Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Imagine my delight when I found myself in a black government sedan, speeding down the George Washington Parkway. Or my utter surprise when we took the exit to Langley and were soon waved through a guarded checkpoint, and then pulled to a stop in front of the sprawling headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.

A word here about that “debriefing” thing. The list of the proliferating species of Feds who do spooky things, and carry variations of law enforcement credentials, has gotten to be as long as your frigging arm. There’s the DEA, the NSA, the DIA, guys from several counterterrorism agencies so new they don’t even have recognizable initials yet; and these days, even the IRS, U. S. postal inspectors, and Customs Service are elbowing their way into national security turf.

Still, think foppish, secretive, uptight assholes and you end up with… who?

Anyway, my lockjawed escorts and I climbed out of the sedan and then loitered by the entrance until three black Crown Vics pulled up and Janet stepped out. I was pleased to see her; just not pleased to see her here. However, she pecked my cheek and squeezed my shoulder, which I liked. We had only a brief moment to speak, during which she informed me that George the Moron had phoned and told her about the little problem back in my apartment. I didn’t really think it was a good idea to discuss this in front of our two gray-suited escorts, and I promised we’d talk more about it later.

But regarding this building, the Army and the Agency are on the same team, and in my line of work, as you might imagine, I often come into contact with CIA people. I have found them to be almost universally loyal, patriotic, intelligent, and courageous. But if you ever, say, end up in the shower with one, keep your hand on the hot water knob and, for Godsakes, don’t drop the soap-it’s sort of instinctive for them.

Our mute escorts directed us inside, got us building passes, then led us swiftly to an elevator that sped us upstairs to the fourth floor. Janet’s expression was one of surprise and awe, and in fact, she looked like Dorothy after the twister dropped her tush in a strange land filled with odd people, wicked witches, and wizards. That metaphor fit really well, incidentally; inside this building nobody was what they appeared to be, hearts and sometimes brains are in short supply, and all kinds of weird crap occurs behind impenetrable curtains.

Anyway, we were led to a briefing room, sort of a mini-theater, and asked to take seats. Which we did. But when I looked back over my shoulder for our escorts, they had vanished, probably through trapdoors in the floor or something.

Janet examined the room and whispered, “What are we doing here? ”

“First time?”

“Of course.”

“Keep your legs crossed, don’t take any IOUs, and I hope you’re on the pill.”

She shook her head. Apparently, she thought I was trying to be witty or melodramatic. I wasn’t.

The door behind us opened. A man and a lady entered.

The man looked like your typical CIA field operative type- ordinary build, indeterminate weight, facial features, and age, a guy you could spend a long weekend skiing with and not remember what he looked like, his name, even that you skied; just that somebody humped you in the shower and stole your ID and charge cards.

The woman was older, close to seventy, I think-white-haired, thin, soft-featured, in fact grandmotherly in appearance, dress, and manners. But as I mentioned, nothing in the CIA is as it appears- she probably stuck firecrackers up puppies’ butts for fun and frolic.

The two of them sat in the row in front of us. The man spun around and said, “I’m Jack MacGruder. And this is Phyllis Carney. I’m in charge of Operation Trojan Horse. Phyllis is my boss.”

It suddenly struck me that my suspicion about Grand Vistas being a foreign intelligence front of some sort had to be correct, that this guy and this lady were somehow onto the gambit also, and now it was time for us all to play a little truth or consequences.

But before I could say a word about that, the man who called himself Jack MacGruder said to the thing masquerading as a rear projection booth, “Dim the lights and start.”

The CIA is really into mind games, and the idea here was to create psychic shock, and build on the momentum.

Well, the lights cooperatively dimmed and there were a few bright flickers on the screen, then a slide that said, “Operation Trojan Horse, TOP SECRET, L-5 Compartmentalized.”

Without further preamble, Mr. MacGruder began speaking. “In 1995, President Clinton signed a Top Secret finding ordering the Central Intelligence Agency to form a task force for the purpose of tracking illegal funds worldwide. His order grew out of a general frustration with the drug lords in Latin America. A number of methods were employed to stamp out their business, influence, and power. All failed. By 1995, Colombia had been turned into a charnel house by cocaine barons who were literally stronger than the state. We were warning the President that the balkanization of Colombia threatened to spill over to other Latin states, to destabilize newly democratic governments that lacked both the police power and wealth to resist cocaine money.”

A new slide appeared-your basic map of the world with hundreds of little boxes filled with tiny initials in a number of countries. I should mention that nobody makes slides like the U. S. government. I even have this quirky theory that we won the cold war because their slidemakers couldn’t cram as much shit onto an eight-by-eleven page as ours. But let’s save the full explanation for another occasion.

Anyway, the guy known as Jack MacGruder continued, “But we in the CIA were also concerned with other rising international groups, like the Mafiya who had seized control of much of Russia’s economy, and terrorist groups like Al Qaeda, led by a fanatic millionaire who was receiving millions in illegal donations and investing his own wealth to subsidize his growing organization. What you see here is a country-by-country listing of criminal and terrorist organizations we regard as threats to American interests.”

Well, this was a very long list, but you expect that from the CIA. Not that anybody was padding the rolls of bad guys or anything, but I noticed one group called GSA. I guess I just ate my last Girl Scout cookie. I love my country.

Phyllis interrupted at this point, saying, “You can see we have a large and diverse problem. You would be surprised at how much illegal money washes around the world every year. We estimate it’s over a trillion dollars. And that’s a conservative figure. It could be two, possibly three times as much. Chinese triads, Japanese Yakuza, Burmese generals, Balkan warlords, African rulers who loot their national treasuries… The list is endless.”

“You see our problem?” MacGruder asked.

“Money?” I answered.

“ Illegal money,” Mr. MacGruder corrected. “In around two hundred different currencies, shuttling through banks, moving electronically, so invisibly that it’s become impossible to segregate and track. Every time we find a new way, the crooks get a little smarter, and invent a new scam. The world’s best bankers in Geneva and New York work with them. They employ MBAs from Harvard and Penn. They’re sophisticated and, believe me, they’re ingenious.”

“And,” Phyllis added, “they use it to buy bombs, guns, nuclear materials, political influence, and, ultimately, death. Shakespeare had it right-money truly is the root of all evil. Every year a hundred thousand Americans die from drugs. Entire nations-Mexico, Russia, much of Central America and Africa, and of course, Colombia, as Jack mentioned-are virtually run by criminal cartels. A recent Russian poll suggests that ordinary Russians pay half as much in bribes as they pay in taxes. Criminal power has grown exponentially in the past forty years. Capitalism may be the best conceivable economic engine, but the greedy and wicked thrive in it.”