The President’s Dossier

by James A. Scott

  “A Sunday headline feature and some follow-on stories. Those should generate a boatload of leads for you.”

  Stan whistled. “Where have you been all my life and are you married?”

  He calmed down and asked, “When will you make the decision?”

  “Soon. There’ll be a lot of sources and methods stuff that I can’t tell you, but the documents speak for themselves. They meet the gold standard.”

  “They had better. I don’t want the kind of flack that hit the Ironside Dossier when it went public.”

  I leaned into Stan. “Three governments are after me. If I go public, I’ll have to do it fast and move. I need a code that gets me straight to you if I call.”

  “Sure. Say that you’re Wilfred Jackson. If I get a call from Wilfred, the office staff will have instructions to interrupt me or find me right away.”

  “Who’s Wilfred Jackson?”

  “The guy who stole my high school sweetheart and married her. He’s not likely to call and I’m not likely to forget his name.”

  “I’ll need an address, too, if I can’t deliver the documents in person.”

  Stan wrote an address on his business card and gave it to me. “What happens if your government friends decide to use your stuff?”

  “In that case, I’ll buy you drinks for a year and tell you stories you can’t print.”

  Stan raised his glass. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Early afternoon of the next day, I was using a rented computer to prepare a sanitized summary of the kompromat story for Stan Herman, in the event I had to go public. Jill Rucker called.

  “Max, we need to meet. It’s about our visit to the bank.”

  The only bank we visited together was in Moscow and we had to shoot our way out. My armpits began to sweat.

  “Same place as last time?” I asked.

  “No. Don’t go there again. You copy?”

  Lenny’s was under surveillance. “Where?”

  “You pick it.”

  “Hang on.”

  I connected to the Internet, found the website I wanted, and made reservations.

  I told Jill, “Come to Union Station at 3:45 this afternoon. Meet me in the restaurant above the main floor.”

  I couldn’t imagine what Jill Rucker wanted to tell me about the bank shootout. I was there. I don’t know much about bank robbers. I know a lot about human nature. What I know told me that if one bank robber calls her accomplice weeks after the event and wants to discuss it, when they meet, there is a ninety percent chance that fifty percent of the robbers will be wearing a wire.

  Jill had unfinished business with me. In Panama, I disfigured her forehead, kept her from getting the Walldrum kompromat, and secretly recorded her admitting she worked for the CIA. She might consider those grounds for a little payback, like her taping me talking about the bank shootout. I couldn’t forget her admitting regret that she hadn’t shot me to get what I had on Walldrum.

  * * *

  Jill entered Union Station at 3:40 p.m. She wore her hooded green parka, a green-and-tan headscarf, beige dress with buttons down the front, and brown suede boots to cover those muscular, not-so-attractive calves. From my perch above the main floor, I watched her stride across the lobby and up the steps to my level. She wasn’t followed. That didn’t mean she wasn’t under surveillance.

  Jill came to my table and surveyed the restaurant. “I hope we aren’t eating here.”

  “Not to worry. We’re taking a cab.”

  Not really, but if anyone was monitoring our conversation electronically, the shoe leather was headed for the cab stand outside.

  My instructions to Jill were, “No talking at all until I say so.”

  She didn’t protest. I grabbed the briefcase I had purchased for our meeting and guided Jill down to the main floor. Instead of heading outside to the cabstand, we went down one floor to the tracks and queued up in a short line for the Capitol Limited to Chicago and St. Louis.

  I showed our tickets to the gate monitor and we boarded our train. I led Jill to the roomette compartment I had reserved for us. We entered and sat facing each other. I took a 10x6x9-inch Faraday bag from my briefcase and extended it, top open, to my companion. Jill’s first look was hostile. Her second was disgusted, but she knew what I wanted.

  She took the cell phone from her parka and dropped it into the Faraday.

  “The watch and jewelry, including earrings.”

  She removed the items and dropped them into the bag. A Faraday bag has special insulation that prevents snoopers from connecting with your electronic devices to listen to your conversations or locate and track you.

  The Capitol Limited glided out of the station. If Jill was wearing a wire, the guys waiting for us at the cabstand knew we were on the train, but it was too late to catch us.

  “Why aren’t you carrying a pocketbook?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know I would need one to fight off this assault.”

  “Where’s your wallet?”

  Out came the wallet and into the Faraday it went.

  “Headscarf.”

  As Jill unwrapped it, she asked, “Do you want to admire your work?”

  I passed on that one. “Now, the dress.”

  With a defiant look, Jill stripped to her bra, pantyhose, and boots. I examined the dress and laid it on my seat.

  “Turn around, take off your bra, and give it to me.”

  She turned her back, removed the bra, and tossed it over her shoulder. I put it in the Faraday bag.

  Jill faced me with a slight smile. “A bra with a microphone? What a novel idea. It certainly speaks to female needs. You should recommend it to tech services.”

  “They already have it.”

  “Do you want to inspect the rest of my apparel?” Her apparel consisted of black pantyhose and boots.

  “No. I’m not doing this to embarrass you. I’m just trying to stay alive and free.” I handed her the dress and parka. “Please put your clothes on.”

