by Frank Perry
keep moving around, mostly in jungle locations. If we don’t keep the program going constantly, we lose track of them and our assets. They’re really hard to find after they move.
“Here’s a brief on the program and the budget approved before you took over.” She handed Rachael a file folder with a red and white candy striped cover which said “Secret” in large bold letters.
Rachael took a quick look at the one-page project description and the budget lines at the bottom. “Okay, Martha. This seems pretty straightforward. What’s the problem?”
Martha responded, “Well, each year, the project gets re-approved and so does the budget after some haggling. But, then it goes to the accountants for funding, and I’ve been getting cut each year. This year, I don’t have anything funded yet, and we could be in real trouble if someone wanted good intel on the drug factories.”
Rachael said, “I know things have been a little tight in Appropriations, but this seems like relatively small change and important work.”
She looked at Martha for a moment then continued, “Is there someone in the Comptroller’s shop I should speak to? I don’t know my way around yet, but this might be a good place to start asking questions.”
Martha hesitated a moment then said, “Rachael, I don’t want to sound like an office politician, but all my projects and Hal’s, if you ask him, have been cut. Your department is fully funded, but it’s not being used according to the composite plan we submit each year. Funds are being taken from most of our projects to fund Jamie’s Operation in Mexico.”
Rachael looked at Martha before responding, “I don’t know anything about Jamie’s projects.”
“It may be hard to nail him down. He’s been bouncing around here in different DDOs (Deputy Director Offices) for years.” Martha was obviously uncomfortable.
“Well, if I’m responsible for results in this office, I damn well will know how money is being spent and what’s going on.”
Martha interjected, “I’m sorry if you feel affronted. It’s just that we’re all trying to do our jobs, and it’s hard when our budgets are always cut.”
Rachael put a hand on Martha’s arm, “Martha, I’m not upset with anything you told me and appreciate your honesty. I’m going to talk to Hal also and won’t say anything about our discussion.”
“Okay, Rachael, I appreciate it. I’m not an office snitch, but this hurts us all and maybe the whole agency.”
“Thanks, Martha, I’m a person who likes a lot of dialogue, so please come see me whenever you want. By the way, when I look through the department plan, what is the name of Jamie’s pet project?”
Martha bristled, “See, that’s another thing. He won’t talk to any of us about it, including whomever his boss is at the time without someone threatening him ... but, he calls it ‘Sandcastle’.”
After meeting with Martha Riggs, Rachael asked Cybil to show her the department files. Cybil showed her a cabinet among many others with a typical class 1 combination lock. Cybil didn’t immediately offer the combination, but wrote it on a paper for Rachael when she glared at her.
The files were nicely organized, but there were no “Project” files per se. All of the project information was in a drawer marked Budget Support, which was organized by Fiscal year. One of the ironies of the Federal Processes is that project funding must be incrementally approved by Congress each year, and there could be no assurance of continuity year after year. This was one of the failings of the CIAs effort to rout the Soviets from Afghanistan. As soon as their occupation ended, the funds were cut off, leaving the largely-illiterate population with modern weapons and no economy to emerge again under Islamic extremism.
In the current budget, there were fourteen projects authorized and budgeted across the department’s region. Of these, none was particularly outstanding, but Project Sandcastle was omitted. As she investigated further there was a footnote associated with a miscellaneous discretionary account that said “Sandcastle continuance under Director approval.” This meant nothing to her. Putting the file under her arm, she closed and locked the file and began walking toward the Comptroller’s department, which was on the first floor when Cybil bleated, “Where are you going with that?”
Rachael almost ignored her, but she stopped and replied, “I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t walk out of here with a classified document. Don’t you know what that Black and White striped jacket means?”
Rachael looked straight at Cybil, “Look Cybil, I’ve been a registered courier for Top Secret documents for over five years. Don’t presume to lecture me.”
Cybil slowly removed her glasses and said in a low monotone, “You may have courier privileges with the DoD, but CIA is different.” Her facial muscles were tightened and her lips pursed.
