and a hug. “Max! Great to see you.”
“You, too. Sit. How’s my favorite investigative reporter?”
“Still prowling the night, pen in hand. Hey, sorry about your job. I called a bunch of times to get the story behind that story. Why didn’t you get back to me?”
“I’ve been away. I had consulting work in the U.K. and Russia.”
Stan’s eyebrows went up along with his antenna. “Oh?”
“I collected some documents about our favorite president.”
Stan lowered his voice. “What kind of documents?”
“The kind that get you impeached. They confirmed allegations in the Ironside Dossier.”
“You got them from Ironside himself?”
“Colleagues, eyeball witnesses to the dirty deeds.”
“Ironside was killed some weeks ago. Are your documents linked to his death?”
“Yes.”
Stan’s lips formed a small “o.” “Jesus, Max.” He reached for the pad that was always in his jacket pocket. “Should I be writing this down?”
“Not yet. I notified the appropriate government agencies that the documents exist. I’m beginning to think they don’t care. If I don’t get a different vibe soon, I’m going public. Do you want the exclusive?”
“Does a bear crap in the woods? How many columns am I going to need?”
The President’s Dossier Page 28