  As Jill buttoned her dress, she said, “Max, if I wanted to trap you, I would have suggested we meet at Lenny’s.”

  “Maybe, but if you wanted to entrap me, you would let me pick a place where I’m comfortable and get me on the wire talking about a bank robbery.”

  “I’m not here about the bank. I lied because I knew the subject would get me a meeting.”

  “If you came to try and talk me out of the kompromat again, you’re too late.”

  “The Agency already has it. The FBI gave it to us. I was asked to authenticate it.”

  “Did you?”

  “The diary we got from Kedrova in St. Petersburg, yes. The rest, no. You kept me in the dark, remember.”

  “So, what are they going to do?”

  “They’ve already done it. When the Agency got the kompromat, they gave it to a red team of analysts who aren’t involved in the Rodney investigation. They had access to a lot of other sensitive Russian intel, but no knowledge of where or how the Walldrum kompromat was collected. Their mission was to identify the sources of the kompromat and assess its credibility. In record time, they rendered the opinion that info regarding the bank records switch and Putin’s deal with North Korea were credible and originated from a source close to Putin.”

  “Did the red team identify the source?”

  “No. They narrowed the field, but couldn’t attribute to a specific individual.”

  Somebody in the Agency knew his identity. Normally, it would be one or two people at Langley and his handler at Moscow Station. Maybe the source didn’t trust Moscow Station after our election and used me to communicate with Langley.

  Jill continued, “At that point, I was dropped from the task force and resumed my regular duties.”

  “What’s the task force going to do with the kompromat?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you. They’re going to bury it to protect the Moscow source.”

  “No!” I’m sure they heard me in the train corridor. “W
hy don’t they use what can’t be traced to the Moscow source … the Kedrova diary, the photos of prostitutes in the hotel with Walldrum? That stuff alone is enough to show that Walldrum was vulnerable to blackmail.” I was beside myself with anger. “And what about the fake condos in Panama? That’s evidence of money laundering!”

  “They’re burying all of it, Max.”

  “Well, they can’t bury the money laundering operation in Panama. A reporter down there has the evidence and he’s going to publish.”

  “They can’t tie the money laundering operation to Walldrum.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the building doesn’t belong to him. Four days after you and Tony-D left Panama, Walldrum sold the Tower to a Russian LLC. Bowen’s law firm represented the seller and buyer, to make the transaction fast and smooth. Now, Walldrum’s company just manages the place and rents out the president’s name for the marquee.”

  “How do you know all this? You said you were dropped from the task force.”

  “The Panama discussion took place before I was reassigned. After I left the task force, I went back to regular duty. I had to analyze some data from another case. I needed a quiet place to think and write. I found a vacant conference room connected to a recording studio. I didn’t want to sit at the table because someone might look in and interrupt me. So, I went into the adjacent recording studio, where I couldn’t be seen. I spread out my papers and went to work. I’d been there for twenty minutes, when three people—two from the Rodney task force and one from the Seventh Floor—came into the conference room for a private chat.”

  Jill anticipated my question. “Don’t ask me who they were, Max. Just telling you what they said could get me fired, but I owe you.”

  Jill continued, “So, these three people came in and what they didn’t know, and what I didn’t know, was there was a hot mic on the podium in the conference room. I could hear their conversation.

  “They said the Agency and the Bureau agree that the kompromat is a can of worms and if they open it, everything will come out or people in high places will have to lie to protect the Moscow source. They don’t trust Congress to handle this responsibly. Congressional committees want everything that might support impeachment. The politicians who support Walldrum will demand everything, sources and methods included, so they can discredit them. One of them said that some of Walldrum’s allies in Congress may be on Moscow’s payroll. They agreed that there’s no way our kompromat is not going to leak if it goes to Congress. And nobody wants to risk losing the Moscow source or risk career suicide by lying to protect him.”

  That was bad logic. “What’s the point in having a great source if you don’t act on his product? Do they think he’s risking his life so we can sit on what he gives us?”

  “The decision’s been made, Max. They’re going to bury the kompromat. They said there’s already enough evidence to impeach Walldrum. Congress needs to find the balls to do it.”

  “What if Congress can’t find its balls!”

  “If that happens, the consensus at the Agency and the Bureau is to let DOJ and the state prosecutors nail him on election fraud, money laundering, income tax issues, and his other crimes.”

  “That’s not good enough. We risked our lives to collect that stuff and people need to know the president is batting for the other team.”

  “We have another risk to worry about now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “One of the people I overheard in that conference room asked the other two about our destiny, yours and mine. At that point, one of them said, ‘I don’t want to be part of that conversation.’ He left the room. The other two stayed and discussed whether or not they could rely on us to keep quiet about burying the kompromat.”

  “And … ?”

  “I found out that I’m a ‘ball-busting bitch,’ but my ambition will keep me quiet and on the team. You, on the other hand, have a ‘hard-on for the Agency’ because Rodney sent your girlfriend to Australia and got you fired. That makes you a threat to the strategy for dealing with Walldrum. It would be better for everyone if you were ‘removed from the equation.’”