“Look. I don’t know what’s got your panties in a twist, but if your attitude doesn’t change, I’ll have you transferred to the cafeteria so you can lecture the beets and carrots.”
“You can’t walk out with that ...” Before she could finish, Rachael turned and walked out the glass door into the corridor for the elevator. She smiled to herself. She’d learned long ago in the Pentagon that initiative trumped procedure in most cases. The CIA building was one large vault, and she wasn’t going to pass into any unsecured areas. As far as handling of the classified material was concerned, she was within regulations for safeguarding materials. Cybil wasn’t as knowledgeable as she needed to be.
Using the elevator, she exited on the second floor and walked down the long corridor adorned with dramatic photos, posters and paintings of events that would never be public. She only had a vague recollection of the location of the Finance department from her orientation tour. She guessed right and found the double glass doors marked “Controller’s Department” at the end of the hall. Inside, she was greeted almost immediately by a balding overweight man in his late forties, “May I help you?”
She responded, “Yes, I’m Rachael Aston, DDO for ...”
He interrupted, “Yes, Ms. Aston. I know who you are, welcome aboard.” He extended his hand and tried to impress her with his crushing strength. She grabbed it quickly and he backed off, fearing she could overpower him. He looked up at her, smiling with his face slightly tilted, “I received a call from your Department Assistant that you were coming to see us. I’m Frederick Pounds. I’m the Chief Bean-Counter around here. How can I help you?”
She extended her hand, “Hello, Frederick. Call me Rachael.”
“Well, thanks er ... Rachael. Call me Freddy.”
She continued, “Freddy, I’d like your help understanding something in my department budget.” She started to open the file in her hand when Freddy placed a hand on her elbow and motioned toward his office.
“Why don’t we step in here to discuss this?”
She reluctantly followed him. Once inside, he closed the door and offered her a chair, then stood slightly to one side behind her, bending uncomfortably close, saying, “Now, how can I help?”
She opened the file, “You see this note? What does it mean?”
He adjusted his reading glasses, looking over her shoulder, suspiciously close to her face and touching her shoulder. “Well, I don’t know. It seems to say that the Director has the information.” He then cocked his face within inches of hers. She could smell the Kimchee he had for lunch.
Rachael stood up abruptly, several inches taller than Freddy, saying, “That would have been Director Lawrence, I presume?”
He backed away saying, “I can’t imagine Director Vitale is up to speed on all this, but you could ask him.”
“Thanks, I’ll get the information somewhere else.”
“Sorry that I couldn’t help, but I’m just the numbers guy.”
As she left the department, she thought about how simple it must be to crunch numbers all day long with no idea what they signify. Obviously, it was a lie. She could never work in accounting.
When she returned to th
e office, Cybil was re-reading a memo, trying to look busy when Rachael tossed the file on her desk, “File that.” She kept walking without looking back. It felt good to demean the bitch.
The Border
Stokes met Matt Berkowitz at the USBP (Border Patrol) heliport at the nearby airstrip. He wore his body armor and Kevlar helmet, as instructed. The helicopter they would be using was a Bell 412 equipped to move agents and provide all-weather surveillance from the air. They would be flying within rifle range of the border to give Stokes a full view of the station’s challenge. Most of the terrain was urban where Juarez and El Paso faced each other, with only a canal and a couple roads separating the two countries. There were several bridges crossing the border.
Matt spoke loudly to overcome the wind and engine noise from the open side door. “You see those bridges? They’re the main drug channels along this part of the border. Sometimes whole semi-truck loads come across.”
Stokes shouted, “That seems risky. A truck load must be worth millions.”
“Right. Usually a bunch of millions. They don’t do the big loads often, and we don’t catch many.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, there are hundreds of trucks each day, and we only inspect about five percent. If we catch one, it’s usually because someone tipped us off. Also, these drug guys are good with paperwork, but the bottom line is that there’s got to be some