Brian Haig - PrivateSector

Janet said, “And also forget about the brutal murders of four innocent women? Including my sister.”

Phyllis reiterated to Janet, “I told you, we’re not sure there is any connection.”

“Up yours.”

“There’s no need for that. I’m trying to be helpful.”

“Then drop dead.”

I think we knew what Janet’s answer was.

It seemed appropriate for me to add, “I’m with her.”

And that’s the exact moment when the door flew open and two new gentlemen entered.

James Peterson had been Director of the Central Intelligence Agency for six years, a long time in any appointed job in Washington-an eternity for the head honcho of the cosmically accident-prone CIA.

He was short and stout, dark-haired, with intense dark eyes, thick, blubbery lips, and, like many powerful men, he exuded great doses of competence and self-confidence. What was surprising for someone with his dark title, complexion, and responsibilities, this was combined with a look of openness, candor, and even friendliness. Of course it was illusory.

His eyes were directed at Phyllis as he entered and asked, “Well, how’s it going?”

“I’m afraid not well,” she confessed.

He nodded at her and MacGruder, and then said, “This is Tom.”

There was no need to introduce Tom to me, the second man, if you will, who I wouldn’t call Tom anyway, because he was General Thomas Clapper-at that precise moment, the last person I expected, wanted, and needed to see.

But Clapper moved straight toward me, held out his hand, and said, a bit too formally, “Major Drummond, how are you?”

“Okay, General. You know, considering.”

His eyes indicated that he did know. Also that a serious career counseling session lay in my near future.

From their timing, it wasn’t hard to guess there was an observation port into this room.

He smiled at Janet. “I’m Thomas Clapper, Lisa’s former boss.” He smiled harder and asked, “May I call you Janet?”

As I mentioned, Clapper is a bona fide southern gentleman. He can be quite charming, even captivating, when he’s not pissed at you. Or so people tell me.

Janet replied, “Yes… please do.”

“Janet, I’m very sorry about Lisa. I’ve spoken with your father, and now I’d like to convey my sympathies to you. I’ve spent almost thirty-five years as a JAG. I thought the world of her. She was both a wonderful person and one of the best lawyers I ever saw.”

This sounded perfectly sincere and probably was. Janet replied, “Thank you.”

“I was the one who sent Drummond up to Boston to be your family’s survival assistance officer.”

“Thank you, again.”

He glanced at me. “Don’t thank me for that.”

She mistook this for humor and politely chuckled. He didn’t. She said to him, “He saved my life. Perhaps you’ve misjudged him.”

“No chance of that.” He smiled at her, though. Not at me; at her. Bad sign.

But speaking of bad signs, I noticed that Peterson had used Clapper’s little diversion to gather his lieutenants in the corner and whisper a few directions. He who called himself Jack MacGruder did not appear to like or approve of the directions. Peterson leaned closer to him and whispered something. MacGruder shrugged, backed away, and apparently lost the debate, whatever it was.

Peterson then joined us, shook hands with Janet, then me, then ordered everybody to get reseated. He remained standing and looked down at us. Short men know all the tricks.

To Janet and me, he said, “I’ve instructed Jack and Phyllis that it’s time to let you in on the rest of the story.” He stared at both of us as he added, “You realize that nothing said here will ever be repeated outside this room.”

Janet said, “I won’t agree to that.”

“When we’re done, I’m sure you will.”

“I’m sure you’re wrong.”

“Oh, you’ll come around.” The poor fool obviously didn’t have my experience with her.

But there’s a thin line between confident expressions and polite threats, and I wasn’t completely sure which I had just heard from his lips.

Now that he had made his point, though, he turned to Mac-Gruder and ordered, “Tell them, Jack.” Gosh-maybe Jack was his real name.

And Jack, a bit sourly said, “Operation Trojan Horse-the cover name conveys exactly what’s happening. The syndicate we’ve been discussing has become the largest money-washing conduit in the world. Success breeds success in this occupation as in others, and what’s happening here is criminal organizations and terrorist groups have been lining up to let this syndicate wash and handle their cash.”

Phyllis put a hand on MacGruder’s arm and asked us, “Do you understand why we did this?”

“Tell us,” Janet replied.

“We’ve fostered this growth to allow our people, and the National Security Agency, to dissect the pieces of this sprawling syndicate. It is quite large, and highly fragmented, but we track a fair amount of its phone calls, e-mails, and wire transfers. We don’t have every piece of it mapped out yet, but with each day it operates its filthy business, we learn more.”

MacGruder amplified on her thought, saying, “Most important, we learn where its money comes from, how much, and where it goes.”

I suggested, “Then seize it and shut it down.”

Peterson replied, “That’s the last thing we want to do.”

“Perhaps it should be the first.”

“It’s not about the money,” Phyllis responded. “That never was the point of this thing.”

“What is the point?”

“Money is just paper, printed by governments. Our interest lies in the syndicate’s customers. We care about the people and organizations who make this money, how they make this money, where it’s coming from, where it’s going, and what it buys. We learn where they deposit it and where they pick it up, once it’s been freshly laundered. We’ve been exploiting this information to roll up terrorist groups and criminal gangs worldwide. We pick off their people a few at a time, so they don’t become suspicious. We drag in those people, sweat them a bit, and learn more. Sometimes we do it, sometimes other U. S. government agencies do it, sometimes we cue our foreign counterparts to handle it.” She paused to let us absorb this, then commented, “It’s become a virtual Yellow Pages to the nastiest organizations on earth.”

MacGruder added, “How do you think we’ve been able to roll up so many Al Qaeda cells these past few years? Al Qaeda uses our syndicate extensively. We’ve mined this piggy bank for intelligence we could never hope to get any other way. We’ve been able to plot Colombian money, Mexican money, terrorist money-”

Peterson suddenly said, “That’s enough, Jack.” And just when it was getting really interesting, Jack stopped.

Looking at Janet and me, Peterson said, “Do you understand what you’ve been told?”

But he wasn’t really inquiring, he was emphasizing, and he further amplified, “Trojan Horse is the most lucrative intelligence operation we’ve ever run. It’s the modern equivalent of Venoma, when we broke the Soviet code, or when we broke Japan’s and Germany’s codes in the Second World War. In this fragmented new world order of ours, this operation, this syndicate, this is our key to the bank.”

I glanced at Janet. It was a good thing she was studying Peterson’s face, not mine-I seemed to be experiencing a massive attack of moral claustrophobia. Understand that Clapper was here to jar my memory about my profession, to counter the concern, I guess, that after a few weeks of wearing civilian suits and hanging out with the rich and privileged, my brain had turned somewhat mushy toward the entire concept of Duty, Honor, Country. Also there was the matter of the signed oath required of all Special Actions attorneys. If my memory served, something about protecting national security secrets upon penalty of God knows what.