John Weisman: Direct Action

P, 2the case of.cer who’d been tasked to write the majority of the Ames report, blinked. “I agree, Charlie. But what course do we take? I think we should sleep on it. Reconvene tomorrow with some ideas.”

“Some of us already know what we have to do, STIGGINS,” Hoskinson growled. Even in the bubble room he used the undercover officer’s Agency pseudonym, Edward C. STIGGINS. “Ed, you made the perfect suggestion yourself an hour and a half ago. Sleeping on it won’t change anything. There’s only one element that has to be changed.”

“Which is,” Wyman continued, “that instead of building a new DO on the inside, we do it on the outside-and we make a lot of money in the process.”

Alan Martin’s knuckles rapped the table. “Take the DO private. Brilliant.”

“A two-level organization.” Wyman polished his monocle. “Level one: overt. A privately held corporation. Commercial and industrial risk and threat assessment, crisis management, and security counseling. Big market. Believe me, I’ve been approached.” He looked at Panitz. “We’re talking revenue in the mid-seven figures our first year.”

Bronco Panitz caught the look between Hoskinson and tony Tony. They’d been plotting this for some time now .

Wyman shot his French cuffs to display antique five-dollar gold-piece cuff links. “Level two: covert. We target the areas where the DO is blind-Middle East, Southwest Asia, Africa, et cetera, and then we sell our product-twenty-four-karat stuff-back to Langley. For a stiff fee, of course.”

“And Langley will pay,” Hoskinson said. “Because it’s a Potemkin Village these days.”

“He’s right,” Alan Martin grumbled. “There’s virtually no human product coming in. It’s all liaison and technical.”

“Recruiting won’t be a problem, believe me,” Tony Wyman said. “Deutch is pushing the best people out. I’ve got commitments from more than a dozen of our colleagues.”

Alan Martin had to admit it was brilliant. In order to save the Directorate of Operations from self-destructing, Hoskinson and Tony were suggesting they run the same sort of covert action they’d used successfully in the past against the Soviet Union, China, Iran, and dozens of other nations, political parties, and terrorist groups. But instead of providing information that would destabilize, they’d pass on the intelligence CIA was currently incapable of gathering for itself.

STIGGINS frowned. “Deutch won’t like it.”

“Deutch won’t ever know.” When STIGGINS started to object, Bronco Panitz said, “Christ, David Cohen’s always contracting annuitants for odd jobs. As well as farming out work to half a dozen consultants.”

It was true. Retirees currently ran one-man CIA stations in five sub-Saharan African nations on a contract basis. In the NE bureau, there were two acting branch chiefs who were actually employees of private risk-assessment firms. One had resigned from CIA in 1994, the other in 1995. But because they had current clearances and polygraphs, they’d been hired back-in their old slots no less-because CIA had so few experienced case officers available with real street experience in the region. The two, who’d retired at the GS-14 level and earned roughly $86,000 a year, were now costing the American taxpayer $1,250 per day each, plus benefits: $325,000 a year.

“You’ll need a network at headquarters, Tony.” Alan Martin’s expression grew intense. “Access agents, penetration agents, agents of influence, and most important, moles . You know how it is on the seventh floor. It’s all about job security. If you don’t have a handle on what the seventh floor is thinking, sooner or later they’ll scapegoat you.”

Tony Wyman fixed the monocle into his right eye and stared first at STIGGINS, then swiveled oh…so…slowly toward Martin, then panned back again to STIGGINS. He released his facial muscles. The monocle fell. “And your point is…”

Alan Martin got the message. “STIGGINS and Martin. It sounds like a vaudeville act.”

Tony Wyman grinned. “It sounds more like the 4D-627 Network to me.”

By 2:30P.M. they’d reached a consensus. An hour and a half later, Antony Wyman, Bronco Panitz, and Charles Hoskinson had started the paperwork for their retirements. When Tony’s secretary asked what he planned to do, he said he and a couple of friends were going to open a private security firm.

“What are you going to call it? Wyman and Associates?”

“Wyman and Associates. Has a nice ring to it, m’dear, but perish the thought. Far too… égoïste pour moi . We are calling ourselves…the 4627 Company.”

15 OCTOBER 2003

9:52A.M.

EREZ CROSSING, GAZA

SASS RODRIGUEZ SHIFTED IN THE DRIVER’S SEATof the armored Chevy Suburban and panned his Oakleys through the thick, bulletproof windshield of the big silver FAV. 3“Perfect day for the beach, huh, McGee?”

“You’re right, Sass-man. It’s beer weather.” Jim McGee was riding shotgun. His dark eyes flicked up toward the clear blue sky. He sighed, ran his fingers through close-cropped, prematurely gray hair, then rapped scarred knuckles on the thick glass of the permanently sealed, two-inch-thick side window. “All that draft Carlsberg and all that beautiful Israeli booty and we’ll be stuck in this sardine can all day.”

“You volunteered to waste your time, Jimbo,” Sass said. “Not my prob.”

“You’re right-stupid me.” McGee scanned the knot of vehicles in front of them as Sass eased forward past the first line of scarred concrete Jersey barriers leading to one of the checkpoint funnels. “Time to check in.” The FAV halted abruptly as a cluster of nervous-looking Israeli soldiers in full combat gear signaled Sass to stop. Then, using the muzzles of their rifles to give instructions, they shifted half a dozen cars aside, pulled a white Citroën with four young Arabs from the line, yanked the Palestinians out of the car, and proned them facedown in the dust.

McGee unlatched the microphone from the radio bolted to the console, pressed the transmit button, and said, “Tel Aviv Base, Lima-One. Pulling into Erez checkpoint.”

There was a six-second pause. Then the radio crackled: “Lima-One, Tel Aviv. Position confirmed.”

“What would we do without GPS?” Sass scratched his ear and swiveled toward the third man in the FAV. “Think we’ll get held up today, Skip?”

“Nah.” Skip O’Toole tapped his earpiece, squelched the volume on the walkie-talkie, held his hand over the microphone clipped to the collar of his 5.11 tactical vest, and leaned forward. “It’s been quiet since the holidays.” He pointed toward the Citroën. Two of the four passengers were being flexi-cuffed, arms pinioned tightly behind their backs, Israeli M-16s pointed at their heads. “See how mellow the Is are today? They ain’t kicking anybody. They ain’t shooting anybody. Just poking ’em a little-enough to rile ’em but not enough to set ’em off.” O’Toole was smaller framed than the other two-a wiry little red-haired bundle of energy who ate like a horse and ran marathons when he wasn’t chasing what he liked to call long-haired dictionaries.

But then O’Toole was a SEAL, a West Coaster out of SEAL Five who’d been forward-based in Guam. He was twenty-nine, and he’d loved the Teams. But even Froggish camaraderie wasn’t enough to prevent him from leaving the Navy after his third hitch to hire on at DynCorp. Hell, O’Toole had two ex-wives, three kids, and a Stateside girlfriend to support, something that was impossible to do on a petty officer second class’s salary. At DynCorp he brought down a hundred grand per year plus expenses, more than twice what he made in the Navy, and just about all of it tax-free.