  “Were those the exact words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there more?”

  “No. After they left, I waited about ten minutes to be sure they had cleared the hall. Then, I left, but as I was closing the door, one of the two people who had been discussing our destinies came around the corner and saw me with my hand on the doorknob.

  “He said, ‘Were you in there?’”

  “I said, ‘No. I’m looking for a quiet place to work.’ I don’t think he believed me. I went back in anyway and spread my work on the conference table. He followed me in, looked around, and left. He came back about five minutes later, looked in, and left again.

  “Then,” Jill continued, “I got a strange phone call from Panama. The caller said he was one of the lawyers at Bowen’s firm. I had heard his name, but never met him. He said he was helping Bowen with a case. That’s unusual. The work is compartmented. I suspect they keep it that way because a lot of it is shady or downright illegal.

  “First, he asked questions about things that were in my personnel file with his firm. His excuse was that he had never met me and had to be sure I was Jill Rucker. Then, he asked questions that he didn’t have answers for.”

  “Like what?”

  “‘When was the last time you saw Zabluda?’ When I told him, he rephrased it so I had to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ His rephrase was, ‘So, you say the last time you saw Zabluda was in Mexico City.’ Is that correct?’ He rephrased several questions like that.

  “Max, I got the feeling the caller was giving me a voice stress test. The first set of questions established a stress baseline when I was telling the truth. He evaluated my answers to the second set of questions by comparing my stress level to my baseline. Can they do that over the phone from Panama?”

  “I’ve never seen it done that way. It doesn’t sound effective. There could be atmospheric interference that affects the electrical impulses on either end of the call.”

  I shifted gears. “You said the Panama caller wanted your help with one of Bowen’s cases. What did he want you to do?”

  “He wanted me to come to Panama right away so that he and Bowen could discuss the handoff with me.”

  The hair stood on my neck. “Don’t go. It’s a setup”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Bowen is dead. Zabluda killed him in Switzerland. I was there.”

  Jill slumped back against her seat, her expression showing shock and confusion. “You told me Zabluda took the kompromat and your money. You didn’t mention Bowen. You had the kompromat and gave it to the FBI. I don’t know if I should believe anything you say.”

  “Believe this. If you go to Panama, odds are it will be a one-way trip.”

  “I think both of us are in danger, Max. We need a plan.”

  My plan was to send the compromising evidence on President Walldrum to Stan Herman and let the free press do its job. Jill didn’t have a need to know.

  The conductor announced we were a few minutes from Martinsburg, West Virginia.

  “My stop,” I told Jill.

  She looked surprised. “What are you going to do?”

  “Get off the train.”

  Surprise turned to irritation. “I mean about the kompromat … and about us?”

  “The kompromat has a life of its own now, and maybe a death. I’ve done my part—what you wanted me to do all along—deliver it to the Agency. I’m through. I have enough money to hide until the next election. I’m going to get into a hole and pull the hole in after me. Tell that to your colleagues at the Agency.”

  The train was gliding to a halt. “What am I going to do about you? Nothing. You need to separate your fate from mine. They said you’re a team player. Go along. Do whatever is required to survive.”

  Jill’s irritation melted into a plea. “Max, take m
e with you. We can watch out for each other. We’re good together, professionally and personally. You know that.”

  “I do, but if we run together and they find us, we’ll die together.”

  I gave Jill her ticket. “This will get you to St. Louis. Take the full ride and consider your options. Good luck.” I dumped the contents of the Faraday bag into her lap.

  When I got off the train, the chauffeured car I had reserved was waiting to take me back to D.C. As the big Lincoln glided southeast on the Charles Town Pike, I called my messenger service and instructed the manager to deliver a package to my reporter friend, Stan Herman. It contained the evidence Jill and I had collected on President Walldrum. I removed the SIM card from my cell phone and tossed both out the window.

  For the rest of the ride, I thought about that hole I told Jill I was going to hide in. I wondered how to cover my tracks to it, and how deep and how far from Washington it would have to be to keep me alive.

  CHAPTER 32

  I SHOULDN’T HAVE done it, but I was tired. When you’re tired, you make mistakes.

  Irish had warned us many years ago during a training session at The Farm. “When the opposition is after you, you don’t go where you normally go and don’t see anyone you normally see. The only thing that can save your pitiful little ass is a swift exit.” I should have listened to that advice.

  Instead, I used one of my new burner phones to call Sherri.

  “This is Sherri.” Her voice was music to my ears.

  “It’s me. Just wanted to wrap up our last engagement. Are the troops paid?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Let’s never do that again sometime.” She laughed.

  “The SUV Tony-D was driving was in an accident. A big Russian truck, like the one at the London warehouse, jumped the median and hit the SUV. All three passengers were killed.”

  Sherri was alarmed. “Is Tony-D okay!”

  “He escaped with minor injuries. His favorite vest was ripped in two places and he has cracked ribs. He’s healing. He’ll call when he’s ready to go back to work.”

  “And the SUV … ?”

  “Totaled. You might want to tidy up the paperwork.” That was my way of telling her to destroy the fake ID she used to rent the SUV.